by A. R. Hadley
She’d finally told him of the night she’d overheard — from her hiding place on the staircase — Maggie, Cal, and John speaking of the accident. Not long after she’d returned from New York, a few days after she’d given him the gifts, she’d told him. Or he’d guessed.
It was an evening they’d spent walking on the beach. The activity had quickly become a regular pastime between them.
It seemed Cal connected to the ocean the way Annie did.
Both of them barefoot and hand in hand. Under the stars and on the sand — the practice akin to a confessional. But better. More spiritual. More sacred. A place for telling secrets. Except Cal held onto his and Annie talked in a string of nonsense.
“You’re different,” he’d said that night as they strolled, both looking ahead. It was cloudy. The moon was huge. One of those supermoons — close to the horizon and painted by the hand of God a fantastic orange — she itched to photograph.
“What do you mean?”
“Since you’ve returned from New York.” They’d stopped. Cal pulled a piece of hair from her lips, then watched it get taken by the wind.
“No, I’m not.”
They started to walk again, but as she took hold of his hand, she could feel the tension in his palm, feel it twist and spiral up his arm, making his jaw tic.
Why had she lied?
“Cal…” She sucked in a breath of salt and exhaled denial. She’d waited long enough to confess. “I heard you.”
They came to a halt. Footprints in the sand. The waves crashing a few feet from them. She watched his eyes flicker in the glow of the super moonlight, his hair blowing, his face indestructible.
And like a rock which remains after a hurricane, he held himself there, steady and sure, waiting for her to continue, to take whatever she offered.
He cupped her cheek. She nestled it against his hand.
“The night before I left, I heard the three of you.”
There was a theatrical pause. Then Cal cursed as he jerked his gaze toward the ocean and dropped his hand from her face.
Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, Annie bit into it to stop the pain, trading one hurt for another. There hadn’t been a right time to tell him. Maybe this wasn’t it either.
There would never be a perfect moment for it.
But the ocean and the breeze and Cal’s strength…
She brought his gaze back to hers.
“Maggie shouldn’t have been the one,” he said and pulled her into an embrace.
Annie wept against his chest, her head buried in his soft shirt, where she inhaled the cotton and beach of his skin. Which was stronger? The Atlantic Ocean or Cal?
She’d have put her money on him.
He held her tight and fast. He let her cry. He didn’t try to fix it with words. He didn’t taint the effect his secure hands wrapped around her body procured.
He. Just. Let. Her. Cry.
But as they sat together in the back of the Tesla, it didn’t seem he would allow her that privilege tonight. He wanted her words.
"Then why do I get the feeling there's more?"
"I stopped dating." She paused. "This part you—"
"I know."
"Well, I stopped going out, doing things, like I said, crowds. I couldn't even shop for food like normal people." Her eyes bounced around. "I stopped taking pictures. For fun, I mean. The way I always did. I did my assignments, but it ... school was the only thing keeping me functioning. Breathing."
Her hands became fish out of water, flopping in her lap together, one over the other, gasping for oxygen. She wasn’t ready to tell him about the pills.
"I…" she stuttered the single vowel repeatedly. "I wasn't me."
Cal's eyes hadn’t left Annie’s face. "You are beautiful."
If possible, he peered into her deeper. He opened her skin, climbed in, and lay down, becoming an integral part of her body.
"You are always you. Don’t you know that?" He began to comb his fingers through her hair, scratching and massaging the back of her head and neck. "No matter what happens in your life, baby, it’s you.”
Keeping her face toward Cal, Annie dropped her head on the cushion and cupped his cheek. But Cal looked away, lost again in his plight, unable to keep it hidden.
"I'm sorry, Annie. I just have a lot on my mind." Cal revealed his truth with a strain in his voice, exposing what she’d suspected all along.
Eyes glued to his profile, she sat forward and took his hand again. "What? What is it?" She searched his downturned face for an answer that may never come.
They were so fucked.
