by MK Schiller
She laughs, her cheeks turning the darkest shade of crimson. “Told you I like variety. You didn’t believe me, did you?”
“Not this much variety. How did this happen? You just decided to try out some Bocephus one day?”
“Something along those lines. I get your surprise. It doesn’t fit me.”
“It doesn’t fit most people our age.”
“It’s actually my stepmother’s influence. Linda’s from Tennessee, and her parents owned a bar where some of the greats performed. When I moved back to New Jersey with my papa, Linda would play these records all the time. I hated them at first. I made fun of them. I threatened to break them a few times. But it wasn’t long until I was singing along to Patsy Cline and Charley Pride. The lyrics spoke to me. And all my complaints were really just me hating Linda because I always thought of her as the enemy.”
“How could you hate anyone who loves Charley Pride?”
“I wonder that myself sometimes. Papa had an affair with her when he was still married to my mom. He told my mom he was in love with another woman, but they could keep up the marriage if she wanted, although it would be a sham. She asked for a few days to think about it.”
“You’re kidding. What’s there to think on? When someone tells you they are in love with someone else, it’s time to say so long.”
“You don’t understand, Mason. Their marriage was arranged in India. The word divorce isn’t even a part of their vernacular. Plus, they had me to think about. Anyway, my mom came here to Jasper. To this very hotel actually. She wanted to be by the water. It reminded her of the Arabian Sea back in India.”
“So she left your dad?”
“Not only did she go through with the divorce, she moved us here permanently. She was a software developer so she could work anywhere. She never liked New Jersey anyway. Thinking about what she did, I realize now how gutsy it was. Their divorce was a huge scandal in our conservative extended family. I blamed Linda for everything my mom went through. Every year I’d spend my summers with Papa and Linda. They would take me on these crazy vacations to Disney World and buy me all kinds of stuff. Papa tried to make up for the whole year in those few months. Later, when I was older, we’d go to Paris or Rome or London. Twice we went to India for a visit. The whole time, I was so nasty to Linda.”
“Not anymore, though?”
“Not after living with her the past few years. She’s a good person. Papa is too. Maybe they did a bad thing, but they aren’t bad people.”
I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone so damn bad in my whole life. But this is her move to make. I wait for her to lean in. To pucker up her lovely mouth. To give me an indication she wants it too.
But we’ve shared enough sad stories to fill up a whole fucking country album. Hell, we may have even crossed the line and hit a few chords toward the Blues. That’s some pretty tragic shit. Country can make you feel. But the blues, well, they can tear a person’s soul to shreds. I think that’s the space we’re in now. Torn, fragile, and so exposed we’re already naked. She doesn’t make a move. It’s probably for the best. After all, if I start kissing her, I won’t want to stop.
I hide my frustration and shift in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “Damn, Shenoy, your whole life is a Disney movie in the making. You even have the moral of the story figured out. I can’t decide if I’m on a beach vacation or at Sunday sermon.”
Thank God, she laughs and doesn’t freak. It really could have gone either way. She nods in agreement. “Oh my God, I do read a little like a fable.”
“A little?”
“Shut up, Cutler.” She playfully punches my arm. “Ouch.” She shakes her hand out.
“I will say this, you’re a whole lot cuter than my pastor, even if you didn’t offer me any wine or crackers.”
“Hey, you’re no better, Mr. Take-a-girl-for-a-walk-and-make-her-cry.”
“That was not my intention.”
“I guess there’s just one thing left for us to do.”
“What’s that?” I’m grinning way too wide for my own good.
She claps her hands. “On with the music, Mr. DJ.”
Again, not my goal.
She slips on her ear bud. I take the other. I scroll down her list, passing up any songs that are too heavy, too numbing, too boy band. I finally find something that fits the mood. Or at least my mood.
“Sister Havana” by Urge Overkill.
We listen to music until the night fades into day. The sky turns a deep rose color. She’s asleep, her head on my shoulder.
“Get up, Kiran. You’re going to miss it.”
She mumbles something incoherent. Whatever it is, it sounds sexy as hell. A language I’d enjoy decoding. Her hair falls against my arm. It is soft as silk. I almost don’t want to wake her. “Kiran, it’s time.”
She lifts her head just in time to see the golden light come over the water.
She rubs her eyes and straightens. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” I say, except I’m not looking at anything but her.
Chapter 5
Kiran
I sleep until late afternoon. I think I dream about him. Or maybe last night was the dream, and none of it happened. Maybe he went to bed with three bouncing blondes, and I went back to my room to hide under the covers.
Except, this smile I have? It’s plastered onto my face as if someone pinned it in place. Yeah, I walked around with Mason Cutler last night. We shared some crazy intimate stories. He’s as beautiful inside as out. I told him some things I buried so deep I thought they had suffocated and died years ago. But there are no regrets.
Of course, I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t want him to grab me at any given moment and sweep me off my flip-flops. Even though it didn’t happen, it was perfect nonetheless. Then we watched the sunrise. I’m so giddy about it I might just play myself a little air guitar for no reason at all. I’m killer at air guitar.
