by R. C. Martin
“You’ll see.” He’s not looking at me, but I’m sure the smirk that curves across his handsome face is meant for me. I don’t get a chance to belabor my question before he asks, “How was your day?”
“Good. Yours?” I answer automatically.
“What was so good about it?”
“Oh, um, it was just a good day at the hospital is all.”
“Mack,” he starts to say with a laugh. “I know this might come as a shock, but I’m not asking for shits and giggles. Tell me about your day. I want to know.”
Looking down into my lap, I hide my smile and then begin to tell him about my time spent with the kids. It’s not long before I’m talking about matters beyond today. I explain why I’m excited about the possibility of saying goodbye to Zoe and how that’ll feel after the months that we’ve spent bonding. I open up about Sheamus and why his situation makes me frustrated with God. It’s like once I start, I can’t stop. The entire time, he just listens.
It feels good.
When we come to a stop and I’m still talking, I silence myself abruptly. I’m not sure how long our ride was, but I certainly didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation. “Sorry,” I apologize, shifting my body to face his. “I didn’t mean to blab on like that. I just—Brooke isn’t good with sad stories, and my friend Owen, well, he’ll listen, but that doesn’t mean he wants to. I guess, what I’m trying to say is—”
“Babe,” he mutters, looking over at me. “Don’t do that.” As I open my mouth to ask for clarification, he beats me to it, chuckling as he says, “Don’t apologize for speaking. I wanted to know, remember?”
“Right,” I reply softly, reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ears in an attempt to busy my hands and cover up my embarrassment. “So, where are we?” I turn to look out the window and see we’re parked in a quiet neighborhood beside an even quieter house. It’s not lit up, leaving me to assume nobody is home, which only fills me with more questions.
“Here, take these,” Coder instructs, setting a couple of fluffy, warm towels in my lap. “Come on.”
I cough out a sigh, smiling in spite of my confusion, and follow his lead. Apparently, he’s not planning on answering any of my questions about our whereabouts or what it is we’ll be doing here, so I decide to stop asking and just go with it.
As he comes up beside me, he takes my hand and begins escorting me through the lawn of this unfamiliar house. When we reach the side gate, he lets go of my hand just long enough to open the latch and signal me through.
“Coder…” I murmur, my excitement wavering as my suspicions rise.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, not bothering to look at me as he squeezes my hand.
I don’t answer him. Not because I mean to imply that I don’t trust him, but because I hear voices. Our feet crunch through old snow as new flakes fall, this obviously being a spot in the yard that the sun doesn’t touch often. It’s dark, but there’s a splash of light ahead of us, and I can only assume that’s where the voices are coming from. At the sound of a deep, gravely, boisterous and familiar laugh, I grow wearier. That laugh belongs to Rigs, and he doesn’t live here either.
We round the corner, and my eyes jump to take in the large, wrap around deck that extends off the back of the house. As Coder leads me up the short set of stairs, I see a patio dining set to my right, just outside of the sliding glass doors that lead to the house—glass doors that remind me that this house is quiet and dark, and seemingly inaccessible to us. Nevertheless, that doesn’t stop Coder.
Tugging me after him, we pass the darkened doors and a big propane grill before cutting around the other corner of the house. There, bathed in light, is Rigs, Piper, Pete, and Willow, all of them sitting in a hot tub that looks big enough to hold ten people, at least. It sits a little higher than the deck, as if the deck was built around the tub, and the wooden ledge that wraps the perimeter of the tub is currently littered with clothes and beer.
“’Bout time you fucking got here, loser,” calls out Pete as all four of them look our way.
Coder lets go of my hand, setting the beer he’s holding on the ledge before flipping his brother off. Pete just laughs, but Willow is quick to jump to our defense.
“Be nice. He brought a guest,” she insists, elbowing her fiancé in the ribs.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. He then smirks and jerks his chin up at me in greeting.
I smile timidly, still wondering where we are and if we’re allowed to be here.
