“If I get killed on this thing, I’m going to come back and haunt you!”
“Promise?”
“Oh, you’d better believe it, Hunter!”
He smirked, then passed me a heavy, leather jacket that was obviously one of his. It was old and battered and so enormous on me that my hands disappeared inside the long sleeves. It had that pleasant musty smell of old leather, and a faint trace of Sebastian’s own delicious scent.
He pulled up the zipper for me, and turned back the cuffs so I could free my hands.
“Suits you,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
Then he handed me a shiny, black helmet that matched his own. He swung one long, denim-clad leg over the seat and held out his hand to help me mount the ghastly machine.
The seat tipped me slightly forwards so my thighs automatically gripped his.
“Hold on tight,” he said, his voice muffled through the helmet.
I could tell from the tone that he was enjoying himself. I would really have liked to ignore the suggestion, but I was so terrified of falling off, that I wrapped my arms around his waist and hung on tightly. I could feel the hardness of his body beneath the leather and I knew for a certain fact, that agreeing to this trip had been a bad, bad idea.
The engine started with a gravelly roar that crescendoed as Sebastian revved the accelerator.
He started forward at a gentle pace, mostly for my benefit I had to assume, and soon we were traveling steadily through Geneva, before taking the lakeside road north-east to Lausanne.
The lake was a steely green-gray and flecked with white spume. It was serene and timeless and I felt my body start to relax. Irritating as it was to admit, I was beginning to enjoy myself.
Sebastian must have felt the change in my body because he accelerated smoothly, and bent forwards slightly, weaving his way past the patchwork fields as we continued to circle the lake. I snuggled closer, grateful for the warmth of his body as the cool air flowed past us.
He slowed as we reached Montreux, giving me time to appreciate the chocolate-box prettiness of the old town with chalets and fairytale granite castle, and the contrasting modernity of the concrete and glass buildings, and hotels that looked like chateaux.
“Do you want to get a coffee?” he called over his shoulder.
I nodded enthusiastically, bumping my helmet awkwardly on the back of his, and gave him a thumbs up.
He drew up outside a small café that looked out onto the lake, then kicked down the stand and cut the engine. The sudden silence was very welcome and I gazed out across the water, feeling peaceful, at peace.
Sebastian pulled off his helmet and grinned at me.
“How was that?”
I struggled out of my own helmet and hoped my ‘hat hair’ wasn’t too scary.
“That was… surprisingly okay!”
He laughed at my bemused expression, then his eyes darkened in a way I remembered. It was a look of lust and need and deep, burning desire. Yes, I remembered.
I scrambled off the bike hastily and rubbed my hands trying to get some warmth back into my fingers.
“Are you cold?”
“A little: just my hands.”
Without saying a word, he took my hands in his and lifted them to his lips, heating them with his warm breath and rubbing them gently.
After a moment, I pulled free.
“That’s fine, thank you.”
He continued to stare at me, his expression serious. I looked away, confused and ill at ease.
“This café looks good,” I said desperately.
I heard his soft sigh, but refused to look at him. Instead I strode into the café and found a table by the window.
Sebastian followed more slowly, sliding into the chair opposite me.
“Un espresso et un caffé americano, s’il vous plâit.”
“Do you speak French, as well?” I asked, curiously.
He shrugged. “Enough to get by. I never studied it.”
“And the Dari? The Arabic? How did that come about?”
“My first tour in Iraq. I was playing soccer with some of the local kids who used to hang around the Base. They taught me a few words and I just started picking up some phrases. My sergeant heard me talking to the kids and sent me on a couple of training courses. When we started pulling out of Iraq, they figured I should learn Pashto and Dari so I could be useful in Afghanistan. I found I could just hear it, all the different cadences.” He sneered. “Finally found something I was good at. Who knew.”
I was shocked by his dismissive tone.
“You were always good at lots of things, Sebastian. You picked up Italian really quickly.”
“That’s because I had an Italian girlfriend,” he said.
“Really? When was that?”
He rolled his eyes as if I was missing the obvious.
“Oh, right,” I muttered, embarrassed. “And you taught me to surf, don’t forget.”
He grinned, breaking the tension of his odd outburst.
“Yeah, that was fun. Did you ever keep it up?”
“I go quite often in the summer,” I said. “I bought a place in Long Beach and...”
I ground to a halt, worried by his stricken expression.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head, as if to cast off some grim thought, “It’s just… well, we used to talk about going to Long Beach and checking out the surf spots.”