But I don’t do any of those things. I think of a much better use for my fingers. With my eyes still shut, I trail them down my body, dipping them inside my panties. I imagine he didn’t just walk me to my door this morning and made sure I got in. No, he came inside with me. He threw me on the bed. He ripped off my clothes. In this fantasy, I don’t have any scars. Or maybe he just can’t see them. Either way, it’s not awkward. His blue eyes bore into me until I’m squirming from the intensity. What’s better than honey? That tiny second before you taste the honey, AKA, anticipation. Last night, I indulged in gallons of anticipation. It’s all pent up inside me, aching for release. I cry out as my fingers penetrate.
I imagine fisting my hands through his chocolate-cinnamon-honey hair. The sides are shaved but the top is long enough for a satisfying tug. His hands are massive. What would they feel like on my body? They would touch me everywhere, commanding and teasing every inch of me until my flesh screamed for him. I press my thighs together and rock faster.
It’s so real I can almost hear him calling my name. “Kiran.” It’s soft, a notch above a whisper. “Kiran.” His voice isn’t louder, but it is more forceful, keeping in tune with his thrusts. He pushes himself deeper still. No wait, he’s pounding into me. There’s nothing gentle. It’s raw and lusty and needy for both of us.
“Kiran?” His voice is so clear…so real.
Wait, what?
Shit! I stumble out of the bed, almost falling.
“Are you okay?” comes the deep masculine voice of my fantasies, except it’s not in my head. It’s on the other side of my door.
“Fine. I’m fine.” What I am is a hot mess.
I wait until my breathing gets under control. Checking to make sure my T-shirt is long enough so it’s not indecent, I open the door a crack.
“What were you doing?” he asks, looking at me as if he already knows.
“Sleeping.”
“You weren’t dreaming?” He’s wearing a smirk
. Do I have it written on my face?
“What’s up?” I ask, trying for nonchalance and hoping for a change of subject.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He holds out his surf board. “I promised I wouldn’t go into the water until you gave me surfing lessons. I’m upholding my end of the bargain, but I’ve been up for a few hours, waiting on you, Sleeping Beauty. I’d really like that lesson now.”
I’m not sure whether to slam the door in his gorgeous face or grab a fistful of his T-shirt and pull him out of my fantasies and straight into my bed. His T-shirt does little to hide the muscular frame beneath it. He’s wearing navy blue board shorts today. His hair is messy and damp and oh so tugable.
“Why are you so sweaty?” I ask.
“I went for a run to pass the time.” He leans closer. Even his sweat smells good. “Why are you so sweaty?”
“I’m not.”
He runs his index finger down my neck. My very slick neck. “No?”
I take a deep breath. “First lesson, you need a new surf board.”
“What’s wrong with this one?”
“Never rent a surf board from a hotel.” I reach out and feel the side of his board. “You pick a board based on your experience level, but it should also be a reflection of your height and weight. You’re too big and thick for this board.”
His grin is pure mischief. A heat creeps up my spine as I replay my words. It’s like everything is filtered through a sex-scope.
“So you think I’m big and thick?”
“For this board.”
“Uh-huh.”
I’ll take stupid sexual innuendos for a thousand, Alex.
“I’m being serious.” I try my hardest not to encourage him, but I laugh anyway. “This board is more suited for someone my size.”
“What else?”
I try to bend the board, but it won’t yield. “The board has to be softer.”
“Softer?” He arches an eyebrow. “You lost me now, and we were doing so well.”
“A softer board will be more flexible, which means it will be easier for you to control. If you have the right board and start your strokes earlier and faster, you might catch a wave or two.”
“No one has ever accused me of not stroking myself fast enough.”
I choke back a laugh. “Are you always this cocky first thing in the morning?”
“It’s late afternoon, sunshine. And no, not always this cocky, but you’re the one who’s all sweaty, talking about stroking and thickness to me.” He gestures between the two of us. “Call me kettle, cause guess what? You’re the pot.”
“Well, listen up, Kettle. There’s a place about a block north of here that rents boards.” I remember seeing it yesterday when we went for our walk.
“What’s it called?”
My mouth tightens as the name comes to me. “A Thousand and One Bodacious Boards.”
“Seriously?”
“No lie. It’s a cheesy name, but they know what they’re doing. They’ll hook you up with the right board.”
“What will you be doing while I’m getting…hooked up?”
“I have to take a shower and eat something.” And maybe finish something too.
He checks his watch. He wears a real wristwatch in the age of smart phones. Just add that to the growing list of items labeled reasons why Mason Cutler turns me on, twists me in every direction, and flips me inside out.
“I’ll meet you on the beach in an hour then.”
“An hour and a half,” I say, closing the door before he can respond. I lean against it, all perma-smile and drenched panties. A part of me thought last night was a fluke. I even cringed thinking of the awkward moments when we’d run into each other during the rest of the stay. Yet, here we are.
