by Amber Burns
“What,” was the only word that slipped from her lips.
The word was barely a word at all, more of a whisper, more of the ghost of a word as it trembled upon her pink lips. She looked at him, her plump mouth hanging open, her fingers fluttering around her middle, as if trying to locate her heart and check in with the organ in order to see how it felt about this woodsman’s sudden and total proclamation.
Rowan felt for a moment like he should take the words back but, no, he would not, he could not, and he did dare not. For in that second he felt with the entire fullness of his being that those three words were the most truthful words that his lips had ever birthed, that he had ever dared to speak. He realized, in that second, as his heart continued to swell and scream with joy, as he stared at the beautiful woman that sat before him, her breasts heaving up and down in shock at the words she had felt against her ears, that this, this was his truth. Nina was the most real thing that Rowan had experienced. More real than his getting back to basics out in the middle of the forest; more real than his having built his home, with his own hands, from the ground up; more real than foraging and growing his own food each and every day, than tending to his animals and making his own medicinal remedies, his own alcohol, his own herbs, and his own heat. He stared transfixed at the miracle that sat before him, and he said it again then, now sure of it, now saying the words with passion, with intent, feeling them, savoring their taste against his mouth, the feel of them leaving his lips.
“I love you,” he said again, more loudly this time, more solidly, and he looked at her, a huge, genuine smile creeping across his well-defined face. He grinned and said it again, his lips large and full of life, moisture cropping up in the corners of his eyes. “Nina, I love you.”
Nina stared at the good-looking man that sat before her. Tattoos crept and tangled up and down his flesh, holding him together, it seemed, with etches of ink and the tails of snakes. She knew he should not love her, could not possibly want her, and yet, had the very words of love themselves not just danced willingly off of his tongue, from his very soul? Her heart raced wildly as she stared back at him, wanting him so badly she felt her middle burning, her fingers aching to run themselves over his body and sing out, I love you! I love you too! I love you too!
Rowan crawled forward slowly, his eyes wet with passion, his jaw set with determination. He pressed his face inches away from her own. And then he repeated it again.
“Nina,” he said softly, but solidly, staring into her eyes, falling deep within those green orbs. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Nina breathed, and a rush of joy overwhelmed her, took over her being, and she could no longer hold herself back.
She leaped upon him, wrapped him in her arms, and they tumbled backward against the floor, holding tightly to each other, hugging each other so closely, as if desperately willing their bodies to meld into one being made entirely of love.
Rowan squeezed the red headed girl against his chest, running his hands fondly over her tangled mass of fiery hair, gripping at her eyes with his own, willing himself not to cry in sheer joy. He kissed her again, running his lips over her own, his nerves electric, excited at the touch of her, her fingers on his cheeks sparking explosions of ecstasy within him. Holding her so closely against his body gave him the calm he had always been in search of, for all of those long, hard, unsatisfied years.
Feeling her body moving slowly up and down, on top of his own flesh, now, made every second of those years he had deemed wasted, those years spent behind a computer screen, pounding out formulas to generate sums for people he did not know and did not care to know; those long, awful years… they all now seemed worth while, just to hug this pale skinned girl against his body now. He pressed his lips into her hair and breathed in the scent of her as she kissed his neck, his chin, his cheek. He wanted to jump up and down, to scream, to tell everyone he had ever met, had used to know, that he had done it, he had succeeded, he had found the key to happiness, the answer to life, and it was her, this girl, this stunning woman that he now clutched so fondly against his chest. Instead, Rowan simply lay they are, happy to do nothing but trace the outline of her head through the mass of her tangled red hair, his fingers exploring the ridges of her body.
They stayed like that on the floor for over an hour, simply tracing the outlines of each others’ bodies, finding new areas to kiss and hold, enjoying the feeling of their forms pressed together, seeping in their newly professed love. Finally, as dawn began to crack across the sky and filter in through the windows, Rowan peered at Nina. Her fingers had stopped their wandering moments ago, and he saw through his own sleepy eyes that she had fallen asleep upon his chest. Smiling wearily, he scooped up her sleeping form and carried her gently, protected in his muscular arms, across the cabin and back to his bedroom.
He pulled back the sheets with one arm and carefully lowered her into the bed. Then he slid in beside her and pulled the cool sheets up over them both. He wrapped her safely into his arms and pressed a soft kiss against her cheek.
“Sleep well, my love,” he whispered in her ear, stroking her hair as the amber light of the breaking morning slithered in through the window and draped the shadowed room in pleasant, drowsy light. Then he let his head fall to the pillow and quickly fell asleep.
7
Several Years Earlier
Rowan zipped up the fly of his pants and sorted his clothing back into place. Then he sighed and cleared his throat, turning to let himself out of her office once again.
“Alright,” he said, waiting by the door as she walked across the room, her high heels clacking against the floor and sending echoes bouncing across the walls. “Have yourself a great day.”