“You gonna get in, babe, or are you just gonna stand here in the snow?” asks Coder as he shrugs his way out of his coat. When he bends down to loosen the strings on his boots, I look over him at the group. They’re still sitting silently, staring, making me even more nervous.
As Rigs tips his beer toward me in a silent cheers, I notice that he has a whole lot more tattoos than I realized, his shirtless chest exposing his hidden collection. Piper, who is wearing a black, strapless one piece that barely contains her voluptuous chest—and by barely, I mean barely—doesn’t so much acknowledge me as she stares me down, like she wishes I wasn’t here. Willow, who is now leaning back against Pete’s side, is in an adorable, nineteen-fifties style two piece—the kind with the bottoms that cover her belly button, and the top that ties in a bow behind her neck. It’s a pretty dark purple that brings out the colors of her tatted sleeve. When she smiles at me, I can’t help but think that she would be a great modern-day pin-up girl—a petite one, but a good one, nonetheless.
“Mack,” grunts Coder as he stands to full height once more, blocking my view. My eyes find his as he steps out of his boots, and he yanks his socks off before he says, “You told me there’s a bikini under those clothes. I’m going to be really disappointed if I don’t get to see it.”
“Coder, I—”
I lose my words, my breath suddenly stuck in my throat as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and then pulls it over his head. I bite my lip, hoping it keeps my jaw from falling open as I get a good look at him.
Oh. My. God. I thought he was gorgeous before!
The little bit of ink I saw a hint of last week, it was just the tip of the iceberg. He is covered—but it’s not a bunch of random pieces, it’s one, large, beautiful tattoo that takes my breath away. It starts on his upper right bicep, the design wrapping around his arm and over his shoulder. It then spans diagonally across his torso, covering his sculpted chest and chiseled abs like a sash, all the way down to his left hip. The ink is black, depicting a tribal design that—after looking at his portfolio—I know he dreamed up himself. But it’s not just tribal ink, it’s like tribal armor. It’s intricate and bold, and it takes every brain cell I have not to reach out my hands and touch it.
“Eyes up, Mack,” he chuckles.
Oh, crap! I was totally staring. No—more like gawking. I was practically drooling, for crying out loud.
I shut my eyes tight, ignoring the blush that fills my cheeks as I force in a deep breath and bring my gaze up to meet his. The grin on his face is a knowing one, and I’m suddenly not so sure about letting him see me in a bikini—not with all he has going on.
“My feet are freezing. Talk to me, babe. You in or you out?”
I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself as I attempt to ward off my anxiety. Finally, in a voice I hope only he can hear, I ask, “Are we allowed to be here? Is this Pete’s house? All the lights are off inside, and I just—”
“We’re good, babe,” he insists, shaking his head as he reaches for the button of his jeans. “This isn’t Pete’s house. It’s our parents’ place.”
For a split second, I’m relieved simply to know that we aren’t trespassing. But then it dawns on me that we’re at his parents’ house. As in—his parents.
“Relax, Mack. They’re out of town. Now—it’s snowing. When it’s snowing, we hot tub. So get your ass out of those clothes and get in the water before we both freeze.”
“Okay,” I squeak out, setting my bag next to someone else�
��s and placing our towels beside the beer. I don’t watch as Coder takes off his pants, sure that would lead to more staring. I strip out of my clothes quickly, hoping that if I get in the water fast enough, he won’t have a chance to scrutinize my body, which is definitely inferior to his.
By the time I’m ready to get in the tub, he’s already in the water. He’s standing, waiting for me with an outstretched hand. It’s so cold out, I forget about what I look like, too concerned about getting warm—then I remember my hair.
“Oh, crap,” I mutter, halting mid-step.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I don’t have a hair tie,” I blurt out in response. “As soon as my hair gets wet, I will look…” I shake my head, mortified at the idea of Coder seeing me look frizzy.
“Did you say you needed a hair tie? Here,” Willow says, sloshing her way across the tub before offering me the band. “I have an extra. It’s wet, sorry, but—”
“This is perfect, thanks!”
“You bet,” she says with a wink before heading back to her spot.
