Hide Me

by Lexi Scott

  “Are you going surfing this morning?” I take in his long, lean body and have to wrestle down the crazy-strong urge to jump right back into bed with him. He’s stretched out in the bed’s dead center, sheets wrapped around some of him, while other parts are gorgeously displayed. He has his arms behind his head and is grinning like he’s got a secret.

  “Nope.” His smile lures me in and makes me ask my next question, eyes narrowed. I’m not huge on surprises, and Deo’s are always the kind that shock me in every way. After the furniture store date and subsequent sex-cation, I don’t know if I’m ready for any more shenanigans from him.

  It occurs to me that I should try to keep him close, so I make sure my voice stays nonchalant when I ask him. “Okay, so what are you up to? Want to come to the shop with me?”

  Usually Deo jumps at a chance to spend the day bumming around Rocko’s with me, but he shakes his head, his smile so huge, a tiny twinge of panic surges through me. What is this all about?

  “I can’t, I’ve got a few things to take care of.”

  I pull my eyebrows together. “Oh really? Like what things?” I try to make my voice sound light and casual, but I can’t disguise the tone that screams what the hell? Deo tends to get crazy ideas and just…run wild with them. Sometimes a little too wild.

  Deo laughs, and I realize that he knows exactly how nervous he’s making me and is enjoying it thoroughly. “Like…things.” He stretches his arms back and every bulging muscle silently invites me to press my body against his. It’s so damn tempting to just bury my workload and fall into him. Just for one more day.

  Still, I wonder what the hell he’s up to. I thought we’d sort of made a silent pact that things would be different the other night when he came home with me and then took up semi-permanent residence in my bed.

  I inhale deeply and push the air back out in one loud, long whoosh. Deo raises a dark eyebrow and glances at me out of the corner of his eye, smiling in this adorably indulgent way that makes me furious and light-headed at the same time. He notices my dramatics, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he climbs out of bed and puts his pants on, the zip of his zipper indicating that the conversation is over.

  I wish that I was above using my womanly charms to get information, but in this case, I’m not. I cross the room and wrap my arms around him from behind. I let my fingernails rake across his chest and bump gently over the ripples of his abs. I watch as his breathing picks up and, when he looks at me over his shoulder, he lets his eyes half-close in that sexy way that lets me know just how much I’m turning him on.

  “Whit,” he says, turning around to face me and putting a few inches of space between us, I know so he can clear his head. Fail. “You are damn sexy, but I’m not telling you where I’m going.”

  I push my bottom lip out into my best pout, my last ditch effort to sexually extort this information.

  “I’ll tell you later. Tonight even. You’ll love it. Promise. Don’t be a big, nervous grizzly about this.” Deo kisses my pouty bottom lip and chuckles as he snatches his shirt off of the floor.

  “I get first shower!” I yell, dashing into the bathroom before he can duck in.

  I’m dabbing on my dark red lipstick after the quick shower that washed off the last of Deo’s smell from my skin. I ignored the little part of me that sighed sadly when the smell of my body wash replaced the scent of him. Something small and bright and heart-stoppingly distinct catches my eye in the reflection of the hallway mirror.

  I turn around to make sure it isn’t a mirage.

  Sure enough, next to Deo’s Vans and the dress pants that he kicked off hastily—when we barely made it in the front door after the wedding, but before we fell into my bed for an extended stay—is a tiny red jeweler’s box that must have fallen out of his pocket. I cross the room and pick it up and run my thumb over the soft velvet. My heart is thumping so ferociously in my chest, it wouldn’t surprise me if Deo could hear the steady pounding over the sound of the shower and his passionately off-key rendition of Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness.”

  The room feels like it’s tilted off its axis, and I grip the wall to keep from sliding to the side. I don’t want to open the box. I know what’s in it.

  The croak of the old hinges reverberates through the entire apartment, and my fingers shake slightly, making the box flutter in my hand.

  It’s bad. It’s really bad.

