Tripp

by Kristen Kehoe

  Never one to admit defeat, Rachel thrashes underneath me, twisting her hips and arching her back, doing her best to shake me so she can sneak past my defenses and make me pay. At the beginning, I just laugh at her. Tall as she may be, she’s a little on the lean side. I still outweigh her by a good fifty pounds; there’s no way she’s getting away from me when I have the upper hand. But it’s not long before her movements have the hunger I was sure I sated earlier appearing again—bigger and stronger this time than the last. When she finally stops moving and looks at me, the widening in her eyes tells me she sees exactly how much I need her.

  “Again,” I say and my lips capture hers. It’s not playful this time, not soft and thoughtful. It’s fast, desperate, aching—everywhere her fingers or her lips touch sends a scorching blaze of awareness over my skin and down to my nerve endings—until I’m sure I’ll explode if I don’t get to have her all the way.

  I take a second to thank whatever god is listening that my brothers always told me to be prepared and carry two condoms. How right they were when they said one is never enough. Never in all of my time with Lauren did I use them both in the same night. Not until Rachel.

  I grab the second one. It seems everything was waiting for her, for us, for this moment right here. I sink inside of her, and my world tilts—everything makes perfect sense.

  ~

  The next morning I get to school before Rachel. I try not to panic—I’ve called her twice and she hasn’t answered either time. It’s not like her, but she’s also busy. One missed phone call doesn’t mean anything. I feel like a total girl—I have to swallow my anxiety and remind myself it doesn’t mean she’s backing out of us.

  I’ve never known real fear, not until Rachel. Growing up the youngest of three boys cured me pretty quickly of the fear of physical pain. Every other day ended up, and still does, in some sort of wrestling match or fistfight to solve whatever dilemmas we have. With Lauren, the only thing I feared was that I would never fully feel for her what I was so desperate to convince myself I should. With school, sports, the future—fear’s never been something I allowed to move beyond my peripherals. I know what I’m capable of doing. I know what I want—and there’s little I won’t do to get it.

  But with Rachel, everything’s different.

  My fear comes from nothing I can battle or overcome. My fear is purely instinctual—like it was that first time I spent the night with her, only greater. Whatever my young heart felt for Rachel, with our time apart, what I feel for her now has doubled. I want everything from her, and going slowly is killing me. This morning, when I called and she didn’t answer, I had to remind myself it was because she was at volleyball, and then home getting herself and Gracie ready. I had to remind myself over and over whatever I may be ready for…she is not. Therefore, I have to be patient. A missed phone call doesn’t mean regret.

  Christ, Jesus, please don’t regret us, Rachel. My heart can’t take it.

  By the time her Explorer pulls into the parking lot, I’ve worked myself into such a frenzy that I’m grabbing the smoothies I brought with me and jumping out of my truck, not even allowing her to turn her engine off before I’m setting them on the roof of her car, opening her door, and leaning down to press my lips to hers. She’s surprised, but when she kisses me back, my heartbeat slows slightly. The garbage that’s been clouding my mind dissipates until the taste of her is the only thing left.

  “Hey,” I say when I pull back and she smiles at me. “I called you this morning to see if you wanted to drive together.” Three times. Why didn’t you answer? I leave the last part out, because no matter how much it might seem like I’ve grown ovaries and a vagina in the last twenty-four hours, I’m actually still the proud owner of a penis.

  “Yeah, sorry, I had an individual with Coach. Then I was in a hurry to get home and change before getting Gracie to G’s.”

  This is the logical answer I expected. I should be happy, because it has nothing to do with me or regret; her life is busy—end of story. Except, there’s a part of me that still feels like she’s not one-hundred-percent with me. I understand she’s busy, but I thought she understood…when I said I wanted to be with her, it meant I wanted to help her.

  I rest my arm on the hood of her car, trying to act casual as I tell her that she could have called me. I wouldn’t have minded getting Gracie for her so she didn’t have to rush out of practice.