I don’t hesitate to bend in half, flipping my hair over my head before I gather it into a high ponytail, pulling the length through the band until I have a droopy bun. Without a mirror, I can’t say that I did a glamourous job, but anything beats the frizz. Satisfied that I’ve got my hair handled, I look to Coder, who is still standing in wait. Only now, the look in his eyes is more intense. This time, when he offers me his hand, he does so with smirk, making my stomach clench. When I wrap my fingers around his and step into the hot water, he guides me into his chest before dropping my hand and locking his arm around my back. I suck in a breath as he leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Like that hair in a ponytail,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest and vibrating against mine. “You better believe I’ll make use of it one day.”
I don’t know what he means, but when his tongue traces my earlobe before he sucks it into his mouth, I no longer care. I lean into him, my knees suddenly weak, and I can think only one thing. Whatever he wants to do with my hair—he can do it. I want him to.
“How about you eat your spotted candy cane when we don’t have to watch, Coder?”
Startled, I bury my face in Coder’s chest, putting my ear out of reach as I curl up in embarrassment. I don’t even get to enjoy the reality that I’m pressed up against his hard, hot, tatted chest, too worried about the fact that when his mouth is on me, I become blissfully unaware of everything—including present company.
Coder’s hand slides up my back before he gently grips hold of the nape of my neck as he says, “Piper, don’t be a bitch.”
“Just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
With a furrowed brow, I come to the conclusion that, in spite of the fact that I’ve done nothing to her, Piper doesn’t like me. Knowing that to be true, the hot tub doesn’t feel so big anymore.
“Hey,” Coder grunts, giving my neck a squeeze. I peek up at him from under my lashes and he asks, “How about a beer?”
Thinking I could use something to help clear my mind and get back to that place where I’m just excited to be here with Coder, I nod my answer. He gives my neck another squeeze, and as he goes to the edge to grab a couple bottles, I settle into the water, sitting across from Rigs and Piper. After borrowing a bottle opener from his brother, Coder takes the seat next to me, handing me my beer before draping his arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side.
I don’t know why, but as I take a swig of my drink, I look over at Piper just in time to see her lip curl in the slightest sneer. Scooting closer to Coder, I avert my gaze, reminding myself that Coder wants me here. That’s all that matters.
Coder was right about the beer. Definitely not bread water. It tastes a lot better; although, I’m still not certain I would call it good. It’s also a lot stronger. Halfway through my second bottle, I start to feel a bit loopy and definitely a lot less shy. I’ve all but forgotten about Piper and her mean looks, and I’m having a good time. No, not just good. Great. I’m having a great time.
Willow is awesome. She’s even nicer than I remembered, and as the night races toward morning, I can see that she holds a special place in both Bishop brothers’ hearts. The wedding might not be until May, but she’s a part of their family already. I recognize the relationship that she’s got with Coder, knowing the feeling myself. He’s about to hit the jackpot as far as sisters-in-law are concerned.
Pete is really cool, too. I learn that he’s older than Coder by nine years, even though he doesn’t look it. Watching them interact is both entertaining and endearing. They rib each other a lot, but it’s obvious it’s something they both enjoy; furthermore, it’s drenched in that sort of brotherly companionship that’s unmistakable.
While we lounge, I learn that Rigs is the one responsible for the cigarette butts on the front porch of the house he shares with Coder. He smokes two, using an old bottle of beer as his ash tray. I can’t stop myself from looking over at him continuously as he does it, blowing out smoke as confidently and thoughtlessly as if he’s been doing it for years. It bothers me, but I don’t say anything. I don’t feel like it’s my place. Instead, I drink my beer, thinking of little Samuel.
Samuel was a cancer patient at the hospital I volunteered at back home. I’ll never forget him. He had lung cancer at seven, a result of his smoking parents’ lack of respect for the air he breathed. I remember meeting them; I remember watching them with their kid. They loved him fiercely, and it broke their hearts watching him go through that. He survived, and I got to say goodbye before he was discharged. I can’t say for sure whether or not his parents stopped smoking, but their situation taught me that you can’t judge someone for their vices. Though, it’s certainly not an easy task.
