Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly, dabbing a warm cloth over my arm. “I didn’t realize…” His face twists in a scowl. He grabs the first aid kit beside him on the cushion and opens it. “I think the bleeding’s stopped, but your arm’s already bruising. Does it hurt?”

  I shake my head, even though it still does a little.

  He places a bandage on my cut and lowers my sleeve. “In case it starts up again.”

  “This is becoming a thing, isn’t it?” I ask. “Me breaking and you patching me up?”

  His shoulders sag with a deep sigh. “I’m afraid you’ve got that backward.”

  The shame in his voice makes my chest ache. I scoot over to give him room and pat the space beside me.

  He slides in, leaving a small gap between us, and wrings his hands in his lap. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

  I look up at him. “I wasn’t snooping. I would never—”

  “I know. It was an accident. And I shouldn’t have reacted that way.” Regret flashes on his face. He reaches for my hand and closes it in both of his. “It was…it was a shock. I haven’t seen that box in a long time. Ten years, to be exact. Walking in, finding you in the middle of it…” His throat bobs and when his eyes begin to glisten, he looks away.

  I follow his gaze to where the sun is fast disappearing behind the fence. Threading my fingers through his, I squeeze his hand, drawing him back to me. “This can’t be easy for you. I know you’re trying. I’m trying too.” I frown. “And I could probably be more careful.”

  “No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to be careful. This is your home now. I don’t want you walking around on eggshells worried you’ll ask the wrong question or touch the wrong thing.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my wrist. “It just caught me off guard. I need to be more careful, not you.”

  The wind picks up, causing the chimes to ding. I gaze at the swaying palms, at the tie-dyed sky that the sun left behind. We sit in the almost quiet, my hand in his, my temple resting on his shoulder.

  “I have a mother-in-law. Evelyn,” Darian says after several minutes pass.

  I jerk my head back to look at him. “You’ve never mentioned her

  “We’ve been estranged. My fault, not hers. She handled everything after the accident. I was…I just couldn’t.” He clears his throat. “She gave me that box. It’s all I have left.”

  “And you’ve never looked in it?”

  “Not until today,” he says, blinking his eyes closed. A humorless smirk hardens his face. “She had it inscribed, Some memories shouldn’t be forgotten, but that’s all I wanted to do—forget. It. Them. Her. Everything.” He pulls his knees in and turns his whole body to face me. “I was awful back then, Francesca. I thought of nothing and no one but myself.”

  “You were hurting.”

  “So was she.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had a huge fight and I stormed out of her flower shop, never to return. A few months later she’d gotten wind of the record label and came to see me. I had my secretary send her away,” he says, his voice brittle. “She never returned either.”

  “Were you close?”

  “We were very close. She was a second mother to me.” He swallows. “And I broke her heart.”

  My own heart shatters to hear him. He has a mother-in-law. He has family. Someone who loves him. Someone who probably misses him. “Have you thought of reaching out to her?”

  “I hadn’t, no. I didn’t want to hurt her any more than I already had. I thought seeing me after all these years would do that.” His features soften. “But it didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was there that day. At the cemetery.” He smiles at me. “I told her about you, and she said I was a fool to let you go.”

  Warmth fills my chest. “I’m so happy you’ve found her.”

  I close my eyes and lean into him, nestling into the crook of his neck. He folds his arms around me and presses a kiss to my forehead.

  “Francesca, I love you. I want a life with you, and I don’t ever want you to feel that parts of my past are off limits. Some are harder to talk about than others, but nothing is off limits. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “I cleared out half of the closet and drawers, and I brought the rest of your stuff in from the garage. I should have done it Saturday. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  I curl my body into the hollow of his, and he holds me until the sky is dark and the stars begin to glow. After a while, he pulls back and our eyes meet.

  “What’s your biggest regret, Francesca?”

  “Not forgiving my mother,” I say without thinking. The admission startles me and I let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know where that came from.”

  Darian lifts his hand to my heart. “From here, I imagine.”

  “What about you? Is your estrangement with your mother-in-law your biggest regret?”

  His eyes dim. “I wish it were,” he says…and nothing more.

  Wishful Sinful

  Darian: Is 6am too early?

  Jane: Earlier the better. You really don’t have to do this.

  Darian: What’s your email? I’ll send you the info.

  Jane: Janeelizabethtownsend@gmail.com Think she knows?

  Darian: Not a chance. But I’m going to kill her.

  Jane: Take it easy on her. Her heart’s in the right place.

  Darian: I know.

  Frankie

  I’m happy. Blissfully happy. A whistle while you work, sing in the shower kind of happy. I’m so happy, in fact, I lie awake at night, sick with worry that it’s all going to end.

  It’s been almost three weeks since “The Closet Incident,” as Jane and I refer to it, and a lot has changed. With Darian’s help, I extracted my suitcase from beneath the bed and unpacked it. Space is tight, but we’re managing.

  “We’ll get custom shelving in here,” he told me one evening when he caught me trying to decide which shoes I could part with. “And a bigger dresser.”

