Crazy Love

by Michelle Pace

  “I like her already.” He flashed a pearly smile and motioned for me to continue.

  “She told me I’m a dumbass for quitting school. And apparently I’m also a tool for not singing ‘Kumbaya’ at Al-Anon meetings with Trip.” I shed my sweat-drenched shirt and headed for the showers.

  “So she’s hot and insightful. Next time you see this Annabelle, give her my number!” he called after me. I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t contain an amused grin. God, I’d missed that son of a bitch. One goal was clear in my mind: I was going to knock him square on his ass. And soon.

  I bounced my knee up and down nervously as I waited for the light to turn green. I would be at Trip’s house in less than five minutes, and I was operating on only four hours of sleep. My therapist used to tell me that sleep disorders were common in people with a history like mine and had prescribed me several different pills to turn my brain off at night. Last night I’d had a particularly disturbing dream, so I’d been up reading since 3:45.

  It was one of those gauzy dreams that felt as if you were viewing everything through a lens smeared with Vaseline, like in the old movies. Things aren’t clear or chronological, just a bunch of disjointed images and sensations. I recall that I was in a warm bubble bath and that I wasn’t alone. I could feel a rock hard man behind me, his torso against my back, his erection pressed deliciously against my backside. Large masculine hands stroked every inch of my slick skin. Wildly aroused, I turned over in the tub to face my dream guy, and my head nearly exploded when I realized it was Sam Fucking Beaumont.

  I awoke with a gasp, confused and sexually frustrated. The ache between my legs was ferocious. Apparently my subconscious is a filthy little slut.

  I tried to read a novel, hoping to fall back to sleep, but it was a steamy romance, and my mind kept wandering back to the dream. Sam’s reticent eyes were the one image that was not at all fuzzy. Preoccupied, I tossed my e-reader aside and stared at the ceiling, barely visible by the light of the nearly full moon. I wondered what my therapist would say about all of this and came to the conclusion it was time to find a new one here in Savannah. Hypnotherapy had made a huge difference for me in the past, but I’d slacked off and hadn’t been to any sort of counseling since moving to Georgia. I’d managed to wean myself off of the anxiety meds, and for the most part, I found my ability to survive on four to five hours of sleep helpful as a student. I knew the antidepressants were a must. I was a lifer on those, no doubt about it. But some nights I just craved sleep, and that night was one of them. So once the sun rose, I’d layered on too much concealer to cover the dark circles under my eyes. By the time I arrived at Trip’s, I’d had way too much coffee and entirely too much salacious advice from Jayse.

  My nerves were a live wire when I parked my freshly cleaned car in front of his place. I forced myself to stop and take three deep breaths. Casual and simple. That’s what I needed. No drama. If I was going to get through the day, I needed to stop obsessing about the way Trip looked at his ex-wife and the way Sam looked at me. As I climbed out of the car and made my way up the walk, I caught myself wringing my hands and I forced them to my sides. I was just about to tap on the front door, when I realized that the loud music I heard was leaking from the studio at the back of the house.

  Three times I knocked on the studio door, each time louder than the last. Finally I pushed my way in, and wandered through the maze of canvases to his workroom, which was obviously the source of the eclectic music. Trip had turned the canvas around since I’d last seen it, and I presumed the change had to do with the time of day and the way the light entered his makeshift studio.

  His back was to me, and he balanced a painter’s palette in his left hand. He held multiple brushes in his right hand, using a tiny one to tweak “the avenue of oaks” painting, which to my amateur eyes had no need for alteration. He stood shirtless, his broad shoulders tapering perfectly to his narrow hips. My eyebrows twitched as I admired how his jeans hung dangerously low on his hips. I drew nearer, and the light changed enough that I noticed a large faded scar that spanned from his right shoulder, down to his elbow, and over to his mid back. I sucked in my breath, but the loud music masked my presence from him. At some point in his life, he’d been badly burned, and against all reason, I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his damaged flesh. I saw that his opposite arm and shoulder blade displayed large, vibrant tattoos, and I wondered if their presence was a result of Trip’s artistic compulsion for symmetry.

