Cross Stroke

by Elizabeth Hartey

  Oh for crying out loud. Snow White would not get herself into a situation like this.

  “I…I was…I don’t know. I thought you were feeling the same thing I am.” He reaches out to brush a strand a hair off my face. I push his hand away again.

  “Sorry. Not happening.”

  “Wow. Okay.” He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. For a second a wounded tinge of disappointment crosses his face and I almost feel bad for the way I treated him.

  Then the jackass shows up again when he says, “No problem, Bambi. Just figured the night is young and I know you want me.”

  I can’t keep myself from laughing at his cornball line. “You must be mistaking me for one of your groupies.” I brush back a pigtail to emphasize my indifference and pray my attentive nipples aren’t showing through my sweatshirt.

  “Real nice,” he says as I continue to chuckle.

  “Sorry, but I mean, does that Casanova routine actually work on the girls?”

  “Forget it,” he grumbles. “Let’s just focus on our project.”

  “I…I came out of a really bad relationship not too long ago and I can’t…I’m not ready to…I’m just not ready.”

  “Yeah, I figured something like that when Alex said you transferred from another school because of personal problems. You want to talk about it?”

  Talk about it? I’m surprised I even gave him the limited explanation I did. I’ve never spoken to anyone about Sean, except my family and Gail. With them hundreds of miles away in the Hamptons and Sloane in New York City, I don’t speak to anyone about him. All things related to him are locked away in the past. I’ve wasted enough time dwelling on my mistakes.

  “You talked to Alex about me?”

  I like Alex, but it’s not cool to be talking to his boyfriend about me. Seriously. What gives with their relationship?

  “He only mentioned you transferred because of some kind of problem with your team or something. So what’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up. It’s in the past and I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

  “It’s in the past, but you’re not ready to get with another guy? Doesn’t sound like it’s in the past to me.” He gives me this smug look like no woman in her right mind has ever said no to him.

  “Sorry, Dr. Phil, still not talking about it, and I still don’t want to get with you. I’m sure there’s lots of people waiting in line for the honor and I’m not into being part of your fan club.”

  “You sure?” His eyes drop to my tits and he grins lazily.

  Damn. Why didn’t I put on a bra?

  I nod. “Never been surer of anything in my life.”

  At that moment, the sound of female laughter, from the girls partying at Dak’s house, floats through the open windows.

  “I could be over there partying right now,” Dak said.

  “Um, I don’t remember inviting you over, and no one’s got you tied here.” Oops. Ill-advised comment. His eyes get all hazy.

  “Interesting idea. Wanna tie me up?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I tie you up?”

  “Seriously? Sorry. I’m not into the casual, meaningless sex thing, with or without ropes. It’s not my thing.”

  “No problem, Bambi. No need to be sorry. I’ll be fine.” He tips his chin in the direction of his house and grins.

  Blech.

  I hate this arrogant asshole. So why am I so attracted to him? What was I thinking letting him kiss me? I don’t know what’s going on with him and Alex, but I do know all about his reputation of fucking anything that brushes across his crotch. Guess he’s not all about only hooking up with guys. I’m not interested in making more stupid mistakes.

  So what the hell am I doing?

  I’m unable to let anyone touch me in a year and now him? He needs to leave like five minutes ago.

  He gets up and heads for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow at the dock.”

  “Oh, and I can get the manager at the rink to let us use it alone for practice during the week. Okay?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Sure. Why not? Let’s spend every day skating to a freaking love song. Can’t see any problem there.

  “The bad news is, it’ll be early mornings. Super early, like five a.m.”

  He’s completely unaffected by our interaction. It was nothing more to him than another chance to hit on a new girl. No problem it didn’t work out, because there are plenty of other opportunities waiting a few feet away.

