Paradise Forbidden

by Natalie E. Wrye

  Despite the chill in the tent, a bead of sweat trickles between my breasts. There’s something about Trevor that touches the base of my femininity. I’m no damsel in distress, but there’s some element of a “knight in shining armor” within him. This urge to save me, protect me… shield me.

  No man has put himself on the line for me the way he has in just thirty-six short hours. And yet… I am conflicted. How much should I let him in? How kind is too kind? Those who have seen my kindness have mistaken it for weakness… but in fact, they weren’t mistaken at all.

  For the past three years, I was weak, and vultures in people-sized disguises pounced on my benevolence, exploiting it for the vulnerability that it really was.

  What if Trevor was no different? I’d once believed that I’d found the man who would never stoop to prey on me.

  I was wrong.

  He was the worst of all the perpetrators.

  I grit my teeth, steeling myself against the throb of desire that is pulsating at my most sensitive part: that small and, now annoying, peak between my legs.

  Kat, you’re no better than a stupid schoolgirl. Just because Trevor’s hot – ridiculously… unimaginably hot - doesn’t mean that you should completely throw caution to the wind. He’s a stranger.

  And just because your body can’t seem to pull it together doesn’t mean that you should lose your head. Focus, Kat. Fucking. Focus. The price of gullibility is too high, and you simply can’t afford it anymore. Or have you forgotten already?

  Now more than ever, I understand the importance of my plan. It’s my last saving grace, and I have to see it through.

  Phase 2 will begin tomorrow.

  ***

  Trevor

  I am a masochist. I did this to myself, and there’s no one to blame but me.

  My dick is rock-solid. I’m sure it could cut diamonds if I tried.

  I woke up this morning with the stiffest hard-on of my life. What was I thinking getting into the sleeping roll with Kat last night? I wasn’t. That’s the problem. God, I mean… I almost couldn’t help myself.

  I was just so shocked that she offered up the available space. I was… relieved. Kat can take herself so seriously sometimes. In just our two days together, I thought that I had figured this girl out, this… stern, cold-eyed beauty with the long dark hair. But it turns out that I hadn’t.

  The Kat from last night was light-hearted and good-natured… and funny. Who knew that all those quips and quick wit lie behind those icy pools that she calls eyes?

  I couldn’t resist the offer. Still… I knew that I made the biggest mistake of my life when I slid myself into the sleeping bag and felt her lithe, little form snuggled against mine.

  The curve of her spine and ass molded to my body, and somehow we fit together better than two matching puzzle pieces ever could. How could such a spontaneous pairing like us suddenly make so much sense?

  It was the sweetest torture of my life to be near her: to smell her hair without being able to put my nose in it, to touch her without touching her, to feel every part of her body without really experiencing it. It was unlike anything I have ever endured.

  Kat had to respond to the call of nature a few minutes ago, and now I am in the tent by myself, willing my dick to “stand down” like the stubborn soldier it has suddenly become.

  I know that Kat could probably feel my hardness last night, but she hasn’t acted weird. Not yet, at least.

  I swore she would be gone by morning: having abandoned the stupid prick and his stupid prick for not being able to control itself.

  I lucked out, however. If anything, she just seems motivated today: re-energized, determined to make it to Cherokee National Park… or even one of the smaller parks nearby.

  The air is muggy again, but unlike yesterday morning, the sky is overcast, plump with chunky rainclouds that float overhead.

  We trek through mountains, along streams, all while searching for road, cement, anything that relates to human life. I almost hate to say it, but the visuals of the terrain are so damn stunning.

  If circumstances were as they were a week ago, I’d take a beautiful woman here – cover her eyes and take her to water’s edge – have her open them at sunrise to gaze upon nature’s amazing glory.

  I try to think of that woman as Caroline. I imagine Kat instead. Fuck me.

  Mid-day hits us hard, and by the time the sun is high, we are spent, completely tapped out. It’s fucking hot, but we keep moving.

  We seem to be in panic mode, and all we know to do is press onward. There is no backwards or sideways; no lefts or any rights.

