Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1)

by Leonard,Jewel E.

  Rhea smiled, sighing quietly. “I’ve no doubt you would.” She wiped the bag with her fingertips, wiping them into a tissue before using some hand sanitizer. “Problem being, I don’t exactly have an address.” Rhea continued without giving him the chance to gawk, “Don’t worry about it. This was a gift from Mark and serves as a reminder of him I neither need, nor want.”

  “It should be paid for, at least.” He arranged his junk inside his boxers and zipped his shorts.

  “What if . . .” Rhea said, thinking it through, “you give me a self-portrait? This was a fifteen buck purse and I’m sure a sketch from you would be worth far more. Wouldn’t that absolve you of any lingering guilt?”

  “I came. On your bag.” Surfer Boy hesitated. “Technically, by-the-way, I Clinton’d on it.”

  “You’re splitting hairs and it’s my fault for how I . . . aimed the nozzle. Besides, I see it as approval of my technique.”

  Surfer Boy shook his head, a disbelieving smile on his face. He looked at the window as the train entered Trinidad, Colorado. “The curtain’s been open all this time?”

  “I’m sure nobody saw anything. And if it makes you feel any better . . .” Rhea crossed her arms over her stomach and grabbed the lower hem of her shirt. “A little tit for tat?”

  The attendant knocked on the door. “Dinner service.”

  “Maybe after dinner, I guess.” Rhea thought, I wonder what the attendant would do if I opened the door without a shirt on?

  Surfer Boy pulled open the roomette door as Rhea strategically placed a foot over the spunk on the floor. Her socks were thin enough it seeped right through but she said nothing of it.

  He pulled out the table between the two seats in the roomette, and the attendant left them with their bagged meals.

  “So.” Surfer Boy put their food on the table between them and set the paper bag at his side. “We’ve got twenty-one hours before we get to Chicago.” He poked at his Vegetarian Pasta. “Assuming the train’s on schedule.”

  Rhea didn’t want to think about parting ways with Surfer Boy. She also didn’t want to think about not parting ways with him. In under twenty-four hours, she’d gotten a little too fond of him when what she should have done instead was anything else. Why hadn’t Rhea taken the opportunity to step outside his roomette and have dinner on her own? She cast a casual glance at him. Would it be so objectionable to be pen pals who, on occasion, got together to fuck each other silly?

  It was just that: fucking. Because he couldn’t love her so soon after meeting her, and she sure as hell refused to love him already.

  Or ever. “How often is the train late?” Rhea asked as casually as she could. They had two condoms left. Would twenty-one hours be enough time to lay waste to them? Then again, he’d already gone twice in about four hours. She couldn’t admit to herself running out of screwing time was what worried her.

  It was that she was going to miss him.

  Shit.

  “More times than not.” He took his first bite of pasta.

  “Then I’m super glad I’m not taking a connector train.” She laughed stiffly.

  “What are you looking forward to about getting to Chicago?”

  Rhea took a long breath, straightening in her seat. She gave it some thought while cutting her chicken. “I’m looking forward to starting the arduous process of figuring out who the hell I am.”

  “Whatever comes your way in that process, remember one thing: smile.”

  She did. “I will.”

  “Were you serious about what you said earlier? That you don’t have an address?” Surfer Boy asked. “Or was it a polite way of declining to give me it? I won’t be hurt if it’s the latter. Honest.”

  “I . . . Actually, honestly don’t. My original plan was to find an apartment after my stuff was moved to storage. But I procrastinated and the next thing I know, I’m at a Holiday Inn without a place to live. No plan. I went to start the apartment search on a public computer and the last person who used it must’ve gotten train tickets. Or at least considered getting them. I was already down a condo and a smartphone, so I figured why the hell not? I thought so often over the years about running away and here was my chance.”

  “Did your ex take your phone, too?”