  It’s just as well, because for all my swaggering about finding an indifferent fuck buddy, I know I can’t do it. It’s not me. If all I wanted was to get off, I could handle that all by myself. Casual fucking is definitely not my thing. I can’t deny I like all the feelings and cuddles and laughter of a real relationship. More than anything, I need to be able to trust the guy I’m with. Dak Andersen is not that guy. Besides, I’m not looking for any kind of relationship right now.

  “Five?” I make an over-animated grimace. I haven’t had to face the five o’clock skating torture since high school. I’m regretting this whole Winter Fest thing, for so many reasons. But participating in it is an important part of me being able to move on and find my place here at Bernard. There’s no choice. I need to do a routine with him. Between his schedule and mine and the prospect of open practice ice time, there’s no choice there either. Five a.m. it is.

  “Not an early morning girl, huh, Bambi?” He opens the front door and leans one shoulder against the frame, facing me. “Funny. I pictured you as having all kinds of energy in the wee hours of the morning.” He waggles his brow.

  Why is it whenever I’m around him he triggers the urge to smack the arrogant, sexy grin right off his supermodel face? The jackass doesn’t need to concern himself with my morning habits because he’s never going to get the chance to witness them.

  I make my way across the room to stand in front of him. Batting my lashes at him a couple of times I place my palms on his chest—his rock-hard chest—and say in a breathy voice, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the dock at one and Monday morning at the rink at five.” His eyes, his gorgeous Caribbean blue eyes, get a seductive glint again. I finish off the sentence with a harsh, “jackass,” push him out the door, and slam it in his dreamy, smug face. I’m going to get through this vagina teasing semester if it kills me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dak

  Things didn’t go so well at Trace’s house last night. I admit I could have handled it better. While I wait onboard for the Tern to be fueled up, I watch her down the beach pulling the last of the kayaks out of the water and helping to strap them back up on the trailer hitch behind the van. I can’t get last night out of my mind. I can’t get Trace out of my mind.

  Somehow she’s become the girl of my dreams. She’s smart, strong, beautiful, challenging. I don’t even know how it happened. I wasn’t looking for a dream girl. I thought I already had my dream girl and lost her when I lost Abbey. The weird thing is, when I close my eyes, the only dreamy images filling my thoughts are of Trace. How did that happen? I didn’t think I would ever feel this way again and what’s more, I didn’t think I wanted to.

  Kissing her last night almost put me into cardiac arrest. When she returned my kiss, I struggled to hold myself back. When she pulled away from me, I was so disappointed I let my hurt pride get the better of me. I behaved like an idiot, acting like I couldn’t care less and rubbing in her face my suave idea of a relationship is to tie up the closest willing puck bunny down for a quick fuck.

  It’s no secret, I suppose. I always make it clear before I hook up with anyone. I don’t need the complications of any chick getting any warm and fuzzy ideas about a relationship. So far, there have been no complaints from any of the ladies, and we’re on the same page. Except for Trace. She is not on the same page. Truth? I’m glad she’s not.

  When I got back to the house last night the party was still in full swing. I w
ent straight to my room and locked the door. All I could think about as I tossed and turned in my bed was Trace and how she makes me feel. The need for getting myself off while I pictured her beautiful eyes giving me a longing gaze and her naked body underneath me was overwhelming. And fuck, as much as I’m trying to resist it, I want the real thing, not some horny trip to the spank bank.

  She said she recently came out of a bad relationship, which means I should back off. She’s not a casual fuck girl and I’m not interested in another committed relationship, not because I think being with the right woman is a bad thing. It can be a good thing…for some guys. But not me. I’m done with that shit.

  The courage to be responsible for someone’s life and happiness again is something I lack in a big way. In the end, being responsible for someone else’s life and happiness is what a real relationship is all about. Being with the one special person you want feels great…most of the time. However, if something goes wrong, it can be decimating for both people. Once you cross the relationship line, both people possess the power to destroy each other. I know what it’s like to be bulldozed by love. I can’t risk it again. Fuck. Did I already cross the line by kissing her the way I did? Because she’s all I think about, all I see when I close my eyes. I don’t get this.