  There is only forward.

  Proceed that-a-way. No breaks, no jail time… and do NOT pass Go.

  We take no pauses… until the unthinkable happens.

  East Tennessee is mountainous: full of dips and slips, peaks and valleys. We travel on any clearing we can find, trying to stay away from inclines and cliffs. We can only avoid the hills but so much, though…

  We cross over a dirt-covered path on another inevitable mound of grass and rock when Kat takes a fall.

  And not just any fall. A tumble… down a slide of sandy sediment and staggered edges.

  Her good ankle loses footing on the path and soon after she is rolling, bumping her way down the side of a hill like a marble in a pin-ball machine.

  I don’t think twice.

  I head after her immediately, leaning back so that I almost slide as I make my way down the side of this rough and rugged wall.

  The incline is steep. I fear that I will pitch forward and be smashed, but then Kat’s trip downward ends abruptly. I manage to stop near her landing. Though she lands awkwardly, she recovers quickly, sitting upright. And I am right at her side.

  I push her hair back from her face, inspecting her body with my fingers. “Are you ok?” I ask: frantic. She nods. My hands continue roaming over her form. No blood. No cuts. No broken bones.

  She’s banged and bruised, but breathing. Ice-cold relief washes over me… but then she points down towards her feet.

  I roll back her jeans as she moans in protest. Her already-bum ankle is now worse: red, swollen, and angry.

  I pick her up, bag and all, shifting my own bag on my back. Pain sweeps like flames through my arm and shoulder when I do. It is blinding. My vision literally goes black for a split second, and I see stars immediately after. But I don’t falter.

  I keep walking until we reach some level ground, where I sit her down carefully. She winces in pain, stretching gingerly towards the injured joints.

  I stand taller, huffing heavily as I watch her poke at it with tentative fingers. I shake my head.

  “We’re some goddamned idiots,” I say.

  Her eyes snap upward. “Excuse me?”

  The look I give her is hard.

  “I’m serious, princess. We are.” I hang my head, exasperation suddenly pushing on my neck like a weight from the sky.

  “I should’ve wrapped up that bum leg of yours… and you should’ve let me. You’re pigheaded…” Her eyes widen, then narrow viciously. “And stubborn and driven and independence-seeking… just like me. We’re very much alike.”

  She holds a grimy hand up.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Trevor.”

  “I would.” A steady roar distracts me, catching my ear and holding it. “Shhh,” I say. “Do you hear that?”

  Kat stops, inclining her head. “No…”

  But I do. I grab my bag and reach down for her. “C’mon…”

  ***

  Kat

  I hear the running water before I see it. Trevor is carrying me, but my ankle is hurting too badly for me to notice anything but the pain.

  He sits me on the grassy bank of a calm and tranquil stream. At the far end of the stream lies a tiny lake… and a magnificent waterfall flowing into it.

  My eyes are glued to it as I lean back on my hands. What Trevor is doing doesn’t register in my brain until I feel the cool fabric on my skin.
>
  I look away – finally – and find Trevor at my feet, one hand cupping my heel as the other wraps an Ace bandage around the ankle.

  His hold is gentle, barely perceptible. For as large and rough as his hands are, his touch is surprisingly tender: trained. He’s done this before.

  Ahhh, I almost forgot. Camp counselor.

  But this seems different. Is this a customary “helper hand” or is there more to his touch?

  With his head bowed, I cannot see his face, but something about his concentration is affecting me. His movements are slow; he’s taking his time… and as he wraps my angry ankle, his thumb is absently stroking the arch of my foot with his opposite hand.

  It’s kind of tickling… a bit soothing… and inexplicably… arousing to me.

  It’s such an innocent touch and yet, I’m sitting here, thinking about the razor in my bag, wishing I could use it on my legs in case he decides to slide his hands further upward.

  Stop it, Kat. Get real. He’s only helping you out. He feels sorry for you. And so what, if he got hard lying next to you? He got hard; that was it, and that was all. That’s what men do, ok? Dicks are like metal detectors, going off at the sign of any buried treasure. Doesn’t mean a thing.

