by Kendra Leigh
“I’m not sure,” I mumble as he pulls a helmet onto my head, fastening it under my chin.
“Not sure about what?”
“If I can do it. What if I fall off?”
“You can do anything, Sparrow. I’ve told you. You just have to believe in yourself. Hold on to me. I didn’t let you drown and I won’t let you fall.”
Before I have time to argue, he sits astride the bike, taking my hand to balance me while directing me to sit behind him. He shows me where to put my feet and then guides my hands around his waist, clasping them at the front.
“You ready?”
Raising my eyes skyward, I say a silent prayer and sigh. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The first few miles are uncomfortable to say the least, the single track road out of our paradise too uneven to pick up any speed—which to some degree, I’m grateful for. Beneath the helmet, my face is set in a grimace as I huddle as close to Bear’s back as I possibly can. It’s not just the bumpy ride and my unwillingness to thrill-seek that’s bothering me. It’s the fact that the road even exists, and the further I travel along it the closer I get to reality, my other life. Nick. What if the road disappears in a puff of smoke, inside a kind of portal, the only entrance to this other dimension that encompasses our perfect little world down there by the lake. Melancholy settles over me like a black cloud as I glance back at the track disappearing behind me.
“Left or right?” Bear asks as we reach the summit.
Trying not to sound dejected, I answer, “You choose.” Until a thought strikes me and I add, “Whichever way is opposite to the way we came in.” The further away from home the better.
“Right it is, then.”
The second the words leave his mouth we accelerate, the breath leaving my body as the wind strikes me in the face. My enormous smile is involuntary, the laughter bubbling up inside me and escaping my lips a completely uncontrolled response to this unexpected pleasure.
“I told you!” Bear’s words can just be heard over the roar of the engine, and he’s laughing with me.
As the open road stretches before us, I begin to relax, my tight hold on Bear lessening so that I can now see more of our surroundings. Miles of dense forest line both sides of the road, and apart from the odd vehicle passing on the opposite side, there’s nothing to blight the natural beauty around us.
Time seems to flit by with the speed we’re traveling, and before long dusk is upon on. We pass a diner on our left and suddenly, the bike slows, Bear making a U-turn and heading back to the car lot. There are a handful of cars and a few more trucks, but it’s relatively quiet.
Bear kills the engine and we dismount, removing our helmets. He looks me up and down, his smirk mocking my palpable exhilaration—pink cheeks, windblown hair, huge cheesy grin. “Check you, you little adrenaline junkie.”
“I’ve got to be honest, I loved it. Who knew riding on a bike could be so … exciting.”
“I knew. I told you and you doubted me, but I knew.” His teasing takes on a whole new meaning, his smirk sexy to match the growl in his voice. “Do I know how to get your motor running or what?”
Despite our recent but frequent intimacy, he still has the power to make me blush. I blink slowly and bow my head to conceal the pinking of my cheeks, but I answer honestly. “Yes, you know how to get my motor running.”
“In more ways than one?”
“Yes. In many more ways than one.” I reach to pull his face toward me, scraping my fingernails through the increasing growth of stubble on his face.
“I need to shave.”
“No. I like your stubble.”
He stoops to kiss me, and I rise up on the tips of my toes to meet him, hungry for the touch of his lips,
“You hungry?” It’s as if he’s read my mind.
“Are we talking food?”
He shakes his head faintly. “Yes, food, you greedy bird.”
“Starving, actually.”
Waving his hand toward the diner, he asks, “Then will milady have dinner with me?”
A thought suddenly occurs to me. This is the first time I’ve been out in public for almost a week. “Is it a good idea?”
“What, eating dinner or eating it with me?”
“I was thinking more about eating here, out in public. What if someone sees us?”
He contemplates this for a moment. “Well, do you know many people out here?”
“Well, no. I don’t think so. Not as though I have a clue where we are. But you know, someone might have seen my face on the news. Woman kidnapped by bear. Have you seen her?”
