by Liv Rancourt
Hand in hand, we strolled toward the cabins. The setting sun behind us stretched shadows across the gravel path.
“I hate guys like him,” Randy said. He loosened his grip on my hand, but only so he could shift his position and put his arm around my shoulders.
I enjoyed the closeness, the heat from his body, his woodsy, male scent. “Good thing, because ol’ P. Kirk’ll carry a grudge.”
“He can kiss my—”
Randy broke off with a laugh, so I patted the appropriate anatomic location. We reached the cabin I shared with Krista, but he kept us both moving onto the tiny porch of the cabin next door.
“We’re neighbors,” I said.
“Are we?” He faced me, still holding my hand. His green-eyed gaze was frank, honest, even through the shield of his glasses. “I’m Randy, by the way.”
A shiver of excitement-need-desire shot through me. “And I’m Maggie.”
“Well, Maggie, this was the most fun I’ve ever had with a music teacher.”
His naughty grin sent another little lightning bolt deep in my belly. “Me too.”
“Do you and Kirk have history?”
With a quick shrug, I loosened my shoulders and answered his question at the same time. “We do now.”
He eased away to gaze out over the beach, bracing himself on the porch railing. I mirrored his movement. The tide was in, waves running along the baby sand dunes between the cabins and the water. The energy between us was companionable tinged with a buzz of attraction, and though I enjoyed the feeling, the beginnings of a problem disrupted my mood.
“Now there are two hundred music teachers who think we’re here together,” I said.
Randy rubbed a palm over his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a chuckle. “There were only about thirty in the lobby when I kissed you.”
“Shut up.” I batted at his arm. “By breakfast the whole group will have heard.”
His laughter didn’t dispute my claim. “Then we’ll keep up the act. Why wouldn’t they believe us? You’re pretty.” His gaze slid over me like warm lotion. “And I don’t suck.”
A hint of the predator I’d seen at dinner trapped me in his sight. I gulped and blushed and fought the urge to run. “So you’ll protect me from Kirk, and I’ll … what? What’s in it for you?”
“I’ll get the girl.” He paused as if to let the promise, or threat, sink in. “We can keep it clean if you want,” he added, though his tone suggested he’d prefer we didn’t.
With a straight stare, I sized him up the way I would a pitcher on the mound. Was he throwing strikes, or trying to punk me? “Okay, it’s a deal.” Lifting my hand, I offered to shake.
“Hey, we’re dating now. We’re not going to shake on it.”
He turned toward me, and as if by reflex I faced him.
“We’re going to seal this deal with a kiss,” he said.
“Sure.” I rose on my toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then swung my legs over the railing and hit the ground running before he could react.
Short skirt and kitten heels be damned.
Chapter 7
Krista crouched on her bunk, cell phone about four inches from her nose, thumbs flying. I slammed the cabin door and she tilted her face up, squinting to bring me into focus.
“You’re not going to believe this.” I whispered in case saying the words out loud would make things magically change.
Her thumbs slowed but didn’t stop moving. “You accomplished your mission?”
I planted my fists on my hips and harrumphed at her.
“Just give me a minute. J-Bone wants to take the ferry over tomorrow afternoon so we can hang out tomorrow night, but I’ve already got plans with Troy.”
She gave her full attention to her phone.
“Fine.” Stomping past her to my own bunk, I finally, eagerly, gratefully, stripped out of the stupid halter dress. I stood there, naked except for my little thong panties, and dug through my bag for a T-shirt and pair of shorts. My bra stayed in the duffel bag, since my boobs weren’t big enough to need the support. And so what if the shorts had started life as a pair of sweatpants until they’d met a pair of sharp scissors? No one but Krista would see them.
She’d have an opinion about them, of course. “Jesus, I liked it better when you were mooning me.”
“That’s enough out of you.” I shook my finger at her like a crabby, scolding mother. “You got your way with the dress. Now it’s my turn to be comfortable.”
“Now it’s your turn to spill. What the hell happened?”
