Pausing before making the call, I debated whether this was such a good idea. Clara would help. She would want to help, but she didn’t deserve this fucked up mess. I tossed the phone into the open passenger’s seat, and twisted the knob on the radio. Clara would forgive me. She had to be the most laid-back girl I’d ever dated. It was the reason we had ended things as friends. Hell, she might not ever know I had driven by without stopping.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her. She might be the only person who could understand why I had to make a run for it. She dealt with the same kind of shit I did. She was the most famous person in her town. Novelists-turned-screen writers weren’t exactly common in North Carolina. She’d get why I had to run. Let’s be honest, that’s what this was—an escape plan—a full-blown sprint to find freedom.
Later.
I would call her later. With the New Bern exit two miles behind me, I eased into the next convenient store I spotted on the side of the road. My legs could use another stretch.
A woman selling peaches at a makeshift produce stand smiled as I pulled the brim of my baseball cap firmly over my eyes and popped the cover on the gas tank. I didn’t think she recognized me. At least, she hadn’t reached for a cell phone. Her attention was on restacking a basket of peaches that had fallen too far forward.
The tension eased out of my shoulders. I leaned against the blue Jeep that had become my travel companion only ten hours ago. It didn’t matter that I paid too much for it. Fifteen thousand dollars cash in exchange for freedom was a bargain. Hopefully, the extra money would be enough to keep the seller from calling the tabloids.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
I eyed the rows of blueberries, peaches, and a carton of okra. “What do you recommend?”
She adjusted her visor. “You don’t sound like you’re from here.” She cocked her head.
“No, ma’am, I’m not.” I swallowed hard, waiting for the inevitable—an autograph and a selfie shot request. I would have to work on camouflaging my accent. It wouldn’t be the first time I had disguised my deep Texas drawl.
She leaned over the table separating us, and placed the side of her hand against her cheek to shield the words from any eavesdroppers. “If you won’t say anything, I won’t say anything.” Her forehead furrowed. “These peaches are from South Carolina. We say everything’s local, but it’s not.”
I feigned shock and winked at the lady. “Your secret is safe with me.” I reached for one and tossed it in the air. “So, I guess I’ll take some of those illegal South Carolina peaches.”
“Good choice.” She placed a basket on the scale and scribbled the weight and price on a receipt. “That will be six dollars.” She picked up each peach and placed it inside a paper bag.
My wallet was halfway around my hip when I remembered all I had was one hundred dollar bills. Damn it.
“I—uh—do you take hundreds?” I pulled one of the crisp bills from the wallet. The plan was to use only cash, that way no one would see my name on credit cards or ask for my ID. Total anonymity was the game.
“For a basket of peaches?” The woman looked at the currency as if I had tried to pay with yen.
I smiled, realizing the predicament we were both in. I hadn’t bothered to bring anything with me other than a duffle bag and my phone. The longer I stood there, the more I wanted to try one of those infamous peaches. Sure, I was only twenty yards from the convenient store, but I wasn’t about to undo all of the hard work that had gone into perfecting these sculpted abs with a bag of greasy chips.
“How ‘bout this, darlin’? You keep the change, and I’ll take two baskets of peaches.” I placed the bill next to the register.
“Oh, I can’t take that.” The pitch in her voice climbed an octave.
I didn’t give her a second chance to argue. I grabbed another basket, dumped the fruit into the paper bag, and strolled back to the Jeep. I cranked the ignition and maneuvered onto the highway.
The Jeep was headed east. I wasn’t sure where the road would take me. Eventually, I would run out of road—the ocean was just hours in front of me. I reached into the paper sack and seized the first peach. As I bit into the soft, fuzzy fruit, a trickle of juice ran down my chin. I wiped the nectar from my face with the back of my hand.
I smiled. Something about not having a destination felt better than having one.
The darkness wrapped the air and sank into every open space. Other than a few blinking lights on the horizon, it was black. I rolled my shoulders up and back. All the muscles in my arms were tight from twelve hours of driving. The ferry ride was advertised as fifty-five minutes long, so I stepped from the Jeep and strolled to the side of the vessel loaded with cars.
I had made the last one of the night. The ferry service stopped at midnight. I intended to stay in the last coastal village I found at the southern tip of the Outer Banks, but when the road ran out, the waterway could take me one more leg. The extra distance was like the last drink I couldn’t turn down. I needed it.
The salt air whipped past me as I leaned against the railing. How had my life come to this? I was running. Running from everyone, everything. I shoved my hands in my front pockets and rocked back on my heels. There had to be a way to get back in control.
It had never been this bad before. I had convinced myself that eventually the novelty of Ben Baldwin would wear off. Following the once college quarterback now movie star would become boring and mundane as soon as the next big star was discovered. But five years later, it still hadn’t happened.
I glanced over my shoulder, a regular habit whenever I was in public. The couple in the next car was trying to soothe a fussy baby. They hadn’t reached for their phones, yet.
