Rikki

by Abigail Strom

  I had to say something. A sentence. A word.

  I dropped my backpack on the floor and took a breath. “I—” My voice croaked, and I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. A little, um, headache.”

  He came out from behind his table and the towel-covered sculpture I was never allowed to see and walked toward me. I backed away in a sudden panic and tripped over nothing, but before I could stumble again Sam was there, one hand on my arm and one around my waist.

  I couldn’t see past the sudden darkness in front of my eyes. I couldn’t hear past the thunder of my heart.

  “We’ll reschedule,” Sam was saying, and he sounded really worried. “Have you eaten today? You looked weird in class, too.”

  I looked weird?

  That word helped steady me more than anything else could have. I felt like an idiot. Here I was, constructing this elaborate fantasy of Sam with my panties, Sam with that magazine, Sam lusting after me in the dark privacy of his bedroom and under the bright lights of the art studio… and while I was thinking all those things, Sam was thinking I looked weird.

  This was what I’d always been afraid of. Letting other people see the weirdness inside me.

  Making a fool of myself.

  But I wouldn’t do that. I would not be that girl.

  I wouldn’t be Sharon or Melinda or Tamsin. My emotions and my hormones would never be stronger than my pride. No guy was worth that.

  Especially a guy I wasn’t even involved with.

  I took a deep breath and managed to smile.

  “No, I’m good. I took some Advil, so… I’ll feel better soon. If I don’t, I’ll let you know.”

  Sam didn’t look convinced, and he didn’t let me go. His face was close—close enough that I could distinguish every individual hair in his eyebrows and see the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes. I could see the slight movement of his nostrils as he breathed and the twitch of a muscle along his jaw.

  His eyes looked into mine for a moment, and then he shook his head. “We should reschedule.”

  Sam sounded firm, and that, for some reason, pissed me off.

  I felt like I had in high school when the two of us took opposite sides in a debate. If we rescheduled, it would be an admission of weakness.

  I shook off his arm and took a step back. “I’m fine,” I said.

  He had his hands on his hips now, and he was frowning at me. I hated the look of concern in his eyes. I hated that he seemed completely at ease while I felt like I was teetering on the edge of something I didn’t understand, something terrifying, something…

  “You don’t look fine,” he said, and that helped pull me back from the edge of whatever it was.

  Feeling pissed off at Sam was a familiar feeling. And the urge I felt to throw him off balance was familiar, too. Above all, he could not know that I’d spent the day thinking Sam and desire in the same breath. He could not know that he had the power to affect me like that.

  “Well, I am fine.” I took a deep breath. “So let’s get started.”

  He didn’t move, and he kept looking at me with his eyebrows drawn together, like I was an engineering problem he was trying to puzzle out.

  The more he looked at me like that the more pissed I felt. So I didn’t go over to the cabinet like I always did to initiate our pre-sculpting ritual—the one where we stood with our backs to each other while we undressed. Instead, I reached for the hem of my T-shirt and yanked it off. Then I stood there in my bra and stared at him, feeling mad and resentful and combative.

  I’d managed to change his expression, anyway. He wasn’t looking at me like I was an engineering problem anymore. He was looking at me warily, like I was a wild animal that might attack if he made the wrong move.

  Then his gaze flicked down to my breasts.

  Good. He should look at my breasts. They were right there, weren’t they?

  When I heard those words echo in my head, they sounded nuts. What was I trying to do? What did I want?

  Those were dangerous questions. If I looked too closely at my motivations, I might not like what I saw. It was enough that Sam looked a little off-balance now and that I’d regained some of my control.

  His eyes were riveted to my face again. He’d only looked down at my cleavage for an instant. I could feel myself flushing, and I was afraid if I didn’t make another move I might feel at a disadvantage again. I shimmied out of my jeans, turned my back on Sam, and went over to the modeling platform. The cushions were already out so all I had to do was lie down and position myself.

  “How’s this?” I called out.

  There was a short silence. Then:

  “Fine.”

  I couldn’t read anything from his voice without seeing his face.

  Of course, I couldn’t always read his face, either.

  If he came over to reposition me I’d see his expression. But he didn’t, and after a few minutes, I knew he wasn’t going to.

  Just like that, I was feeling pugnacious again. And while I didn’t know why I wanted it, I was very clear on what I wanted. I wanted to purge my feelings of uncertainty and transfer them to Sam.

  “Where are you working today?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last time you were working on my hips and stomach. Are you working higher today? Or lower?”

  “Higher,” he said, after a moment.

  What the hell was I doing? My heart was pounding and I felt irritated and grouchy for no reason that could be conceived of as Sam’s fault, and I couldn’t possibly make good decisions in this mood.

  But I couldn’t seem to stop. I was determined to throw Sam off balance again, and I didn’t care what I had to do to accomplish that.

  “Would it help if I took my bra off?”

  Someone else must have spoken those words. It was like an alien had taken over my body and my voice.

  When Sam didn’t say anything I could feel mortification creeping through me. But I was committed now, and the best way to keep him from guessing what I was really feeling was to keep on the offensive.

