by S. R. Grey
“How `bout a game of mini-golf?” Chase asked as he gestured to the newly opened place across the street. “I heard the ice cream is good and their putt-putt course is fun.” He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think? Golf first, ice cream after, and winner buys the cones. You game, baby girl?”
And that’s how we ended up here under sodium lighting, hitting golf balls through rotating windmill blades and, just last hole, a blue whale’s mouth. All the while talking about relationships and sex. Oh, boy.
My club makes contact and the pink ball flies through a metal loop-the-loop on the green before coming out on the other side. The ball does a little hop and I get my first hole in one. I don’t mutter “fuck, yeah” like Chase did when he got a hole in one at the last hole.
But I do execute a little spin, making my flouncy skirt flare out as I yell, “Yay!”
Chase gives me a high five and starts to write my score down on our scorecard. I notice he seems distracted. I figure he must still be thinking about what I told him right before I putted—that I haven’t been involved with a man for four years. I discover I am absolutely correct in three-two-one…
“So-o-o,” Chase says slowly, looking up from where his golf pencil is no longer moving, “does that mean it’s been four whole years since you last…” He trails off and coughs, but I swear I hear him say “fucked” under his breath.
Not only is it all kinds of hot to hear Chase say the word “fucked” in reference to me, but what he’s asking is pretty clear. Even if his words weren’t enough—and, trust me, they were—his quirked eyebrow and questioning gunmetal stare put to rest any doubts.
“Oh my God,” I sputter. “I can’t believe you just asked me…that.” My cheeks are surely red. Not pink, red. Good Lord, is the beautiful Chase Gartner really asking me to confirm that I haven’t gotten laid in four years?
Chase shrugs and gets back to writing on the scorecard. “Just keeping it real, blushing girl. We talk about everything else, right?”
“True,” I say, because he’s right.
We share a lot, more and more each day, and far more than I’ve ever shared with any other person. I think the same is true for him. In fact, I’m sure of it. The things we tell one another we’d never share with anyone else.
For instance, just last week, I ended up telling Chase about my fractured relationship with my parents. Right after he shared with me that he still loves his mom, even after all that’s passed between them. But he wishes every day that things had turned out differently. I told him I knew how he felt; I often wish the same for myself.
We were coming back from lunch at the time, and when Chase noticed my eyes misting, he stopped and pulled me to him. He gave me a hug of epic proportions. It was a sweet and simple gesture, full of warmth and caring. And I hugged him back just as big, thinking maybe he needed holding as much as I did. As we held tightly to one another, like two lost ships on a sea of confusion, I breathed in the guy I’ve grown to care for so very much. Chase smelled clean—a hint of paint, soap and shave cream…and just pure, delicious male.
A day later, Chase and I were discussing music over lunch. He mentioned he’s been listening to some old albums he found up in his attic weeks ago, classic rock that once belonged to his father. Chase said listening to those old songs—songs his dad had once loved so much—makes him feel closer to the man who left his life too soon.
“Way too soon, Kay,” Chase said that day at lunch, his blues melancholy.
I knew right there and then the hole in my boy’s heart gapes as wide as my own. I wanted to share something important, as well, it seemed only fair. So I told Chase about my journals for Sarah. I even shared the details of my weekly ritual. I told this man who always gets me how every week I visit my sister’s grave and recite three things I remember about the little girl I lost. I confessed that even with my soothing ritual, my heart still aches. I told Chase how I always write those memories down in a journal, for safekeeping, so time can never sneak in and steal them away.
Someday I’ll show Chase the things I’ve written. I never thought I’d show another soul, but Chase’s soul is becoming entwined with mine. I also know I’ll eventually tell him my secret—what really happened the night Sarah died. But I am not quite ready yet. Unloading that secret requires more courage than what I’m currently holding on to.
So what Chase just said is true, we do talk about everything; “keeping things real” is how we roll.
Even today at lunch, Chase, to my surprise, opened up about prison. He said not every day was horrible, most were just boring. Or “boring as fuck,” as my dirty-mouthed boy put it. Chase said he found things to fill his time—he read a lot, lifted weights, and sketched for hours. “If you don’t find outlets, the never-ending boredom will drive you insane,” he told me.
