The Lovers

by Eden Bradley

  This is going to make me crazy. Jack is going to make me crazy. But I don’t want to stop.

  She sighs then, a quiet rush of air from between her lips, and her eyelids flutter open. Her eyes are that deep, smoky blue, her fringe of black lashes almost startling in contrast. So beautiful. But she doesn’t seem happy this morning, either. Her dark brows draw together and her mouth is more pouty than usual.

  “Good morning,” I say, treading carefully, not sure where else to start.

  “Morning.”

  “Jack is gone,” I tell her.

  “Yes. He usually is.” She yawns, stretches, lifting her arms overhead, the sheet slipping down to reveal her bare breasts. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just his way.” She sits up then, looking at me, an odd expression on her face. “You’ll with me though, won’t you, Bettina?”

  A small thump of sympathy in my chest. “Yes. Sure.”

  She smiles then, if a little wanly, and reaches for me, dragging me to her, kissing my cheek. “My sweet Bettina. Don’t go anywhere, okay? Just…stay with me today.”

  Her arms tighten around me, and I can feel her heart beating.

  “Are you okay, Audrey?”

  “What? Yes, of course.” She kisses me again, pulls away, smiles at me, but her eyes are shadowed now, that frown back between her brows. “Bettina, you like me, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Really like me?”

  “Yes. I really do. I wouldn’t be here with you otherwise.”

  What is going on with her? Why this sudden insecurity from the girl I thought was all cocky self-assurance?

  “Tell me you like me better than Jack,” she says, childlike. And she looks like a child, so small and delicate.

  “I…” The truth is, I don’t know what to say to this. “I barely know Jack. We’ve spent several weeks together, you and I. You’re the first woman I’ve been with. That means something to me.”

  It’s true. But I haven’t given her the whole truth. I can’t do it. She is too worried this morning. She seems fragile to me for the first time since I’ve known her.

  She pulls me in and hugs me hard. “Good. That’s good.”

  I wonder if I’ve hurt her, sleeping with Jack, even though she seemed all for it last night. I had the impression it was her idea. But what if she was only doing it because she knew Jack wanted it?

  I wish I could ask, but I can’t. Maybe I don’t really want to know.

  I sigh, settle into her embrace, bury my face in her neck, and she seems happy with that. And frankly, I am happy with that: her scent, her silky flesh, her long hair like a veil over my face.

  We sit still together for a while before my body begins to heat once more, and I kiss her neck, trailing my tongue over her skin, moving up until I can capture her lips with mine. She’s sweet, sleepy still, but soon we are full-on making out, kissing hard, hands all over each other: belly, breasts, thighs. We’re both panting, and I’m on top of her, legs tangled, pressing our mounds together in the way she’s showed me. Only a few minutes of rubbing and I’m coming against her slim thigh, pleasure surging through me, wave after wave. And I keep thrusting my hips, until she’s coming, too, crying out, her hands digging into my shoulders.

  My body is humming with climax, my limbs warm and weak, and I roll off her. She immediately pulls me into her side, whispering to me, “Stay with me, Bettina. You promised.”

  “Of course I will,” I tell her, wondering if it’s true.

  As I was coming I was thinking of Jack. His face, his hands, the scent of him still in my hair, and hers. The feel of his mouth between my thighs. His cock inside me.

  No matter what, it’s really Jack I’m thinking of. I can’t help it.

  The early-afternoon sun is high overhead, its golden rays warming my skin, fighting the damp, misty spray from the ocean. The day is gorgeous, clear, just as I thought it would be, and Audrey, Viviane and I are in our bikinis, all of the guys in swim trunks. Only Patrice is covered up in her usual khaki shorts, a lightweight white T-shirt and her hat as we sit together on the colorful Mexican blankets Viviane brought down from the house. Our sandals are scattered on the sand, along with a couple of small coolers holding ice and drinks. There’s a striped umbrella stuck into the sand at one corner of the blanket, and Patrice has taken up residence under it on a low beach chair.