  Wasn’t that one of the first rules of combat? To keep your enemy off balance?

  But Sam wasn’t my enemy. Not anymore. We’d called a truce. No, more than that. We were friends now.

  It was then that I knew the truth. I was my own enemy. My own feelings, my own body, were betraying me, and I was determined to get back in control.

  Finally, Sam spoke. “I don’t need you to do that, Rikki.”

  I’d gone too far to pull back now. “I’d be happy to,” I said. “It’s all for the sake of art. I don’t want to lose my position, though. Would you mind taking it off for me? It hooks in the front.”

  The alien who’d taken over my body had spoken those words, but it wasn’t the alien who lay there on the platform now, waiting for Sam’s response. Now, when I needed her most, the alien had deserted me.

  As the seconds ticked by, my heart sank lower and lower. I’d gone too far and lost this war—a war of nerves Sam didn’t even know we were fighting.

  And then, suddenly, Sam was in my field of vision. He put his hands on the platform on either side of me and his face was less than a foot from my own.

  He was furious.

  Someone else might not have known how furious he was. The only signs were his narrowed eyes, his hard mouth, his tight jaw.

  “You want me to take off your bra?”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. Sam had obviously figured out we were in a battle, even if he didn’t know what it was about.

  I wasn’t sure, either. But I wouldn’t retreat. I couldn’t.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice a little louder than it needed to be. “Why not?”

  He was in his bathing suit and his chest was bare. His arms were on either side of my head, supporting his weight. I could see the bulge of his muscles in my peripheral vision but I kept my eyes on his. To look away would be a sign of weakness.

  Sam was all I could see. His face, his c
hest, his shoulders, his arms.

  “It hooks in front?” he said, without moving.

  I swallowed. “That’s right.”

  My heart thundered in my chest. Could he hear it? Could he tell?

  Misdirection was another useful battle technique.

  “Do you want me to do it?” I asked, taking the attack to him.

  His eyes were glittering. “No,” he said after a moment, his voice rough. “I’ve got it.”

  He pulled back, and I would have sagged in relief if I weren’t already lying down. But then I felt his hand between my breasts, and relief was the last thing I was feeling.

  I thought he’d need both hands, and I thought he might fumble a little. Instead, he unhooked my bra with one hand and one flick of his fingers. Then his palms were skating over my arms, pushing my bra straps down and off, and when his hands reached under my back I arched up a little so he could slide the bra out from under me.

  Guys had touched my breasts before but it had always been over my clothes or under my shirt. No one had ever seen me like this, naked from the waist up in broad daylight.

  Exposed.

  Why the hell had I done this? This wasn’t a battle strategy.

  It was a suicide mission.

  I tried to make my breath shallow and even, but I couldn’t. I needed air desperately and I took deep breaths to get it, and that made my breasts rise and fall way more dramatically than I wanted them too.

  To make matters worse, my nipples were hard. It hadn’t been too bad before but now…

  Now it was.

  And Sam was standing there looking at me. All those other times—the first time he’d seen me in my bathing suit, the first time he’d seen me in my bra, the times he’d adjusted my position—he’d been very careful about where his eyes went.

  Now he wasn’t being careful at all. He looked at my naked breasts, at my nipples hardening like pebbles, and it seemed like a long, long time before he met my eyes again.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  The question was like a slap in the face. I’d been feeling over my head, like a general who finds himself outflanked and outnumbered where he’d hoped to bring overwhelming force. Now a ripple of anger gave me new strength.

  “A little,” I said, proud that I kept my voice casual. “So are you going to get back to work, or what?”

  A short silence. “Sure,” he said finally, meeting my eyes once more.

  A moment later he was out of my field of vision, and I released my breath in a long, slow sigh.

  I had no more desire to wage my stupid, imaginary war. Sam’s last look had taken that desire away from me.

  His eyes had still been angry, but I’d seen a flash of pain there, too—like I’d hurt him or disappointed him or something.

  Anger and pain. And I was the cause of both.

  I’d been acting like an asshole, trying to provoke Sam to—what? Kiss me? Tell me to put my clothes back on? Tell me he’d been masturbating with my panties, and now that he and Mena were broken up he wanted me right here, right now?

  I still wasn’t sure exactly what I’d wanted him to do or say, but I knew what I wanted from myself. All day long I’d been… feeling things, and I’d loved it. But I hadn’t been myself. I hadn’t been focused in class. I hadn’t cared about class at all. And then, when I saw Sam and he seemed so normal, I panicked. I felt like one of those idiot girls who go out on a limb for a guy and get left there, swinging in the breeze.

  Of course none of that was Sam’s fault. He didn’t know what I was thinking and feeling. How could he?

  It wasn’t his fault, but I’d punished him anyway. I was like one of those people lifeguards have to rescue, who are so terrified of drowning that they drag down anyone who comes near them.

  The next hour was torture. I was angry with myself, full of shame and confusion and regret. And because I couldn’t bring myself to speak, all those feelings roiled around without outlet or resolution.