“Randy kissed me.” My giggle could have come from a hyperactive twelve-year-old. “And then we made a deal.” I perched on the edge of my bunk, dismayed because the mattress wasn’t any thicker than the palms of my hands. People in the olden days must not have been into comfort.
“I saw the kiss.” Krista snickered right back at me. “Heck, I’m pretty sure there are pictures of you two floating around Facebook already.”
“Really?” I covered my mouth in horror.
“No. Geez, chill out.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the Cosmo magazine. “So this getting laid thing is a done deal, then. You’ve got it all set up.”
“I’m set up for something.” Grabbing the Cosmo, I flipped through to the sex diva article and gave Krista a recap of my conversation with Randy. She clapped her hands and smirked and hissed with so much excitement that by the end of my story I almost believed I’d be able to pull it off.
One of the article’s sidebars caught my eye: How To Sound Like a Dirty Diva. O-kay. I tried to imagine telling Randy to put his big baby maker in my, um, my—
This was going to take some practice.
“So why are you hanging out in your unmentionables?” Krista snatched the magazine out of my hands. “You should be gettin’ busy, you know, generating more gossip.”
“No. More. Gossip.” The coils wheezed when I flopped onto my skinny, antique mattress. “And by the way, what the hell did you say to Kirk that had him crawling all over me?”
She smirked into her fingertips. “Nothing.”
I scanned the room for something heavy to throw at her. Nothing appropriate. Darn. “Someday there’ll be payback, cutie pie.”
“Talking tough, Maggie Jeanne, but you’re the one with the agenda. I was just trying to help a friend in need.”
“Stop calling me Maggie Jeanne.” I plucked the magazine out of her hands. “Give me that. I need to study.”
Her phone chirped and I was off the hook. She got involved in some arcane negotiation between men I’d never met, and I rehearsed naughty things to say to Randy. The article encouraged the kinds of thoughts I’d put away for the last few years, so there was the flood of deprivation to deal with. I got even hotter because I had a face to work with. A body to picture. A woodsy, smoky scent to recall.
At least until I started to worry he’d think I was too easy. In 2014, did women even care about doing the dirty deed with a guy they just met? Maybe I should have thought things through a little more before I made getting laid a goal for the weekend.
Falling asleep took quite a while.
The next morning, Krista and I sat cross-legged on the side of a dune, facing the water. The rising sun burned through the layer of light mist blurring the edges of the surrounding forest and the tide pulled out, leaving a lengthening stretch of damp sand between us and the water. The bagels were dry and the coffee came from a can, a severe offense for a Seattle brew snob. But I barely noticed. Anxiety and euphoria were dancing around in my belly like a pair of Japanese fighting fish. I might as well have been drinking seawater.
“So what happens next?” Krista asked.
“Don’t know.” Sand covered my toes and I nibbled on the bagel.
She belted my arm. “Wait, is that him?”
Gasping hard enough to inhale bagel crumbs, I got trapped by a spasm of coughing. When I could breathe again, I glanced off to the left. Randy stood near the edge of th
e water, his hands cupped in front of his mouth.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered.
I wiped the tears out from under my eyelashes and shrugged. His hands dropped away and a puff of gray smoke swirled around his head.
“He just lit a cigarette.”
She poked me hard in the ribs. “Go talk to him.”
My heart raced faster than a shark chasing a minnow. A tasty minnow. A minnow decked out in the pretty new blouse her best friend insisted she buy. It only took a moment for my inner minnow to decide a Sex Diva wouldn’t huddle on the beach, waiting for her handsome shark. I got up, kicked off my sandals, and strode across the cool sand.
I stopped a couple of feet from Randy, the edge of the sea splashing over the tops of my bare feet.
A subtle tilt of his head hinted that he heard me coming. Taking a final long drag on the cigarette, he put it out by dipping the tip in the water. “Most girls don’t like the smell.”
Between the light breeze and the rusty seaweed, I hadn’t noticed. “Doesn’t bug me.”
