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

by Robin Hill

  We drive to the beach with the top down, Darian’s hand in mine the whole way. It’s beautiful out, despite the humidity, and any anger I felt yesterday has melted with the sun.

  “Thank you for today,” I say, mindlessly toying with the pendant hanging around my neck. “I needed it.”

  “I think we both did.”

  We pull up to the taco shack we used to frequent every Sunday. My heart thuds dully. It’s been a long time, and I don’t know why we stopped coming. It occurs to me then; we’ve stopped doing a lot of things.

  “I miss coming here,” I tell him.

  “Yeah,” he says, “me too.” He cuts the engine and we sit quietly for a moment watching the line dwindle. When it gets down to only two people, Darian opens his door and sets his feet on the ground. “Potato, egg, and cheese?”

  “And a Diet—”

  “Coke. Got it.” He flashes a smile at me over his shoulder as he gets out of the car. “Do you want any of those doughnut things—”

  “Yes!” I say excitedly. “The chocolate ones.”

  He nods, then stretches his arms above his head. The action causes his shirt to lift and his shorts to slide down enough to give me a peek at the sexy little indentions above his ass. My fingers ache to touch them, to grab the waistband of his shorts and drag him back into the car with me, tacos and chocolate be damned. Frequent sex is another thing we’ve stopped doing, and I plan to rectify that posthaste.

  Darian takes off toward the taco shack, and I sink into my bucket seat, staring after him through the dark lenses of my sunglasses. Just the simple flex of his calf muscles as he walks across the sand makes my skin tingly and hot. He said he wanted to spend the day together, and I chuckle to myself thinking of all the things I want to spend it doing.

  “Miss. Miss…” A loud, nasally voice cuts through my lascivious thoughts.

  I sit up and lower my shades. In the passenger mirror, I see a portly man in a charcoal-colored track suit coming up to the car. My scalp prickles with unease. I grip the door handle and wonder what I’m supposed to do once I open it. It’s too late anyway. As I begin to pull the lever, short, pudgy fingers curl around the top of my door and I stiffen.

  “Miss,” the man says, struggling to catch his breath, “sorry to bother you, but was that Darian Fox I just saw getting out of this car?”

  I let out a shaky laugh, my tense shoulders relaxing. “Are you a fan?” I ask, suppressing the urge to giggle. I didn’t know Darian still had fans.

  He pulls at the strap around his neck to show me his camera. “I was hoping I could get a picture.”

  His graying hair and thick-lensed glasses suggest he’s older than Darian by at least a decade. I press my lips together. When I mentally cast Darian’s fan club, this guy didn’t make the cut.

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to,” I say, nodding toward Terrill’s. “He’s right over there. If you want…” My sentence fades out as the man moves to the front of the car, his camera aimed at Darian’s back. I don’t hear a shutter, but the constant press of his finger tells me he’s doing more than looking through the lens.

  His audacity makes my ears burn. I grab the open window with both hands and crane my neck out of the car. “Excuse me, sir, if you wait… He’ll be back in a second.”

  The man returns to the passenger side. “Of course,” he says, his gaze lingering briefly on my face before trailing down my arms to the white knuckled grip I have on the door. He smiles then, a sort of smarmy smile that makes me itchy, like spiders crawling on my skin.

  “Nice ring,” he says, and I look toward Darian, willing him to hurry the fuck up. “When’s the big day?”

  A click, click, click sounds in my ear and when I whip my head around, I come face-to-face with the camera’s lens. “What the hell are you doing?” I reach for it, try to block it with my hand, but he’s like a damn ninja.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart? How long you been engaged?”

  I hide my face in my lap.

  Are they making tortillas from scratch up there? What the fuck?

  “You ain’t foolin’ nobody,” he says with a snicker. “Pretty little thing like you marrying that middle-aged has-been? Come on, now. Let’s help each other out. You scratch my back, and I’ll uh…I’ll scratch something of yours.”

  Gag!

