The Play

by Karina Halle

  But he doesn’t respond, and a loud snore escapes his mouth instead. Strange after everything he just did and said, I can still find him and his lips so damn kissable.

  I sigh, getting into my t-shirt, and crawl into bed next to him, my back pressed against his back. “Goodnight,” I tell him, pulling the covers over both of us.

  He’s fast asleep.

  There’s one more day left.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lachlan

  I wake up feeling like absolute arse.

  My first thoughts are of regret. Not just because of how I feel but because of what I might have done. I knew being around constant company and constant wine was a dicey gamble on my behalf, but I hadn’t wanted to say no. I hadn’t wanted it to seem like something I couldn’t handle.

  But she knew now. She could see it, and when I told her, she hadn’t seemed all that surprised. That was both a good thing and a bad thing. A bad thing because I couldn’t be sure how obvious I was. A good thing because she acted like she wasn’t bothered by it.

  Unless she was a good actress. It was hard to tell with Kayla. Part of her wanted to wear her heart on her sleeve, but the other part was always trying to cover it up.

  The sound of the patio door sliding open is like a cheese grater to my brain. I open my eyes carefully and see Kayla stepping inside with Emily on the leash.

  She sees I’m awake and gives me a soft smile while closing the door.

  “Good morning,” she says gently, unhooking Emily from the collar. The dog immediately jumps on the bed, licking me on the nose. I want to move my head, but it hurts too much. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I was hung over, and my body is making sure I’m up for maximum punishment.

  “Hey,” I croak, wishing my voice didn’t sound so weak.

  I also wish she didn’t look so bloody beautiful, the light coming through the gauzy curtains, lighting her up from behind like an angel. She walks over to me, dressed in another sundress I want to fuck her out of, her hair pulled back in a ponytail with not a trace of makeup on her glowing, fresh-scrubbed face.

  Something inside me bleeds for her. It’s a nasty cut in the heart, a slow, deadly leak. It pains me to look at her knowing I’ll be leaving. That pain outweighs the one in my head. It’s no wonder I drank last night. It wasn’t just about the peer pressure. It was about relieving the pressure in my chest, the one that has been slowly building, brick by brick, all week.

  I swallow, licking my lips, as she places soft, cool fingers on my cheek. I close my eyes, breathing her in, letting her touch soothe me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks. I open my eyes to see her crouched down at my level, looking at me with those warm dark eyes of hers.

  Tomorrow I won’t see those eyes of hers again.

  How am I feeling?

  I’m not fine.

  But I couldn’t quite tell her that last night, when I was drunk and trying to erase the feelings, feelings I do not know how to handle. It has been years and years since I was with a girl that I remotely cared about, and even that scared me halfway to hell. It didn’t end well for either of us. I drank myself into a rehab center and she went screaming the other way.

  This, whatever it is between us, wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I should be back at my flat, packing, making phone calls to Alan, our coach, making arrangements to meet with my brother Brigs when I get off the plane. I should be getting ready to return to my old life, the one I’d put on hold for six weeks.

  Instead I’m lying helplessly in bed, lost in a woman I don’t know, wishing I could know her better.

  What a bloody mess.

  “You don’t want to know how I’m feeling,” I tell her.

  “I thought as much,” she says, kissing me on the forehead. It works like a blast to my heart.

  She gets up and goes into the washroom while I struggle to sit up. I need to wake the fuck up and push past this bullshit, or my last day with her is going to go to waste. When she comes back out, she hands me a glass of water and two ibuprofen.

  “Take those, drink it all,” she says, and sits down on the couch across from the bed to watch me.

  I do as she says, forcing it down while she looks on in concern.

  “Tell me,” she says suddenly, pointing to the lion on my arm. “About the lion.”

  My head jerks back in surprise which only makes the pain pound back in response. One eye scrunches up as I wince through it. “Now?”

  She folds her arms. “I had to put you to bed last night. I think I’m owed an explanation.”

  I frown at her. “I’m not sure my tattoo will answer your question. What is your question?”

