by Nell Stark
Synopsis
Love, like the wind, charts its own course. Once upon a time, Corrie Marsten fell hard and got dumped. Now, her only loves are sailing, and power. By day, she works as the head instructor for the University of Rhode Island's Sailing Center. Once night falls, she indulges in frequent casual sex with her friends, all of who know that like the wind, she can't be tethered. When Corrie meets vet student Quinn Davies, an enrollee in the summer sailing course, she senses Quinn's attraction and comes on strong. Quinn, though drawn to the charismatic Corrie, doesn't reciprocate for important reasons of her own, leaving Corrie frustrated, tantalized, and intrigued. As the summer progresses, Corrie and Quinn gradually develop a friendship that hints at so much more. Will Quinn admit her growing attraction? Will Corrie be able to forgive, forget, and love again? When fate conspires to make them teammates in a high-stakes sailing regatta, will they run with the wind, or resist it?
Running with the Wind
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Running with the Wind
© 2007 By Nell Stark. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-347-1
This Electronic book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,
New York, USA
First Edition: March 2007
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Jennifer Knight, Cindy Cresap and J. Barre Greystone
Production Design: J. Barre Greystone
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Running with the Wind
Homecoming
Acknowledgments
My name may be on the spine, but this book belongs to many people. Lisa: thank you for being my love, my inspiration, my fellow brain-stormer. This novel would never have been conceived without you. You are the wind at my back. Radclyffe: oh Captain, my Captain, thank you for this amazing opportunity. Your encouragement, support, and professional example are priceless. Team BSB: I couldn’t ask to be a part of a braver and more talented group of authors and support staff. Thank you for your stories and your hard work. Jennifer Knight: you were instrumental in improving the quality of this book—thank you for helping me make it stronger. Cindy Cresap: I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed cracking up at your editorial comments as you took me to task. “Fingers!” Julie Greystone: thanks for your careful fine-tuning of my story. Your eagle eye is much appreciated. Ruta: thank you for believing in the merit of this tale from the very beginning, and for being so proud of me. And to the rest of my family of choice: Your unconditional love is an anchor in my life.
Dedication
For Lisa—my reason
By the Lee
Corrie looked at the front door of the Newport Yacht Club, then back toward her car. It would be so easy to just drive home, so easy to make up a story: traffic, a flat tire, food poisoning. Heaven knew her stomach felt sick enough—looped up and twisted like a mess of fouled lines.
She turned her attention back to the door, to the shiny brass knob set into the freshly painted wood. Walking away now meant contending with the disappointment of her parents, but even more importantly, Will would know that she couldn’t handle it. He’d get that infuriating big-brother grin on his face, the one he always flashed at her whenever she was acting like a spoilsport. It’s not whether you win or lose...
No, she had to be gracious—gracious and congratulatory and polite, to both her brother and Denise, despite the fact that the woman who had been her lover was going to be her sister-in-law in less than a year. Who was she kidding? Will had the right to gloat. He’d won and Corrie had lost, and if she had to shell out a single penny for alcohol tonight, she was just going to damn the torpedoes and go home.
She turned the handle and stepped swiftly inside before she could change her mind. There was the familiar mahogany wood paneling; there was the curving staircase and the podium set to one side. Nothing had changed and nothing ever would. Not here, not with the good ole boys in charge. A member of the club staff whose name she couldn’t recall looked up from the podium and gestured toward the door to her right.
“Good evening, Ms. Marsten. The party is just through there.”
“Thanks,” Corrie said. She walked to the door and pushed it open. Almost immediately, her mother’s voice floated across the room.
“Corrie, darling, over here!”
Corrie jammed her hands into the pockets of her slacks and made her way between the tables, nodding at so many familiar faces. At least no one else knew the sordid story. Denise’s reluctance to come out to her parents had spared Corrie public humiliation. She stopped beside her mother’s chair, nodded at the cousins arranged around the table, and leaned down for a swift kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, Mom.” She frowned slightly. “Where’s Dad?”
Cecilia Marsten sighed. “On the dance floor, acting like a fool.” Gold hoop earrings jangled as she shook her head. “If he re-injures his back, it’s his own fault!”
Despite her dark mood, Corrie smiled. She squeezed her mother’s shoulder and looked out toward the small space that had been cleared for dancing. Sure enough, there was her father, trying to do the Swim to Britney Spears. It really wasn’t working. At once mesmerized and mildly horrified, Corrie failed to notice that someone had come up behind her until a strong arm encircled her shoulders and a set of knuckles roughly mussed her hair.
“Argh!” she yelped, twisting away and spinning to face her assailant.
“William,” her mother said in an exasperated voice, “please do not turn your sister’s hair into a bird’s nest before the photos.”