  “It’s no big deal; I’m used to it,” she says. It takes everything I have not to tell her to readjust the way she’s used to doing things. I physically have to swallow the words and remind myself this is Rachel. She needs to be in control, which means I need to be patient.

  I nod my head and change tactics, grabbing the smoothie from where I set it and handing it to her. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I stopped by Jamba Juice on my way here then.”

  Her eyes light up at the cup, and then her lips show her gratitude. I’m slightly mollified. Something. At least I’m allowed to do something for her. I take the kiss deeper. I use my lips to tell her what she isn’t ready to hear yet—I’m hers, and that means I’m here. I want to be here. No matter what she said last night, I know she’s not ready to depend on me all the way. She’s not ready to let me in and become a part of her everyday life. In the back of her mind is still the fear that I won’t stay, that no matter how much I love her, it won’t be enough to actually fight through it all with her. She’s holding pieces of her life back so she still feels in control.

  I hate that it’s only been twelve hours and I’ve already recognized I might always need more than she’s willing to give. Because I’m afraid I’ll take this farther—just to prove she can’t shut me out completely—I pull away, and wait for her to open her eyes.

  She gives me a lazy grin. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  I laugh and hand her the cup, happy when she drinks from it as she gets out of the car. “Thanks for this. I didn’t really eat breakfast, and since I’ve got training tonight, too, it helps.”

  “Good. Maybe now you’ll realize you can depend on me to help you.” Ah, word-vomit, old friend, you’re back. Thanks for helping me be patient, asshole.

  She stops in the act of grabbing her backpack to turn and face me. I see the shock on her face, the question in her eyes. Though I had hoped to wait, I prepare myself to lay it all out there, to tell her exactly how much I need her to need me. Before I can, her expression changes from unsure to irate in point two. What the..?

  “Oh my god. Shit, shit, Tripp. What are you wearing?”

  My mind goes blank. I’m momentarily afraid I was so distracted by thoughts of her this morning that I forgot something essential like pants. I look down and relief blows through me when I spot the dark blue jeans covering my legs. I can see the black T-shirt covering my torso. I raise my eyes to Rachel’s to ask her if she’s suddenly become a fashion critic when I spot the source of her terror. Oh my bleeding Jesus, we’re wearing the same outfit.

  Because there’s really nothing else to do, I laugh. My princess does not find this situation amusing. While she gets steadily more horrified at the fact that, and I quote, “We look like the fucking Spice Girls,” I laugh harder. She yells at me, because of course this is my fault—typical woman. She then questions every choice I made that led me to this outfit…including the black Chucks I’m wearing rather than my black Vans.

  By the time I’m done laughing—at least enough so I can breathe—she’s called Katie to beg for another shirt to wear. Though she’s still angry, I can see there’s also amusement in her eyes.

  “So, does Katie have something you can wear?”

  She slams her fist into my shoulder, but because she’s not really mad, she pulls her punch. It comes off as more of a love tap. When she asks me once more how I could let this happen—again with the blame—I grab her hand.

  “Relax. It’s a common outfit. I bet ten other people are wearing it right now.”

  This does not appease her. “But are they sl
eeping together? Because that’s why this is embarrassing. Jesus, we look like one of those idiot families who all wear the same thing at Disneyland.”

  Katie pulls up and she and Rachel immediately go about altering Rachel’s outfit with a pink scarf. At one point, I offer—quite chivalrously—to get dressed with Rachel in the morning so we don’t have problems like this again. Though she laughs, Rachel assures me that if I keep a shirt in my car we should be able to avoid future disasters.

  I grab her hand when we begin our walk into school, and she comes to a halt. Thinking she’s still embarrassed about her shirt, that she might want to go put on her practice jersey, I stop and look at her. “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t wear pink polo shirts.” Her face heats enough I can see the slight hint of pink beneath her brown skin; I raise my brows, at a loss.

  “Okay… me neither… it looks like we can cross that outfit off our double-up list.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t wear pink polos… and I don’t really hold hands.”