  I thought I loved Abbey with all my heart. I thought we would be together for the rest of our lives. I guess we were. I just didn’t know the rest of Abbey’s life would be so short. But if all those emotions for Abbey were real, how can I be feeling what I’m feeling for Trace now? She’s so different than Abbey. I’m consumed by the guilty feeling that if Abbey had lived, in time I might’ve fallen out of love with her and destroyed her in a different way.

  We were both young. I’m not exactly ancient now, but three or four years in time and experience in college can make a world of difference. I’m a different guy than I was when I was a freshman, learned a lot about life and love. That doesn’t mean I know for sure what the future holds and I don’t want to do anything to Trace to hurt her somewhere down the road. She deserves way better than me.

  See what I mean about relationships? I’m a perfect example. A few months ago, I had figured out how to live my life on my terms: hockey, school, surfing, the casual hook up with the next consenting hot girl to come my way. Now I’m a fucked up mess trying to figure out what I’m feeling for Trace. She deserves more than this guarded, emotional wreck.

  “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

  Trace’s frustrated tone jolts me out of my thoughts. I was so lost in my inner turmoil I didn’t even hear her come aboard.

  “You’re late, Bambi.” I return her annoyed tone, because I can’t let her hear the anguish in my voice.

  “By five minutes.” She checks the IWatch on her wrist and rolls her eyes.

  “Ten,” I answer without looking up from my work of rolling up the mooring lines, because when I look at her, I want her. It’s that simple. “I logged in our time at the research center. We’ve got the Tern till six o’clock. The Coast Guard has weather alerts for thunderstorms out for later tonight. They want us back in by then. It should give us enough time to get the fifteen samples we need.”

  “Cutting it right down to the wire, though. The sky is clear and beautiful right now. It was perfect weather for the tour earlier, too bad you couldn’t make it. Maybe another time before the season’s over.”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” I mumble and feign checking the marine radio. I already checked it when I first got on the boat. She’s actually making an effort to be pleasant after the bullshit way I treated her last night, even inviting me on one of her tours. No fucking way am I getting in a kayak with her on the ocean, not after Abbey’s accident.

  “We need about five hours, so we should get this show on the road,” she states.

  I don’t think she noticed the hesitation in my voice. Even though I’m trying not to, I give her a sideways glance. Dammit. I can’t help myself.

  She’s checking the winches for the CTD sensors, flow bottles, and messengers. The research vessel is loaded with all kinds of Sea Bird electronic equipment, much more than we’ll need for this project. Beyond the sensations coursing through me for Trace, being on this boat surrounded by the state of the art gear gives me a sense of exhilaration.

  I always loved being on the ocean for sports activities, but studying in a field which will help to save the ocean’s marine life and environment is even more fulfilling. Being on the ocean to conduct environmental research with the spitfire checking the equipment, right now, is even more satisfying than usual.

  Her spandex shorts are hugging her ass and all I want to do is pull her into me and press into her back so she can feel what she does to me.

  Not what we’re here for, dude.

  Not to mention she would most likely punch me in the face. I’ve got to get my head on straight and focus on the lab assignment.

  “Everything’s ready.” She gives me a thumbs up, unaware of both the mental and physical conflict raging inside of me.

  “I’m going to head out toward Mount Desert Rock. You can drop the equipment after we get further out,” I call out to her over my shoulder from where I’m standing at the helm.

  “Okay!” she yells back over the noise of the engine.

  I point the bow out to sea in the direction of the lighthouse and wait until we’re out of the harbor before pushing up the throttle. Built in the same design as a fishing trawler, the Arctic Tern can cruise at about ten knots.

  When we’re out in deep water, I glance back at Trace. She’s standing on the working deck looking out to sea. She’s wearing a white Save The Narwhal tank top. One more cock-enticing item to add to the ever-growing Awesome Things About Trace Hayward list, her incredible love of the ocean and marine life. She wears these statement shirts to class every day, and on her they’re like living works-of-art advertisements to save the ecology of our oceans.