  And while all that was going on inside me, Sam was sculpting my bare breasts out of clay.

  After what felt like an eternity in hell Sam finally spoke.

  “That’s it for today,” he said.

  I sat up. I was determined to say something to apologize, although an hour with my own thoughts hadn’t given me the right words.

  He was looking down at his sculpture, already covered with a towel. I waited, but he didn’t look up.

  “Sam,” I said finally. “I want to tell you I—”

  “Rikki.” He finally met my eyes, and there was something dangerous in his expression. “Would you please put on your fucking clothes?”

  Sam didn’t swear often. I flinched, but his eyes were down again and he didn’t see. I grabbed my bra from the platform and put it on, and then I went over to where I’d left my T-shirt and jeans lying in a heap on the floor.

  Once I was decent I tried again. “Sam, I—”

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said. His voice sounded strange—distant and almost formal. “I guess I’m not feeling great myself. You should probably go.”

  “Sure,” I said, surprised at how much that hurt. “I guess I’ll see you…” I trailed off, hoping he might fill in the blank with something. Tonight at dinner? Tomorrow? At our next modeling session?

  “Sometime,” was all he said.

  “Sometime,” I repeated. Then, afraid I might start to cry, I got out of there as fast as I could.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As it turned out, I left a little too soon. My backpack was still in there.

  I’d have to go back for it. I would almost have been willing to leave it there, but my laptop was in it and I’d already had a shitty day class-wise. I needed to make up for it by working hard tonight.

  I’d left the door open, which would help make my re-entrance less dramatic. All I had to do was sidle in, grab the backpack, and leave.

  As I approached the doorway I got a glimpse of Sam. He was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the scattered cushions on the platform.

  I got a glimpse of something else, too, now that he was out from behind his sculpture.

  He had an erection. I could see the long, thick ridge pushing against his bathing suit.

  I ducked out of sight of the open door and pressed my back against the wall.

  My heart was pounding. Sam did want me. He did.

  I started to remember things. At those other sessions, when Sam stayed behind that table? Maybe this had happened before.

  Oh, God.

  I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and took a deep breath.

  This was what I’d wanted. Right? Proof of… something.

  Proof that Sam wanted me as much as I wanted him.

  Because apparently, the panties and magazine weren’t enough for me. Apparently I also needed to goad Sam into taking off my bra, and then sneak back into the art studio to catch him sporting wood, as Tamsin would say.

  But… if he wanted me, why had he been so angry?

  I didn’t have to look too far for an answer to that. I’d had whatever the female equivalent of a hard-on was, and it had made me angry. Angry enough that I acted like a total asshole. Angry enough that I hadn’t even recognized myself.

  So was it so unreasonable to think that Sam had reacted the same way? Especially when it seemed like I was… what? Teasing him? Provoking him? Playing with him?

  Of course that would make him angry. Especially if…

  If he didn’t want to want me.

  We’d been adversaries for so long, and friends only recently. Maybe this was as strange and confusing for Sam as it was for me.

  He’d hid my panties, and he’d hid his erection. Whatever he felt for me, he obviously had no intention of acting on it.

  For the second time that day, my heart felt like lead.

  I had no right to feel so disappointed. I didn’t want to act on my feelings either, did I?

  I flashed back to that night in the dining ha
ll with Jason. If I needed more evidence that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing in this arena, this was it. I was not cut out for the world of male-female relationships. Whenever I ventured into that minefield, I did nothing but screw things up and make a fool of myself.

  But I hadn’t made a fool of myself in public yet. I could comfort myself with that, at least. If I retreated from the field of battle now, I’d escape relatively unscathed. No one, and especially not Sam, would know how vulnerable I’d been.

  Love and lust, sex and hormones… that was trench warfare, and I wasn’t ready for it. Maybe I never would be. Maybe I really would end up an old woman with thirty cats who looked at her yearbooks and photo albums and wondered “what if.”

  I’d rather wonder “what if” for the rest of my life than answer the question the way I’d answered it today.

  I took a deep breath, pushed myself away from the wall, and knocked loudly on the open door before walking into the art studio.

  “I forgot my backpack,” I said, careful not to look directly at Sam.

  Ten seconds later, I was clattering down the stairs with the backpack slung over my shoulder.

  * * *

  I hid out in my room for the rest of the night. Tamsin tried to get me to go down to dinner with her, but I shook my head and said I wanted to keep working. I was writing a paper on the evolution of naval military strategy in the Civil War, and the relief of writing about a conflict that had been resolved a century and a half ago was profound.

  When Charlotte called after Tamsin left, I almost didn’t answer the phone. But as much as I was enjoying a rare moment of solitude, I missed my family.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, baby.”

  Charlotte hadn’t called me baby in a while.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, half of my attention still on my essay.

  “Well.” A pause. “Yes and no.”

  That got all of my attention. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

  “Rikki, your mom and I are at that restaurant you told us about. The one on Chestnut street? Can you meet us there?”

  They weren’t supposed to come till next weekend. The fact that they’d driven all the way out here without letting me know first could not be good.