  “Get away from her,” I hear Darian say. His voice is deep and calm but muffled by distance.

  “Somebody’s been holding out on me,” the man singsongs.

  “Back the fuck up,” Darian says, louder this time. I hear the crunch of sand and gravel beneath his feet as he approaches the driver’s side—the driver’s side—not the passenger side where a creepy, obsessed fan hovers over his fiancée. “Hands off the car.”

  I tilt my head up to look at him as he leisurely sets the box of food in the back seat.

  I’m only being assaulted over here. No need to rush.

  “Guess congratulations are in order,” the man says. “Don’t suppose you’d give me blondie’s name, would ya? Save me some legwork?”

  “Stay the fuck away from her,” Darian says as he opens his door and slides in behind the wheel. He glances at me briefly before starting the engine and shifting into reverse. “I won’t tell you again.”

  It isn’t until we’ve backed onto the main road that I lift my head.

  “Are you okay?” Darian asks, brushing his knuckles across my cheek. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

  I sit up straight and slip on my sunglasses. “No. He was just…eww.” I shudder.

  “They all are.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “At least the ones I get.”

  “The ones you get? What…fans?”

  “He wasn’t a fan, Francesca. He was paparazzi.”

  My mouth falls open. “Seriously? Wow. Must be a slow day in Hollywood!”

  Darian scowls and I turn toward the window to hide my grin.

  Paparazzi. Holy shit! I can’t wait to tell Jane.

  After a few miles, Darian reaches across the console and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry that happened. If I’d have known…”

  “How could you have?” I turn in my seat. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not upset. I’m just absorbing the fact that you have paparazzi.” My smile threatens to return, and I bite my lip. “Does that happen often?”

  “No, not usually.”

  “Where are we?” I ask, acknowledging the quiet neighborhoods we’ve been navigating for the last several minutes.

  “Nowhere special. Just driving.” After a while, the manicured streets give way to natural landscaping. Darian makes a few more turns, then pulls over and cuts the engine. “Finally. A little privacy,” he says and cracks a small smile. “Fame’s a bitch.”

  Laughter bursts out of me. “Is it too soon to say that was the coolest thing ever?”

  “Really? The coolest?” He reaches behind him for the box of food and sets it between us. “Cooler than marrying a mega-famous rock star?”

  I shrug. “Not sure yet. Guess I’ll have to let you know.”

  He hooks a finger inside the frayed hem of my shorts. “Guess I’ll have to convince you.”

  I have my first orgasm of the day one block shy of Ponce De Leon. We barely make it into the house before Darian attacks me again, this time in the kitchen, bent over the island.

  “It’s these damn things,” he says, grabbing at the belt loops on my shorts.

  I know why he likes them. They hang low on my hips but scarcely cover my cheeks—and they’re roomy enough for his hands.

  “Every time you wear them, all I want to do is yank them off.”

  “Like this?” I ask teasingly as I turn around and pop the button. Then I duck under his arm and make a run for the stairs. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

  Halfway to the second floor, he grabs my ankle and I stumble forward in a fit of laughter, breaking my fall on a carpeted step.

  “Don
’t move,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice that makes the laughter stop.

  His hand glides up the back of my leg to grab hold of the ass cheek that’s no doubt peeking out of my cutoffs. “I’ve been wanting to do that all damn day,” he whispers, giving my flesh a gentle squeeze as his thumb grazes my arousal. “Fucking hell, you’re wet.”

  And if you keep that up, I’m going to come on your hand.

  “Darian, do you maybe want to take this up—”

  “I’m taking you right here,” he says, unzipping my shorts and pulling them off. Fabric rustles behind me and then he draws my thong aside and presses the thick head of his cock between my legs. “I’m fucking you right here.”

  I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. “I thought you didn’t like fucking me.”

  “I figure I have the rest of the day to apologize,” he says, and with a raspy groan, he warns me to hold on.