“Yeah, you say that now.” He faced me, moving an inch or so inside my personal space.
This close, his energy hummed against me, as if he’d run his hands over my skin without quite touching. I took a sip of coffee to cover the nerves pounding my gut in four-foot waves, then offered him the cup. “Want some?”
“Nah.”
He moved another inch closer and lifted his hand. I froze, barely conscious of the cold water numbing my feet. He brushed a loose strand of hair out of my eyes, the edge of his fingernail gently scraping across my temple, and I shivered. “Why not?” I asked.
“Already had some.” His brow creased, three parallel lines over his wire-framed glasses.
“Why do I want to kiss you so bad?”
I swallowed hard, my whole body vibrating. “You must be really getting into character.”
“Yeah. Method acting.” His smile was hot and naughty and gave me a peek at the tip of his tongue. “What have you got in your pocket?”
I rifled in the pockets of my brand-new jeans. “Maybe a price tag?”
He laughed at my confusion. “It’s a method exercise. You’re supposed to get to know your character so well, you can write down what they carry in their pockets.”
“So—” I nibbled on a fingernail. “If my character is Randy’s girlfriend, then I carry, what? An emergency pack of matches?”
“Right.” He reached in fast to tickle my ribs. I giggled and blushed and smacked his hand away.
“We’ve got the rest of the weekend to figure out what goes where,” he said. “Let’s get through this morning’s sessions, then we can go for a hike or something.”
His or something fired up my pulse. “Sounds good.”
“I mean, we’re a couple, right? Everyone expects us to spend time together.”
Swallowing down a sigh, I pasted on a watered-down version of his smile. “Sure.”
Chapter 8
“So we start with a panel discussion, right?” Randy asked. His gray hoodie was unzipped far enough to show off the words “Baby Got Back” on his T-shirt.
“Yeah.” Krista kicked at a tuft of beach grass. “Then there’s a Boomwhackers workshop and some Orff instruments thing.”
The three of us were close enough to the main lodge to be seen. Randy laced his fingers with mine as if he realized it was time to play a role. The excitement of flirting on the beach and introducing him to Krista faded a little. We were only faking it, after all.
Right?
As we walked across the lobby, little whispers rippled through the crowd of teachers the way waves are stirred up by the prow of a boat. I nudged Krista.
“Are people staring?”
I said it quiet enough only she should have been able to hear me, but Randy leaned over. “Yeah, they are, because the class fuck-up is hanging out with the prettiest girl here.”
His lips brushed my ear, which set off a delicate flurry of sensation. Like tickles, but hotter. I flinched, grinned, rubbed my cheek against my shoulder. Randy laughed into my hair. By the time I could pull sentences together, we’d moved on. I made a note to ask him what he meant. Later. When we were no longer the center of attention. From what I could tell he wasn’t a fuck-up, and for sure I wasn’t the prettiest girl here.
In the main conference room, rows of long tables had been set up. Water glasses and pitchers had been set at intervals, with a podium and microphone off in one corner. Kirk stood behind the podium, laughing with one of the Sues. Krista wanted to claim a front table, to make it easier for everyone to stare, and I insisted we sit in the last row. In the end, we compromised on seats in the middle of the room.
Sitting between Randy and Krista was like sinking into the safety of a shadow, and my new perspective showed me the whole room wasn’t, in fact, watching us. People only paid attention to their own stuff. Likely my own self-consciousness made me feel like the main attraction. Kirk scanned the room, his gaze passing over our seats, then looping back around.
So maybe a few people were watching us.
Kirk’s amplified throat-clearing brought the crowd to order. “Good morning.” His smile put an exclamation point on his words. “Before we break out into our age-specific workshops, the planning committee and I thought it would be fun to have the whole group brainstorm ideas for how to increase student engagement.”
“For once we might talk about the important stuff, like how to get sixth-grade boys to sing,” Krista muttered into her fist.