  Inside is a gorgeous, vintage-looking sapphire ring. It’s something that, if this were a time far in the future and things were completely settled and I were ready to get married, I would drool over and lust after and drop major hints about. It’s something so beautiful and perfect, it’s as if it were hand-picked for me by someone who knows me inside and out. It’s unique and breath-taking and so, so…wrong.

  We’d talked about this. He was supposed to give me time. We were supposed to take it slow.

  I snap the box shut, hiding that perfect ring that twists my guts, and stare at the red velvet box. When I blink, I’m furious over the sting of tears that threaten to smudge my eye-makeup. I just wanted things to be normal. Not rushed, not heart-crushing. Normal. He can’t even give me a few days to breathe, a few weeks to get back into our groove, a few months to feel out where this is going. My fist locks hard around the velvet.

  I can’t believe Deo thinks this is a good idea. I can’t believe he thinks we’re there without even talking to me, after everything we just went through. I thought he’d respect the boundaries we clearly need to establish to keep this relationship from taking over our lives, but he obviously thinks he can barge through every closed door, no matter how much I value my privacy.

  I set the box down with a thud on the small table where I know he’ll see it as soon as he gets out of the shower and back away with my limbs stiff, like it’s a ticking bomb, ready to explode and ruin everything. Just like the one that took Wakefield away.

  I manage to stop the tears and lock my heart against his voice, singing those romantic words through the wall of the apartment we just started sharing again. I want to march into the bathroom and demand answers. I want to order him the hell out so I can think without his smell and laugh and crazy, sexy self screwing with my judgment. I want to throw him on the bed and have my way with him, because he still turns me on so completely it’s scary, even when I’m furious at him.

  All I know right now is that I can’t be here when Deo gets out of the shower. I grab my purse and keys and bolt to the door. I need to think.

  I’ve never been more petrified in my life. I slide out my phone and hammer a quick text out before I run to my car.

  It’s too much too fast. I’m sorry I’m not ready, but I’m not. I need space right now. I really thought you were going to respect that. Please don’t be there when I get back.

  I almost make it to the door. I’m so goddamn close I can taste it when I hear my name.

  “Whit?” he says. His voice is a scrape of confusion.

  When I spin toward Deo, he’s standing in the hall with a towel wrapped around his waist and the ring and his phone in his hand. “This isn’t—”

  I put my hand up to stop him before he even starts.

  “I’m not upset, Deo. I just… I’m sad.”

  “Don’t be sad, baby,” he coos. He starts to close the space between us and I back up.

  “Everything could have been fine, but I wasn’t worth it.”

  “What? What are you talking about? Everything is fine.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “You had to push. You always have to push. I told you I needed some time to let everything fall into place the way it was going to. Without you pushing it along, Deo. Why the hell can’t you respect that?”

  “I do.”

  I shake my head. “No, no you don’t. It’s like—it’s like you’re so damn caught up in making us this perfect couple because that means that you don’t have to face your own life.”

  “What are you talking about, Whit? I am. I’m making improveme
nts.”

  “Oh really?” I throw my hands up. “Are they invisible improvements? Sort of like our boundaries are nonexistent? Because I’m pretty sure I made it clear that I wasn’t ready to take this relationship to the next level—and the next level definitely included marriage in case I wasn’t clear.”

  “Right, because the next level means having to open up, and you’re for damn sure not going to do that, are you? Too damn afraid.” I watch the tendons in his neck flex. I wonder if they feel as tight as my own veins right now. I can feel the blood pumping under my skin. A brewing anger that I’m losing control over.

  “You always push, Deo. You always push when what you should be doing is getting your own life in order before you try to run mine.”

  I reach for the door handle when he mumbles, “At least I can pick where I eat my own breakfast.”

  And that’s it. It’s too low. I shut down and don’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WHIT

  The café is closed. Of course.