In the beginning, it was fun, even exciting when I made the cover of a magazine. It was the same kind of rush when I threw a winning touchdown. I didn’t want to admit to anyone now that at the time I got a kick out of being named the World’s Sexiest Bachelor. All of that seemed stupid, ridiculous, and shallow. I kicked the side of the railing with my boot.
The captain pulled the horn on the ferry as it approached the dock. The sound echoed over the water. I retraced my steps to the Jeep, and waited for the crew to motion me onto the shore. Maybe I had read too many scripts or played too many roles, but as the ramp lowered and I pressed his foot on the gas, I had the strange sensation that a new movie had begun.
There were six miles between the ferry dock and the main village of Brees Island. I couldn’t see anything except sand dunes as I followed the cars in front of me.
It was one in the morning, and I had managed almost sixteen hours without talking to my agent, publicist, stylist, trainer, or assistant. That was a record. The music on the radio had turned to static. I searched for a station. My eyes burned, but the cool air from the open window felt soothing as I drove.
I slowed the Jeep as I rolled into the village. Nothing was open, or at least from the street, I couldn’t see any lights. The car in front of me turned into the gravel parking lot of the Carribe Inn. I pulled to the side and watched as the driver walked to the door, grabbed an envelope from a drop box, and retrieved a pair of keys. That was how that guy had a room. Damn it. I hadn’t thought to call ahead to make reservations. I snorted. I hadn’t thought ahead about any of this.
Somewhere in the middle of the drive from the ferry dock, I remembered passing a campground. I pulled hard on the steering wheel until I made a U-turn, sending me back on the beach road.
Along the ocean side of the island was a campground. The office was dark. I pulled to an open spot and cut the engine on the Jeep. My lungs filled with a deep inhale of salty air as the waves pounded on the shore in front of me.
I reached for the lever on the seat and reclined it as far as it would go. There was barely enough room, but I propped my feet on the dash before pulling my hat over my eyes.
It wasn’t a penthouse, a yacht, or a billionaire’s guesthouse, but I smiled as my tired eyes gave in to the
sleep that invaded his body. It might only last one night, but I slept satisfied knowing there was no way anyone in the world would find this movie star tonight.
Two
Chelsea
The alarm chirped cricket sounds for the fourth time. I threw the sheet off my chest and kicked the quilt to the end of the bed. 5 a.m. Who in their right mind woke up at 5 a.m.? I tapped the screen on my phone to quiet the alarm. This wasn’t the first time I had cursed my alarm as I stumbled to the shower and turned the water on.
There were water restrictions this time of year on the island. So many tourists, so little rain, and only seven minutes a shower. It was my mother’s idea to use a kitchen timer. I twisted the dial to the right and placed the timer on the counter before stepping into the steady stream of hot water. If I had to take a quick shower, it was going to be a good one.
I closed my eyes and lathered a handful of shampoo through long strands of auburn hair.
He shouldn’t be stealing my heart and my breath
We said good-bye with one very last kiss
But no matter what, every corner I turn
I see his face, his eyes, and it burns, it burns
I raced to stop the water and hopped over the side of the tub. There had to be paper in here somewhere. I tore through the first cabinet drawer and then the other.
“Ugh,” I exhaled, and then wrapped a towel around my chest before scurrying into my room.
My writing notebook was still in my bag, and that was in the front seat of my car. I repeated the words in my head faster this time, hoping they didn’t slip away as quickly as they had appeared.
“Ah-ha!” I triumphantly pulled an envelope from a stack of unopened mail.
Pens were easier to find. I grabbed a ballpoint next to the bed and frantically jotted down the lyrics on the back of the envelope. I read them again aloud and hummed a few bars in a minor key. I smiled.
A shampoo trail slid along my temple. “Shit.”
I touched the foamy mess still in my hair and hesitantly left the envelope on the bed, walking back to the shower with one eye on the envelope. Maybe if I stared hard enough, the rest of the song would come.
Not knowing how much time I had actually spent in the shower before my burst of lyrical genius, I reset the timer for five minutes and rinsed my hair.
The lyrics came at the strangest moments. Sometimes it happened when there was a guitar on my knee and my writing journal within arm’s reach, but usually it was completely inconvenient and random like this morning—the words hit me like an unexpected burst of energy, needing to be expended in that moment or I would spontaneously combust—at least it always felt that way.
I twisted my hair between my palms and squeezed out the water. I didn’t want to go to work before the whole song had hit me in the face like a blast of cold air from the freezer. The thought of standing in the store all day made me grit my teeth.
I needed to finish it. I had to. If I called in sick, my mother would stop by, setting off a chain reaction from my aunts that would last all day. If I tried to take the day off, my father would never cease with the lectures on responsibility and setting a good example for the other employees.
Good example, I huffed. His every move was a bad example. It annoyed me to the core how self-righteous he was when I knew how he spent his nights and sometimes his afternoons. Just being in the same room with him made me sick.
He gave me one more reason to leave Brees Island. I wasn’t finished chasing my dream, and the longer I stayed, the more I had to put it on hold. Just like the lyrics on the back of that envelope.
I grabbed a towel and dried myself before stepping into a pair of khaki shorts and a fitted T-shirt with the logo for the island store where I worked.