  Feeling voyeuristic, my guilty conscience compelled me to make my presence known. I inched closer to him and gently placed my hand on his scarred shoulder. He flinched, dropping his palette and brushes and instinctively shielded his face with wide, terrified eyes. He nearly missed knocking the easel over, as he came to a stop against the wall five feet away from me. The panic-stricken expression he wore reminded me of my little sister Becca’s face when we used to hide in the closet during her father’s drunken rampages.

  “Hey…it’s just me.” I managed a soft, gentle tone, though I’d nearly shrieked. Trip peeked at me over his tattooed shoulder, and his mask of calm returned in the blink of an eye. Relief softened him, and the corner of his mouth curled upward. If he was self-conscious about his reaction or his damaged exposed skin, he hid it with the skill of 007.

  I watched as his entire body relaxed. He straightened to his full height and squinting as if he’d just noticed how loud the music was, he leaned over swatting at the volume of the blaring sound system. He succeeded in turning it way down and graced me with his crooked grin, as if nothing bizarre had just happened. “Sigur Ros. Music to dream by.”

  “Never heard of them.” I replied, shaking my head with a frown. His ability to shift gears so quickly disturbed me. As I opened my mouth to ask about his dramatic reaction, his eyes implored me to leave it alone. I shut my mouth and nodded. He broke into a wide, boyish smile.

  My traitorous eyes took in the impeccable front half of his exposed body. Not a single burn, scar, or blemish marred his chiseled arms, chest, or abs. And I was looking…really hard. Thankfully, he knelt to pick up his palette and brushes and wiped off his hands while I ogled him, so I didn’t humiliate myself.

  To my disappointment, he snagged a black shirt off a nearby chair and tossed it over his head.

  “Ready?” Though his smile was still in place, his face seemed blotchy and his eyes appeared puffy. I could tell something was up with him, something beyond my surprise arrival.

  “Yes. Trip…are you Ok?”

  “Yeah,” He spoke the word, but the way he looked away toward the carpet told a different story.

  “Bullshit,” I contradicted him, placing my hand delicately on his arm.

  His face fell into an uneasy grimace, and he placed his hand on top of mine. “It’s been a rough day. I ran into someone from my past.”

  “Violet?” The question was out before I’d formed it. His surprise gave way to a look of understanding.

  “No. Much, much worse. Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve had to call my sponsor before five o’clock.” He raked a hand through his tousled hair and chuckled without a hint of mirth. He seemed to pause when he looked at the expression on my face, and he brushed a loose tendril of my hair off of my cheek. He was standing dangerously close to me, and we silently studied each other’s eyes. For a second, I thought he might kiss me and realized I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted. Something about the darkness in him seemed like more than I could handle. When he didn’t, relief hit me like an avalanche. I struggled to make sense of what my instincts were trying to tell me. I decided to stop psychoanalyzing, to take the path my gut told me to and keep my hands to myself – for now. Unsure of what else to do, I patted him on the cheek with a rueful grin.

  “Let’s go get that dress. Then you can take me to dinner. But I’m picking the place this time. And believe it or not, I can be an excellent listener when I set my mind to it.”

  With Trip sprawled carelessly in t
he passenger seat, we made our way toward Broughton Street. My curiosity ate at me like a starving piranha, and finally I worked up the moxie to begin my overdue inquisition.

  “How did you lose your license?” I could tell I’d caught him off guard and he paused.

  “I don’t think you’d continue to like me much if you knew.” He sounded resigned, as if he knew we were going to have the conversation one way or the other.

  “Try me.”

  “It was a dark time, Angel. I was very drunk and got it into my head to drive to Mama’s and yell at her. I didn’t get more than a couple of blocks from home before I ran into a tree. Fortunately, I wasn’t going fast.” He stopped, licking his lips nervously. “Maisie was in the back seat. Blitzed as I was, I had her fastened in the car seat, thank God. ”

  My stomach dropped, and I thought about the blistering look in Violet’s eyes when she’d brought up Trip losing his license. I didn’t blame her at all. Drunk driving with her little girl in the car! If he’d been my husband, I would have put him in traction.