  “Oh, no. It, uh, kinda . . . had a rapid unscheduled disassembly.” She smiled sheepishly. “Against the living room wall.”

  “Because of your ex?”

  “Again, no. That was a case where—well y’know the episode of Family Guy where Lois posts a Facebook update about someone dying or whatever, and a frenemy likes it?”

  Surfer Boy nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “You read Heinlein, watch porn and Family Guy. You’re into ice hockey—granted, your tastes there are questionable—and you volunteered a hand job. You also drink beer, by any chance?”

  “Haha, no. I draw the line at beer.”

  “Oh.”

  Rhea smirked. “I prefer tequila.” When it came to tequila, she could drink most men under the table. She had on more than one occasion referred to it as her superpower.

  “You’re perfect.”

  It would have been all too easy to regale Surfer Boy with all the ways in which she was imperfect. Rhea opted, instead, to finish her dinner and try to convince herself there would be no difficulties in saying good-bye to him when the train arrived in Chicago.

  When he finished his pasta and Rhea was done with her chicken, Surfer Boy decided he should work on the self-portrait she’d requested.

  She took the opportunity to retrieve her laptop from the luggage in the compartment above her seat in coach. Nobody there gave her a second look; she assumed they couldn’t care less where she’d been, what—or whom—she’d been doing, or whether she was coming or going.

  She giggled to herself: She certainly had come, and was planning on doing so again. Maybe even a few times! Rhea thought it wise to get all the horniness out of her system while she had the chance.

  Who knew when another sexy stud would fall into her lap the way Surfer Boy had? She glanced around. The average train rider was just that: average. Like Rhea, no one looked primped for the trip. Chances were, she wouldn’t encounter another Surfer Boy on the train. Maybe not anywhere.

  She wondered how many Rheas he’d had in his travels.

  Not as though it matters. It sure as hell doesn’t matter to me . . .

  Says someone who’s in total denial.

  Rhea bristled at her thoughts.

  With her laptop in tow, she paid a brief visit to the snack car where she bought herself a bottle of orange juice. She got halfway up the stairs to the observation car before turning back to purchase a beer as well. After all, she didn’t want to return with nothing for her companion. Rhea wasn’t an asshole.

  Upon her return to Surfer Boy’s cabin, she found him hard at work—paper on the table, pencil in hand and a selfie on his phone for reference. She halfway expected he would doodle something for her the way he had in her purse notebook but this looked like he was investing some genuine effort in it.

  “Hey,” she greeted him, offering the beer.

  He took it. “You rock.”

  “Oh that’s just the motion of the train.” Rhea jutted out her hip and winked.

  “Thanks,” Surfer Boy said with a chuckle and a small shake of his head.

  “Mind if I take the upper bunk? I don’t wanna disturb you.”

  “You’re not disturbing me, but if you want privacy—” he motioned to the bed above him, “—by all means.”

  Rhea set her laptop on the upper bunk and hoisted herself onto it. “Thanks for being so cool.”

  “Likewise.”

  She settled on her stomach, lifted the laptop’s screen, and opened her word processing program.

  “Hey, would you object to some music?” asked Surfer Boy.

  “Never.” Rhea reviewed her last journal entry. She put the cursor on a new line below the last thing she’d written that morning. “Go right ahead
.”

  The silence in the cabin broke when Imagine Dragons streamed from his phone.

  She nodded although she knew he couldn’t see it. “I approve.”

  “I thought you might.”

  While considering what she would write, Rhea switched which font she was using for her document. And then she adjusted the font size. Followed by adjusting its color.

  She used to do similar things when she kept a handwritten journal: flicking the clips on pen caps with her thumbnail until the clips snapped off, unscrewing tops and removing ink cartridges. Putting the purple ink cartridge into the green pen casing, and swapping the green cap with a red one.

  She referred to it as writer’s roulette but it was nothing more than filthy, naughty procrastination.