  I purse my lips, shaking my head at my overactive imagination.

  And yet, I pause…

  Did I imagine everything? Did I imagine his lips brush across the crown of my head as we snuggled closely? Did I imagine his hand settle on my hip and stroke gently at my side?

  No. I didn’t.

  I chew on my lip as the memory overwhelms me.

  Trevor finishes the wrap and suddenly looks up. The blonde hair across his eyes is damp with sweat. His jaw is rigid and sharp as stone. His eyes are on fire.

  They are singeing, hot lava in cocoa brown form. Molten chocolate.

  I’ve never been so hungry in my entire life.

  I mistakenly bite harder on my lip, almost drawing blood. Trevor’s eyes shoot to my mouth, staying there.

  His eyes drift back up to mine, and his expression changes. In that instant, I start to panic. The way he’s looking at me now…

  He’s staring at me, his brown eyes curious and sweltering. For a split second, I think, for sure, “He can tell. He knows.”

  But I guess he doesn’t… because he backs off. Something in my gaze scared him. I wonder what.

  Maybe we are more alike than I imagined.

  ***

  By the time Trevor has finished wrapping my ankle, dusk has fallen upon us, and we have to set up camp for the night. He says it’s to give me time to recover, but I’m not oblivious to what’s going on. I know he’s just as hurt as I am… maybe worse.

  Establishing shelter is no easy task, but Trevor, even in his condition, doesn’t fail to tackle it as if it is.

  His movements, however, are more calculated than they once were: more technical. He doesn’t lift anything he doesn’t have to; he doesn’t use more effort than anything’s worth.

  He’s a robot right now: going through the motions, doing what needs to be done. Like a machine, he expresses no emotion. He shows no weakness; he reveals no pain.

  He sets up the tent in complete silence, grimacing ever so slightly as he works, but he won’t let me see it. His misery. His agony. He cloaks them with a steel curtain of determination.

  The rain has returned for an encore performance and, as we’ve recently discovered, it brings with it that mountainous chill that drops the air by ten additional degrees.

  The nighttime is cool enough in these shielded valleys, but with the rain showers, it is nearly frigid. The springtime temperature doesn’t just slip quietly into an autumn range; it takes a running slide right into winter within the span of a few hours.

  The cold droplets begin to fall from the darkened sky as soon as we start to pull our bags inside of the shelter. We are damp, but not soaked, and we take the opportunity to talk as we struggle to warm ourselves.

  As usual, it is like pulling teeth for us to begin a conversation, but once we start, we don’t stop. We settle comfortably into a rhythm as soon as the words start flowing.

  Before long, we are telling jokes and anecdotes about our families… or rather, I am doing the telling. Trevor is unusually quiet during this part of the conversation, leaving me to ramble on and on about my two sisters: something that I could really do all day, if given the chance.

  I mumble through chocolate-coated teeth, motioning with my hands as I pick at a Twix.

  “Anastasia,” I say. “She’s the baby and the quietest of us all. She never did get that ‘no filter’ gene that the rest of my immediate family inherited.”

  Under the dim glimmer of our faded flashlight, Trevor laughs softly. It’s a soft and rich sound that I’ve grown accustomed to. I’m beginning to tolerate his company a lot better than before… maybe even (dare I say it?)… enjoy having him around.

  “Elena,” I continue. “She’s the oldest of us: the ‘mama bear.’ She’s like the kick-ass version of me. She’s a tough cookie: a regular wild child. I guess the more accurate description would be to say that she takes no prisoners.”

  He chortles harder this time.

  “Really?” he starts. “Not gonna lie; that sounds almost scary. So… a tougher version of you, huh?”

  He cocks a dark blond eyebrow skyward, looking mischievously at me. A ghost of a smile frolics on his lips: faint yet playful.

  “She’s part of a motorcycle club, isn’t she? Tattoos, chains… maybe some whips?”