The sight of Will grinning mischievously, his offending hand now resting on Denise’s slender waist, was enough to make Corrie want to slug him. She grabbed for the back of the nearest chair instead. You’re smarter than him, Corrie reminded herself. Smarter, and you fuck better. She’d managed to wheedle that much out of Denise the last time they saw each other. What a blowout that had been. Denise hadn’t admitted it in so many words, of course, but Corrie could read between the lines. Which made her marrying him even more egregious.
“Hey, li’l sis, glad you could make it,” Will drawled, pulling Denise closer and caressing her possessively from her hip up along the side of her ribcage and back again.
Corrie’s gaze followed his fingers before she finally looked Denise in the face. Those perfectly plucked eyebrows had drawn close together into a frown, and suddenly, Corrie remembered how smooth and soft they had felt as she had traced them with one forefinger in the aftermath of their lovemaking. She remembered the awe, the joy, the love bursting beneath her skin overflowing the borders of her eyes, and how Denise had clutched at her, looking up at her as if she were some kind of goddess.
Now, her dark brown eyes were guarded. Wary. That hurt.
Never again, Corrie thought for the thousandth time. I will never be that gullible again. Denise playing turnabout had been bad enough. But engagement? Marriage? Un-fucking-believable.
“Will,” she said flatly. “Denise. Congratulations. Please excuse me. I’m going to get a drink.”
“William,” she heard, as she
walked toward the open bar, “why do you always have to antagonize her like that? You’re not teenagers anymore. Look, now you’ve made her upset.”
She didn’t need to hear Will’s answer to know what it would be. I was just fooling around, Mom. Just having some fun. Just teasing. And his excuses had always worked, too—ever since she was old enough for him to push around.
“You don’t know the half of it, Mom,” she said under her breath.
The bartender noticed. “Talking to yourself already?” he asked in a far too chipper voice. “That can’t be a good sign.”
Corrie pretended she hadn’t heard and settled onto one of the shiny black stools, resting her elbows on the lacquered wood. “Shot of Ketel One and a light beer to chase, please.” She stared down at her hands as the bartender moved away. There were still faint red lines across her palms from where they had bitten into the metal of the chair. So fucking angry. And for what? What will it get me?
“Corrie?” A soft, hesitant voice at her elbow made her blink and spin on the stool. The young woman standing nearby was looking at her with a hopeful expression as she ran one hand through her short, dark hair.
“Storm? Sarah Storm?”
Storm’s answering smile rivaled the glittering disco ball hanging from the rafters. “You remembered. Wow!” She shuffled her feet slightly. “I really thought you wouldn’t.”
“Aw, now, why’s that?” Corrie leaned back against the bar. Suddenly, she felt better. Much better.
Storm shrugged self-consciously. “I dunno. It’s been awhile.”
“Only a few months,” Corrie said. “Besides, I wouldn’t forget you. You were the superstar of your session.”
Storm blushed a deep red. Her skin had lost its summer tan, but freckles still liberally sprinkled the bridge of her nose. And she was wearing a tight, silvery top that did nothing to hide the contours of her arms. Sailors always have the best biceps.
The bartender, at that moment, set the drinks down on the bar.
“Just a sec,” Corrie said, before expertly throwing back the shot. Cool and clear and easy down her throat, followed by the smooth bitterness of the beer...she looked up into Storm’s admiring eyes and felt the knot between her shoulders ease. “Anyway, this is a nice surprise. What’re you doing here?”
“Oh,” said Storm, as her fingers idly twisted the hem of her shirt. “Your parents sponsored mine to join the club. They’ve become friends, I guess.”
Corrie nodded and took another pull off her bottle. “And sailing? How’s that going? Several schools were recruiting you, if I remember correctly.”
“I, uh, picked Yale.”
Corrie’s eyebrows arched involuntarily. “Top school for women’s sailing in the country this year. You should be really proud.”
“Yeah,” Storm said and fidgeted some more. Corrie hid a smile behind her beer. “So,” Storm said, after an awkward pause, “how are you?”
“Fine, just fine.” Which was a lot closer to the truth than had been the case five minutes ago. “I’m doing the grad school thing over in Wakefield, and I’ll be head of sailing instruction there this summer.”
“Awesome! So awesome. Really great!”
Corrie just nodded and sipped. Essence of cool. The kid kept asking her questions, and she kept answering—deflecting them back once in a while, but mostly just enjoying the attention. The crush. Because that’s what it was, even if Storm couldn’t recognize it, and Corrie had a strong feeling that she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
She sure did have a nice body. Lean—almost wiry, but not quite. Full breasts, and that tight shirt showed off a hint of six-pack abs, and—Why the hell am I checking her out? She was my student this summer.
The crackle of a microphone interrupted her self-recrimination. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ began, “please take your seats. It’s time for some bride and groom trivia!”
Corrie frowned. “Trivia? What the fuck?”
Storm shrugged and looked guilty for not knowing what was going on, as though it were somehow her responsibility to have the answer to Corrie’s rhetorical question.
“Hustle, hustle, hustle!” the DJ said. “I have a prize sitting right here for the person who first calls out the correct response.”