Batting my arm playfully, he laughs. “I think we’re good. Come on.”
Taking my hand, he leads me into the diner and to a vacant booth at the back of the restaurant near the restrooms. We sit opposite and each pick up a menu to peruse. After a few minutes the waitress takes our order, both of us choosing the same: burgers and milkshakes with blueberry pie to follow. Nobody appears to pay us undue attention, so I relax, sitting back in my seat to enjoy my date.
But it’s not a date.
We’re just two people thrown together through horrible circumstances, waiting for this fairy-tale world we’ve built—which is fundamentally flawed and probably nothing more than a coping mechanism—to come crumbling down around our ears. The notion chews away at my insides. It’s as if we made a silent pact not to discuss anything that doesn’t encompass us and doesn’t involve the here and now. A huge elephant sits between us, one which neither of us wants to acknowledge.
When will it end?
The food arrives and we tuck in, making conversation difficult, the mutual noises of appreciation our only form of communication. The burgers are amazing, and I suddenly realize how much more I’ve enjoyed my food than usual.
“You know, it’s been fantastic having you cook for me. You have an incredible skill. Where did you learn?”
“My grandmother taught me the basics. She was an awesome cook. I’ve gained confidence, got more adventurous over the years…” he laughs “…got greedier. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it.”
“I have.” I pause to wipe my fingers on a napkin. “Speaking of gaining confidence, I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?”
I shrug. “Teaching me courage, to be fearless, to believe in myself—believe that there isn’t anything I can’t do. The swimming, riding on the bike, lots of other things. They’ve all mattered to me. That you believed I was strong enough, it … it mattered to me.”
For the first time I see humbleness in him, as if he’s embarrassed by my gratitude, reluctant to take credit for any of it. He fidgets a little, rolling his napkin into a ball and rearranging the plates on the table. “Well, good, that’s good. I’m glad. Everyone should have confidence in themselves.”
It feels formal suddenly, as if he’s brushing the compliment off with a statement Don’t read too much in to it, honey, I’d have done the same for anyone I was minding, and I almost wish I hadn’t said anything. I sit back and drain my milkshake, wondering if venturing out from the cabin had been a mistake after all.
Bear excuses himself and makes his way to the men’s room, returning a few minutes later with a preoccupied look on his face. He pauses by the table where he retrieves a cell phone from his pocket. “I need to pop out, make a call.” He nods at the exit. “I’ll just be a couple of minutes. Will you be okay?”
The sight of the phone throws me off balance—the symbolic reminder that the outside world still exists like a punch to the gut. I mean, I guessed he must have had a phone somewhere, but not having seen it made its actuality less plausible. As much as I fear him using it will burst our bubble, I manage a nod and he makes his way outdoors. I observe his stance as he paces up and down, waiting for his call to connect. His posture is rigid, tension curling its way into his muscles and limbs as if he’s mentally applying a suit of armor. I find myself wondering why he’s wearing it. Is it a form of contention or a shield to defend against an inevit
able attack? It’s a contradiction, I know, but as much as I’m mindful that his job requires a certain amount of antagonism, and the people he works for can only be a set of belligerent thugs, I’m confident of the qualities I’ve seen in him. Everything about Bear strikes me as a good man, a protector. A friendly giant.
The conversation doesn’t last long. At first he seems irritated, his natural smile lines contracting before eventually relaxing into something that resembles defeat. His eyes flick fleetingly in my direction and he nods, his lips seemingly conceding to whatever instruction he’s being given. When he ends the call, he pockets the cell, hands on hips as he stares up at the sky. He paces, two quick steps in one direction and then the other, tension rigid in his face. He’s warring with himself, trying quickly to draw a conclusion, his lips forming what look like cuss words. Finally, he nods, decision made, then takes a visible breath before heading back toward the entrance of the diner.
When he arrives back at the table, his smile is back in place, all evidence of tension gone, and although only briefly, I worry about his capacity to wear a mask so effortlessly. He doesn’t mention the call and neither do I. I’m fine right here in my bubble. What is it they say? Ignorance is bliss?