  I’ve been driving around for almost an hour, trying to make sense of what happened back at the apartment, but no matter how hard I strain my brain, I can’t figure out how things exploded the way they did. How one minute, we were wrapped up in each other, and the next, we were hurling insults laced with barbed wire back and forth.

  I try the door to the café one last time, even though I know it’s futile. The closed for painting sign makes that abundantly clear.

  It’s still too early to open up Rocko’s shop, so I get back in my car and end up at the beach.

  The sun is blocked by the thick marine layer, and it’s cooler than it was farther into town. I grab one of Deo’s hoodies from the backseat, thankful for it, even if I’m angry as hell at him.

  I stuff my hands deep into the front pocket of the sweatshirt, settle into a cool patch of sand and close my eyes as the waves crash onto the shore.

  I remember coming here for the first time—with Deo. I remember how the sun baked our skin and the sand made his touch perfectly rough. I remember him pulling me into his arms and carrying me. Trying to keep me safe. Trying to protect me.

  Like he’s continued to do.

  We need to talk about this. We need to figure out how to fix this. I at least need to give him a chance to explain.

  I jump up and bolt for my car, running as fast as I can across the sand. My feet sink deep into it, and it feels like it’s taking three times as long to get anywhere.

  I pay no attention to speed limits on the drive home, or holding onto the railing as I rush up the steep steps to my apartment.

  “Deo!” I push through the door and call to him, my voice cracking with hope and emotion.

  But there’s no reply.

  There’s no “Doll!” in return, or his warm body at my side.

  It’s just stillness. Emptiness.

  I walk into the kitchen and toss my keys onto the counter, hoping there’s a note or some sign that he’ll be coming back.

  There’s nothing.

  I press my back to the refrigerator door and let my legs give out, slowly sinking to the crappy linoleum floor.

  What have I done? I pushed. I pushed so hard and now there’s nothing I can do to get him back.

  I can’t call him and beg for forgiveness, because I’ve crushed him. Again.

  I stuff my hands inside the sleeves of the sweatshirt and use it to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  This is my fault. I engineered this. I destroyed us.

  And now he’s gone.

  …

  Rocko’s tattoo gun is already buzzing away when I push through the door of the shop.

  “Morning, kiddo!” he yells cheerfully. It’s the opposite of how I feel.

  I blot at my eyes again. Just in case. I had to shower and redo all of my makeup before I came into the shop. I’ve checked and rechecked, and I don’t think I look like I spent a solid half hour on my kitchen floor, crying my eyes out. Crying harder than I have in a long time.

  Crying for what I’ve lost. And for what I’ve done.

  “You’re here already.” I stop, confused, wondering if Deo threw my world off so completely, he’d even made me lose my handle on the most basic of things. Like time. “Why?”

  “Well, I missed you, too, darling.” He nods at the guy whose arm he is tattooing. “Had a special appointment.”

  “Okay.” I’m trying really hard not to be thrown or annoyed. I really thought I’d have a few more minutes of quiet. A few more chances to collect my thoughts and push the rising panic away. But I’m pissed at myself, not Rocko. I have to remind myself of that. “How’s Marigold?”

  Rocko stops tattooing for a minute and smiles a dazed, proud smile.

  “Marigold.” He pauses and shakes his head like he can’t come up with the words to describe exactly what he’s feeling. “That woman is amazing.”

  And that sentiment and the look on his face—that pure happiness—makes me wish so hard that I could run home and crawl back into bed with Deo.

  “Good.” I nod. “I’m gonna go to the bank, then. Get some change. Or something.”

  “Whit, come and see this before you go.” Rocko waves me over to see what he’s working on. I set my purse down and sigh.

  The man who’s being tattooed looks a little older than me, or maybe just a little more tired and worn. His skin is deeply tanned and small lines fan out from the creases of his eyes. Still, he’s smiling and talking with Rocko like he’s completely at ease, and, you know, not being stabbed repeatedly by the tiny needle of the tattoo gun. Rocko pauses for a second so I can see what’s being inked on the guy’s arm.

