by Penny Reid
“Fine, fatty. I don’t want your fucking chubby-ass fingers on me anyway.”
I closed my eyes, waiting for the sound of his departure and trying to calm my heart. But he didn’t leave. I felt him hovering there, just beyond the little island of safety that was my towel. I was about to launch myself up and away to the water, when he spoke again.
“Yeah, glad you’re having a good time. This place is pretty great.”
I frowned my confusion—which had momentarily paralyzed me—but didn’t open my eyes.
But then Ben said, “Oh, hey Stroke,” just as I discerned a new set of footsteps approaching from behind me. Martin was walking over.
I exhaled a slow breath, my insides still feeling like icicles, and slowly opened my eyes. I kept my attention affixed to the shore as I didn’t want to look at this Ben person again, probably never.
“Hey,” Martin said from someplace nearby and over my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Ah, not much. Just keeping Kaitlyn company.” Ben’s voice was remarkably different, friendly, affable. “But since you’re here, I’ll just go grab some food. Do you want anything? Can I get you something?” Ben was obviously directing this solicitous question to Martin.
I wondered briefly if Martin should invest in a poison tester of some sort. I wouldn’t trust Ben with a snake I didn’t like, let alone to bring me food that wasn’t tainted with arsenic.
“No,” Martin said.
I nearly laughed, despite my brittle state. Martin’s simple no sounded like so much more than a no. It sounded like a warning and a threat, like a dismissal and a command. I was impressed how much disdain he’d managed to pack into a single syllable word.
“Okay, well…” At last I heard Ben’s feet move against the sand. “I’m starving so I’m going to eat. See you two later.”
I remained still even when I was sure Ben had left. I couldn’t quite pry my fingers from where they held my legs tightly tucked against me.
Growing up, I’d struggled a bit with my size, but not in the way most people approach size frustrations. I struggled and worked to accept it. I wished I could be different, yet because I trusted my mother and her assurances there was nothing wrong with me or the way I looked, that the baby fat was normal for me and that my body would shed it eventually, I never fought against the rolls.
I was a pudgy kid and very, very short through most of my childhood; then, during my sophomore year of high school, I stretched out and grew four inches basically overnight. I grew another two inches in my junior year.
But I’ve never been lean and firm; rather, I’ve always been soft and curved. I did rather like the line of my waist, however, because it tapered dramatically beneath my ribs, then flared out again to my hips—an hourglass, my mother had said with a smile, defining it for me.
She told me I should be proud of my healthy shape and healthy body, and love and treasure it because it was mine. No one, she said, could tell me what to think of my body. If I let another person’s opinion matter I was giving him or her control over me, and I had complete control over my self-image.
That’s what she said.
But that wasn’t the truth, not really. Because even though I knew Ben was a bottom feeder of the worst sort and his opinion mattered just as much as the coruscations in the sea, words like fatty hurt, no matter the source.
I felt Martin’s eyes on me and I wished I had a shirt, a bathrobe, or a big plastic trash bag to cover the imperfections of my shape. Furthermore, I wished I’d junk punched Ben when I’d had the chance.
Martin moved, walking on Sam’s towel and sitting next to me. I lifted my chin and kept my eyes on the horizon; I was not yet ready to look at him. I was still trying to gain control of my scattered feelings. I was also attempting to suppress the self-consciousness creeping from my chest to my throat and choking me. I was this awkward, pudgy girl, the color of chalk, sitting alongside a muscled and bronzed Greek god.
Martin stretched his long legs in front of him; he rested a hand behind me so his arm and chest brushed against the bare skin of my arm and back. The contact was a spark in my tunnel of frigid numbness. Then he leaned forward, nuzzled my cheek softly with his nose, and placed a gentle kiss on my jaw. Unexpectedly, I felt myself melt.
“Hey, Parker,” he whispered, then kissed the hollow of my cheek. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head even as my body instinctively leaned into him, my shoulder resting against his chest. He felt good, solid, warm.