He hunches across the table toward me, a conspiratorial look on his face. “So, just how fearless do you think you’ve become?”
Surprised that he’s taken the subject back in that direction, I shrug. “I’m up for a challenge.”
“You are?”
I nod.
“How badass?”
“What did you have in mind?” I sound braver than I feel, but I’m grateful that the conversation seems to have turned around to one of fun again.
He glances around the diner. “You ever wanted to do a runner from somewhere like this?”
“You mean leave without paying?”
He nods vigorously, mischief alight in his eyes.
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“Well, yeah.” He mocks me for stating the obvious. “That’s what makes it fun. Snatching you from a Brooklyn street in broad daylight wasn’t exactly lawful, and look how much fun that turned out to be.”
He has a point. “But how? How would we do it?”
His grin widens. “There’s a fire exit at the end of the corridor past the restrooms. You go out that way. Put your helmet on ready and meet me by the bike. I’ll follow in a minute or so.”
“What if the door’s alarmed?”
“It isn’t.”
I sit back, my nerves churning the delicious food we’ve just eaten. “You’re badass.”
“Yup.” A wicked smirk plays at the edge of his lip. “Question is are you?”
Chapter Fifteen
Jackson
TINY SPRINKLES OF THE JOY that is Savannah Harper scatter into the wind, the sound of her laughter ringing out into the night, music to my ears. The silkiness of it smooths out the furrows in my forehead left by the strain of my telephone call. The sight of the waiter running toward us, waving the check, angry threats drowned out by the roar of the bike engine is priceless. I feel her thighs squeeze around back of me as she urges me to drive faster, her pleads to God that we don’t run out of gas making me laugh so hard I can barely breathe. She can’t decide which emotion is the most dominant: the buzz from skipping out on the restaurant or the guilt from enjoying good food without paying for it. I decide the former will have long-term benefits to her character building.
Which is why I engineered the stunt in the first place. Before I followed Sparrow through the fire exit, I shouted the waiter over, paid what we owed, and gave him a hefty tip to chase after me, cussing a little and waving the check. It was worth every cent. Worth it to see that smile back on her face again instead of the worry I’d seen when I’d returned from my call. The distraction makes it easier for me to hide what’s really going on inside my head.
It doesn’t take long to reach the cabin, and when we do it’s like a scene from the movies. Our clothes are removed and left scattered on the floor, leaving a trail from the porch to the bed. I can’t remember ever craving a woman like this. Being buried balls deep inside her is the only place on Earth I want to be right now. Her natural scent intoxicates me, the taste of her so divine it’s like a drug. I take my time making love to her, paying attention to every curve and every dip of this perfect creation. I’m managing to contain my feelings—but barely. Steadily, they’re slipping from my grasp, like bone-dry sand through clenched fingers. I want to absorb her. I want to drown in her, meld every atom of hers with mine so that I can retain a part of her. Burn her into my skin so that I never forget.
When we’re exhausted and finally replete, I fold her into me, my hand reaching to hold hers as I have each time we’ve fallen asleep together. I just want to sleep. I’m not brave enough to dwell on my earlier telephone call or to wonder about what tomorrow will bring. I should have listened to the voice of reason when it yelled in my ear instead of responding to my raging hard-on. Bringing Savannah Harper here was a mistake. One I have a feeling I’ll be regretting for a very long time to come.
* * *
It’s early when I wake, so I slide out of bed as quietly as I can, careful not to wake her. Picking up my clothes, I dress quickly and head outside, down to the jetty and the lake. I need to think. How the fuck do you get to the age of forty-two and still manage to fuck things up so royally you feel like you’ve been screwed in the ass by the Devil himself.