“I didn’t have any other plan,” I said, quietly. “When I left you… when I left San Diego, I drove for eight days until I got to New York. That old Pinto I had, died crossing Verrazano Bridge. I got an apartment in Little Italy because I didn’t know anywhere else, and you mentioned it once. I lived there for eight years. You were right: I did like it.”
He closed his eyes and let his head drop into his hands. He looked so vulnerable. How such ordinary words can hurt us, I thought.
“God, Caro, when I think about how things could have been… it makes me a little crazy.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, softly. “But there’s no point thinking like that.”
The waitress returned with our coffees. I stared into the dark liquid, losing myself in the wisps of steam.
“I’m glad you went there; I’m glad you did the things we said we’d do.”
“Not all of them,” I amended.
“Fuck, if only…”
“Stop, Sebastian,” I said, forcefully. “No ‘what ifs’: what if we’d never gone to that Sicilian restaurant that night; what if Brenda hadn’t seen us; what if she hadn’t told your parents… there’s no point thinking like that. Like you said, it’ll just make us crazy.”
“I know you’re right, it’s just that…” He ran one hand over his hair in frustration.
“Hey, stop,” I said, grabbing his fingers. “It is what it is. We can’t change anything.”
He held on tightly, then rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
“Mind you,” I said, “if I ran into Brenda again, I might have to give her a quick slap.”
He smiled slightly.
“Yeah, I’d like to see that.” Then he frowned. “She felt really bad about what happened.”
I released his hand, and leaned back in my chair.
“You spoke to her about it – what she did?”
I was amazed. And annoyed. Maybe even hurt. Brenda the Slut was the fond remembrance I had of her. Yes, she’d certainly lit the fuse that had led to our explosive separation. I knew, deep down, that it would have happened anyway, but still. To hear that Sebastian had spoken with her, maybe even stayed in touch with her. Maybe even slept with her – I really wasn’t ready to hear that.
“Well, yeah. She kept bugging Ches until I agreed to see her. By then it was kind of obvious why she’d done it.”
“Obvious how?”
He sighed.
“She was pregnant – got knocked up by that bastard Jack Sullivan. You remember that older guy who used to hang out at the beach? Yeah, well, when she found ou
t she was pregnant, she freaked out. Got this crazy idea in her head that if she could get back with me, she’d get me to sleep with her and pretend the baby was mine.”
He shook his head in disbelief at the fucked up behavior of a scared 18 year-old girl.
“She thought if she got you out of the way, we’d get back together. She had no idea what she’d done. Until after – and it was too late.”
“And did you? Sleep with her?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, his anger evident. “I told you. I didn’t even touch another woman for three years.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, continuing with the grim little story, “she had to face her parents eventually. Jack wouldn’t have anything to do with her, and she wouldn’t say who the father was. Everyone assumed it was me anyway.”
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “But when Kimberley was born, she had all this dark brown hair and dark eyes; it was kind of obvious I wasn’t the father.”
“Kimberley?”
“She’s a great kid. I see them sometimes when I’m on the west coast. Brenda married a car salesman a couple of years back. He’s a pretty nice guy and good with Kimberley.”
I nodded slowly, finding I couldn’t dislike Brenda as much as I’d wanted to. Although I’d still have to slap her if I saw her again.
“Well, I’m glad it worked out for her – in the end.” I paused. “You didn’t tell me what happened to Donna and Johan. They were always kind to me.”
“Shirley’s stayed in touch with them. I saw them a few times after… Johan retired a couple of years back, and they moved to Phoenix. I heard he was pretty sick – leukemia, I think.”
“I’m sorry to hear that: they were a nice couple.”
Oh, poor Johan. Such a decent man. Poor Donna. Maybe I should write… no, they wouldn’t want to hear from me.
He nodded but didn’t reply.
“What about that funny little friend of yours – Fido? What was his real name… um… Alfred? Albert? Arnold! What happened to him?”
Sebastian didn’t smile, which was never a good sign.
“He enlisted just before me. He joined the Rakkasans, 187th Infantry. He died eight years ago in Iraq – IED. Poor bastard never stood a chance. He didn’t even make it to twenty.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry!”
And I remembered that sweet kid who used to try and flirt with me: now dead. All those young men gone.
We finished our coffees in silence, each lost in the past.
Every time I thought we’d finished our stroll down memory lane, something else came along to hijack us, tugging us back to our turbulent history. It was like being on an emotional carnival ride – including the concomitant nausea, but seriously lacking the fun.
“Ready to head for Chamonix?” said Sebastian.
I smiled at him, grateful that he’d interrupted my musings.