“Why is that guy here?” I asked.
Martin glanced over his shoulder to where his teammates were eating, then faced me again. “Did he say something to you?”
I cleared my throat then answered with another question, “Why would you invite him? After what he tried to do to you.”
He exhaled softly, then brushed the back of his fingers down the length of my arm to my elbow; his eyes followed the path. He seemed to be studying my hand where it gripped my leg.
“Because he’s strong and we, the boat, need him to win.” His voice held an edge of ire, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me.
I slid my eyes to the side, considered this news and Martin’s expression. He didn’t look happy about having Ben there. In fact, he looked angrily resigned. I got the impression he wasn’t used to making compromises, and this one felt wrong and unwieldy.
“He tried to drug you,” I stated with a fervor that surprised me, feeling outraged on Martin’s behalf.
“I didn’t say I trust him. I said we need him. Trusting and needing someone are usually mutually exclusive.” Martin lifted his dazzling eyes to mine. This close I was startled to see they were the exact color of the ocean. Flecks of green, silver, and turquoise radiated from his pupil like a starburst.
“But sometimes, rarely…,” he started, stopped, his attention drifting to my lips briefly, “you meet someone you need, who you can also trust.”
He stared at me and I stared back, feeling muddled and disbelieving the implication of his words. He allowed me to struggle for a full minute, then he reached for my hand and pried it from my leg, holding it lightly, reverently.
“Kaitlyn, did Ben say something to you? Because if he did I’ll get rid of him.” Martin’s eyes narrowed by a fraction and his gaze grew penetrating, searching.
I gathered an expansive breath and turned from Martin’s probing stare. His obvious concern was doing strange things to me. His protectiveness didn’t feel like possessiveness, and I wondered how often I’d lamentably mistaken one for the other.
I didn’t want to lie. But if Martin could live with Ben trying to drug and extort him for the sake of team cohesion, then I guess I could live with a few nasty words.
Of course, there was the whole Ben drugging girls for undefined reasons issue...
I looked over the water as I spoke. “Martin, I didn’t tell you this on Friday when I saw you at the party, but you’re not the first person Ben has tried to drug. When he was talking to that girl, he made it sound like…like he’s been drugging girls for a while. That can really only mean one thing, right?”
I peeked at Martin and his scowl was fierce. He said through gritted teeth, “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll handle Ben. He won’t—” he stopped, exhaled slowly, “he won’t be doing that again.”
“But what about what he’s done so far?”
“I’ll take care of that too.”
“He’s so awful. He’s…he’s like ammonium dichromate with mercury thiocyanate. He’s the college boy equivalent of the bowels of hell.”
Martin’s smile was sudden and its unexpectedness seemed to take us both by surprise; he laughed lightly at my analogy, but he also looked concerned. “Hey, did he say something to you? Before I came over?”
“I don’t like him,” I said, then rushed on when I feared Martin would see I was being evasive. “He’s unpleasant and creepy and I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Let’s talk about chemistry.”
I felt rather
than saw Martin’s small smile because he’d leaned forward and nipped my shoulder, his lips hovering against my skin. “Yes, let’s talk about chemistry. We have excellent chemistry.”
I leaned a tad to the side and away because his soft lips, sharp teeth, and hot mouth were overwhelming to my chest, stomach, and pants.
“I meant our assignment. I brought all my notes, I think we should start on the literature search this afternoon.”
“Na-ah.” Martin lifted his head, placed my hand on his thigh, and then gathered several stray strands of hair away from my face. He tucked them behind my ear. “We’re leaving. You and I have plans.”
“Plans? What plans?”
“I know a place where we can be alone.”
“Other than the fifty spare rooms back at the house?” I said, then immediately felt myself burn scarlet at the unintended insinuation. “Ah…I mean…that is…what I mean is…oh blast it.”
