Of everything about Rhea—spunky hairstyle, full breasts, shapely legs—Surfer Boy’s gaze trained on her hands.
“You’re a writer,” he guessed.
“It’s a hobby,” said Rhea. “And nothing more.”
“. . . Pianist?”
“My long fingers fooled another person, I see!” she laughed. “I used to play flute though.”
“Do I get another guess? I’ll get it this time.”
“Sure.” Rhea smirked. He’ll probably peg me as an artist. “Why not?”
“Vampire hunter. You look like a badass Buffy.” Surfer Boy added hastily, “Oh please get the reference!”
“Excuse me? Sarah Michelle Gellar was already pretty damned badass!”
“I’m glad you get the reference. But you’ll have to excuse my assessment, she was a cheerleader. You look badass.”
“She was pretty damned badass, excusing her being a cheerleader.” Rhea added, “Cass—my bestie—is a huge Buffy fan. I don’t watch it much, myself, but she’s exposed me to it a lot. Actually, I’m a massage therapist.”
Surfer Boy’s face lit up and his response was predictable: “I have this cramp in my back—”
She stood.
“Please don’t go.” He cleared his throat. “It was a dumb joke I’m sure you’ve heard tons of times before—”
“Once or twice,” lied Rhea, walking around to the back of his seat. “But I have this obnoxious thing where I have to prove myself to the unbelievers.” She held her hands over his shoulders. “Do you mind?”
He tipped his head back to glance at her. “For real?”
“Yeah.”
“Pleasant conversation and a free massage? This may be the best vacation I’ve ever had!”
Rhea began the massage on Surfer Boy’s shoulders, and his head dropped as if he’d lost consciousness for a heartbeat.
Yep, she thought. Muscular. Rhea corrected him with a wide smile, “Free? Ha! I charge a hundred per hour.”
He groaned when Rhea hit a knotted muscle. “And I’ll bet you’re worth every penny.”
Rhea let that slide; she’d heard worse over her years as a therapist. His groan, however, stirred something inside her. She bit her lip and forced herself to ignore the unwelcome tug in her lower abdomen.
She discreetly glanced around and noticed heads turning toward that noise.
“No joke . . . I give a far more effective massage in private,” she said. “And whether or not you were teasing me—” she leaned in, gently pressing a muscle in spasm with her thumb until he winced. “You need this.”
The other passengers resumed their business. They were reading books or paying attention to tablets and phones. Two were actually engaged in conversation with each other. Good for them.
Surfer Boy sighed. “Oh, I can’t afford you.”
“That’s a shame.” Why the hell am I still touching his back? And why the hell isn’t he stopping me? “I’d have considered it my good deed for the day to do you for free.” Rhea realized how bad that had to sound. “To massage you for free!” she blurted louder than she intended. “Free massage!”
Heads turned to them again.
His head tilted toward her so fast she was amazed he didn’t give himself whiplash. “I have a roomette downstairs!”
“I’m sorry?” Rhea choked on her phlegm.
“I’ve got a sleeper room downstairs.” Watching the horror spreading across Rhea’s face, he added, “I swear, I’m not a creep!”
She smiled despite herself. “I believe you but just in case you get any felonious ideas, remember: I’m a badass vampire slayer.”
Surfer Boy led Rhea from the observation car. They walked two coach cars toward the engine and down a cramped staircase. His was the small cabin adjacent to the stairwell.
“Tight squeeze,” Rhea remarked as she peered into the cabin from the little corridor. They would both have to be sitting across from each other if they wanted the door closed.
Neither closed it. As she stepped into the room, Rhea said, “Please don’t murder me.” To lessen the impact of what sounded harsher than she’d intended, she added, “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”
“Did—did you just quote Star Wars IV?”
Rhea’s cheeks went hot. “No.”
“Yes.” He flailed at her, his face alight. “Yes, you did!”
She was still blushing, but given his excitement, Rhea could at least smile. “Come on, who doesn’t know at least one line from at least one Star Wars movie?”
“I get the feeling you know more than that.”
“Shut up and let me massage you.”
“Anyway, why on earth would I kill someone who gives such stellar massages?” Surfer Boy sat, resting his thigh on the seat as he turned his back to her.
“This is still not optimal. Better than being the center of attention out in public, anyway.” She continued her massage more or less where she’d left off in the observation car. “There are some real weirdos out there. ‘Least, that’s what everyone thinks.”
He groaned between the words: “How can I . . . prove to you I’m . . . a nice guy?”
“I guess time will tell.”
They fell silent. Rhea concentrated on what she was doing, and Surfer Boy made the occasional noise that fell somewhere between pleasure and pain. Each time it was more the former, she felt that excited twinge in her gut and an unwelcome clenching of muscles further south of there.
As the train rolled into Victorville, Rhea was overwhelmed by her reaction to him. She yanked her hands away, curling them into fists and struggled not to choke on the lump of desire lodged in her throat.