  “The lion,” she says. “When did you get it? What does it mean?”

  “Why?” I ask her carefully.

  “Because you’re always looking at it.”

  My eyes widen and I’m hit with a wave of self-consciousness. “I am?” Fuck, I had never noticed.

  “From time to time,” she says. “You may not be seeing it for what it is, but it’s one of the many places your eyes go.”

  I exhale noisily. She’d sunken into my skin, just like the tattoo. I could open another page for her. I could give her another glimpse inside. She couldn’t throw it back in my face if I was leaving. The pages would just flutter to the ground.

  “All right,” I say, holding out my forearm for her to see better, for me to remember. “This is Lionel. Not my dog. My lion. I got this tattoo when I was sixteen. I’d been living with the McGregors for a while by then, but…” I pause, wondering how I can explain such a thing to someone who has never gone through it. “When you grow up in a boy’s home, when you don’t have anyone to love you, to care for you, to think of you, then you cling to whatever is lovely in the world. Lionel was my stuffed animal, given to me as a birthday present. The very same day my mother gave me away.”

  I reluctantly meet her eyes, but I’m surprised not to see any pity in them. She’s involved in my words, as if she’s living it as I had. I swallow hard and continue. “Lionel was what I truly loved and the only thing that loved me back. It was soft, you know, in a place that was very hard and very cold and very black. The lion gave me hope, even when everything seemed hopeless. Through many foster families who couldn’t…handle me. And sometimes, sometimes I couldn’t handle them. Finally the McGregors took me in, but…” I lick my lips. “Sometimes the good things have a hell of a time outweighing the bad. Demons follow you everywhere. All the time.” I tap the back of my head. “Mine are here, and they are dark and they are always looking for the weakness in me.”

  You’re my weakness. You’ll bring them out again.

  I close my eyes to those thoughts, pinching them together tight.

  Kayla lays her hand on my arm, and I open them, taking in a deep breath.

  “You don’t have to say any more,” she says. “I get it.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. Nah, you don’t, and I’m glad you don’t.” I exhale sharply. “So, Lionel the Lion reminds me that there is good in the world. There’s always something worth holding on to. It’s just another word for hope, you know?”

  She nods slowly. “I know.” She looks away briefly, her eyes awash with sadness. “Shit. Lachlan, you’re breaking my heart.”

  I sit up straighter and put my hand on her chest. “No. There’s no breaking this thing.”

  She looks up at me through her lashes, mouth twisted into a smile. “Let’s hope.”

  Our eyes lock, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m leaning in, pressing her soft lips to mine, letting the feel of her, the taste of her, wash away the grime.

  We kiss for a long time, a slow, lazy, desperate meeting of the mouths, and I find everything in my body stiffens, hot and tense.

  But she pulls away, her dainty hand on my chest, and quickly runs her thumb over my brow. “I promised everyone we’d have lunch with them. We’re going to a winery.”

  I frown, not wanting to see anyone but her and e
specially not wanting to go to a winery after last night.

  She continues, reading my face. “Don’t worry, it’s not a wine tasting. Well, it is, but they’re already there, I think. I told them we’d meet them at the winery’s restaurant for lunch. It’s not far, and I heard it’s good food. Farm to table and all that.”

  I groan and eye the alarm clock. It’s eleven o’clock. I can’t believe I even slept in that long. Usually I’m up at seven and raring to go.

  She holds my hand and gives it a squeeze. “After lunch, I’m all yours. They all know. They don’t want to take you away from me.”

  I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “They sound like good friends.”

  “They know you make me happy.”

  Her words are a fist to the gut, and they nearly leave me breathless.

  I make you happy? I want to ask her, but I can’t. I don’t. I swallow her words down and pretend that they aren’t affecting me like a goddamn shot of vodka.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll get ready.”

  It’s not long before I’m dressed, Emily’s been fed and walked again, and Kayla and I are in her car driving to the winery. I have to admit, the day is absolutely brilliant, and the fresh country air is doing wonders to clear my head. I think the smog of San Francisco has started to clutter it up a little too much, and for a moment, my heart pangs for Edinburgh, with its quiet lanes and stone buildings and the slower pace of life.