It was dark as I walked to the side of the cottage. It was an oversized beach house that had been divided into four apartments. I had one of the lower corner units. There was a view of the cove from the deck. Luckily, the last renter had left a hammock, and it was my favorite spot to write.
It had been a battle with my parents to have my own place for the summer. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to live at home. Did every grad student have to deal with this, even at twenty-five? I had the master’s degree, I just needed a little bit of time to figure out what was next. It would have been completely unbearable living under the same roof as my dad. There was no backing down on my part. I fought until they both gave in.
I pulled a turquoise beach cruiser from the bike stand. The island was small. Everything was within riding distance. I rode to most places, enjoying the snippets of freedom the bike gave me. I threw my leg over the bike and pushed down on the pedal.
The door slammed behind me as I walked into the store.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Derek beamed as I reached behind him for an apron.
He moved closer so that my arm grazed the firm muscles in his shoulder. When he was this close I could see deep flecks of amber in his dark eyes.
“Hey.”
I stepped back, slipped the straps over my neck, and tied the strings tightly around my waist. Nothing was more unflattering than these canvas aprons my father made everyone who worked at Davis’s General Store wear.
“I’ve had better greetings,” Derek teased.
He had stopped sweeping. He leaned against the broom handle with one arm while his free hand roamed my hip, resting on the curve of my waist. His palm felt warm through my thin T-shirt.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not a morning person. You know this.” I tugged at his wrist, working myself free.
“I wouldn’t forget something like that.” He smiled. I noticed he was overdue for a haircut. Most surfers let their hair grow long in the summer. Derek wasn’t any different.
“Just stop with the chipper-chipperness,” I warned.
My cheeks flushed pink with the memory of waking up under Derek’s tanned arms. That had been two days ago. I glanced over his shoulder and read the clock above the register. 5:45. Even with rushing around, I was still fifteen minutes late. God, I had to get out of here.
Derek gripped the handle and turned his attention to the strokes of the broom across the store’s hardwood floors. “Got it.”
I hadn’t meant to snap at him. He was just being Derek, and I was doing what I always did—lashing out at him when he was only being nice. But, it was too familiar, too intimate. True, things had taken an awkward turn since we had made out after Paul McIntire’s bonfire party. But somehow I had convinced myself we could do those things to each other in the dark under the influence of too many red cups, and it would magically disappear when we worked together at the store. It didn’t go as planned. It never did.
“Der, I’m—” Before I could complete the apology, my father barged through the back hallway. I bristled when he appeared.
“Chelsea? You late again?” He avoided my eyes and looked at Derek for an answer.
Unbelievable. This happened almost every morning and every morning Derek covered for me, but this time I didn’t deserve for my ass to be saved.
“Chelsea was here, sir. Right on time.” Derek circled around, concentrating on the dust pile and not my eyes.
“Good. Derek, would you mind giving me a hand? There’s a delivery out back on the docks. Bait shrimp’s in.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Davis.” Derek winked as he handed his broom to me. “Maybe you could finish this for me.”
“Uh. Sure.” I took the handle and watched as the two men disappeared into the hallway’s delivery entrance.
Derek would give me a hard time about the whole thing. He always did. If he thought covering for me would lead to more alone time, he had the wrong idea about what had happened between us.
Things had gradually escalated in the past month since I came home after graduation. It started with an accidental kiss in the shadows of the employee parking lot after work, and then one night the kiss moved to the backseat of the car when I thought we had technically rounded second
base. It was as if Derek had transformed into the hot new guy while I was gone for two years. Everything about his body was new to me.
I secretly admitted I liked getting to know this side of him, but there was one thing about him that hadn’t changed. He wasn’t interested in stepping one toe off the island, and I didn’t want to keep one toe on it. No amount of flirting or hot kisses could change that.
Three
Ben
“Hey, hey, you in there?” I heard a raspy voice through the fog of sleep. “Do you hear me?”
I shifted my feet from the dash of the Jeep and rubbed the back of my neck. There was a crick running from the base of my skull to my fingertips. My entire right arm was numb. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept in a car. Maybe this would be the last—it should be.
“Mornin’, sir. What’s the problem?” Damn it. I had meant to cover up the accent. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I reached for my sunglasses.
“The problem is that you spent the night in my campground without registering or paying.” A man wearing a plaid shirt and a white mustache hovered outside the window. There was a pack of cigarettes peeking from his shirt pocket.
I adjusted my hat. “Oh, sorry about that. I can set— I mean, I will take care of the bill right now.” The words didn’t sound one bit Texan. I smiled and reached for the door handle. Where was my voice coach when I needed to boast?
The man stepped back to allow the Jeep door to swing open. “I don’t usually wake up to find people sleeping in their cars. Little unusual around here.”
I flipped through the bills in my wallet. “Again, I’m sorry. It was late and all the hotels on the island were closed. This place seemed like a saving grace at the last minute. So thank you.”
The man walked around to the back of the Jeep and eyed the license plate. “Georgia, huh?”
Double Mountain Trouble: A MFM Menage Romance Page 51