  Rhea liked to decorate her lined notebook paper with little ink dots of whatever random color was in the pen she selected. She often felt like writing, but no words were there.

  That was sort of true now, except she wanted to write and the words were there.

  She just didn’t want to put them down. To document them, even with the availability of the backspace and delete keys made them feel so concrete.

  She inhaled.

  We fucked.

  Rhea rapidly tapped backspace seven times.

  screwed.

  She pressed her lips together into a thin line of disapproval, highlighted the line and pressed delete.

  There were shenanigans. Sexy, sloppy, memorable shenanigans.

  I was never one for love-at-first-sight bullshit. The closest I got was my ninth grade crush on Brianna that subsequently sent me into a depression which lasted the length of the school year and made me so confused that I questioned not just my sexuality but my whole existence.

  I still don’t believe in love at first sight.

  She flat-out refused to.

  When I think about reaching Chicago,

  Rhea covered her mouth. Between lying on her stomach so soon after a meal, and the jostling of the train, she felt ill. Only after the feeling vanished did she continue:

  I have to remind myself I still believe there are good men out there. Surfer Boy, however, may be too good to be true. Much as I want to take him (at face value), his too-good-to-be-trueness makes me too suspicious of him to enjoy his companionship. His companionship on the train. His continued companionship going forward? I don’t even fucking know anymore.

  What harm is there in giving him my email address? I mean I know it’ll take away the whole anonymous sex business . . . which I hate to admit is really turning me on. More than screwing while still fully clothed.

  What if this is The Guy? When we’re talking and he’s looking at me, I sincerely believe he could be The Guy. That’s not quite right. He isn’t looking at me. He’s looking into me. Surfer Boy has the most intense stare when I’m talking to him, like he’s looking at my very soul. It makes me feel like even my insides are blushing! Like I want to curl up and die but in a good way. That makes no sense but it’s how he makes me feel.

  What if Surfer Boy and I go our separate ways and I never find a better match for myself? Can I really let fate decide? Maybe this encounter is fate clubbing me over the head. “Hey dumbass, here’s your soulmate!” Would I miss my chance and try later to find him on Craigslist’s missed connections? Or take a photo of myself pouting and holding a sign asking for people to help me find a guy whose name I don’t even know? Hope it goes viral? Ha!

  Because anyone cares enough about me to help find the random guy I fucked on a train trip when I ran away from a home I technically didn’t have. When I didn’t bother to tell any of them where I was going or when I would return? Hell, I didn’t bother telling anyone I left.

  They probably haven’t even noticed I’m gone.

  I really wanted to give myself alone-time. I need it. I don’t know who I am, and I don’t see how I’ll be able to find myself while I’m too busy trying to mold myself into the ideal mate for another guy. I did it once, and I don’t want to be that kind of girl again. Or anymore.

  Can we have a standard friendship going forward after starting it with sex?

  My God, it’s practically something Carrie Bradshaw would write. Let me try:

  I couldn’t help but wonder . . . could Surfer Boy and I have a standard friendship after starting off with sex?

  “Hey Surfer Boy?” Rhea asked, saving her document and snapping her laptop closed. She leaned over the edge of the upper bunk as he scrambled to cover his artwork.

  “It’s not done yet!” he yelped.

  “I’m not looking, I promise. Any way you could grab my notebook and pen from my purse?”

  He flipped the paper over before rummaging through her bag. He made no comment on her pepper spray, the hard clamshell glasses case, half-full prescription bottle of aripiprazole, or the Softcups—though she guessed the unmarked purple packets didn’t scream danger, danger, menstrual cup! to him. He handed the notebook and pen to her. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  They regarded each other in silence. After a brief hesitation, he leaned in for a closed-mouth kiss. Surfer Boy sat back down at the table, waving toward her. “Don’t look ‘til it’s done.”