He watched me struggle under his suspended eyebrows, a whisper of a smile on his face, then cut in when I tried to hide my face in my arm. “No, the place I have in mind is better. Lunch is packed. Come on.” He squeezed my arm then pulled my hand as he stood, tugging me with him. “We need to get going.”
I snatched my hand back and quickly covered myself with a towel.
I tried not to look at him, mostly because he was magnificent. Unlike the others, he was clothed in board shorts that ended at his knee. His shirtless torso was flawless and completely smooth. He looked like a golden statue, cast in hard relief by the sun, but warm to the touch. And that was just his torso! I didn’t trust my gaze to venture downward to assess the flawlessness of his legs…or elsewhere.
My heart and the area previously defined as “my pants” both twisted and tightened at the sight of his perfect body. I felt pinpricks and tingles all over and a little lightheaded as I turned away from him.
“Let me get changed first,” I mumbled without thinking. “I wish I’d invested in a burqa or a moomoo…”
Martin gripped the towel as I tried to wrap it under my arms, bringing my attention back to him.
His expression was again fierce, his eyebrows lowered in a frowny scowl. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you doing?” His gaze flickered to the towel then back to mine.
“Getting my things.”
He yanked on the towel and I held it tighter. His frown intensified. As he surveyed my face, I felt very much like I was being examined under a microscope.
Martin took three full, measured breaths, his hand now stubbornly fisted in the terrycloth, before he asked again through clenched teeth, “What did Ben say to you, Parker?”
“Nothing important.” I tilted my chin upward and shrugged. When he looked like he was going to press the issue further, I let go of the towel, letting the weight of it drop in his grip.
Martin looked troubled, but his attention strayed as though he were compelled, as though he had no choice but to look at my body. I tensed, fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest, and glanced at the sky, letting him look.
It didn’t really matter. We were at the beach for Bunsen’s sake! Sooner or later he was going to see me in a bathing suit. I repeated my mother’s sage advice, If I let another person’s opinion matter then I was giving him control over me; I alone had complete control over my self-image. I held still for as long as I could.
Then I heard him sigh. “Fuck me…”
My eyes darted back to Martin and I found him looking at my body with a mixture of pained hunger and appreciation. The profanity had slipped from his tongue like an odd caress.
“Excuse me?” I questioned, though I almost asked, Was that a request?
His gaze jumped to my face and he stepped forward, tossing the towel to the sand. He didn’t touch me except to fit the fingers of my left hand in the palm of his right. “It’s an expression, Parker. It usually means a person is surprised.”
I squinted at him. “What’s surprising? Is it my ghost-like skin? Does it scare you?”
I saw his mouth tugged to the side just before he turned from me and pulled me toward the house path. “No. Your ghost skin doesn’t scare me.”
“Is it—”
“You’re fucking, goddamn gorgeous, Parker,” he said roughly, a half growl, and without looking back at me.
Startled, I snapped my mouth shut, as a pleased and pleasant warmth suffused my cheeks, chest, and stomach. For the first time in my life I found I didn’t mind the use of curse words.
CHAPTER 9
Reactions in Aqueous Solution
I didn’t change clothes as I completely forgot that I wanted to change clothes. Therefore I continued to wear my relatively modest, halter-top, two-piece bathing suit on the ride from the house to this new and better place where Martin insisted we go…to be alone…
Being alone with Martin didn’t freak me out at first. It felt like a very theoretical state of being; like being informed I was going to go become quark–gluon plasma (i.e. one of the theoretical phases of matter) or the winning contestant on American Idol. So, equally likely.
The truth was that my mind was slow on the uptake because everything was happening too fast. On Friday afternoon I was hiding in a science cabinet on campus. It was now Sunday afternoon and Martin was practically wooing me—insomuch as crazy handsome, billionaire, geniuses woo a girl—on a small island in the Caribbean.
I was not used to change and I was not good with surprises. The entirety of my past and all changes therein were well documented via the agendas prepared by George. I’d always had time to prepare.
