The Holdout
Page 25
“What makes you think there’s a story? Maybe it’s just a watch.”
I look into his eyes and take in the whole of his face. How could I have ever missed how striking he is? “I think there’s a story.”
He glances down at his arm and his finger gingerly traces the rim of the timepiece. “It was a graduation present from my mom. She died before she could give it to me, but my dad says she shopped for it on the last good day she had.”
I reach out and clasp his fingers with mine. “Well,” I whisper. “I think it’s really beautiful.”
He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “I think you’re really beautiful.”
And then my moment happens. I let myself trust him, just a little bit, enough to draw him closer rather than pushing him away.
We kiss some more. He lowers me to the couch and soon we’re engaged in some very heavy petting. I don’t even notice when his watch strikes twelve, but that’s okay. Endings and beginnings merge all the time, so it’s not always easy to distinguish when change happens. And it’s not always necessary.
Because this time I could feel the change. And this time I knew it was right - absolutely.
§§§
The Next Breath, which is the follow-up novel to The Holdout, is now available on Amazon. Read on for a special preview chapter, because Robin’s story isn’t over yet!
Preview of The Next Breath
Chapter One
Thursday, June 20th, 2013
8:45 PM
As secrets go, mine is not earth-shattering. Technically it’s not even a secret. It’s more like a huge, invisible elephant in the room, and Nick just hasn’t noticed it yet. But he’s not stupid and eventually some reference to my past will force me to explain. And if nothing ever comes up, well, I still have a time limit. The play is opening in just a few weeks.
I know it’s weak to make a habit out of hiding, but showing my vulnerable side is my danger zone. Nick isn’t that way; he lets his guard down with easy confidence. Like right now: A goofy smile lights up his face while he hums the tune he wrote on GarageBand. Nick is an aspiring musician disguised as a real estate agent, which makes him similar to 95 percent of all creative people who’ve ever lived.
Anyway, we’re sharing this blandly remarkable moment, and I’m already feeling nostalgic because life, unlike love, is finite. The sun sets and songs end so I can’t bear to talk of other shared moments with other guys, not right now anyway. I just breathe deeply, letting my lungs expand and my senses revel in what surrounds me.
“You okay?” Nick asks, his gravelly voice ending in a squeak.
“Of course,” I tell him. “Keep playing your song.”
We’re sitting on my grubby living room carpet, and I’m wearing shorts, so bits of dust and dirt are pressed into my thighs. Outside the moon is still struggling to appear, even though we’re approaching 9:00. But I haven’t turned on a lamp, and in the fading light of my apartment we drink beer and stretch our legs.
“Okay, wait. This is my favorite part.” Nick plays a riff on his keyboard, which is plugged into his laptop, and I start belting the lyrics to that 90s classic, Song for The Dumped. But I stop when he stares at me.
“What?” I demand. “Your song sounds a lot like Ben Folds Five.”
“True” he says, as he scrunches his forehead in surprise. “But I always figured your knowledge of music didn’t extend past Adele.”
Nick is right; there aren’t many songs on my iPod that aren’t also played on Top 40 radio stations. But I have a sordid history with that particular song. “There are all sorts of things you don’t know about me,” I joke, but Nick doesn’t laugh.
“Like?” he asks softly, innocently.
I feel blood rushing to my face, and I tell myself that it’s not a big deal, that now really isn’t the time to explain. Or maybe I just don’t want it to be. I can just imagine his expression upon hearing my confession. The wounded eyes, followed by the inevitable sputter of bewilderment… so I scoot towards Nick and kiss him lightly on the lips.
“Like,” I say with a smile, “I’m a fool for a guy who can carry a tune.”
He grins in his adorable, crooked way, changing the geography of his face. “Then stick with me, Rocky.” He strokes my bare arm with his fingertips. “And I promise I’ll learn how to sing.”
I laugh and we fall into each other: a slow dance on an early summer evening. Gingerly, he tries to remove my black gingham blouse, but his thick fingers stumble over the bright pink buttons and I giggle. “Be careful. It took me hours to sew those buttons on right.”