  Audrey is sitting next to her, her dark hair in two long braids over her narrow shoulders. She’s been silent all day, writing studiously on her legal pad, hardly looking up. I don’t know what she might be thinking.

  We showered together earlier, quietly, both of us a bit meditative, and there was no sex, for once. Maybe we were both sated after our quick orgasm this morning, after our little orgy last night. My sex feels full now, wonderfully used. But when I think about last night, which I seem to be doing every ten minutes, my body begins to pulse once more with desire.

  I can barely stand to look at Jack, in his blue-and-white tropical-print board shorts, his tanned torso so beautiful to me, all long, lean muscles, his abs a tight six-pack. I know what his flesh feels like now, tastes like. I can still feel him beneath my hands, my tongue.

  More…

  But I have no idea if there will be more. If last night was some sort of fluke. If it will go back to being just Jack and Audrey. Or just Audrey and me, which would be nice, lovely. But Jack is the one I want. Too much.

  It’s not only physical, although the chemistry is nearly overwhelming, for me, anyway. But he’s a good person. Smart, driven. A really great writer.

  I really do need to stop. I’ve been warned, after all, about what kind of person Jack is. A free spirit. If anything more happens, it will be some friendly and rather fantastic sex, and that’s it. Why am I even hoping for more? It’s so unlike me.

  Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. He is the first man to affect me in this way. Ever. But perhaps I should attribute it more to my own personal growth than Jack himself. I’ve met nice guys before, hot guys.

  Never anything like Jack.

  Okay. I really do have to stop now.

  I pull in a deep lungful of sea air: salt and water and fleshy seaweed, closing my eyes against the sun. When I open them, there’s a shadow cast across the blankets. I look up to find a very beautiful man standing at the edge of our group. Skin like chocolate. Gorgeous. His bare chest is perfectly smooth beneath his open, white linen shirt, flapping in the breeze. Perfectly muscled. He’s wearing low-slung cargo pants rolled at the cuffs. He looks like a Ralph Lauren ad. And his eyes are the same dark brown as his skin, tilted a bit at the corners. His smile is dazzling as he greets us, his voice tinged with an English accent.

  “Hallo. I’m Charles Denny. I’m your neighbor for the next few weeks, the next house down. I wanted to introduce myself.”

  Everyone is introducing themselves to our new neighbor. We all recognize him; a well-known independent-film actor. Talented. Really great-looking. Spectacular.

  Audrey has definitely noticed. She stands up, her body sleek in her bathing suit, her breasts pushed together in the halter-style top, the bright turquoise fabric showing off her olive skin, lighting up her eyes as she raises her sunglasses.

  Her smile is even more radiant than his. “Charles Denny. Well, well. So nice to have you on our beach.”

  She extends her hand and he grasps it in his, and I can feel the sparks fly between them, instant, fiery. And just like that, I understand perfectly that the rest of us have ceased to exist for her. Me. Even Jack. And I remember what Viv has said to me about her, and Jack, as well, about that intense focus Audrey can aim at a person. I remember what it feels like to be the object of her desire, as recently as this morning. But now I know I won’t have to keep my promise to her. Oh, no, she won’t need me anymore today.

  Everyone chats with Charles a bit, recommending places to eat in the area, discussing weather conditions. Audrey has remained on her feet, her hips swaying slightly as t
hough in invitation. She is all lovely, oozing sex appeal, and no one can resist. It makes me want to sleep with her again, simply watching her, despite my obsession with Jack, who is trying to pretend he is entirely unconcerned, scribbling away on his pad of paper. But he is too focused on it, not at all his usual friendly self with Charles, who seems awfully nice and down-to-earth.

  “Charles, how long will you be here?” Viviane asks.

  “Through the end of August, I believe, unless something changes with the production schedule on my next film.”