But not this time.
Thus, I forgot to freak out until he was leading me by the hand down a sandy path and through a healthy amount of tropical underbrush. In his other hand he held a picnic basket. I glanced up and blinked at the broad muscles of his back and it abruptly hit me where I was and who I was with and what we’d done so far.
The kissing, the touching, the whispering, the shared moments and the heated stares. I’d made eye contact with him more in the last thirty-six hours than I had in the last six months as his lab partner. A shiver passed through me. Life was happening too fast.
I mumbled, “Fast, quick, rapid, supersonic, hurried…”
Martin glanced over his shoulder, his oceanic eyes sweeping me up and down. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed on me. “Are you okay?”
I lied, “Yes. Good.” Then deflected, “Where are we going?”
A glint of some devilry flashed in his gaze, curving his mouth to one side—devilry looked really good on Martin Sandeke—and he returned his attention to the path. “Just this place I know with a waterfall and cave. It’s part of the estate, so no one else uses it.”
“How nice,” I said, bending as he held a palm frond out of my way, and added conversationally, “we have a garage at my house. It holds a car and some of my dad’s tools.”
Martin glanced at me, equal parts amused and confused. “Oh?”
“Yes. And a hammock in the back yard.”
“Is that so…”
“Yeah.”
“So, no waterfalls?”
“No. But this one time, when it rained a lot, the gutter broke. That was similar to a waterfall.”
Martin laughed. I knew he was laughing because, though he was quiet, I saw his shoulders shake; and when he turned to look at me, his eyes were bright with humor and he was flashing a lethally bright smile.
“You’re funny, Parker.”
“Thank you.” I looked away from the beacon of his smile. It was blinding. “You’re also…humorous at times.”
We walked another hundred yards or so in silence and I forced myself to study the surrounding landscape. The ground was sandy—light grey and white—and heavily littered with bleached shells. Tall palm trees provided the ceiling of the canopy. The path was littered with thick palm bushes and underbrush. All around us insects buzzed a
nd hummed a constant symphony, and I could make out the faint sounds of rushing water. It grew louder the farther we walked but not overwhelming. The weather was warm, and would have been hot if we were in the sun and farther inland. But in the shade and so near the ocean, a cool breeze whispered over and cooled my bare skin.
Martin turned slightly, still holding my hand, though his attention was on a series of rocks before us that descended a stairway of sorts.
“Be careful here, just watch your step. It might be better if you do this barefoot. You’re not going to need shoes anyway.”
He released my hand, kicked off his shoes, and preceded me down the path made by the sandy boulders.
I, likewise, kicked off my flip flops and followed, keeping my attention on the trail. The sound of the rushing water increased exponentially as we descended. Then I stopped because Martin stopped, and I looked up and saw this place where he’d brought us.
And my mouth fell open.
He’d brought us to a very small cove, mostly shaded by palms and the surrounding rock face. It was about twenty feet in diameter. The crystal clear, turquoise water was mostly still, but rippled near the far end. Upon closer inspection, the cove appeared to be adjacent to a cave. The waterfall was unseen, but I heard it; I guess it must be behind the rock face.
It was like a little room, private, intimate, breathtaking.
I don’t know exactly how long I stood there gaping at the small natural loveliness of our surroundings. But I became aware of Martin’s gaze all at once, watching me; I darted a look at him, snapping my mouth shut.
“Do you like it?”
I nodded. “It’s…it’s stunning.”
He grinned, obviously pleased. He’d set the picnic basket down at some point on a shelf created by the curving rocks, leaving both of his hands free. Martin with two hands free felt a little dangerous. I glanced at his hands, my heart skipping.
“Come on,” he said, holding one of his dangerous hands out to me.
I accepted it, and he led us down into the water, his eyes holding mine. It lapped at my ankle, then calf, then we were submerged to our waists just three feet from the edge.