Surfer Boy shifted toward her in his spot, failing to conceal his pants as they tented with glorious and generous blood flow. How big is he if he looks like that beneath his clothes? Following her intrusive thought, Rhea stammered, “L-look at the time, I should be going—I need to go—”
“Oh my god,” he gasped, “I am so sorry—”
She turned and smacked against the opposite train wall, which couldn’t have been more than two feet away. “It’s not you, it’s the—it’s me.” Her face ached under its flush. “I’ve got a seat I paid hundreds for, and I—I can’t have spent more than a half hour in it—”
Rhea stumbled up the stairs without another word. She spent ten minutes going car to car searching for her seat before she located it, collapsing into it with a hard exhalation.
From LA to Chicago: Day Two.
Day Two.
I woke about a half hour outside of Gallup, NM. The train car is full now.
Last night was restless. Bearded man behind me has a loud, intermittent snore. If he snored continuously, at least that might eventually act as white noise and I could sleep through it.
Coach chairs are modern-day torture devices. I have half a mind to offer discount massages to the folks in this car for some quick spending cash but I feel that’s unethical as fuck. Which reminds me . . .
Surfer Boy: Handsome as fuck. This blond-haired, grey-eyed, tan, ripped guy who sat down next to me in the observation car . . . we had a nice chat last night. I gave him a solid massage for which my muscles still ache, and I freaked out at his boner. How many times have I seen tent poles in my career, and I’ve never acted so unprofessionally! He must have been so embarrassed—I think he apologized to me? I’m not even sure now—and I couldn’t even muster the coherence tell him it’s normal. I am the worst massage therapist ever! I’m torn between wanting to see him again (good conversation, gorgeous, I mean hello?! I’m divorced, not dead!) and being too embarrassed to face him.
Hell, I was so embarrassed, I didn’t bother changing out of the underwear I soaked while giving him a massage. That probably didn’t help me sleep last night. They’re dry now, but . . . yuck.
I’ve got another 30 hours on the train.
What are the odds I’ll see this guy again?
It’s just o
ne more overnight. I can do this. Hopefully tomorrow night will be better. Last night, when I was actually able to sleep, I kept dreaming I was in an earthquake. It must’ve been the motion of the train sneaking into my unconscious, but I still wonder if it’s a sign I need to move the hell away from California already.
I guess I’ll go see what the dining car is all about while I can still get breakfast . . . I totally missed dinner last night and I’m freaking starving.
The dining car had tables situated down its length on either side of the train’s narrow walkway—five tables on either side, what looked like an open kitchen area, and an additional four tables on either side in the back half of the car.
Each booth accommodated parties of four and Rhea was warned that with nobody else accompanying her, she would have to share with at least one stranger once she was seated.
So she waited to be called in the busy adjacent observation car, staring at the seat in which Surfer Boy with the fantastic erection received the first part of her massage last night.
It was a good thing he wasn’t there. Rhea didn’t think she needed to make such a staggering mistake so soon after finalizing her divorce; she often failed to consider her marriage had been dead for a couple years before the “D-Word” was first uttered.
Had it ever been alive, for that matter?
An attendant from the dining car called for her: “Rhea, party of one?”
She exhaled, supposing she’d better get used to that “party of one” business and followed the attendant into the dining car. Rhea was surprised to be deposited at an empty table; not just for having the table to herself but because she fully expected to be taken to one already occupied by Surfer Boy.
As she sat facing the direction of travel, she counted her blessings. A nice quiet breakfast is what I need to set myself straight. Straighter, anyway! Rhea was certain—it was her luck, as luck would have it—she’d have been forced to share a table and an uncomfortable meal with Surfer Boy.
She bit her lip, rested an elbow on the vibrating table, her chin on her fist and watched the New Mexico desert roll by outside the train window.
It wasn’t unattractive per se, but Rhea preferred dense forest to desert. Something akin to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps, but without all the plate tectonics bullshit. Three earthquakes in excess of 6.5 magnitude in her area since she was born was three too many.
She’d never been to the Northeast and thought she should correct that. Maybe she would spend a few days sight-seeing in Chicago—while Surfer Boy visited with his memories, not as though he or anything he did factored into her trip at all—and take a connecting train further east.
Pennsylvania? New York? Massachusetts?
She’d heard tales of extended family out that direction but had no clue where anybody lived, nor how to contact them. Her family was expert in the art of disowning.
The sound of the car door sliding open behind Rhea got her attention; those doors were far from quiet. She turned in time to see Surfer Boy being escorted into the dining car. Oh shit. Her heart flew into her throat as she scanned the other tables. Those which weren’t in use by parties of four were already seating three. She had ample space. Please God no. Not here. She prayed fervently he wouldn’t be seated with her: Oh please, please, please!
“Excuse me ma’am, do you mind having company?” the attendant asked Rhea.
Fuck. Of course. Rhea knew the attendant was being polite but had no intention of giving her any choice in the matter.
Surfer Boy—poor guy—stood behind the attendant looking sheepish as hell; he had to be as miserable about the arrangement as she was.
What kind of an awful bitch would I have to be to say no? She assumed he wished she would pass on his company as much as she was considering it. “No,” Rhea said, her voice thin. “I don’t mind at all.” She gritted her teeth and hoped it would come across as a pleasant smile.