Chase also shared that prison is more than just boredom. It’s learning to live with no freedom and no privacy. You discover these things quickly, he said, like as soon as you go through central intake, right at the beginning. There you are strip-searched and whisked through medical assessment. Part of the process involves being tested for everything under the sun. In fact, you’re tested periodically. When Chase mentioned testing he eyed me pointedly. I guess it was his way of telling me he’s clean and healthy, he has no diseases. I quickly told him I’d been tested as well, at my last gynecological exam. That’s about as personal as it gets, no doubt. And it’s, for sure, “keeping it real.”
I scoop my pink ball out of a little plastic cup on the green. “Yep, Chase,” I say as I’m about to keep it real. “Sad but true, but I haven’t done it”—I mime little air quotes with my fingers—“for four long years.”
He’s quiet so I continue. Only now I ramble, like I do when embarrassment floods over me. “Hey, there’s always the convent. I figure I already have an ‘in,’ seeing as I’m involved with the church.” I sigh dramatically so Chase will know I’m trying to make a joke, cover this embarrassment. “And, I hear if you successfully make it to the five-year mark with no sex you revert back to virgin status by default. One more year, woo-hoo, I’ve so got this covered.”
A smile plays at my ever-perceptive boy’s beautiful lips. He knows this conversation needs this levity. And he knows just how to play along, what to say next.
We step up to the next hole, and he shoots me this utterly sexy sidelong glance. “Virgin status, huh? Is that so?”
“Yep, it’s true.”
“You know,” he says, his voice low and suddenly inviting, “we could save you from a life spent at the convent. It’d be a shame, really.” His blues travel up and down my body in a way that makes my breath hitch.
He leans in close, until his lips are next to my ear. “If we leave now, Kay, we could go back to my place and, if you’d like, I could end that drought for you.”
Oh, could you ever.
Time freezes, I am suddenly back in the library, four years ago, listening to two girls talk about how good Chase’s sex is—crazy-good, that’s what one of them said. And now, he’s offering his crazy-good sex to me, right here, this evening.
I seriously consider, but unfortunately Chase is just kidding. His soft laugh and bump to my shoulder before he steps away tell me as much. I kind of wish he wasn’t kidding though. No, I definitely wish he wasn’t, because I want this man. In any way I can have him.
I don’t let him know this, God no. I just push crazy-good sex away playfully, and say, “Shut up.”
But my hormones are a-humming. I check out Chase’s ass when he lines up his next putt. For the love of all that’s holy, he wears his jeans so well. I never tire of seeing faded denim on his finely sculpted ass. I admire his wide shoulders, his tapered waist. And I know the T-shirt he’s wearing hides all those sexy tats.
God, I bet this man is better than ever in the sack. Suddenly an image of him pounding into me enters my mind. Dear Lord. I fan myself with my hand. When Chase glances back at me, I pretend like it’s the summer heat—not hi
m—that’s getting to me.
A few holes later, our miniature golf game ends. Chase wins, so I buy the ice cream. But I eat my cone is a rush.
When I’m done I say, “Sorry, but I have to go. I have an errand to run.”
On the way home, in the hopes the next time my gorgeous friend offers to have sex with me he just may not be joking, I stop by the clinic with the extended hours and get the shot for birth control.
A day later I show up early over at the school. Chase is up on a ladder, painting the ceiling in one of the classrooms. Unfortunately, unlike the day in the gym, he’s wearing a shirt. It’s a tee, dark gray and kind of on the snug side. It shows off his strong back, wide shoulders, trim waist where his jeans hang low. His hair is tousled, particularly in the back. The overhead lighting from above has a way of making all the gold and bronze highlights stand out, more so than usual. There’s a depth to Chase’s hair, just like there’s a depth to the man himself. It’s hard to tear my gaze away, but I do, taking in the rest of the area.