  “What are you working on?” Leo asks. I can see him looking Charles up and down, his steady gaze frankly admiring. I’m sure Charles is used to it.

  “A small film about Rwanda. We shoot in Africa. It’s a brilliant story, the best project I’ve had offered to me.”

  “Wow. Africa,” Audrey says, her voice breathless, adoring. “Have you ever been before?”

  “No, never.”

  “It’ll be quite an adventure. But I’m sure you’ve had plenty of adventures on other shoots already.”

  He smiles, his dark gaze glued to Audrey. “A few, yes. Maybe I can tell you about them sometime.”

  “I’d love that,” she says, flashing that dimpling smile at him.

  Oh, yes, these two are smitten. And who wouldn’t be? They are both almost too beautiful to be believed, with their gleaming smiles, their flawless skin. I feel almost ashen next to them. Insignificant. I glance at Jack; his gaze meets mine, and we exchange a look, acknowledging that we are both out of the picture. And I can almost believe he’s feeling the same way about it as I am. But how is that possible? He is one of them, the beautiful people. And he isn’t any more interested in a long-term relationship than Audrey is.

  I want him to be jealous like this over me.

  Ridiculous.

  “I hope to see you all over the summer,” Charles says.

  “You don’t have to wait,” Audrey purrs. “Let me show you the beach.”

  His smile widens. “I’d like that very much. If I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all.” Audrey looks at Leo. “Take my work back to the house for me?”

  “Sure,” he answers.

  Then she hooks her arm through Charles’s and they walk off, toward the house Charles is staying in. It’s a redwood-and-glass structure that sits back a bit from the shore, right next to our cottages, Jack’s and mine. I look at him, and his dark brows are drawn together as he watches Audrey and Charles wander down the beach, talking, laughing.

  “Well,” Viviane announces, “I think I’ve had enough of this sun today. Anyone else?”

  “Yes, plenty for me, too,” Kenneth says, and Patrice agrees.

  “I guess I’ll go back up if everyone else is,” Leo says. “I could use a sandwich, anyway.”

  “Me, too,” Viviane says. “You coming, Tina? Jack?”

  “I’m going to stay a bit longer, I think,” I tell her.

  “All right then. I’ll leave the blankets for you. Jack?”

  “No, I’ll stay a little longer, too.”

  I look at him, but his expression is unreadable. My heart hammers imagining he’s staying to be with me.

  Don’t be stupid.

  We sit quietly while the rest of our group trudges up the dunes toward the house. They’re gone for several minutes before Jack gets up, staring out at the water.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” he announces.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say, then immediately wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I’m not in the mood for rejection.

  But he doesn’t turn me away. Instead he says, “Yeah, come on,” holding a hand out toward me, helping me to my feet.

  His hand is warm and large in mine, and I can’t help but remember that heat on my skin. I shiver, feeling empty when he drops my hand and begins to walk in the opposite direction Audrey and Charles have taken. I follow, feeling a bit too much like a kicked puppy.

  We’re several yards down the beach before Jack stops and turns to me, his face clouded.

  “Well, that was classic Audrey,” he says, and I am surprised at the vehemence in his tone.

  “Yes, I gathered that.”

  “I have no idea why it even bothers me anymore. Why it ever has.”

  “Maybe because it doesn’t feel good to be dropped like that, no matter the circumstances, your own feelings. Or lack of them.”

  “I never said I lack feelings for Audrey,” he says, his tone defensive.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No. Shit.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. “I know what you’re saying. I’m just annoyed. More at myself than her, maybe.”

  “I just meant that even though you’re not into the whole relationship thing…I mean, that’s what you said, right?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Well, it doesn’t mean that being rejected is going to feel good.”

  He nods, looking at me. “I’m sorry. You’re probably not thrilled right now, either.”

  I look away, out to the sea, the water swelling, surging. It still looks like something entirely sexual to me. “No,” I say quietly. “But I’m okay.”