Surfer Boy sat across from her. “‘Morning.”
Rhea turned her attention to the single white carnation in the hand-sized glass vase set against the train window. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, her voice still high and thin.
“I go back and forth . . . between being surprised and not surprised by how hard I slept. It’s difficult to sleep well on a moving train, and their beds kinda suck. But . . .” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “I was real relaxed.”
She was desperate to not smile. Not all of you was ‘real relaxed.’
Rhea cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry I took off like that last night. It was royally unprofessional of me. I should’ve told you what happened was—” Normal? Typical? “—something you should in no way be embarrassed about.” Especially not when considering the size of his bulge. Rhea’s face grew hot again, whether or not she wanted it. “As you can see by the color of my cheeks, blood will flow wherever it damn well pleases.”
With a wide smile, Surfer Boy regarded his blushing companion. “That’s mighty big of you.”
“I could say likewise—” Rhea clapped a hand over her mouth with a squeak. What the hell was with her inability to censor herself around this guy? She hadn’t had any alcohol in forever.
“So it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume we’re both far too uncomfortable with each other to introduce ourselves?”
She chuckled from behind her hand. “That’s a safe bet.”
He hesitated before telling her, “Please don’t hide your pretty smile.”
Rhea lowered her hand. “Oh. Wow.”
“Do I want to know what that ‘wow’ was about, or will it be another joke made at my expense?”
“It’s . . . been a real long time since I smiled. I mean genuinely smiled. Not like the ‘hi, how are you,’ ‘oh I’m fine,’ polite-but-totally-fake smile.” Rhea forced herself to meet his gaze. He had such attractive eyes and a stare so attentive it made her insides tilt in exhilaration. “So. You know what I do. How are you paying for your own little cabin downstairs?” Old money?
“I robbed a bank a few years ago and I’m slowly but surely spending the small, non-sequential, unmarked bills.”
Rhea’s smile fell and the flush washed from her cheeks.
“Hey, didn’t I tell you I’m not a creep?”
“And didn’t I say only time would tell?”
“I’m an artist,” said Surfer Boy. “And . . . one who apparently sucks at teasing.”
“Better to suck at teasing than to tease at sucking.” Her eyes went wide. Ribald comments were so unlike her yet she’d made more of them in the last twenty-four hours than she’d probably thought of in her entire lifetime.
When his eyebrows jumped and a smirk grew across his sexy lips, she blurted, “So you’re an artist, huh?”
“Yep. Mostly I use pastels. I’ll park myself on the beach and do landscapes. Lately I’ve been dabbling in portraiture.”
“You make enough doing that to take these trips?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I made friends with a gallery owner in Laguna Beach. He hosts my work for me, takes a surprisingly small cut of my sales, and I don’t pay a penny otherwise for sky-high space rent.” He smiled at Rhea pointedly. “It pays to be nice. As I told you I am.”
A waiter came by to take their orders. While Surfer Boy waffled over his options after Rhea placed her order, she searched through her purse for a pen and the small notebook she kept in there for occasional reminders she liked to leave herself. The last note was nothing more than a single word scrawled in the nicest cursive she could muster: smile.
After the waiter left their table, Rhea slid the notebook to Surfer Boy, holding the pen out for him. “Would you draw me something?” she requested with a wicked little smirk. For added measure: “Please?”
“I suppose I owe you some thanks for a fantastic massage.” He took the notebook and rested it on his lap, then took the pen and went to work.
A few moments later, he handed the open notebook to Rhea. He capped the pen with an exaggerated snap of his w
rist and handed that to her as well.
Beside her single-word reminder to smile, Surfer Boy had drawn a stick figure with a smile taking up half its face. Beside it: a scribble he may have considered his signature.
“Hang onto that,” he told her. With a wink came the boast: “That autograph is worth money.”
Rhea couldn’t stop smiling though she wasn’t trying hard not to. His doodle would serve as a wonderful reminder of him long after they parted ways.
“Listen.” Surfer Boy lowered his voice. “I do have some of my smaller pieces with me. I’m trying to get into a few art galleries in Chicago.”
“I thought you said you were going to Chicago for memories.”
“Oh I am. And while I’m in the area, I’ll do some networking, too.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” Surfer Boy bobbed his head. “Will this be your first time in Chicago?”
“Yeah. I was so eager to escape, y’know, that I put all my energy into how I was running away, rather than into what I would actually do once I got to . . . where I was running to.”
“Are you open to suggestion?”
“Absolutely.”
“Of course I’m gonna say you need to go to Willis Tower.”
“Exacerbate acrophobia, check.” Despite her fear of heights, Rhea wrote Willis Tower into her small notebook on a fresh page.
“Maaaaybe,” said Surfer Boy, his smile growing inappropriately affectionate for a woman he’d known for less than twenty-four hours, “I shouldn’t suggest Adler Planetarium, then.”
She jotted that down, as well. “That sort of stuff doesn’t bother me.”
“Got a fear of sharks?”
Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1) Page 2