  It’s like the sun is radiating a circle of light around her. It could be the golden wisps of hair escaping her ponytail and glowing around her face, or the spray of sea mist glistening on her skin, or my mind imagining a cosmic aura encircling her, I don’t know. I only know she’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. Christ. When did I become this poetic mush head?

  She turns and catches me watching her. Although I’m expecting her to give me one of her annoyed smirks, instead she smiles, lighting up her face and making her eyes pinch so much I don’t know how she can see. With it, all my confusion and inner turmoil slide away and I’m filled with a sense of contentment like this is all perfect. I’m in the perfect place with the perfect person. The thought occurs to me I could spend forever doing this kind of stuff with her. Damn. I’m turning into a girl. It’s definitely time for a night out with the guys. Beer and babes are our cure for almost anything.

  “It’s so beautiful. Isn’t it?” Trace calls out to me.

  I come out of my reverie. “Yes. Yes, it is,” I say under my breath, soaking in the vision of the girl I want so bad it hurts.

  When we get within a few miles of Mount Desert Rock I put the engine in neutral and give Trace the go ahead to drop the equipment. She’s already got the bottles and messengers clipped on the winch line. She drops the CTD first so we can measure water temperature, salinity, and density, and then she flips the switch to lower the flow bottles. I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s crazy. I get an unusual pleasure merely watching her. Every time those sparkling green eyes come back to me I’m undone.

  If I don’t stop adoring her with my eyes, she’s going to think I’m some kind of creepy perv. The way she moves around the deck and operates the equipment like an expert, like she’s done this a million times before, it’s fucking hot. Everything she does is fucking hot, even the way she handles scientific equipment.

  The bottles are lined up down the length of the winch and they drop to various depths. Trace keeps one hand on the line so she can feel the tug each time a bottle closes and the messenger moves down
the line to another bottle. Then she reverses the winch line and the bottles come up out of the water. We repeat this process several times, moving to different places so we can collect samples from various areas

  Throughout the tedious job of collecting samples and replacing the bottles, I can’t keep my mind off what happened yesterday. I’ve never felt anything like the way the brief kiss had me on fire. What do I do with these sensations? She made it clear she’s not into casual sex. And I’m glad she’s not. I don’t think I could handle it if I knew she was hooking up with random guys. Big double standard, I know. Though I don’t hold any claim to her at all I don’t want to think of her with another guy. It’s so fucked up.

  I can’t stop thinking about the dickhead in her past, the bad relationship dick. It makes me sick I might’ve added to her troubles last night. She doesn’t need another douchebag, guy messing with her body and mind. I know the best thing to do is back off. Trace deserves way more than a fuck and run.

  Lost in my inner chaos, I didn’t watch the time or notice the dark, fast moving clouds rolling in, and the crackle of the VHS radio calling us startles me.

  “Wow. Where did those come from?” Trace asks. She was so engrossed in pouring the samples into amber sample bottles she didn’t notice the darkening sky either until she hears the hiss of the radio and glances up.

  “Artic Tern, this is the Bernard Research Center, over.” Before I can make it back to the helm the call comes over the radio again. “Artic Tern, this is the Bernard Research Center, over.”

  “Bernard Research Center, this is the Artic Tern, over.”

  “Hey, Dak. This is Erik at the center, over.”

  “Hey, man. What’s up buddy? Over.”

  “Looks like we misinterpreted the weather, dude. The Coast Guard says there’s a derecho blowing in and it’s coming in fast. Over.”

  “A derecho? It’s not the right time of year for one and even if it was, it’s unusual for this part of Maine. What’s going on? Over.”

  “Apparently the thunderstorm they were tracking has turned into a bunch of severe thunderstorms moving together. They’re wreaking havoc further down the coast with heavy rains, flash floods, and high force winds. Over.”