His grin tells me that I’m worth being high maintenance. “Maybe you should take it off yourself. I don’t want to wreck it.”
Keeping my eyes locked on him, I take off my blouse as he watches, his arms outstretched in anticipation of holding me again. I pull the fabric over my face and we reach for each other. Soon we grow so close that there’s no distinction between where one of us ends and the other begins, and I surrender to a welcome pull of desire.
But somewhere in the back of my mind is the thudding knowledge that pretty soon, I’ll have to come clean.
Friday, June 21st, 2013
6:00 AM
I am wearing a corset, and someone from behind keeps pulling tighter and tighter, squeezing my organs and reducing my ability to breathe. I’m standing in front of a mirror, getting ready to perform, wondering how I’m going to say my lines without enough air to speak. The person behind me steps out and I see his reflection next to mine. My heart drops.
“Jed?” I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Why wouldn’t be I here?” His tenor is uncharacteristically impatient. “It’s my play.”
“But Georgie isn’t supposed to wear a corset.”
He ignores me and pulls the strings so tight that my rib bones grind together. “Is it tight enough?”
I try to inhale but I gasp instead. “Too tight, actually.”
Jed shakes his head. “You’ll never stay in character if you can breathe.”
Several thoughts compete for my attention. Should I tell Jed about Nick? How will I perform when I don’t know my lines? And will Jed be offended if I tell him that breathing is important to me?
Jed puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses my neck, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “I’ve missed you, Robin. After the play, we need to catch up.”
Lucas walks in. “Places, Robin. It’s time.”
He walks off, all officious with his stage-manager headset and clipboard. Jed fumes. “That guy has a lot of nerve.”
I turn to face him. “What happened with Lucas was forever ago.”
“No, it was just last week.”
“But…”
Jed pushes me towards the stage, which is suddenly only a few feet from where we’re standing. “Go. Break a leg. We’ll talk later.”
I stumble towards the stage, fighting to breathe and to extinguish my sizzling nerves. When I enter, the glare of lights makes me blink, and then I realize that it’s actually the morning sun streaming through my window.
I’m awake.
It’s really no shock that I dreamt about Jed; if anything, I should be surprised that it hasn’t happened sooner. Still, this sleepy‑time appearance is the first he’s made in over a year, and as always, I can’t decide if I want to shake off the images or cling to them. But when I close my eyes my brain shouts, You’re not going back to sleep, so I turn and Nick softly groans. He tightens his groggy arm, pulling me even closer as we spoon. No wonder I dreamt of corsets.
“I have to get up,” I say.
“You’re self-employed,” Nick murmurs. “You don’t have to do anything.” He kisses my neck and his muscles are taught against my stomach. I take a moment before resisting, resting my head against the pillow and enjoying his heat. But soon I sit up and free myself from his grasp. Without the covers and the warmth of him, the air-conditioning prickles my skin.
“I can’t sleep, so I th
ink I’ll go for a run before it’s too hot out.”
He opens one eye. “Again?”
“When I can’t sleep I have to get up and get moving.”
Nick smiles, closes his eye, and nestles back under the covers. “I’m glad I’m not you,” he mumbles. I push him in response, but he just laughs and starts humming the Rocky theme song. “Have a good run, Rocky.” His nickname for me is partly from that song, “Rockin’ Robin” but mostly from the movie, which is Nick’s all time favorite.
I get out of bed, brush my teeth, and change into my running gear. After securing my shoulder-length blonde hair into a ponytail and lacing up my Nikes, I exit my apartment building into the soft, Midwest morning.
I start running through the streets of my neighborhood. There are more hills than you would expect for a place like West Des Moines, and my lungs squeeze as I try to maintain an eight minute mile. Right now my legs feel like sandbags. I should have stayed in bed with Nick. I would have stayed in bed with Nick, except I know my pattern of insomnia. Once I wake up, no amount of tossing or turning will put me back to sleep.
So I keep running, even after the stitch in my side squeals to slow down. Sweat is soaking my tank top, but I increase my pace. I have to get my lungs to work harder. By now they should know that little trick of moving fresh air in, and wasteful gasses out.