“In a moment I’m going to introduce our moderator,” Kirk continued, oblivious to Krista’s editorial comment, “who will lead us in a discussion of strategies you’ve used successfully.”
“Like how to keep the kindergartners from peeing on the carpet,” I said, covering my comment by pretending to adjust the drawstring neckline of my blouse. Randy noticed and gave the laces a gentle tug, bringing the fabric about three millimeters lower. When he patted my hand as if to say “good girl,” I kicked him in the shin.
He snickered.
So did Krista, though for a different reason. “Pee on the carpets? That’s so why I teach middle school.”
“Yeah. You’d rather catch your students making out in the instrument room.”
Krista’s giggle had heads turning, and I had to bite on a knuckle to keep from making any noise. Apparently oblivious to us, Kirk introduced the moderator, Bailey. She was a motivational speaker, one of those super-trim, super-polished, permanently attractive older women who had probably been a Cosmo subscriber since she graduated from college. To wake us up, she had us stand and give each other neck massages. Randy’s hands felt strong and warm and sure on my neck, though when it was my turn to massage him, I spent as much time trying to work his collar low enough to reveal more tattoos as I did working the muscles of his neck and shoulders.
When we were all seated again, Bailey grabbed the mic. “So we’re here to talk about engagement.” She stalked across the front of the room on her tailored four-inch heels. “What it means. How it works. Your kids’ engagement. Your engagement.”
My engagement? My head knew she was using a ’90s buzz-word. My heart didn’t want to talk about it.
“I checked out the word on Dictionary.com,” Bailey continued. “Among other things, it means ‘to occupy oneself; to take employment; to pledge one’s word, and assume an obligation.’”
She paused, allowing the word “obligation” to filter into our consciousness. I reached over and poured myself some water from the pitcher on our table. Anything to distract me from the direction my thoughts had taken. Bailey kept talking, and I kept thinking. Had Creighton and I felt an obligation toward each other? We’d been twenty-three and twenty-five years old when we got engaged. With the benefit of a few years’ distance, the glaring contrast between how mature I’d felt compared with how young and idiotic I’d been stood out like neon at midnight. I could also ask myself a few hard questions. Like, had I really loved him
, or had I just been terrified at being on my own? If he’d been able to walk away from our pledge so easily, had it ever meant anything?
Randy shifted his weight, pressing his knee against the side of mine and curling his fingers around my shoulder. Why was I thinking about the bad old days now? I rested my hand on Randy’s thigh, fighting the urge to dig in. His heat made my palm itch. With desire.
I lost track of Bailey’s discourse, at least until she threw things open for discussion. Someone asked the group whether using rap music in the classroom was a good idea, and I raised my hand. After a minute, the moderator brought me the mic. She tried to get me to stand up, but I spoke from the safety of my seat. “Meeting the kids on their level is the most important thing.”
“So do you use rap music in the classroom?” she asked.
“Sometimes. It depends on the lyrics and the age of the kids.” I smiled into the room, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “I’ve used One Direction, Lady Gaga, even Macklemore with the older kids. Heck, my students love Albannach, the Scottish drum band.”
“I do think it’s a problem, though, when kids get to high school with a better understanding of American Idol than they do of music theory.” Jessica Freeman projected her trained performer’s voice from across the room without even waiting for the mic. I caught a few of the daggers she was throwing with her eyes and handed the mic to Bailey. She took a couple of quick steps in Jessica’s direction.
“But I guess they know how to polka, so there’s that.” After delivering her parting shot, Jessica resumed her seat.
Hopefully the lump of embarrassment in my belly would be heavy enough to pull me through the floor. In case it didn’t, I retreated between Krista and Randy, sure I was the only one who thought Jessica acted like a—
“Bitch,” Randy whispered, shifting restlessly beside me.
Krista used stronger language.
“Before we wrap this up, I wonder if anyone could speak to how to handle things if your high school kids have addiction issues.” Kirk surveyed the room, microphone in hand. “Is Randy still here? Randy Devers?”