  We also unpacked my boxes, which means I have books in the bookcases and pictures on the walls. It’s really starting to feel like home.

  Darian made good on his offer. He talked to his “guy” who found me a little yellow FIAT and financed it at a rate I could afford. I’m now the proud owner of a brand-new-to-me car that I purchased all by myself. And thanks to said car, I’m beginning to get the lay of the land around here. Just yesterday, I made it all the way downtown without using my GPS. I have a new hair stylist, a new dentist, and a new bank. I have a favorite beach and a favorite grocery store. I’ve even discovered a farmer’s market close to the house, and it’s become one of our Sunday morning rituals—right after shower sex and just before tacos.

  Every morning, while Darian gets ready for work, I make breakfast and pack his lunch. Sometimes we eat together; sometimes we don’t, but we always make time for coffee (he has coffee, while I stick to my usual). The few consulting jobs I’ve managed to score keep me busier than expected, and when I’m not waist deep in that, I’m helping Gloria around the house. Darian’s usually home by six, and we eat dinner and drink wine before curling up in bed in front of a TV we never end up watching.

  I love it here. I love my new life. I love Darian.

  But I’m worried about him. He’s been having nightmares, and as the anniversary of the crash nears, they seem to be getting worse. More intense. More frequent. It’s the same every time—he wakes violently and bolts upright in a panic. Once he catches his breath, he bends to kiss my forehead, then climbs out of bed. I always try to stop him, but I never succeed.

  “I want to watch some TV,” he’ll say, or “I think I’m going to read.”

  By the time the alarm sounds in the morning, he’s beside me again.

  But today, the alarm doesn’t sound. It’s Darian’s hard body f
lush against my back, his lips at the crook of my neck, his hand gliding over my stomach that wake me. The golden sun pouring light into the bedroom tells me it’s late.

  My mouth curves into a sleepy smile as his fingers travel south between my legs. “Mmm…what are you doing?”

  “Waking you,” he says simply.

  “I can feel that.”

  “I’m taking the day off.” His minty breath feathers my skin, but I decide to ignore it. “I thought maybe we could go to the island for the weekend.”

  “The island? But Gloria’s coming today.”

  Darian laughs. “Believe it or not, she used to manage this house all by herself,” he says, rolling me onto my stomach. He lies on top of me, his thighs between my legs, and slips his hand beneath me, not wasting any time finding the spot. My eyes roll back. “You wrapped up the consulting jobs you had, didn’t you?”

  “Um…oh God…yeah…I think…”

  Laughter rumbles in his chest and I feel it in my toes.

  “You think?”

  “Mm-hmm…”

  “Then let’s go. I’ll even let you drive.” He lowers his lips to my ear. “Lift that sexy ass a little, will ya?”

  I do, and he slides into me, his fingers working my clit as he begins to thrust—slow and measured.

  “Jesus, fuck,” I pant, almost breathless.

  “I love it when you call me Jesus.”

  I grin into my pillow. “So what’s the…ahh…plan for today?”

  “Well, right now,” he says, picking up speed as he moves in and out of me, “I’m going to make you come.” The fingers of his free hand weave through mine, gripping them tight. “After that, I guess we’ll take a drive.”

  “Have I told you how much I love my new car?” I ask Darian as I accelerate onto the highway.

  “Only about a hundred times since we left the house.” He glances at the clock on my dash—my pretty, new dash with more bells and whistles than my old Chevy pickup could ever dream of. “Which was a mere fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I can’t help it. This is her first road trip.” A grin lights up my face. “I’m excited.”

  He laughs. “Her?”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I say, glaring at him over the rim of my sunglasses. “You’re not naming her.”

  “It’s only fair.” He grabs his phone from the cupholder and types on the screen. “Ahh,” he says. “Perfection.”

  “The Yellow Rose of Texas” filters through the speakers and I bark out a laugh. “I’m not calling my car The Yellow Rose of Texas. Try again.”

  A minute later, the car fills with the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” Darian eyes me expectantly.

  I purse my lips and cock my head to the side. “I do love the Beatles. Not sure about the name, though.”

  Darian puts his phone back in the cupholder and we listen to the rest of the song. As soon as it ends he turns down the volume and looks over at me. “Favorite Beatles song. Go.”

  “‘Hey Jude,’” I say without thinking.

  “Predictable, but solid. Rolling Stones?”

  “‘Wild Horses.’”

  He scoffs. “Betting I could answer these for you. Miley Cyrus?”

  I shoot him a glare.

  “See? I knew you were going to do that.” His smile is triumphant. “Madonna or Cyndi Lauper?”

  That one takes some consideration. I shrug. “Madonna, I guess?”

  “Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday?”

  “Trick question.”

  “Touché.”

  “My turn,” I say, reaching for my Diet Coke. I take a long drink from my straw. “Bruce Springsteen or Tom Petty?”

  “Hmm…” His brows bunch in concentration. “I don’t know. Pass.”

  “Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin?”

  “Um…Dean.”

  My fingers tap the wheel as I think of another one. “Ooh, Roth or Hagar?”

  “Hagar,” he says immediately.