Then I turn a corner and approach the house where I always see her.
Flashdance Girl.
She’s way too young to know the movie, but maybe she likes to stream films that were made a decade before her birth. Anyway, she has the Jennifer Beals hairdo: dark, curly, and held back by a headband across her forehead. And she wears a t-shirt with a ripped collar, which falls off her shoulders, revealing the straps of her sports bra. Most importantly, like in the song, she wears the expression of someone who’s “dancing (or running) for her life.” Her dark, doe-like eyes stay wide and her lips stay parted, no matter how fast she’s going. The only exception is when she first sees me. Every morning she waits for me in her yard, and every morning she sneers, right before she takes off.
I know the drill. I met my fair share of mean girls in high school. That curl of her lip is a challenge, and if I wasn’t so winded I would say, Bring it on, bitch. But I didn’t pace myself right. I never pace myself right. And when she crosses over to my side of the street, just to gain on me, I can’t rise to the challenge.
I try to run faster but my legs refuse to cooperate and the stitch in my side is migrating across my entire stomach. I hear her footsteps behind me, rapidly gaining in speed. It’s like she’s part cheetah. “On your left!” she demands. I move over, let her pass me, and resist the urge to trip her as she goes.
“Show off!” I yell. But my yell is weak and she has on headphones, so she probably didn’t hear me. Anyway, she couldn’t be older than sixteen. What am I doing, getting so worked up by someone nearly half my age?
Stupid Flashdance Girl.
Later I get home, and notice Isobel, my neighbor and friend since college, sitting on her porch. The still-rising sun bounces light off her shiny black hair and her blue eyes match her t-shirt.
“Hi,” I say. “You’re up early.”
Isobel smiles and takes a sip of her coffee. “I couldn’t sleep. So, are you ready for rehearsal tonight? We’re going to block your death scene.”
I roll my shoulders back and stretch out my calves. “Yeah,” I say, keeping my eyes on the pavement. “I’m totally ready.”
“You’re such a liar,” Isobel retorts. My head snaps up in shock.
“It’s going to be emotional, Robin. Of course it will be. Don’t kid yourself about that. I think you should come prepared, you know?”
I stand up straight and nod. “Sure, you’re right. I guess time doesn’t heal everything, does it?”
She takes another sip of coffee, contemplating. “Old wounds get reopened easily.”
“Yeah.”
We’re both quiet as the first evidence of rush-hour traffic begins. People pull out of their driveways and car radios blast from several feet away. With a sigh, I say, “Well, I should go take a shower and get moving. I’ll see you tonight.”
“See you tonight,” she says.
I go inside, past my still-sleeping boyfriend, and into the shower. My heart rate slowly returns to normal as I let the water’s spray bathe my face. I’m feeling more centered and less shaky than I did when I first woke up, like running exorcised all my demons. I grab the shampoo bottle and squeeze some into my hair. But when the soapy run-down stings my eyes, I think of Isobel.
And why I agreed to do Jed’s play in the first place.
§§§
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading The Holdout! I realize there are hundreds of thousands of books available for you to choose from, and since I’m a relatively unknown author, I’m especially honored that you chose to read one of mine. My biggest challenge as an author is reaching new readers, but that is where you can help. If you enjoyed my book, please consider posting a review on Amazon. Positive customer reviews are the biggest/best way to attract new readers. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy, but if you click here and write a review I will be extremely grateful.
Thanks!
Laurel Osterkamp
Other books by Laurel Osterkamp:
American Angst (Robin Bricker/Lucy Bricker stories)
November Surprise (A Lucy Bricker novel)
Blue State (A Lucy Bricker story)
Campaign Promises (A Lucy Bricker novella)
Starring in the Movie of My Life
Following My Toes
Laurel's website: www.LaurelOsterkamp.com
Table of Contents
Prologue: November 2012
Chapter 1: December 2011
Chapter 2: May 2012
Chapter 3: May thru June 2012
Chapter 4: November 2012
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17: December 2012
Epilogue: January 2013