by R.K. Ryals
~Peregrine Storke~
“I’m not saying I’m against it,” Camilla said, her voice high. She kicked at a box and scowled. “I’m just saying it’s a little weird, that’s all. I thought you couldn’t stand my brother.”
I shrugged. “He’s kind of growing on me.”
Camilla stood, her hands on her hips. “After two months here, you’d think we’d have unpacked everything by now. She lifted a black dress from a nearby Rubbermaid container. “You’re sure you don’t want to go? It’s a costume party, Perri.”
I shook my head. “I’m good, really.”
She eyed me. “What’s with you and Halloween?”
She scowled when I didn’t answer her, and quickly disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, she was dressed as a witch, a wide-brimmed, black pointy hat on her head.
She twirled. “What do you think?”
I shuddered. “You look great.”
Her eyes narrowed. “This Halloween thing—”
A knock on the door saved me. Camilla pulled it open, her sigh audible when Foster pushed through the opening.
“It’s just weird,” Camilla mumbled. She glanced between us, her eyes narrowing before she grabbed her purse and let herself out of the small off-campus apartment.
Foster shut the door behind her. His hair was damp, and he smelled like soap. Foster was working a construction job not far from the college. It wasn’t a permanent job. It was a contract, but it meant having him close for the next couple of months.
“Remember that conversation we had in the hospital a couple of months ago?” he asked.
My lips twitched. “The one about Awkward?”
He locked the door. “Not exactly,” he said. He stalked me, his broad form backing me into the wall. There were boxes everywhere, and he kicked the one nearest me out of the way. “I seem to recall something about brandished steel,” he added.
“I don’t know,” I laughed. “I seem to recall something about sketchbooks and a guy who doesn’t like to eat anything.”
“Perri—” he warned.
I glanced at his face. “Tell me, why do you thrash in your sleep?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Perri!”
His kiss pressed me into the wall, his hand skimming the bottom of the over-sized white button down shirt I wore when I was painting.
“You smell like acrylics,” he murmured.
I sighed. “The pitfalls of dating an artist.”
He drew back, his gaze finding mine. “Do you ever paint nude models?”
My hand slid up his face, the light stubble there pricking my skin. It was a familiar feeling, his face. This relationship should have gotten old by now, but it hadn’t. We didn’t have the perfect relationship. We fought more often than we got along, and there were obstacles—his nightmares and my occasional insecurities. But those didn’t matter. What mattered was the way he’d looked in Awkward, the times we’d leaned on each other, the things each of us knew that no one else ever would. What mattered was that he liked me for who I was, snorting laugh and faint stretch marks included.
“I can be persuaded to paint a particular model,” I teased.
His hand slid under my shirt. “I might take up an interest in painting,” he said.
My head fell back against the wall, my lips parted. Words were lost to me. There were only his hands, soft murmuring, and sensation. He kissed the line of my jaw, the stubble on his face making me giggle. I was ticklish everywhere.
“I kind of miss Awkward,” Foster murmured. “You never wore a bra there.”
I elbowed him, his answering laughter swallowed by my sudden kiss. My tongue danced with his. His hands cradled me, his fingers sliding over my waist, my stomach, and my breasts. I had faint stretch marks on my hips, and he touched those, too. There was nothing soft about Foster, nothing except his heart.
“Foster,” I whispered.
There’d been other times before this with Foster, awkward moments, embarrassing ones. He always laughed them off and made them better. Even if we weren’t together years from now, I’d made the right choice for me.
A knock on the door startled me, and Foster slid his hand into my hair, his fingers tangling with the dark blonde strands.
“Shhhh …” he whispered against my ear.
“Trick—” a voice called out.
There were no other words after that.
Foster lifted me, his hand pulling my leg over his hips, his eyes on mine when he pushed against me. Neither one of us looked away. Neither one of us let go. Outside, the dark pressed against the windows, but the only thing I felt right now was heat.
There may have been other knocks, the sound of pounding feet down the hallways and in the streets below, but I didn’t hear them. The only thing I heard was Foster’s breath in my ear when he said, “Treat. Never trick. Always treat.”
Epilogue
“That awkward moment when you rewrite a fairytale.”