After a grueling session of self-love followed by a rousing rendition of air guitar, I take a long hot shower singing “Sister Havana” at the top of my lungs.
By the time I find Mason, he’s waxing a surfboard much more suited to his build. He’s shirtless, the lean muscles of his chest and abs flexing as he runs the bar of wax from nose to tip, the muscles in his arm flexing with each glide. It’s wildly erotic. Of course, he is doing it all wrong.
“Bitchin’ board, dude,” I say, throwing down my hemp beach bag next to him.
“Yeah?” his eyes narrow, the naughty grin surfacing. “You think its thick enough?”
“It’ll do.”
I take the bar of wax from him. It almost slips from my fingers. I don’t even have to look at the label to know it’s sex wax, the dry hump variety for higher temperatures. “You wax to create grip and traction.”
“Friction.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. As much to get control over the runaway train of Mason Cutler as anything else. “Right. It’s more of a sanding motion, though.” I demonstrate for him. I trace the line that marks the rails. “But not on this area.”
“Got it. No coloring outside the lines.”
“Right.”
I hand the bar back to him. He follows my lead, his fingers gripping the bar tightly, rubbing wax onto the board until the surface is covered.
“You never told me why you came here, Shenoy.”
“I didn’t?”
“No.”
“For the same reason my mom did. I have a decision to make. I thought being here might help.”
His mouth tightens into a thin line. “Trying to decide if you should leave your cheating husband? Probably something you should have told me.”
“What? No, not that kind of decision.”
“So no cheating husband?”
“No husband at all. Geez, I’m only twenty-one.”
“Yeah, just making sure.” He looks down at the board again. His head snaps up suddenly. “Or boyfriend?”
“No one.”
He nods and returns his attention to the board again. “So what’s the big decision you’re debating?”
I’ve actually been itching to discuss it with someone. I rifle through my bag and bring out the book he’d given me. It seemed appropriate to put the letter in here. I take out the envelope with the official school seal and hold it out to him.
“Iowa?”
“The University of Iowa to be exact. I decided to apply again as a fluke. I was accepted into the Creative Writing program. It’s one of the best in the country.”
“And this is what you want to do? Be a writer?”
I nod. “It’s always been my passion.”
“What’s the problem then?”
I pull my legs up against my chest and wrap my arms around them. “I’ve been taking online business courses for the past few years. I’m only a few semesters from my degree in finance. Hardly any of my credits will transfer. I’ll be starting over and in a new place where I don’t know anyone. I’ll be a twenty-one-year-old freshman.” I’m ashamed to tell Mason about my fear, especially since he’s going off to God knows where, and here I am freaking out about college. But there isn’t any judgment in his expression.
“The other day I read something about a lady graduating college at eighty.”
“At the rate I’m going I might be eighty by the time I get a degree. Papa thinks it’s a waste of time. I’ll have to get loans and pay my own way. He’s basically told me he’s not in the business of funding dreams. But I have some money my mom left me, and I even got a partial scholarship. Still, it’ll be a challenge.”
“Sounds like you have the money part figured out. That’s good.”
“I do. But my dad really disapproves. We had a big fight about it before I left. He called me a quitter. Said I should finish what I started.”
Mason narrows his eyes, a few hard lines form around his mouth. “It’s not quitting. It’s starting something new, something better.”
“He’s not trying to be a jerk. He’s disappointed. I’ll be letting him down if I go.”
“How so?”
“His plan or yours?”
“I’m not sure anymore. What I am sure of is that dreams always sound better in the abstract. Do I really want to invest four more years going to school?”
He flaps the letter in the air. “You think you’ll hate it there?”
“No.” Even thinking about it, I can’t help smiling. “Reading literature? Talking about literature? Working on my own writing? That’s this side of Nirvana. It just…isn’t very logical.” I take the letter from him, carefully fold it, and place it back in the book. I slip it all into my bag.
“Your argument isn’t logical. You don’t want to go to a school you know you’re going to love because you might have to do it longer?”
I never thought of it so simply. “Maybe I’ll have to move that reason from con to pro.”
“I think you should.”
“Move the argument?”
“Go to Iowa.”
“We’ll see. I have a few days before I have to give them my answer.”
He looks out at the Gulf. I wonder if he’s thinking about the waves. “Know what a barnacle is, Shenoy?”
That’s a weird question. “Yes.”
“So then you know how the average barnacle survives?”
“I’m not really up on my barnacle knowledge.”
“Dana explained it to me once. I always thought it was interesting. Typically, the barnacle attaches itself to something such as a whale or a boat or even a rock. Once they find a place to stick to, they hang on for their whole life.”
“Crappy life.”
“Or an easy one. Think about it, the barnacle doesn’t have to make any decisions. They follow a course they don’t navigate themselves. They literally spend their lives going with the flow.”
“What’s your point?”
He leans forward. “Sometimes you’re the barnacle and sometimes you’re the boat. Which one do you want to be, Kiran?”