At the feel of Coder’s fingers trailing up and down my side, I’m pulled from my thoughts. It’s then that I realize, while lost in my mind, I shifted, my body turned into his with my head resting on his shoulder.
“You good, babe?”
Arching my neck back, I peer up at him and find his face is close, his gorgeous, dark eyes seeking out mine. Without thinking, I whisper, “I really like it when you call me that.” When he smirks at me in response, my stomach tightens—but not for the same reasons it usually does. This time, it’s with a longing that seems to be out of my control; a longing that causes me to speak without thinking again. “Seventy-two hours.”
“What?” he asks, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“I waited,” I murmur, thinking I should quit while I’m ahead, but somehow unable to keep my mouth from spewing words. “I waited to hear from you for seventy-two hours. I was counting.”
His smirk transforms into a smile and then he asks, “You miss me, Mack?”
I press myself even further into his side, the heat of the water, the alcohol from the beer, and the truth that I did miss him making me do it. His smile morphs into a grin, but then immediately slips when I ask, “Why don’t you like texting?”
Noting the change in his demeanor, I immediately feel guilty for asking. I start to shrink away from him, but his arm around me keeps me close. He stares at me for a moment before turning to set his beer on the ledge. He then grabs mine and does the same. With our hands free, he takes mine, lacing our fingers together as he starts to speak—his voice so soft and rumbly, I’m sure only I can hear it.
“’Bout a year and a half ago, I was on my bike. It was a great day for a ride. The weather was perfect. I was going nowhere, just riding around town. Traffic was light. Then this woman in a minivan—she wasn’t paying attention. There were three lanes. She was in the far right, I was in the middle. She started to come into my lane, and there was no chance of me slowing down fast enough to stop collision, so I turned my bike hard to the left. It happened so fast. I thought I was going to have to lay my bike down. Just when I regained control, I hit a curb. I was thrown over the front and collided into a tree.”
I gasp, squeezing h
is hand tightly as my heart beats wildly in my chest, like this happened yesterday instead of a year and a half ago.
“I got lucky,” he continues. “Only broke a few ribs. Hurt like a motherfucker, but it could have been worse.” After a pause, he asks, “Any guesses as to what the woman in that minivan was doing?”
Remembering what he said to me as we were saying goodbye on Tuesday, I don’t answer his question. Instead, I reply, “You never know what someone is doing when the message goes through.”
He doesn’t respond, he just stares at me, but I don’t need his words. He could have gotten really hurt. If he was on a different road, if the weather wasn’t nice, anything could have happened. He could have died.
There’s something about his stance on giving up texting altogether; it’s a statement—it’s proof that he got scared. Sure, it won’t stop other people from texting and driving, but it ensures that he won’t be responsible for distracting a driver who refuses to wait.
Tugging his hand closer to me, I ignore the blush that fills my cheeks as I admit, “Hearing that story makes me want to kiss you.”
His smile returns, his grip around my waist tightening even more as he tells me, “No one’s stopping you. My mouth is yours, Mack.”
My eyes grow wide in surprise, my brain not quite sure what to do with this news. “It is?” I whisper.
Letting go of my hand, he curls his fingers around the back of my neck, drawing me to him as he demands, “Come ‘ere.”
I don’t argue, leaning into his kiss. When I feel the tip of his tongue against my lips, I can’t stop myself from opening up for him. I want his mouth. I want this moment. I want everything that he seeks to give me. He feels so good, his lips hot and smooth and hot! My head is swimming in the pleasure of his affection, and I hope with everything in me that he doesn’t stop.
Tingles trickle down my spine when I feel the tips of his fingers leave my neck, trailing down my arm. As he reaches under the water and skims the side of my thigh, I gasp, sucking in his exhale when he lifts my knees and hooks my legs over his. Instinctively, I circle my arms around his neck, and he kisses me deeper, causing an intense throbbing between my legs. I hug him closer, and he holds me tighter, and the feel of my small breasts pressed against his hard chest excites me in a way I’ve never experienced before.