  I chuckle at the image that pops into my head of my ornery older sister. “Something like that…

  “There’s nothing that Elena can’t handle; I can’t think of anything that she’s afraid of. If she were in my shoes right now, the two of you would be having this conversation from the inside of some diner or bed-and-breakfast. She’d be outta here already and on her way to planning some next great adventure…”

  I snort softly, but the sound is almost bitter.

  “Trust me… you’d rather have Elena by your side in any event…”

  I clam up quickly, using my hands to idly pull at the wrapper on my candy bar. I’m showing Trevor all of my cards, and I must admit: a couple hands ain’t pretty.

  And if I sound jealous, it’s because I am. Elena is brave and straightforward in all of the ways that I haven’t been. She does all of the things that I can’t do; she says all of the things that I won’t.

  I know what Elena would do… but I’m not Elena.

  Trevor’s brows fly even higher.

  “What…? And miss all the fun that you and I have been having?” He laughs at his own sarcasm. He gives a small grin, smiling almost to himself.

  “No, Kat… as much as Elena sounds like a, uh… good time… I don’t want or need a replacement by my side. For you? There is no substitute.”

  Trevor looks at me with honest eyes, and I can do nothing but stare back. The levity is slowly but surely disappearing from this conversation, and the hidden compliment underneath of his words is more than I can take.

  It makes me feel like… I don’t know. Something. I don’t know what it is. And honestly… I’m afraid to find out.

  I try to swing the mood back.

  “Yeah, right. You say that now. Stay stuck out here with me a few more days, and I guarantee you’ll chew your own arm off just to escape.”

  I expect a laugh in response, maybe even a smile, but Trevor does neither. In fact, his expression drops, turning brooding and serious within mere moments.

  He stares blankly off into space for a few seconds, and then looks back to me. His eyes focus on my hands, narrowing.

  He leans over, reaching down towards our bags. I hear the muffled rip of a zipper and soon after, find myself staring at the barrel of a small flare gun that now sits in his palm.

  It is a red-orange contraption with a small snub nose; its handle and trigger are tinted black. It looks almost comical. But this is no toy. This is a weapon. Sort of.
And though I know what it is intended for, I can’t help but feel a chill.

  It’s used for safety measures. So why don’t I feel safe?

  Trevor sits there quite calmly, but my nerves are frayed. He examines the gun. I examine him.

  I find my voice, at last.

  “Thinking about how to get out of here, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” His response is short, gruff. What I said about being “stuck” started off as a joke, but obviously he didn’t take it so lightly.

  The contradiction of the situation makes it even worse. In my hands, I hold a candy bar; in his, there is a firearm. We’ve taken a wicked twist somewhere down this path, and I don’t like where we’ve managed to end up.

  My heart is thumping loudly in my chest. It’s deafening amidst our sudden silence. “What are you going to do? Are you going to use it?”

  He doesn’t look up at me. Instead, he flips the gun in his hand, toying with the handle. Finally, he raises his brown eyes to meet mine.

  “No… maybe… I…” He squints pensively at the weapon, his expression growing more confused by the minute. “I don’t know. The gun isn’t waterproof. It’s old…” He turns it over. “…it’s cracked… and it got wet from the crash.

  “These woods are too damn dense. We could set a forest fire if we try to signal for help. Or… the gun could misfire because of the damage… blow up in our faces.” He sits the gun back in the bag.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to us on this trip,” I quip.

  He grins slowly at me, lightening the mood by just a fraction. The severity of the last several minutes begins to dissipate, and the tightening that I felt in my chest the second the gun was pulled out has already loosened considerably.

  Still…

  I don’t take a breath, not one single inhale, until the gun is stowed safely away.

  “It’d be too risky to use it.” He leans in closer. “We’re getting out of here, Kat. We’re getting out of here soon.”

  I nod slowly, meeting his eyes. I’m giving him my sincerest effort at appearing reassured. I would say that I’m putting on a front for myself, but that would be a lie. I’m not the one that needs the assurance; it’s Trevor who does.