  “I . . .” Rhea squeaked. “I won’t.” She repositioned herself on the bunk, turning to the center page of her notebook. She gave herself a minute to recover from that peck before she wrote:

  Dear Surfer Boy,

  I’m making no plans for my future, immediate or long-term. I don’t need another husband, or even a boyfriend. But I could always use another friend who makes me smile and laugh.

  I’ve enjoyed our conversation and if you wanted to be fuck buddies, well, I don’t think I could find myself a more capable guy to fill the position.

  If your offer to accompany me to the art museum still stands, I would like to take it. I don’t currently have a phone or home address, but my email will work any place I go. I hope you’ll use it.

  rheaofsunshine 90@gmail.com

  Thanks for a great time.

  “Sunshine”

  Rhea spent the rest of the ride into La Junta, Colorado trying to convince herself not to give her companion that piece of paper.

  At the train station, Surfer Boy knocked on the bottom of the bunk. “It’s a ten-minute stop here. Wanna go outside for some fresh air?”

  What Rhea really needed was to stop by the lavatory. Since it was only ten minutes, she chose to accompany Surfer Boy off the train, instead.

  They milled about beside the train on the station platform, shoulders touching, hands brushing, but neither reaching for the other.

  “I, uh . . . I’ve got a favor to ask you,” said Surfer Boy, his voice low. “And I feel gross for even thinking of asking it.”

  Rhea gave him a lingering side-eye, taking a large step away from him. “Oh please don’t tell me it’s anything . . . Fifty Shades-y.”

  Surfer Boy stopped mid-stride. “What, exactly, would that entail? The only thing I know of the franchise is that it’s Twilight fanfiction written for horny moms.”

  She lowered her voice to match his; the people milling around them didn’t need to hear about her kinks—or, in this case, lack of them. “I’m not into having anyone else remove used feminine products from my gash.” Tampons were one thing. The feminine cups she relied on, however, would be a whole different nightmare. Something akin to elevators in The Shining, a scene from Carrie or the menstrual equivalent of Gettysburg.

  His eyes went wide.

  They regarded each other in silence.

  He exhaled. “That sounds awful.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page. That was my assessment, too. A friend braver than I am read it and reported back to me.”

  Surfer Boy nudged her playfully in the shoulder with his several steps later. “Sure, your friend read it. Isn’t that the type of book you enjoy?”

  “Okay, I’m not even gonna pretend your use of air quotes on ‘friend’ wasn’t insulting. But yes,
I have my standards. So what was that favor you wanted?”

  “Maybe, sometime before we get to Chicago you would indulge me . . .”

  Rhea leaned in, her eyebrows arched. “. . . in?”

  “Say like . . . if we were to sit close together on the same seat . . . maybe with my arms around you. Like . . . just, you know, relaxing, with no expectations of sex.”

  She frowned. “Are—are you asking me to cuddle with you?”

  “I believe the technical term is snuggle. But . . .” He dipped his head, his face flushed and expression bashful. “. . . yes.” It was as if he was asking for an orgy. Or anal. Or furry play. Or to pull a used tampon from her twat. “Please?” Surfer Boy added when she didn’t respond immediately.

  Rhea blinked, watching him somberly. What had he been through that he was so ashamed of asking a girl to snuggle? She smiled. “I’m sure something like that could be arranged.”

  “Thanks. I’d really fucking appreciate it.”

  She tried not to laugh at his use of the expletive. “So . . . You wanna—” She nodded toward the train.

  “It’s not urgent,” he said. “Maybe something we could do in the room with the lights out and the curtains open. I could hold you and we can watch the night pass us by.”

  “Are you . . . are you planning on me spending the night in your cabin?”

  “You’re welcome to.” He paused. “You don’t need to, either, of course. But that bed is far more comfortable than a train seat. I think you know what I mean since you spent a night in coach.”

  She pursed her lips. “I’ll think about it.” Rhea had little doubt this would make her resolve crumble in regard to giving him the note. She should have said no to snuggling and already regretted it.