  I barely have time to ready myself before he slams into me, digging his fingers into my hips as he begins to thrust, harder than I expect. Harder than he ever has. His animalistic grunts are making me crazy. But when he snakes a hand around me, fingering my clit with the same speed and intensity he’s using to fuck me, I lose my damn mind.

  “Oh…Jesus…” I cry out. “Oh God…ahh…”

  My arms give, and I fall lifeless against the stairs. Then a violent growl rips through him as he drives into me one last time, fighting to still his body before collapsing on top of me. I revel in the warmth of his stomach on my lower back, the feel of his weight pinning me down. We stay that way for a while—stretched across the steps with my shorts on the floor and his strung around his ankles.

  “I think I like fucking you,” he whispers.

  We eventually make it to the bed, and as promised, Darian spends most of the day apologizing. After my fourth orgasm, I notice the room has begun to darken.

  “What do you want to do for dinner?” I ask him, wasted and limbless.

  “Why don’t—shit.” His phone pings on the nightstand and he reaches across me to grab it. “Hold that thought,” he says, kissing me sweetly before reading the text. A muscle tics in his stubbled jaw. “I need to deal with this, but why don’t you get ready and I’ll take you to dinner.”

  I cock a brow. “Someplace with candles?”

  “You got it.”

  After I take a shower, put on a little makeup, and blow-dry my hair, I expect to find Darian waiting. But when I gently nudge open the door, tying the sash on my robe as I step out of the bathroom, I discover he’s still on his call.

  He’s standing on the balcony, facing the backyard with the french doors open behind him. His phone is at his ear, his hand on his hip, and he’s dressed in the same gray shorts and Velvet Underground T-shirt he wore to get tacos.

  “That’s not an option,” I hear him say as he leans against the railing.

  The warm night breeze blows past him into the room and lifts my hair from my neck.

  It was such a beautiful day, I think with a smirk as I glance at the rumpled bed, and I’m happy we spent it inside.

  I walk quietly to the dresser, trying not to disturb him as I finish getting ready.

  “He says he’s handling it, but I don’t know. … Well, what choice do I have? … If it weren’t for that fucking meeting we were supposed to have today, we’d still be in LA.”

  I turn abruptly. LA?

  “Amanda, come on. … You know I do.”

  “Amanda?”

  Darian whips his head around, and his hard, heated eyes meet mine. “Hey, I gotta go. … Yeah, tomorrow.” He slides his phone in the front pocket of his shorts. “Francesca…”

  “You told me you were going to Austin. You knew I’d want to go, so you lied and said it was up and back. But it was never up and back, was it?” A sob breaks free from my throat. “It was never even Austin.”

  “Babe,” he says gently, moving into the room. “Just listen…”

  “It was LA—and it was with her.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “You lied to me, Darian. And not by omission this time. You flat out lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “You did!” I shout, my voice loud and jarring. I clasp a hand over my mouth as hot tears trickle down my cheeks.

  Darian groans. “I did not lie to you. It was business, Francesca. Business. I went to Austin, and then I went to LA!”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “I would have if you’d answered your goddamn phone.”

  “Bullshit, Darian! We talked!”

  “Francesca, you were upset, and when I got home you were pissed, so I dropped it.” His jaw clenches. “It didn’t concern you anyway!”

  My pulse slams in my neck. “I’m your fiancée, Darian. You went to LA—secretly—with another woman. A woman you once had an intimate relationship with, and you didn’t think it concerned me?”

  “I fucked Amanda. I didn’t have an intimate relationship with her.”

  I stumble backward until I’m seated on the edge of the bed. “A few hours ago, you fucked me.” The words come out as a whisper, and I regret them as soon as they leave my lips.

  “That’s a low blow, Francesca. You know it’s not the same thing. You know me.”

  “Do I?” I ask, looking up at him. “Lately, I wonder if I know you at all.”

  Tension-heavy silence swallows the air like a vacuum. Darian’s gaze pins me in place.

  “How can you even say that to me?” he asks, and it’s then, timely as ever, that Amanda calls.