There are paint cans haphazardly placed along the covered floor, and a bunch of wet paintbrushes off to the side. A cooler sits perched atop an overturned plastic bucket. I know exactly what’s in there, Chase’s stash of lemon-lime soda. My boy brings out my mischievous and playful, and suddenly an idea comes to me.
Quietly, and with stealth, I flip open the cooler top and grab what appears to be the last can of soda. Perfect. As the lid drops back into place it attracts Chase’s attention. He turns on the ladder and calls out, “Hey.”
But my butt is already out the door.
I scamper and turn down the hall, start down the tunnel of lockers. I have on pants today, not a dress, and thankfully flats too, so I get a good head start. When I hear Chase approaching the turn to the hall, I toss the can of soda into a random locker and slam it shut.
I’m rather amazed Chase isn’t on me yet, but when he rounds the corner I see what caused the delay. Not only did he have to come down the ladder, but clever boy has also taken the time to choose a weapon to use against me—a skinny paintbrush covered in bright white paint, surely one of the wet ones I noticed on the floor. Uh-oh.
Pale blue eyes dance deviously as Chase asks, “Where’d you hide it, naughty girl?” He gives me a sultry look that would make any other woman cave.
But not me, I remain steadfast as I start to back away. “Oh, I don’t know,” I sing-song. “It could be anywhere. I’d suggest starting with the lockers.”
The hall is lined with lockers. Chase looks around and frowns. I laugh. He takes a step forward, lifts and brandishes the paintbrush. “I have ways to make you talk, you know.”
Holy crap, his voice is filled with the promise of sex. Crazy-good sex, I remind myself.
“Is that what you want, Kay-baby? Does my girl want to play?”
Oh, do I ever.
I egg him on. Pointing at the paintbrush, I say, “You wouldn’t dare.”
My boy smiles another wicked smile and chuckles. “Oh, but I would.”
He’s not kidding, that paintbrush has my name written all over it. So I promptly take off.
Of course, I only make it a few feet before Chase catches me. With a strong but gentle arm around my middle, he spins me around and slowly backs me up against the lockers. I am breathless, but not from running. What I like, what turns me on, is that I’ve just been pursued. Pursued and caught, by this gorgeous, sexy guy who I may tease and call my boy, but there’s never been any doubt in my mind that he is most definitely all man. It’s particularly clear now as his body engulfs and surrounds me.
I close my eyes and breathe…him…in. Pressed up against me like this, he’s all soap and paint, clean, and goodness. There’s something special that’s just him. I forget we’re playing and just stand there, breathing in all that is Chase Gartner.
But then he touches my nose with the paintbrush—so very gently I barely feel it—and that simple motion snaps me back to reality.
“Oh. My. God.” I touch my nose with disbelief, feeling for wet paint. “I can’t believe you really just did that.”
Chase is holding back a laugh, and I give him my best scowl in return. He laughs harder, and I think it must be because he’s just turned me into a white-nosed, scowling clown. But then I look down at my hand, the one I raised to my face. There’s nothing on my finger, no white paint, nothing.
“Gotcha,” Chase says quietly, dropping the paintbrush. It clatters to the floor.
He has gotten me, he’s gotten me good. The paint on the brush is dried, there’s not a single smudge on me.
“Oh, I see how you play, tricky boy,” I say while Chase stands before me and smirks victoriously.
“Have fun finding your soda,” I snipe, trying to sound mad, but I can’t muster up any ill will since, really, I’m having a blast. We’re always at our best when we’re playing.
I try to slip past Chase, leave him to his search, but he traps me by placing his hands against the lockers at either side of my head. “Not so fast,” he says softly.
Suddenly, this isn’t about sodas, paintbrushes, or games any longer.
My breath catches and our eyes meet—blue on brown. Does he see how much I want him to kiss me right now? Maybe, because his hands move from the lockers to wrap around my waist, so much like the first day we met. Only this time I put my arms around him too, placing my hands on his lower back.
Without thinking, I slip my fingers under the hem at the back of his tee. With warm, warm skin under my fingers, I trace little circles around those sexy indentations above the band of his boxer briefs.