She still couldn’t tell him certain things about herself either. Cal seemed to live at the edge of some sort of cliff, always deciding whether to jump or back off. Jump, Cal. I'll catch you...
Cal took in a deep breath, appearing to be considering sharing whatever gut-wrenching truth encased his heart, his throat, and his mind. But he didn't.
He knew he couldn't.
It wasn't the time.
It wasn't the place.
Cal shifted his eyes and tucked the same loose strand of hair behind Annie’s ear. She took his hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it, expressing concern for his pain, wetting his palm and knuckles and fingers resolutely, over and over, letting him know whatever troubled him, she would keep it safe. She would lock it all away.
“Thank you." Annie squeezed his hand and met his eyes. She did the rapid-fire thing with her irises.
“For what?”
“For taking me here tonight even though you didn’t really want to,” she said, watching him smile. “Thank you … for always listening to me.”
“Not always."
“Yes, always,” she whispered, her throat tightening.
Cal placed his thumb on her neck and stroked his index finger along her jaw. Annie glanced down, feeling her eyes gloss over.
“No tears tonight." He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Come on." He tugged her hand.
“Mmmm. I can’t make any promises, Prescott,” she teased. "Tears are my specialty."
Annie held onto Cal's hand tighter than she ever had before as they entered the club on Washington, then made their way through crowds of people.
"Finger out of your mouth." He tapped her wrist and put his lips to her ear. "Stand up straight. Show off your tits. You’re so fucking sexy, Annie."
Well, maybe she didn't have to pretend the mess of humans were a concern. Oh, fuck it. They were. She would pretend — finger out of her mouth, tits out — the anxiety was a façade.
She was fucking sexy. And she was leaving on Monday.
Pretend.
He was right.
Stand tall. The four-inch heels helped.
She wouldn't explode or be frightened. She would dance. And soon. She needed a minute, though, or two, to adjust to the sights, sounds, smells, and beat. They hadn't gotten very far, and it already rocked her core, thumping her chest from the inside out. The DJ spun the records off her heart.
They stilled for a moment as they approached the main room. It looked like a box. One huge square filled with people. A few lavender couches were placed across from the dance floor. A stage of some sort occupied one end, women swirled through Hula-Hoop rings on each side of it, and television screens were plastered above the scantily clad acrobats. Lights shone above everyone — neon stage-lightsaber streaks — and above those was another: an enormous chandelier with dozens and dozens of rectangular glass pieces hung from the high ceiling.
Annie remained fastened to the roller coaster of her emotions, hand in Cal's, riding through not just the sounds and sights and lights, but the smells — hot bodies mixing with patches of air conditioning, booze, sweat, stale cigarette smoke on clothing — as they approached to the bar.
Maybe this had been a bad idea.
She gripped Cal's fingers as they weaved in and out of people — zooming through the young, wild, and roaring crowd — some looking Annie directly in the eye, ot
hers looking through her, their gazes tainted with judgment perhaps. She could feel eyeballs peruse her frame, head to toe. Sizing up her dress, her hair, her shoes, critiquing the sexy man on her arm.
But she didn't give a damn. She was there to dance. She was there to divert attention from her trip, to distract herself from acknowledging this night could very well be the last time she would stand alongside Cal as she did now. Today. As she had since she’d first laid eyes on him.
Drinks in hand, a whiskey neat and glass of champagne — yes, what the fuck? Champagne — they stood on the outskirts of the floor, watching. A moving pack of penguins covered the dance floor. Flippers up and out, waving, squished together, gesturing and swaying, back and forth, up and down, and side to side.
Hoping she could change the stubborn man’s mind, Annie gave him the eyes — the ones that had worked that time on his couch. But, nope, he wasn't going to budge. Too bad. She couldn't wait any longer.
The beat called.
Emboldened by her single glass of champagne, she slipped her fingers from Cal's, gave him the empty flute, and joined the pack of flightless birds.