  “Are you?”

  I turn to him, and am surprised to see the concern on his face. His eyes are such a brilliant green, with flecks of silver gleaming in the midday sunlight. I have another moment of being absolutely stunned by the beauty of them. I hate myself for it a little. I don’t want to be so damn fascinated with him. With a man who has no desire for anything other than the free and easy sex I am sure is readily available to him anywhere he goes.

  People like him, like Audrey, are sort of spoiled in that way, I think.

  “What is it?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face went dark.” He reaches out, brushes a few stray curls from my cheek and I can’t help that my heart lurches in my chest. That I can feel it low in my belly. “Just clouded over like the fog coming in.”

  I laugh roughly. “Oh, you are a writer, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I am. A little poetry is allowed now and then.”

  He smiles, and I smile back, this time more sincerely.

  “So, what is it?” he asks.

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  He plops down in the sand and drags me down next to him, and I am momentarily thrilled at the touch of his hand on mine.

  I sit for a few moments, my pulse racing, waiting for him to let go of my hand. But he doesn’t. And he’s watching me, waiting for me to answer him, I suppose.

  “I…I don’t know what to tell you, Jack.”

  “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I thought it was only women who ever asked anyone that question.”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Are you?”

  Damn it. I know right away I’ve weighted that question far too heavily.

  He raises one dark eyebrow. “You’re a little bitter about men, aren’t you, Bettina?”

  I shrug, leaning back to rest on my hands. “I prefer to think of it as being a realist.”

  He’s quiet a moment. “That’s sad.”

  “But true, nevertheless.”

  “I still think it’s sad. That someone has hurt you, made you feel this way.” He pauses, watching me. “I’m sorry. I’m not asking you to tell me anything. I’ll shut up now.”

  He turns to the water, and I have a few moments to study his profile, which is strong and sleek, his jaw sharply chiseled, with just enough beard stubble to make him appear even more masculine. I’m sitting on his left, so I can see the shallow suggestion of the dimple resting on his cheek, and the tattoo that wraps around his left biceps. It’s all black, the lines thick, dark, like a ring of thorns done in a very stylized manner. And beneath it are letters done in a beautiful, Gothic script. I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know what it says. It looks like Latin.

 
“‘Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit,’” I read. “What does it mean?”

  Jack laughs, turns to me. “It’s from Horace. ‘The fellow is either mad or he is composing verses.’”

  I grin. “So, which is it?”

  “Both, don’t you think? None of us creative types are completely sane.”

  “Glad I’m not the only one.”

  “So am I.”

  “You like to be crazy?” I laugh.

  “I didn’t say that. But I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels like I’m losing my mind sometimes.”

  “The work does it, I think,” I tell him. “Especially working under deadlines. Being creative on demand. Things were simpler when I was still writing for myself, before I had my first book contract.”

  “Were they? Were you less neurotic?”

  “Hey! I didn’t say I was neurotic.”

  “Just…crazy?”

  I smile at him. I don’t mind his teasing. And the truth is, I often think I’m both neurotic and crazy. Hence the need for therapy. But it does seem to be part of the creative process, for me, anyway.

  “Do you think it’s not healthy?” I ask. “That we’re driven to create by our neurosis? Our craziness?”

  He shrugs, his shoulders rippling with muscle beneath his tanned skin. “I don’t know that it’s a matter of healthy or unhealthy. It is what it is.”

  “That seems to be your attitude about a lot of things in life.”

  “Maybe. It makes life easier to deal with, anyway.”

  “Why does life need to be made easier?” I know what my own answer is, but I want to know what his might be.

  He’s silent for several long moments. Then, “Life is hard sometimes. And if you let it get you down, it’ll beat you. Right into the fucking ground.”

  I am stunned. I’m not sure what he means, if there is something specific he’s referring to, although I feel there probably is. But mostly I’m stunned by the raw honesty seeping through this brief remark.