“Yes, ready as I’ll ever be. Actually though, it’s more comfortable riding on that machine than I thought it would be. I just wish I’d worn something warmer.”
“Put your hands in my pockets this time,” he said. “That will help. And there’s a shop in Chamonix where we can get you some good gloves.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I can buy you some fucking gloves, Caro!” he said, crossly.
“Fine!” I snapped, matching his irritated tone, “Although I have no idea what ‘fucking gloves’ are: made of latex, I suppose!”
He laughed loudly. “God, I love you, Caro!”
He stopped when he’d realized what he’d said.
“Slip of the tongue,” he mumbled.
I ignored his comment and waited until he mounted the motorcycle, before clambering on behind him.
Gratefully, I pushed my hands into the pockets of his jacket, winding my fingers into the soft leather.
We crossed into France at the quaintly named village of Saint Gingolph. A jejune border guard glanced at our passports, looked again when he realized we were American, sneered a few questions that Sebastian answered in fluent French – which seemed to annoy the little man even more – then he waved us across.
The road on this side of the lake was more thickly wooded and less inhabited than the northern side. Small farmhouses dotted the hillside and winding roads threaded their way up into the Alps.
“This road leads to Italy,” Sebastian yelled over his shoulder. “How about a quick trip over the border?”
“Two countries in one day is enough!” I shouted back, but the thought that I was just miles from my father’s homeland tugged oddly at my heart.
Chamonix soon appeared out of the low mist that had settled in the valley. To my left I could see the awe-inspiring presence of Mont Blanc, thick snow capping the summit.
The town itself was still quite empty: the winter skiers long gone, the summer tourists not yet arrived.
The ride through the Alps had been sensational, as promised, and Chamonix was lovely: a picture-perfect Alpine town, with an abundance of bijou shops selling everything from skiwear to expensive, designer jewelry.
Sebastian pulled up outside one of the former, and dragged me inside.
“We’ll get you some ski gloves to wear,” he said. “Best I can do for now.”
The sales assistant was overly helpful. I couldn’t decide if that was because she was delighted to have a customer so close to the end of the ski season, or because she got to stare at Sebastian’s ass as he wandered around the shop.
As far as I was concerned, he had a very fine ass and, having been wrapped around it for the last couple of hours, I felt I was in a position to voice an expert opinion.
And then a very erotic image sprang unwelcome to my mind, as I recalled the numerous occasions when I had reason to know Sebastian’s naked ass very well indeed.
I did my best to banish the memory, but I wasn’t entirely successful. I wondered if all US Marines were in such good shape.
“How about these?” said Sebastian, handing me a pair of black ski gloves.
“Ninety Euros! Are you kidding me? That’s $115! For a pair of gloves!”
“Just try the damn things on, Caro,” Sebastian growled.
“No. That’s ridiculous. There must be something cheaper.”
“If you don’t try them on, I’ll just buy them anyway,” he threatened.
“No! It’s a waste of money.”
He turned to the sales assistant and handed them over. “D’accord. Je les prends.”
“Wait! Attendez!”
I snatched them back from her and pulled them on over my hands. They fit perfectly.
Damn him!
He grinned at me wickedly.
“You argue too much, Caro.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I said, dryly.
We left the shop with my ridiculously expensive gloves tucked into my jacket pocket. Sebastian looked annoyingly pleased with himself.
“Shall we find somewhere to have lunch?”
“What, you’re actually asking me, Hunter? As in, seeking my opinion?”
He grinned at me. “Sure!”
“In that case, yes; but only if I treat you – non negotiable.”
“I love it when you tell me what to do, Caro,” he leered at me. “Brings back memories.”
And this time I couldn’t help the blush that rose to my cheeks. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Other than Italian, the one thing I had taught Sebastian was how to give me an orgasm. And he had been a very good student.
He laughed out loud when he saw my blush. I couldn’t think of a single comeback. Not one. Not a word. Not a single response, answer, reply, witticism, quip, jest or jibe. I was utterly mute.
God, he was annoying!
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him, kissing my hair lightly.
“Just teasing you, Caro.”
I shuffled away, trying to look offended, but he knew me better and just grinned.
�
��Do you want to try fondue?” he said, still trying not to laugh.
“Fine,” I muttered, sulkily.
I regained some of my rumpled poise over lunch.
We both ordered the cheese fondue and were given a basket full of different rolls: foccacia, olive breads, breadsticks; and a fondue made up of mozzarella, dolcelatte and parmesan. It was the perfect winter warmer, especially on a chilly day in the Spring.
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