  “Of course,” I whisper over the opening piano riff of “Evil Woman.”

  “Goddammit!” Darian shouts, striking the dresser with his fist.

  I watch in slow motion as the jewelry box my dad gave me tumbles over the edge, shattering when it hits the floor.

  “Shit!” Darian drops to his knees, frantically grabbing at the broken pieces, the strewn jewelry. He picks up the detached ballerina and sets it on the dresser. “Baby, I’m sorry. I’ll fix it, I’ll—”

  “It’s fine,” I say quietly, rubbing my tired eyes.

  He sits back on his heels, seemingly unaware as “Evil Woman” stops and starts again. “Why do you have this?” he asks, but his back is to me and I don’t know what he’s looking at.

  “Have what?”

  Slowly, distractedly, he stands and turns, and I see the piece of newspaper he’s holding. “Why do you have this?” he asks again.

  Oh God…

  The floor shifts beneath my feet, making me dizzy. I bring a hand to my mouth, another to my chest…

  “Frankie, why do you have that, honey?”

  I looked in the mirror. Dad’s reflection stood in the doorway of my bedroom holding a cup of coffee. “Have what?”

  “That.” He nodded toward the newspaper clipping sitting beside me on the dresser. “A picture of that girl. The one from the crash.”

  My heart rate spiked. I didn’t mean to leave it out.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I put on my pink, shimmery lip gloss, the only makeup I was allowed to wear, and smacked my lips together. “I found it in my school stuff. Thought I’d put it in my scrapbook.”

  Dad sighed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Frankie. You’re finally doing better. What if the nightmares come back?”

  They never left.

  “It’s not a big deal, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll just throw it away.” I felt this strange sense of guilt, like I was doing something wrong, but the relief in Dad’s reflection told me I wasn’t. I picked up the newspaper clipping and dropped it in the trash can beside my dresser. “Better?” I asked, turning around.

  He smiled. “Better.”

  But it wasn’t, not for me anyway, and as soon as he was gone, I took the picture of Anabel out of the garbage and hid it away.

  “This, Francesca,” Darian says, shoving the paper in my
face. “Why do you have this?”

  “Darian…”

  “You knew!” His tone is biting and shrill. “You say you don’t know me, but you’ve known me all along.”

  I shake my head fervently. “No, Darian, I didn’t. I swear.”

  He flicks the clipping at me, and the room goes deathly still as it floats down, down, down. It lands beside me on the bed, soft as a feather. I stare at it, my insides twisting and turning, and I beg any god who will listen to please help me explain why I’d have a picture of Darian’s daughter hidden in the lining of my childhood jewelry box. I open my mouth—hoping, praying—but the words don’t come.

  Darian charges past me for the door. “I guess the real question is, who the fuck are you?”

  Crawling King Snake

  Darian: You home?

  Darian: I’m coming over.

  Drew: I’ll be another hour. You OK?

  Darian: Just fucking peachy.

  Drew: Leaving ASAP.

  Frankie

  Darian’s been gone for over an hour, and in that time, I’ve worn a path in the bedroom carpet, pacing back and forth between the dresser and the bed, contemplating what I should do—and whether I should call Jane.

  Jane, who already told you what to do.

  “Are you ever going to tell Darian about your connection to the crash? About your nightmares? I mean, he’s going to be your husband. Don’t you think he should know?”

  I stop pacing and sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. Tears well in my eyes as I scroll through her unanswered texts—all wedding related, all potentially useless.

  “There may not even be a wedding,” I whisper to the empty room. “There may not even be an us.”

  My finger hovers over her name for a few long seconds before I press Call.

  “Hey,” she says, answering on the first ring. “I was just about to call you. Did you see—”

  “Jane…” My voice splinters.

  “Frankie, what’s wrong?”

  “I messed up.” I bite my lip to stop the trembling. “It was in there…the pic-picture. He found it.”

  “Slow down, sweetie. Found what? What picture?”