  Ahh, got it. Yeah, not happening. I look at our hands and then back to her. “With me, or with anyone?”

  This seems to stump her enough she has to think about it for a second. “Anyone?” she wonders. I nod, taking a step closer to her.

  “How about this,” I tell her, our mouths close enough that our lips almost touch. “You can keep the black V-neck, I’ll keep holding your hand, and we’ll both adjust to something new. Okay?”

  I wait for her to argue with me, to tell me to let go of her hand or lose my own, but she shocks me altogether when she says nothing. Instead, she stares at me and I know I’ve won this battle. Pressing my lips to hers, I hold firmly to her hand and walk into school—careful never to lead or follow, but to stay right next to her so she knows we’re in this together.

  27

  Present

  Rachel’s wrapped up in me with her back against the rough wall of the shop, her hands under my shirt and lighting little fires as they grab and score my skin. Her tongue begins to battle with mine; I show my appreciation by cupping her thigh and yanking her leg around my waist, flexing my hips into her. Our twin groans reverberate between our lips. I do it again.

  My hands—never satisfied with just a piece of her— search under her shirt and down the smooth expanse of her of her back, needing the tactile connection. They seek the warm skin beneath her jeans, sliding between the stretchy fabric and her skin. Just as I meet the lacy top of her boy shorts—which look absolutely nothing like what I’ve seen a boy wear, thank Jesus—I hear one of my dumbass brothers saying my name.

  “Tripp, some joker in a jeep just—Jesus Christ.”

  Jesus Christ is right. I don’t look at him since Rachel is now frozen. She’s yanked her hands from their delicious perusal of my skin to shove me. I give her a look, letting her know I’m not going anywhere, but I don’t let my hands continue down and over her skin. I can see the absolute mortification written all over her face, and I know she might try and do some damage to me if I push her right now…while we have an audience.

  “Christ, you two better be thankful I came looking for you and not Mom or Dad. They might have had a stroke.”

  “Go away, Griff. I’ll be right in.”

  I use my best voice to convey the unsaid message of I’ll kill you in your sleep if you don’t disappear STAT, but being the youngest has its disadvantages. My idiot brother’s next words are one of them.

  “Seriously, dude, I’m impressed. And a little turned on,” he says. Rachel loses it; her laugh bursts forth and her face disappears into the front of my shirt. I sigh before resting my hands on either side of her against the shop wall. It’s as much to shield her, as it is to block her from those assholes. They may never touch, but look? Who wouldn’t when her lips are swollen and pink and her shirt is all kinds of disheveled and appealing?

  “Hey, Tanner, come out here and see who’s all hot and heavy.”

  Of course he did. Being the youngest sucks. “Griff, Jesus, go away.”

  “Whoa, looks like Jackson finally got himself the girl he’s always wanted. Well played, little bro, she’s a hottie. Hey, Rae.”

  I shoot them both a death glare and receive nothing but wiggled eyebrows and assholian gestures in return. Idiots. Turning back to Rachel, who hasn’t moved or looked up since Griff came out and interrupted us like some fifth grader, I put my hand under her chin and tilt her face until her eyes are on mine. I can see her embarrassment, but underneath it is still the passion, and there’s a part of me that wants to take her hand and drag her somewhere—anywhere— so we can be alone for more than an hour. Somewhere I can explore and touch all of her for as long as I want. Since that’s not something I can do right now, I settle for pressing my lips to hers one last time—firm, quick, and powerful, so she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then I remind her of the promise she made me: tonight.

  “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.” She nods. I know that’s all she’ll give me with Dumb and Dumber standing as audience members a few feet away. But because I can, I get her to give me more. I press my lips to hers once again, deeper, stronger, promising her with this small bit of contact that tonight we won’t be interrupted.

  Of course there are whistles and catcalls from the idiots, but I grin. I know they’re jealous. I mean, I’ve got Rachel, and she’s everything. “I’ll see you later.”