I could stand here and curse Natalie Leonard until I’m blue in the face, but when all’s said and done, I’m the one to blame. I knew the rules and I broke them. Every goddamn one of them. I try to recall my mindset, the moment and the reason I let my guard down and let it all turn to shit, but all I can see is Sparrow’s face. I can still feel the warmth of her body molded into mine, the smell of her on my skin. I just don’t know when she crawled beneath it, got inside my head, my … my fucking heart.
Delicate arms fold around my waist from behind, and I all but flinch, turning and stepping out of the embrace before it becomes a thing.
“Hey.” I paint on a smile.
“Hey, what is it? You look tense?”
“No, nothing. You just … scared me. I didn’t hear you approach.”
“I’m sorry.” She looks crestfallen and folds her arms across her chest because she has nothing else to do with them now that I’ve pulled away from her. “Shall I make us some breakfast?”
“No. Actually, I was just going to go for a run. You get some, though. Don’t wait for me.”
“A run?”
I pat my stomach. “Burgers and pie and shakes. Just can’t stand the guilt.”
She nods dubiously. “Okay.”
I start to back away from her. “You’ll be okay for a while?” She nods. “Make sure you eat.” I offer a pathetic wave, turn, and head for the woods.
What a fucking asshole. I just left her there standing with her arms folded, hair all mussed up from sleep and wearing nothing but one of my worn T-shirts, a look of complete abandonment etched into her beautiful tiny features.
I think it was last night when she thanked me for teaching her to believe in herself, said that me believing in her mattered to her. It was then it really hit me. Yes, I’ve been moderately conscious that my feelings were going off the rails, but I convinced myself just to live in the moment and deal with the fallout later. But when she said that, I knew. It wasn’t so much in her words, more her expression, her body language, and her eyes. I matter to her. It suddenly made what I feel for her more real, more irrevocable. And that, my friend, is fucked-up!
That’s why I knew it was time to make the call. As soon as I switched on the cell in the men’s room, messages and missed calls were popping up everywhere. When they told me today was the day, I don’t know if I felt gutted or relieved. I was informed that details of closure would follow but to expect my contract to be terminated early evening. I didn’t know the guy I spoke to or understand the need for all the
formal lingo; it wasn’t all so prescribed back in my day.
Waiting all day to leave will be hell. I can’t carry on being around her in the same way I have, watching time tick away until it’s time to clock off and just go back to my life, leaving her to whatever fate she’s destined for. It’s too … unbearable. I can’t face it. Can’t face her. All I want to do is get away. Increase my speed so that all I feel is the burn. Accelerate my heart rate so that it’s too fast to even think passed the beat. I put my head down and run.
* * *
When I return a couple of hours later soaked in sweat, she’s sitting on the porch, drawing. I shout that I’m back but that I’m putting the bike away in the shed, having a tidy-up. I’m just too much of a coward to face her, afraid that my façade will be so transparent she’ll see through me like a window. She knows that I’m avoiding her. I can tell by her expression, the sadness in her eyes. It’s now that I realize that it isn’t a new emotion I see in her but one that’s returned. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but that same sense of sadness plagued her when we first met. Like the slow burning residue of a dying fire, only these last few days that dull simmer had disappeared and been replaced by intense, vibrant flames. I wonder how much of it is real and how much is simply a product of our … circumstances. I wonder about the cause of her sadness, how much her husband’s fuckups contribute to it. Because it must be her husband, the reason she’s here. If the subject is married, the issue is usually the husband. I wonder if being reunited with him might make her happy or sad. Will this experience make her appreciate him more or highlight problems she didn’t even know existed in her marriage? It’s hard for me to even think about her that way—married. It feels like she’s mine. But that’s my problem, not hers.
By midafternoon I’ve put everything away neatly in the shed, exactly the way I first found it—the bike, the fishing rods, tools. Apart from the bike being fixed, you’d never know we were here. Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, I wander around front to the porch. When I can’t see her, I move inside. She’s sitting on the end of the bed, plucking the frayed edges of her shorts, the ones she wore when we arrived. At her feet are her backpack and folder. The kitchen and bedroom are spotless.