Ilsa walked to stand by his side, raised her key card to the computerized pad, and then halted mid-air. She eyed him suddenly, seriously, all seduction wiped clean from her face.
“Mr. Davis,” she said seriously. “I would like to take this moment to propose something to you.”
Rowan’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, and he stared at her.
“If that something that you are about to propose is marriage, Ilsa, then please forget about that,” he said, holding his hands up in defense. “That is not at all what this is about, and I am pretty certain you are aware of that.”
Ilsa rolled her eyes, bored by his stuttering, and fixed him with an irritated expression.
“No, Mr. Davis, I am not about to get down on one knee for you, here,” she droned. “And please in future do not be so ridiculous or you might just make me change my mind regarding your suitability for this position.”
Rowan’s face scrunched up in confusion.
“Position?” he repeated. “What position?”
Ilsa nodded curtly.
“Yes, then,” she said, brushing invisible dirt from the front of her figure highlighting dress. “As you may or may not know, I am getting older,” she began.
“No way,” Rowan mocked, running his eyes over her fit form, at last, his gaze settling upon her graying hair. “I would never have guessed.”
Ilsa’s lips tightened, and she rolled her eyes again, continuing onwards in her little speech.
“Soon enough I will be leaving the company and embarking on my life as a full-time retiree,” she stated. “I may be only fifty, but I have made well over enough money to allow me to survive for the rest of my life in a most exquisite and comfortable way. So…” She clutched her hands before her now in a matter of proposition. “I will be heading to a meeting this afternoon during which I shall inform the board of my top choice for a suitor. And I think I know, if he is willing, exactly whom my touch choice should be.” She raised an expectant eyebrow at Rowan.
Rowan’s stomach dropped, and a cold chill overtook his body. He stared at Ilsa, frozen, his face a mask of disbelief.
“You don’t mean,” he began, then stopped, shaking his head in incredulity. “Surely you couldn’t mean….”
Ilsa smiled coldly and nodded.
“I do indeed mean,” she said, her assertive tone edged with humor. “Mr. Rowan Davis, how would you like to be the next CEO of Bond’s Bonds?”
Rowan stared at her, his eyes clouding over, his jaw dropping down to his chin. The room was suddenly swimming before him, Ilsa’s face seemed to waver back and forth, back and forth, and everything began to become bleary.
“Rowan?”
He heard the sound of his name coming from some place that seemed very far off. He blinked rapidly, trying to force the room to come back into focus. It did not. He tried to speak but found his tongue too dry. Ilsa’s eyes remained trained upon him. She did not blink. She stared.
“Mr. Davis.”
It was not a question. It was a statement. Rowan slammed his eyelids shut and took a deep breath through his nose. He let it out, opened his eyes, and opened his mouth.
“Fuck you and fuck your corporation,” he said emotionlessly.
Isla’s mouth dropped open in shock. Rowan took the opportunity to grab her key card, let himself out of the office, walk briskly through the maze of cubicles, cages, and grabbed his belongings. With a curt turn, he walked straight out of the door.
The slick backed haired secretary looked up from her computer as he rushed past.
“A bit early to be leaving, is it not, Mr. Davis,” she said in her nasally voice.
“Fuck off,” Rowan called as he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, eating him up and whisking him away from the corporate tower in the sky.
The elevator shuttled him downward, and Rowan felt his heart pick up speed, racing with adrenaline. The metal doors dinged open, and Rowan raced out of the building, throwing open the glass entrance way doors and rushing out into the fresh air of the sunlit day. He grinned, stretched out his arms, and spun in a circle, laughing. Then he reached into his pocket and felt the cool pressing of the Harley’s keys against his hand. He smiled, his well-shaped eyebrows dancing with excitement, his eyes glinting with danger. He raced across the parking lot to the place where he had parked his brand new baby, his gleaming black Harley. It stood proud and badass, staring at him as if to say.
“I have been waiting for you.” He straddled the bike and drove the keys into the ignition.
The engine jumped to life, purring seductively into his ear. The leather was warm beneath his thighs, heated by the gentle pulsing of the sun against the dark upholstery. He twisted the key, pushed off from the ground, and backed up, ready to leave this parking lot for good. Just as Rowan was turning the bike around, lining it up to exit the parking lot, the front doors of the corporate headquarters flew open, and Ilsa ran out. Her face was a mask of dark rage, her mouth fixed in a deep frown, her eyebrows angled dangerously downward. She raced at him, screaming his name.
“Rowan! Rowan! You get right back here right now, or you are fired, you asshole!”
Rowan waved at her, smiling calmly. He continued to steer the gleaming black motorcycle across the parking lot.
“Rowan!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with the effort, buckling under the rage.
She stamped her high heeled foot like a child, throwing her hands up in the air and screaming. Rowan gunned the motorcycle so that its revving engine drowned out Ilsa’s cries. He grinned and waved at her and then, without another look back, he shot out of the parking lot and down the busy city street.