  When I walk away, she’s still leaning back against the wall. Her eyes are heavy as she watches me go, amusement mixed with desire in her expression. I send her one last look as I head into the shop.

  “Jesus, do you two do anything but smolder when you’re around each other?” Griff asks.

  “Yeah, and if you hadn’t interrupted, I might still be doing it.”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, little brother, she’s one fine piece. No China doll exterior—she’s the Malibu Barbie 2.0.”

  I laugh because there are times Tanner is so far out there I don’t always understand him, and because—however ludicrous his statement—he’s not far off. Rachel’s the real deal, the girl who’s so ignorant to her own appeal I can’t understand how she doesn’t see what I see. Then I talk to her and understand she’s so much more than beautiful.

  We’ve been together, really together, for a week, but it feels like forever. In the past few days of touching her, loving her, and laughing with her, I’ve come to realize that the person I thought I knew is so much more. She’s the heart and soul and center I’ve been searching for. She’s tough and opinionated. Rather than tell me what I want to hear, she tells me exactly what she’s thinking, and then sticks her chin out, waiting for me to disagree. I usually respond by grabbing her and satisfying us both until we’re not even sure what we were disagreeing about.

  Still, there have been moments where I’ve had to step back and ask myself if this is real—if there’s such a thing as perfection. There are moments I know she’s holding back…moments I know she’s waiting for me to walk, or she’s remembering that time not so long ago when I wasn’t there, when I was somewhere else with someone else. I don’t know how to get us past it.

  That thought plagues me as I walk through the garage and meet the man who just bought a thousand-dollar lift kit for a five-hundred-dollar Jeep that looks like it’s been taken apart and put back together with bubblegum and shoestring. I raise my eyebrows at Griff and he nods.

  “This is Matt. He wants new tires and a bigger lift. Like, four inches.”

  “I’m thinking off-road man, major derby style.”

  I nod as I stare at the hunk of ill-maintained metal in front of me and wonder how to tell the guy that this is like surgery, and his Jeep is sure to die on the table.

  “Let me get underneath her and take a look first, see what she can handle without any tune-ups,” I tell him. He nods and follows Griff back to the office to fill out paperwork. Griff opens the door and sends a look my way that says good luck. Yeah, I’m gonna need it.

  I’m on
my back on the creeper, sliding under the already slightly-raised Jeep when I hear a shout from Tanner. I ignore him because he’s always shouting. As predicted, the outside wasn’t half as bad as the underside. Sweet Jesus, this is a deathtrap.

  “Dickhead, I was calling you.”

  “You’re always calling me. I sometimes worry you call my name out when you should be calling out someone else’s.”

  He doesn’t laugh, which has me putting my wrench down and sliding forward until I can see his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Rae just ran out and drove off. Gracie’s sick,” he says. I’m sliding the rest of the way out from underneath the Jeep and standing. I whip my phone out of my pocket while I press through the garage to the outside, tapping her name. A second before she answers, I hear Griff and Tanner step out with me.

  “What’s wrong? Tanner said you ran out.”

  “G called. Gracie’s sick—her fever’s high and she’s been throwing up.” Over the line I hear a blasted horn and a muttered curse from Rachel. I close my eyes, praying she’s wearing a seatbelt. She drives like she does everything else in life—full throttle, guns blazing.

  “I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Tripp, there’s nothing you can do. I’m going to get her; G’s called Mom.”

  “Rachel—” I start, but she interrupts before I can finish.

  “Tripp, I’m turning into G’s. Finish at work, go to the party tonight. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  No, it’s not okay. Not. Fucking. Okay.

  I stare at my phone screen when the line goes dead, rage causing my hand to shake. Before I can do something idiotic—like throw my phone against the wall, or call her back and scream at her—I click the power button and shove it into my pocket. Pacing a few steps back and forth, I drag my hands over my short hair and breathe deeply. The whole time I try to remember that this is Rachel I’ll-do-it-my-own-way-because-I-don’t-need-anyone-else Reynolds.