Cal ordered another glass of whiskey and an entire bottle of champagne, then he found an available cushion on one of the purple couches.
Despite the dancing penguins hemming her in, Annie managed to find Cal's gaze, the damn thing always a heat-seeking missile. She imagined his body close to hers as she moved, her breasts bouncing to the rhythm of the music. She lifted her hair, swiveled her hips, and looked into his eyes like she wanted to eat him alive for a change.
It didn't matter how many people were around. It never did with the two of them.
Cal enjoyed watching Annie dance — more than he’d anticipated. It took his mind away from reality — of her leaving, of his mother, of their impending moves, of his life changing as he’d gloriously known it for the last two months. Annie was an antithesis to it all. Free and alive as she expressed herself to the music.
Cal eyed the different people who danced close to Annie, mostly men, young men, an occasional woman or two, all close enough to touch her body, close enough to feel her breath on their necks, close enough to slide against the sweet sweat over the surface of her skin, the perspiration that must’ve been concentrated between her legs and cleavage.
Jesus Christ.
The look on her face was what really did it for him, though.
Lust.
Power.
Freedom.
She liked the attention. Or seemed to anyway. She didn't bask in it overlong or reject it. It was perfection. He had to shift in his seat. Placing an ankle over his knee, he tried to hide the rise behind his zipper. But he couldn't peel his eyes away.
Wasn't that how it always was with her? She commanded him and held him with her eyes and whatever magnets constituted her skin.
Like a voyeur, he watched, turned on to the maximum by her flirtatious manner and independence. The girl who’d gripped his hand like a little mouse on the way inside the club showed her true colors.
She owned the fucking floor.
He. Watched. Her. Every. Move.
The wands of colored lights above flickered on and off her skin, her hair bounced about her face, and her dress inched up her body, her calves accentuated from the strain of the high heels, her nipples pointing through the silk of her dress … fuck. He couldn't think of anything but touching her, having her, finding some dark, out-of-the-way place to sink his cock so far inside her … until her pussy would take away his ache, his pain, his fears.
He needed Annie, sexually, sure, but more than that, if he could admit it — he needed Annie.
And the realization of that unfathomable need and the hard-on in his trousers was a welcome solace from the sadness of the last week. It was a welcome relief from the bitter non-celebration of the birth of a woman who could no longer remember his name. The mother who could no longer unceremoniously insult him or challenge him to strive for the everything he’d always searched for.
The sexual and spiritual longings Annie elicited were like a high, better than the third glass of Jameson he swallowed, and they stayed with him throughout the night.
Several drinks and songs later, Annie began to tire. Her red stilettos were taking their toll on her feet, ankles, and legs. She sat down next to Cal, massaging her calves, feeling warm — no, fucking hot — and slicked with sweat.
"I'm thirsty," Annie yelled over to Cal even though he sat only inches away. She’d since finished the entire bottle of champagne.
He shifted, tilting his torso to face her profile. She looked straight ahead and blew air toward her forehead, trying to move a few strands stuck to her face with sweat.
He smiled, waited, and then pushed the matted hair away from her face. "Don't you think you’ve had enough to drink?" A dangerous amusement colored his eyes, making the green look like a forest rather than an ocean.
If she didn’t need to swim, she would forage.
“You need water.” He signaled a waiter.
Annie had a hard time focusing on his steady, paternal gaze as she squeezed his leg, right above his knee — another great tickle spot — but he shoved her hand off. Fine.
The couch invited her to lean back, and so she sank against it like a sullen teenager while watching the sweaty penguin people.