  I look over at Kayla as she drives, my hand at the back of her neck, my thumb rubbing against her skin. I could sit here for hours, as long as I can keep touching her. I wonder briefly, so briefly, just a flash, what she would think of Edinburgh if she could see it. Would she like Scotland? Would she see the country, the city that I see? Would she understand why its home?

  But such thoughts are futile. They get pushed down into a locked box, and I stare out the window, watching sparrows dance in the blue sky and the endless curve of vineyards that stretch over the hills.

  Soon we arrive at a winery composed of hay, rustic fences, and sprawling barns. One of the barns holds the restaurant, and we find my cousins and their women already sitting down, toasting each other with wine to something.

  It makes me hold onto Kayla tighter. The four of them seem so tight-knit that I can’t imagine Kayla with them after I leave. Will she sit there, just happy to be on her own, happy for her friends, but forever the fifth wheel? Will she have someone else by her side, some other guy? One that she’s fucking, one that she maybe loves?

  The thought of that nearly makes me sick. I have to stop, mid-stride, and throw my shoulders back to take in a deep breath.

  “You okay?” Kayla asks, and I quickly nod, glad that no one else saw that.

  “Just in time,” Bram says from the table, lifting his glass. “We were toasting to hangovers.”

  “That seems about right,” I say, forcing brevity into my voice. I sit down and give them all a tight smile. My glass is filled with wine, but there’s also one with water, so I raise that. “Here’s to feeling like the dog’s bollocks,” I say.

  “Here, here,” they all say. We all tap glasses, and I noticed that Bram is getting that sentimental look in his eyes that I don’t think anyone else ever notices except for me. I give him a sharp nod, not wanting to go down the schmaltzy road, then clink my glass with Kayla’s, who is also toasting with water.

  I look deep in her eyes, the light in the barn bringing out the different shades of mahogany and teak. “Here’s to you, love,” I say softly, barely audible. “You’re quite the hangover cure.”

  The corner of her mouth lifts in a soft smile and I impulsively lean over to kiss it.

  Bram clears his throat, and I reluctantly look back at him. Maybe he can see in my eyes that I’m just daring him to say something, so he looks away, busying himself by picking up a menu. I can’t help but smirk at that. For all of Bram’s money and affluence, he’s still a bit intimidated by his younger cousin.

  The lunch ends up going smoothly, and even though Linden was grating on my nerves yesterday, he’s more subdued today. Maybe it’s the hangover. Everyone has been turned down a few notches. Still, when the waitress comes by to take away our empty plates, I find myself sighing internally with relief. As much as I honestly do care for Bram and Linden, and I don’t mind Nicola and Steph, all I want to do is spend my last moments with the woman next to me. Little by little, I can feel that darkness creeping in, snaking black fingers that take hold of your brain, and I want to do what I can to keep them at bay.

  Even though they seem to increase when I’m thinking about Kayla, she’s also the cure.

  We all make tentative plans to meet later on at the bowling alley bar inside the hotel, even though in the back of my head I know I’m not going to show up. I’ll say goodbye to them in the morning. That will be enough for me.

  The minute they leave and get in their cars, I grab Kayla’s hand and lead her along the peeling paint fence toward one of the barns in the background. Unlike the barns used for the restaurant and wine tasting, this one looks neglected.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asks as I look around, checking to see if anyone is looking. From this angle there’s nothing in sight except hayfields and rows of grapes.

  “I know you’re not too keen on the dog watching us,” I tell her, leading her into the barn, past farm equipment, to the ladder that leads up to the hayloft.

  “I’m also not too keen on rolling around in rat poop,” she says.

  I shoot her a smile and start to climb the ladder. “Wait there. Let me check.” I climb and pop my head over the edge. It’s not packed with hay, but there are a lot of bales stacked along one side, some of the hay loose and spreading onto the floor. It will be comfortable enough. And no, I don’t see any rats.