Ilsa stared after him, the purr of the shiny black bike still echoing in her ears as Rowan wound his way through the heavily trafficked street, carving a dangerous path through supply trucks, SUVs, and corvettes. Horns honked and drivers stuck their heads out of windows to scream at the reckless bike rider. But Rowan did not care, he was finally free, truly free, and he would not let any person or thing get in the way of his current feelings of excitement and bliss. He threw his head back and screamed in joy, savoring the feeling of the wind rushing past his face, tousling his hair, coloring his bare cheeks a ruddy red. He revved the bike and flew forward again, tilting back and forth daringly, experimenting with his new ride’s abilities. He flew forward, not sure of where he was going, not sure of what he intended to do next, only sure that right now, at this moment, he was truly, truly happy.
He rode on like that until night began to tickle the deep blue of the sky. Rowan pulled over to the side of the road and fished his cell phone from his pocket. He checked the time and ran a quick GPS check of his location. He nodded, impressed at himself when he discovered he had traveled over 60 miles already. He conferred with google and discovered a small town center lay not five miles ahead. It seemed as good a place as any to settle down for the night. He hopped back onto the bike, steered it back onto the freeway on which he had been traveling, and sailed back onto the road, flying forward into the falling night.
The world was nearly dipped in darkness by the time Rowan and his Harley rolled up into the small town center he had spied on his GPS. Rowan slid off his bike, his legs aching, his body cool and his lips chapped from the constant exposure to the whipping wind. He rolled his bike to a stop and parked it in the parking lot of a small pub that seemed to function as the town’s center. He shook out his limbs, casting his gaze up towards the darkness of the sky. And his jaw dropped open. There, up in the sky, Rowan could see the magical pin pricks of hundreds, no, thousands, of stars. He stared up at them all, spinning slowly in circles, filling his eyes hungrily, greedily, with the sight of the universe stretched out above him. In the city, atop his condo roof patio, Rowan had often enjoyed a drink and the sight of night draping itself across the city that lay below, but stars? The city in which Rowan lived was too heavily populated, too full of bright, artificial light, all around the clock, to allow for the stars to ever be seen. Now, in this tiny town miles and miles away from the city, Rowan was amazed and filled with wonder to see the stars dancing above him.
“Just imagine,” he found himself saying. “All this time, there was so much happening, and you just couldn’t see it.”
At long last, Rowan dropped his gaze from the stars and walked across the parking lot towards the front doors of the divey pub. The painted sign was chipping, and one of the windows was boxed up with plastic. Yet the sound of lively conversation and badly played guitar drifted through the thin doors, and it comforted Rowan’s soul. He pulled open the door and strode in.
A dingy room with dim light and scuffed tables met Rowan’s eyes. Men poured themselves over pool tables, and scantily clad women bent over them, pouring beers and laughing too loudly at their terrible jokes. A typical small town, divey establishment, this bar was, home to loud talking men puffing on cigars and a group of younger, baseball cap-wearing men who talked animatedly at a table in the corner, their rifles leaning up against the backs of the booth. Rowan walked slowly across the room, allowing the out of tune strumming of a guitar to dance through his ears, letting the stale smoke of the cigars fill his lungs, sniffing at the smell of spilled beer and overdone steak as it wafted from the kitchen.
Rowan pulled up to the bar and sat himself down on a stool. He stood out like a sore thumb, a sharply dressed man in a room full of people who looked slightly sodden, rough, as though they had spent the day tending to crops or working hard, physically demanding labor, and now gathered at the pub to reward themselves and drink away the pain. Rowan fought the urge to hide himself away, to slouch over his perfectly pressed business suit. Instead, he stripped off his suit jacket and dropped it to the floor, suddenly overcome by the confident feeling that he would no longer be needing that article of clothing, not ever again. He unscrewed his silver cuff links and dropped them on the bar and then shoved up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. He yanked the shirt untucked, too, and immediately found that he felt more comfortable, more at ease within his own body. He leaned forward, his elbows on the bar, and peered at the assorted bottles that were scattered about behind the dusty bar. He tucked his dark hair behind his ears and ran a hand over his face.
A woman swaggered over to him, her large breasts popping out
from the low cut tank top she wore. She carried a rag and wiped half-heartedly at the bar top as she strutted across the bar back towards Rowan. She ran her eyes over him and then stopped when she noticed the real silver cufflinks lying on the bar. She looked from the cuff links to Rowan, and then back to the cuff links again. Then she pressed her hands against the bar, revealing fake, bright pink pointed nails. She nodded at Rowan.
“Those yours?” she asked, her eyes again darting towards the cuff links.
Rowan nodded.
“How much they cost?” she asked, working her tongue around the rim of her bubble gum pink lips.
“Get me a drink, and I’ll tell you,” Rowan said. The girl eyed him for a moment, then spun around, yanked on a keg tap, and filled a glass with dark brown liquid. She slid the glass to Rowan and watched him as he sipped.
Rowan swallowed and wiped the back of his hand across his lips.