  “What’s up?” I smile at Rocko’s client to prove I’m not a total ogre. “Whit.” I extend my hand to introduce myself, and he shakes with his left, since he’s trying to hold his freshly inked right arm steady.

  “Eric. Eric Brown. Pleasure to meet you.” His eyes are a nice clear green and his smile makes him look so much younger, I make up my mind that the lines around his eyes are definitely more about stress than age.

  “Take a look at this.” Rocko’s voice is soft, not like he’s proud of the precise font or color contrast or design in general. This isn’t Rocko sharing his skills, but I’m not quite sure what it is instead.

  I look over at the fresh ink on this man’s arm.

  It’s intricate lettering wrapping around his forearm that reads, “Here I am. Send me.”

  “Nice.” I wonder if Rocko is thinking about the tattoo I designed for Deo. Well, the tattoo I designed that Deo wound up getting, anyway. I decide to put all of my mental powers toward going more than fifteen minutes without thinking about Deo if that’s possible. I direct my next question at Eric, whose smile puts me at ease. “What’s the significance?”

  Rocko knows I’m a sucker for this part of the job. It’s like my own version of US Weekly. I love hearing the stories behind the ink.

  “It’s Isaiah, 6:8.” His eyes are clear and open, letting me know it’s okay to ask. So I do.

  “Isaiah 6:8?” I don’t bother to wrack my brain, because I wouldn’t be able to use all the fingers on one hand to count the number of Bible verses I can even recognize. “I’m not familiar.”

  I haven’t been to church or cracked a Bible open in years. My parents still go twice a week, but after I hit double-digits in age, they couldn’t drag me with them.

  “Isaiah 6:8, ‘Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”’” Eric recites in a voice that’s ringed with conviction and just the shadow of sadness.

  “Oh, okay.” Call me dense, but I don’t get it. “I’m not super religious, but it’s nice.”

  Eric chuckles and eyes the ink fondly. “Honestly? Neither am I, but it’s fitting.”

  “Nice job.” It’s a clean tattoo, and the language is direct and powerful. I get the feeling there’s something more they expect me to notice about it, but
if there is, I don’t get it. It reminds me of Deo and the words tattooed on his ribs. And I sigh when I realize, with that one thought, I’ve proven beyond a doubt I am a miserable failure at keeping that boy out of my brain for even a tiny sliver of time. “Especially for coming in so early.”

  “It was worth it to come in early for. Explain it to her.” Rocko and Eric exchange a look, and I feel the slow sludge of panic creep through my veins. Explain what?

  “I’m in the military, and each time I make it home safely for, I get another tat.” Eric glances at the words on his arm, and, suddenly, they don’t look sharp and clear. I feel the burn of rage that always comes when tears threaten. I’m sure as hell not crying for the second time today. If I do, I seriously doubt I’ll be able to pick myself back up again. But Eric’s voice helps me pull my shit together and focus on anything other than the tears that are clawing at my ducts. “This is number three.”

  “Three?” I try not to choke on the word. Three tours he’s made it back from. Three times he’s escaped. I full-on glare at Rocko for doing this to me. For dragging me over here and into this. Especially after the morning I had.

  If I cry now, it will be from pure, scathing pissed-off anger at the whole damn universe. I don’t care if it makes me a bitch or a baby. Life isn’t fair, and I’m sick of seeing how it just pummels the good people, the people who just wanted to love and be loved. It forces them to live with loss so intense, there’s no room for joy or hope.

  There’s no room for new love, no matter how badly they might want it.

  “Yep, I guess you could call it war paint.” Eric’s smile is defiant. He sounds proud, like he’s spitting in the face of what has to be one of the scariest situations any person could ever have to face.

  My head spins, my legs feel like rubber, and I have to sit down, or I’ll crumple in a heap on the floor. I pretty much fall into the swivel chair next to Rocko and Eric and rub my temples, which are tightening like I’m about to suffer from the clamp of a serious migraine.