  I step off the ladder and wave her up. “Come on,” I say quietly. “The hay is fine.”

  She purses her lips, thinking it over. I stand at the edge and unzip my cargo pants, bringing my dick out of them, already stiff as a board.

  Her eyes widen as I knew they would. My girl is a hungry little creature.

  “I’ll be right up,” she says, her mouth parting sweetly as she clamors up the ladder. When she gets to the top, she stays down on her knees. Her hands grab the back of my thighs, her nails digging in, and she stares up at me with burning eyes.

  She doesn’t break eye contact with me—I’m starting to think she gets off by watching me get off. I’ve been with my fair share of women, but none of them were as brazen as she is, not even close. And it’s not that I feel like she’s lusting over me like a slab of meat. At the beginning, maybe. But now, it’s more than that.

  At least, I hope it’s more.

  She takes me in her mouth, working me softly, sweetly, but oh so fucking wild. I close my eyes and throw my head back, both wanting her to continue and wanting her to stop.

  When I’m close to coming, I pull back, breathless. She stares at me, soulful, yearning, her perfect mouth open and glistening, practically begging for my cum.

  I lick my lips and grab her by the arms, hauling her up beside me. I put one hand behind her head, feeling how small she is, how perfectly she fits in my palm. The urge to protect her or fuck her is a war raged deep inside, all the time. No wonder she’s driving me mad.

  Wanting her to feel my fire, what’s driving me, I pull her to me and kiss her urgently as the need, the lust, the want comes pouring out. I might just devour her. Everything she offers up is so beautiful, but it’s never enough. I don’t just want to touch her and be with her, I want to fuse with her. I want to sink inside her so deeply that she’ll feel bereft without me there. I want to be everything to her, this sly little minx who has turned my world upside down.

  She’s kissing me back, wild and untamed. She’s clawing at me now, nails on my back, digging through my shirt, and I’m gripping her so hard I feel I might break her.

  Quickly, I pull her shirt over her head and toss it on the hay. “Come on,” I gr
oan against her neck. I gently push her back until she’s lying in the straw and shimmying herself out of her denim cut-offs. No knickers, of course. I’ll never tire of the sight of her beneath me, so perfect, every swoop and soft curve that my lips and tongue and hands are so ridiculously addicted to. Her cunt is a fucking treasure, and for this moment, for every moment I’ve spent with her, I feel like it all belongs to me.

  It’s a startling thought, the idea that she could. It’s not just that it feels like she’s mine. It’s the idea that maybe, in another world, in another life, she could be.

  I pinch my eyes shut, willing the feeling away. But it doesn’t go. It just morphs, turns, shifts, into raw desire to have her in every way I can, to make her see just how it is.

  “Did you bring a condom?” she asks me, breathless.

  I shake my head in frustration. I wasn’t really thinking with my hangover. “No,” I say regretfully. “I didn’t.”

  “I’m on the pill,” she says. Her eyes are clouded with lust, but she’s still thinking straight. “And I’ve been tested. Clean.”

  I nod. “Same.” I had more than a few scares when I was younger. I wasn’t always with the best people, doing the best things. I’ve been more than careful ever since.

  “Okay,” she says softly, and I see it in her eyes, the look that tells me it will be different this time. To feel her skin against skin. To be so completely bare with her.

  I have to take a deep breath, steady myself. Without a barrier between us, I don’t know how long I’ll have before I lose myself inside her.

  But who am I kidding? I’ve already lost myself to her.

  I move between her spread legs. It’s almost painful, this desire, this need. Seeing my bare cock hard and ready, her cunt open, pink and soft—I feel like I’m dying a beautiful death a million times over.

  I tell myself to get over it but words don’t matter. Reason and logic, same. In this moment, I want in deep and to never let go.

  Slowly, so slowly, I ease myself into her as she raises her hips, pushing toward me herself, wanting that deeper purchase. Her mouth opens wider the further I get, her skin sliding against my skin like endless silk.