  “That was the second time Sam had to drive me to rehab. He railed on me for the entire car ride. He told me I needed to ‘get my shit straight’ or he’d disown me. Ever since the night of the accident, he treats me like a stranger. And he’s not the only one. Violet served me divorce papers while I was in rehab.”

  Conflicted, I grasped for something to say. I relished that he’d trusted me enough to confide in me, but I began to understand and even respect Sam’s hesitation about Trip. I’d been burned by my mother’s selfishness and felt the shame when I’d fallen for her false promises to “do better.” At age fourteen, I’d spent several nights in budget-planning classes, courtesy of Gambler’s Anonymous, while she was out pissing away our child support. That ever-present, ingrained leeriness rumbled around inside me and probably always would. That said, I was burdened by the openness I recognized on Trip’s face, and my mind raced for an appropriate response. He seemed as if he were waiting for a well-deserved slap in the face that he had no intention of blocking. I felt compelled to speak, so I blurted the first thing that came to mind.

  “Thank you for telling me.” I watched as a storm gathered behind his eyes.

  “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…yadda yadda,” he muttered crossly, pointing out a prime parking spot.

  When I opened the car door, he was there to offer me his hand. I reached out for it, and he pulled me up. We stepped onto the sidewalk and began the hunt. As the afternoon progressed, we wandered through some rather upscale shops. Wherever we went, Trip seemed to silently command a sort of awe from the shopkeepers, who brushed their employees aside in an effort to serve him themselves. It was evident that they knew him by sight and that the name Beaumont meant something serious in Savannah. At one point, he leaned in and whispered in my ear.

  “Thanks for treating me like a normal person.” He squeezed my hand tighter, and I looked at him wide-eyed. It surprised me that Trip knew how unusual their treatment of him was, especially since he’d been born into the good life. As the day wore on, we got cozier, walking arm in arm or with his arm around me. We held hands often, and I sometimes got the feeling he was using me as a human shield. The younger shop girls (and one of the shop boys) openly regarded me with jealousy. Trip had mastered the art of cool, but I was starting to see small cracks in his façade, like a china doll that had been painstakingly repaired, but would never quite look the same. His money and status made him powerful, but also very anxious and wary. Try as I might not to feel it, it was hard not to be drunk with power by osmosis. Being pampered and doted on was incredibly addictive.

  By the time we neared the entrance to Marc by Marc Jacobs, we had several bags of goodies, including a stuffed kitty for his daughter and a pair of sterling silver cufflinks shaped like boxing gloves for his asshole brother’s twenty-fifth birthday. Trip mentioned that the anniversary of the blessed event of Sam’s birth was at the end of the December. But still, we had no dress. Trip paused on our way into the store.

  “Is all the groveling annoying you as much as it is me?” He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking outright flustered for the first time all day long.

  “I’ll live,” I replied with a tired sigh. He tilted my chin up and seemed to assess my level of fatigue. His smooth confidence returned, and I smirked. My contribution to his ability to seize control of himself aroused me. I suppressed a shudder that had threatened to surface.

  “If we can’t find something suitable here, I’ll have a dress made for you. I have an excellent tailor, but it’ll delay the sitting, so I was hoping to avoid it.”

  I had no response, as I was a total fish out of water, so I merely nodded. Who has a tailor? Stinking-rich Beaumonts do, apparently. The air conditioning felt lovely as we crossed the threshold. The vast store stood nearly empty, as it was 5:30 and most shoppers were clamoring for a dinner table at one of the nearby restaurants. The overly accommodating manager enlisted all available employees to pull every potential white dress, skirt and blouse in the joint. Trip immediately insisted they remove all the skirts and blouses and take them away. When they brought us both an unrequested glass of wine, Trip gently waved the stemware away and asked for Cokes instead. When the manager returned with two frosty bottles, he unceremoniously dismissed her and told her to take her employees with her. Considering how uncomfortable the VIP treatment had made him all day, he certainly knew how to play the game. I took my Coke into the dressing room and tried on two dresses, which I modeled for him. Neither of us was particularly impressed with either of them.