  “Really? I’m not much of a Van Halen fan; I assumed Roth because he was first.”

  “He was louder,” Darian says. “Hagar was better.”

  “One more,” I say, biting back a grin as familiar drums reverberate almost imperceptibly through the speakers. “Airplane or Starship?”

  His face twists in a grimace, and I bust out laughing. “Totally kidding,” I tell him, turning up the volume on “White Rabbit.”

  Darian plays DJ after that, muting the stereo each time a new question pops into his head. By the time we reach Key Largo, he’s run out of questions and fallen asleep. I turn off the music and open the sunroof. Salty ocean air fills the car, and I make the rest of the drive in peaceful silence.

  An hour later, I’m parking in front of the market in Marathon when Darian wakes up. His yawn draws my gaze as I cut the engine. He looks exhausted, and I wonder if he had another nightmare last night.

  I unhook my seatbelt and adjust my maxi skirt which rode up during the drive. “You did want me to stop here, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, pulling off his shades to rub his eyes. When he turns to face me, his lids are so heavy that his long lashes graze his cheeks. “Sorry I crashed out on you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I smirk. “Your DJing skills were beginning to slip.”

  A second yawn breaks into a laugh. “My DJing skills are top-notch,” he says, grabbing the handle. “You coming?”

  “Mind if I wait here? I should probably call Jane.”

  “Of course not,” he says as he climbs out of the car. He stretches his jean clad legs and shakes out his Black Sabbath tee. After closing the door, he leans in the open window and asks, “What was your favorite snack from childhood?”

  “Is this another ‘get to know me’ question or are you taking my order?”

  He grins. “Both, I guess. But was there something special? Something that became kind of a tradition?” He reaches inside the car for his sunglasses. “When my friends and I got together it was always Easy Cheese,” he says, his lip curling in disgust. “We ate it on everything.”

  “Oh God,” I say. “Nothing that tragic.” A smile warms my face. “Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies.”

  “They still make those?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe.”

  He shakes open his shades and slides them on. “Tell Jane I said hi.”

  Darian goes inside, and I dig through my purse on the floorboard behind me until I find my phone. The display illuminates, showing three missed texts from Jane.

  Jane: Happy Birthday Eve!

  Jane: Hellooooo

  Jane: Stop ignoring me!

  I start to text her, but it’s been over a week since we last spoke and I miss her too much not to hear her voice.

  “I’m not ignoring you, doofus,” I say when she answers. “I was driving.”

  “Driving? Driving where?”

  “To the island. And no,” I say, imagining her smile deflate like a balloon, “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Then what’s with the sudden road trip?”

  I take a slow sip of my watered-down soda. “Oddly timed fluke?”

  “Whatever, Frankie.” She blows out an exaggerated huff. “You should’ve just told him.”

  “I will, eventually, but now’s not the time. His nightmares are really beginning to worry me. He says he doesn’t remember them, but, Jane, what if he does? What if they’re about the crash and he’s just reliving it night after night?”

  “Why lie about it?” she asks. “Why not just tell you what they’re about and leave it at that?”

  “I don’t know.” A bead of sweat slides down my temple. I turn the key in the ignition and power on the AC. “He probably thinks I’d push.”

  “With your history? You’re the last person who’d force someone to talk about their dreams.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.”

  “He should,” she says in a
mocking tone. “Maybe when you tell him about your birthday you can fill him in on your connection to his daughter.”

  “Jane…” My head falls forward against the steering wheel. “I don’t have a connection to his daughter.”

  “Frankie, you’ve been dealing with your own nightmares since you were twelve years old—since the day you saw his daughter on the news. Of course you have a connection.”

  “Look, can we—”

  “Oh, fine,” she says, and I’m positive I can hear her eyes roll. “I’ll give you a birthday reprieve.”

  “Best gift ever.” I turn to the window just as Darian exits the store with several bags of groceries. “Sorry, bestie, but I gotta go. Need to help Darian load the trunk.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says with a laugh. A brief silence settles over the line, followed by the cluck of her tongue in my ear. “Okay. I love you. I miss you. You’re amazing. Have the happiest birthday ever.”

  I smile. “I will. And, Jane? Don’t worry so much. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  My nerves pull tight like rubber bands as soon as we leave the marina. I didn’t expect to be this anxious, but, of course, I am. The last two days we spent on the island were…ugh.

  Impossible.

  And now we’re returning.

  I think Darian must feel it too from the way he keeps stealing glances at me, his eyes dark and heavy, his face shadowed with worry.

  It’s only adding to my unease. I know any minute, he’s going to want to talk about it, but that’s the last thing I want to do. The memory’s too fresh.

  The boat slows as the island comes into view. Darian steals another glance, but this time, his gaze lingers. “Francesca…”

  I feel a twinge in my chest, like a physical souvenir of the pain I felt that day. Small but present. “I’m fine,” I say, offering him a sad smile.

  And I really don’t want to go there right now.

  He nods once, then returns his attention to the wheel. We don’t speak again until the boat’s secured to the dock.

  “It’s okay if you’re not,” he says as he gathers our things. “The last time we were here…”