Corrie rolled her eyes. “Looks like we’d better get back to our seats.”
Storm nodded and smoothed the folds of her short black skirt. It showed off her legs—strong and shapely. “It was really cool. To see you again, I mean.”
Corrie reached out to touch her arm. Storm’s skin was hot, even as it puckered into goose bumps. When she arched one eyebrow, the kid blushed.
“Likewise,” Corrie said, pitching her voice low. “Good luck with school and sailing.” She squeezed lightly before moving off toward her family’s table. She didn’t look back, but even so, Storm’s gaze was a palpable warmth on her neck.
The glow wore off almost immediately as she sat down next to her mother and across from Will, who had his arm around the back of Denise’s chair. As they watched the DJ’s goofy antics, his fingers stroked lightly across her shoulders. Corrie’s jaw tightened, and she tried to ignore the sight by leaning over to her mother to chat about—something. Anything.
“So, Mom—”
“Let the fun and games begin!” the DJ boomed out.
“Oh, not now, dear,” Cecilia murmured as she surveyed the crowd of friends and family. “I want to pay attention to the trivia.”
Corrie sat back with a sigh and folded her arms beneath her breasts. Hell, she thought. This is my own personal hell.
“Let’s start with a few easy ones. Who can tell me—what’s the groom’s favorite baseball team?”
“The Yankees!” shouted one of Will’s best friends. A chorus of groans, boos, and hisses reverberated throughout the room.
“That’s slander!” Will yelled back.
Corrie could tell he was struggling not to give his buddy the finger. She grinned faintly. The right answer was the Red Sox, of course, and the lucky winner received a small flask of liquor in the shape of a boat. The damn thing even had a sail, on which was proudly emblazoned: Marsten and Lewis.
Cecilia lightly patted Corrie on the knee. “Aren’t those cute? I picked them out from the bridal store downtown.”
“Very cute,” Corrie managed, barely resisting the urge to massage her temples. Definite headache coming on.
“Next question!” said the DJ. “What is the bride’s favorite color?”
The color of my eyes, Corrie thought. Denise had told her that once while on a picnic at Brenton Point. She risked a quick glance across the table. Denise was whispering something into Will’s ear. He nodded, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Corrie’s stomach rolled.
“Yes, green. Exactly right,” said the DJ, handing off another flask to one of Denise’s cousins. “Now here’s a tricky one—how did the bride and groom first meet?”
Corrie’s chair scraped against the floor as she surged to her feet. “Bathroom,” she said tersely when her mother looked up, startled by the sudden movement. “Back soon.”
She hurried out the doors and down the hall, past the host and down another corridor. That question, that goddamn question. She could remember, down to the taste of sea salt in the air and the sound of her own voice, how she had proudly introduced her family to Denise Lewis, her crew for the Olympic Development Regatta.
“Corrie!”
A mere two steps away from the sanctuary of the women’s restroom, Corrie stopped, sighed, and turned around, only to see Storm jogging awkwardly toward her, her dress shoes clicking loudly against the polished wood floor. She struggled to wipe the frown off her face. The poor kid didn’t know what the hell was going on, after all.
“Hey again,” she said as Storm came to a halt. “What’s up?”
“Well...” Storm hesitated, then finally dared to look directly at Corrie. “I know it’s none of my business, but...you look upset.”
Storm’s
earnestness, the sincerity in her voice, loosened the pit in Corrie’s belly. “I’m not having the best day ever.”
Storm nodded. “I just—well, can I help, in any way?”
The question was sweet and wistful, charged with Storm’s clear and simple longing to comfort. To make it better. And she would do anything; Corrie could tell. Desire flared—bright and sharp—burning away the self-pity, the shame. The weakness. A hot knife cauterizing the wound, closing it off. Fuck you, Denise. Fuck you and your bullshit. I’m done wallowing.
And in that single, perfect moment, she saw herself—a sleek ship running free before the wind, leaving behind the tangled mess of sails and line that had very nearly pulled her into a broach. As the pressure in her chest eased, she took a slow, deep breath and looked down into Storm’s clear, almost colorless eyes. The decision was so easy.
“How old are you?”
Storm blinked at the unexpected question. “Nineteen. Why?”
“Then you can help.” Corrie firmly took Storm’s hand and led her into the bathroom, then locked the door behind them.
“Wh—what are you doing?” Storm asked as Corrie gently pushed her back against the door.
But Corrie didn’t speak. Bracing herself on the wood, she leaned down and kissed Storm, swallowing her little gasp of surprise, teasing her innocent lips apart with light strokes of her tongue. It didn’t take long before Storm was kissing her back, clumsily but enthusiastically. Corrie felt tentative hands skate along her sides to clutch at her waist. Finally, she pulled away just far enough to focus on Storm’s dazed eyes.
“You okay with this?” she asked softly. When the kid nodded, Corrie brushed one thumb across Storm’s swollen bottom lip. “I really want to touch you. How’s that sound?”