  At that point, my lack of food and sleep began to cripple me. I started to feel petulant and bored, like a small child long overdue for her afternoon nap. I pulled a plunging silk gown from its hanger and stepped into it. The zipper was unreachable, and I poked my head out of the dressing room. The store’s speakers pumped a seductive beat, and I saw Trip lounging on a nearby sofa. His bored expression changed when he looked at my body in the unsecured dress. He slowly sat forward unconsciously, as if about to pounce. The look of rapt attention he wore had me suddenly feeling playful. I glanced around, noticing no one else in sight.

  “Can you zip me?” I asked, afraid to step out of the room for fear of falling completely out of the open gown.

  “I’m at your service.” He drawled, climbing to his feet and sauntering in my direction. I licked my lips at the sight of his cocky swagger, and when he was close, I turned to present my bare back to him. I released the dress from my grasp, and could feel the slick material expose me in the back all the way down to my waist. I looked over my shoulder at him and saw his eyebrows rise and his lip curl in a testosterone-fueled smile.

  “That’s one hell of a dress.” His voice sounded husky, and I felt him take the zipper in his hands. He paused, and his fingertip grazed the length of my spine, slowly… admirably. On impulse, I turned and pulled him into the dressing room by his shirt collar.

  He pulled back a bit, apprehension plastered on his face.

  No. That won’t do. Not at all.

  I attempted to lure him in with a sly smile, beckoning with my finger for him to come closer. His eyes flashed hungrily, and he responded to my invitation by swiftly swinging the door shut and pinning me against the wall of the dressing room. He held me with his heated gaze, his finger slowly trailing all the way from the hollow of my neck to the area between my breasts. I gasped as the need for his touch overruled my judgment. I reveled in the power I had over him, at the blatant fascination in his cobalt eyes.

  A small voice cried out in the back of my mind, begging and demanding me to stop. My compulsive need to have his undivided attention won out, and I slammed shut the vault on that voice, spinning the lock. My hands were in his rakish hair, as I tugged at it to pull his mouth closer to mine. Our lips locked in a scorching kiss, and he tasted like a naughty mix of nicotine and salty goodness. His talented hands easily brushed aside the unsecured straps of the gown, expo
sing my bare breasts. He pulled his lips from mine and his lustful eyes roamed my flesh. I sighed and closed my eyes victoriously, knowing I held all the cards as his skillful mouth trailed down my ear to my collarbone. As I leaned my head against the wall of the dressing room, that old familiar numbness slowly trickled over me. Like my own unique morphine taking hold, it was like I was hovering outside of my body looking down on us. Trip’s lips were on mine again, and my thoughts drifted to my past sexual mishaps. I suppose I could thank my childhood monster for grooming me to be a world-class fuck up.

  A collage of my transgressions flashed on the blank screen of my closed eyelids like one of those war propaganda news reels from World War II. My carnal misconduct….my fucking inability to stop myself from jumping into a situation crotch first. Moment by moment, I recounted the sepia highlights of my necrotic sex life. Unprotected sex with my amateur tattoo artist, Nick… inappropriate behavior my senior year with an innocent freshman boy…my filthy tryst with a married T.A. when I was an undergrad. Even as I scolded myself, I felt my hands grasp the button of Trip's jeans on autopilot.

  He grabbed both of my wrists suddenly, stopping me millimeters short of my goal. He pulled back, and his conflicted expression both infuriated and humiliated me. He seemed to analyze every pore on my face, and I felt bare and exposed under his scrutiny… and not in a good way. I darted my eyes away, suddenly feeling like a child who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Annie.” Trip’s voice was a hushed whisper, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed with far too much effort. Humiliation at my own tawdry behavior had already shoved arousal aside. I had a feeling whatever was going to come out of his mouth next would be bad news, and if I hadn’t been half naked, I probably would have fled. “You’re amazing. I have no doubt we could have all sorts of fun. But I need to be completely honest with you.”