“Kay,” he whispers, his pale blues conflicted and pained. “Don’t.”
My eyes stay with his, and though I think he might, he doesn’t stop me, not even when my fingers inch upward. Chase’s back is so strong. His muscles flex and move as I touch and press. When I find an area where the texture of his skin differs, I trace with my fingertips what feels like the edge of a falling feather. Chase’s breathing picks up. I know I’m turning him on—heat radiates between us—but I have no desire to stop exploring.
I find another falling feather, then another. Chase sucks in a breath as I continue to trace and touch. He’s not the only one feeling this palpable excitement, my fingers tremble as they move across his back.
“Why are the feathers falling?” I whisper-ask, my heart racing as I press my palms to the wings.
With breaths uneven and eyes lust-hooded, Chase answers, “Because my wings are broken, baby, because I am broken.”
“You’re not broken.” I touch the angel between the wings on his back for emphasis. “You’re putting your life back together. Building isn’t breaking, Chase.”
He chuckles a little and kind of shivers under my touch. “You’re too sweet to me, baby girl. You give me entirely too much credit.” He brushes my cheek with his thumb, but his eyes are on my lips. “I just wish…”
“You wish what?” I ask when he falters. “What aren’t you saying? Don’t hold back with me, Chase, please—”
He touches my lips with his finger, cutting me off. “I’m afraid,” he whispers.
My hand covers his. “Why?” I murmur against his finger.
How could Chase be afraid? He’s strong, in so many ways. He’s fearless, as far as I can see. But maybe he doesn’t see himself the way I do. Why else would there be resistance in his gunmetal blues, like he’s battling something?
“I’m no good for you,” he says, pained, as if uttering the words hurts him. “You could do so much better than me, baby.”
“That’s not true. You’re good for me, Chase. You help me in ways I can’t even begin to explain. You make me want to live, to embrace life even. I was barely surviving before I met you.”
I’ve laid it on the line, and his resistance is crumbling, I see it in every part of him—his eyes, the expression on his beautiful face, even the way he holds my body, one hand moving to the small of my back, arching me toward him ever so slightly.
I lean my head back against the locker and he nuzzles my neck. “What if I end up being bad for you?” he asks against my skin. “What if I hurt you?”
“You won’t.”
He lifts his head and searches my eyes. “How can you say that, sweet girl? Being with me will never be easy. I meant it when I said I’m broken. You make me feel more whole than I ever have in the past, but there will always be something missing. I’ll always be trouble, Kay.”
My hands are still on his back, still under his tee, and I touch everywhere—the angel, the wings, the falling feathers. “Then be my trouble,” I whisper as I touch and touch and stare into blue depths.
Chase leans in close, close enough that his warm breaths caress me. I breathe in the life in his breaths, his life. “Be my trouble,” I whisper again.
My trouble-boy’s lips—so soft—just barely touch mine. We both still, lips touching, breaths shared. This is what we are, two broken people who when connected are made whole, made right. I feel this everywhere, my body, my heart, my soul. Does Chase feel it too?
He must, he asks, “Do you feel it, Kay?”
I nod and my lips brush his. Chase angles his head slightly and catches my upper lip with his mouth. My boy kisses me softly, just once.
Time stops.
He moves to my bottom lip and nips gently. I let out a stuttered breath. Chase nudges my lips open with his mouth and our tongues touch. My boy groans and pulls me to him. He kisses my mouth open farther as he cradles the back of my head.
This kiss—this kiss—has been building for weeks, and now that it’s actually happening, it torches and ignites. We become all lips and tongues, little nips, scorching heat, and unleashed passion. I arch into Chase. I need to feel how much he wants me. And, damn, he wants me bad.
I want him just as much. I push my hips against him suggestively, letting him know how I feel.
He stills my grinding and just holds me to him. I feel him grow even harder for me. “Chase,” I breathe out against his lips.
He kisses me hard, tells me between frenzied kisses, “You feel so good, beautiful, beautiful, sweet girl. Feel how much I want you.” He circles his hips against mine. “I want you like this all the fucking time.”