Time seemed to stand still as she waited for the water to arrive. Ha. Time spun. The ceiling and room spun too. The rectangular thingies on the chandelier and the lightsabers … all spinning as she glanced toward the stage and let the champagne take her…
The big-boobie-showing ladies … ladies, ha … they spin, spin, spin, doing splits and whatever-whatever all kinds of shit-stuff … they must have rooms here where people fuck after all this shit … they must have places spots holes to pee or puke … I need to pee or walk or fuck … I need water or maybe a drink or a pill … yeah I bet I can slip into one of those hoops and spread my legs and show my cunt out there-here for everyone to see and clap and dance for my vagina … ha, vagina … it would hurt to split open like that … I am not surely that flexible unless Cal spreads my legs to infinity and fucks the shit out of me quite good … ooh my boobies are nice too … he likes mine-mine-mine … I would need a sexy bra to swing in one of those hoop thingies … a push kind of bra to shoot my puppies up and out so people can watch and see … what would Cal think of people staring at me? … no more drinking for his Annie … he says I need water … no I'll go dance some more show him what he's missing … I'll show you Calvin Prescott fucker-lover … fuck I love him … fuck I'm his baby…
what am I
who am I
who are we…
When Cal touched the cold bottle to her leg, she sat forward with a start and swatted a hand toward him, but she missed the water and only grabbed at air.
He laughed.
She stepped on his foot.
His gaze got all shitty, paternal again. He twisted the cap off, handed her the bottle like a gentleman, and watched her finish the much-needed drink in one continuous motion. The plastic container never left her lips until the contents were eradicated.
"I need to go to the bathroom." Annie slammed the empty bottle onto his lap.
"Drink this one too."
Wobbly, she stood up. "I need to pee.”
He yanked her down. The position exposed her undies, and so he slid the dress over her thighs, but she brushed his hands away and took over. He had the other bottle already open and at her lips.
"Drink."
As she swiped it, drops flew out and splashed them both. She swallowed the entire thing in the same way as before, then crushed the empty plastic bottle in her fist before handing it to Cal.
"Done, Daddy." She smirked, stood, smoothed the dress, and glanced around. "This material is soooo soft."
Strange. She didn't seem to have knees or feet.
Cal stood and took her palm. "I'm coming with you."
She burped, covered her mouth, and grinned.
She pointed a dancing finger at his chest. "You’re coming with me?" She stabbed the finger into his sternum. "Into the ladies’ room?"
Cal gave her his oh-so-delicious devil of a grin as he took her finger away from his body, stared into her eyes, and held her arm against her waist with an exquisite, annoying pressure.
Fuck him.
Annie was torn between feeling pissed Cal was taking care of her and happy Cal was taking care of her. Pissed and happy. It was a coin toss in her alcohol-riddled mind.
He won.
Cal waited for Annie across from the entrance to the ladies’ room, his left leg bent as he leaned against the wall and scrolled on his phone.
A few minutes later, Annie came out and stood at his side, one hand on her hip as she looked toward the dance floor. The lights were blurred. Annie was worn, but fuck if she wanted Cal to know.
"We're leaving," Cal said, putting his phone away.
"I don't want to go." She shifted her hips. "I'm having a good time. I’m the one actually dancing."
Cal put his hand on the small of her back. "We’re leaving."
"You’re not my father. You can't order me around like a ... a … some sort of business transaction."
As she folded her arms under her breasts, she swayed to the side like the Tower of Pisa.
Cal squared her shoulders and grinned.
"Don't you dare laugh at me."
Pausing, he looked down and erased the smile. When he glanced back up, he had his usual, precise, complete control face in place. The chess face.
He ran his fingers down her sides, shoulders to waist, watching them slide over the contours of her body — the places he desperately needed to taste.
She swayed again. Not because of the liquor.
"No, Annie." He looked into her eyes, fire on the tip of his tongue. "I'm not your father." His tone was an ember, low and direct, hot. He slid his fingers up her arms, in no hurry, watching her reaction to his seduction. "I'm telling you I'm ready to leave because it's late," he whispered in her ear, "and because we’re both tired. And because you have to pack tomorrow."
Annie tensed. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of was the fact that she needed to pack. Taking a step back, she placed her hands on her hips and looked at him with a wildness bursting forth from her heart.