by Cecy Robson
Sean nods thoughtfully. “That, too. You know, for a woman who’s well over sixty, she’s surprisingly fit.”
“Hmm-mmm” the group of us concurs.
Becca leans in closer to whisper in my ear. “What happened between you and that hot bartender? You spent a lot of time talking with him.”
She’s right, although I’m the one who did all the talking. He mostly did his best to ignore me. My multiple and animated attempts to draw his smile, only drew more scowls, and a few annoyed grunts. And yet I can’t stop my grin as I think of him. “He wants me, bad. I know he does.”
“Yeah?” Becca asks.
“Nope, not even a little bit,” I answer, laughing.
My smile diminishes as I think about Callahan’s stance: arms crossed, stare hard, and mouth clenched shut. Men can be dangerous. And scary. But those kind of men carry a certain look in their eyes. My Daddy had once compared this look to a door opening and revealing the darkness of the soul.
Callahan doesn’t have that darkness Daddy speaks of, despite the intense leveling stare. He has something more akin to the kind of grief I’d seen too many times—the type that numbs you and makes you forget what it’s like to feel.
The trips helping those in need that my parents took us on were intense, involving countries crippled by war, disaster, or poverty. Some of the people there had that same expression Callahan wears: anger, sadness, and disappointment mixed with despair. Emotions so devastating they hollow out the soul, leaving only a vacant shell behind.
Like those people from those countries, Callahan has experienced his share of torment. If that Special Forces tat hadn’t given him away, the lines hardening his features, and those eyes―man, those heartbreaking blue eyes―spilled the truth. He’s broken . . . and probably all kinds of lonely.
“So you’re giving up on him, Trin?” Becca asks, yawning yet again.
I adjust my arm around her waist. “You saying I should?”
She thinks about it. “Yes, and no. I mean, he’s like the first guy you’ve actually taken an interest in since . . .” She clears her throat. “It’s just nice to see you notice someone you don’t have to save from drowning,” she adds quickly.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind a little mouth to mouth action there,” I admit. My comment causes Becca to clutch me tighter and squeal with a little too much enthusiasm. I try to loosen her hold so she doesn’t choke me and only mildly succeed. “Becks,” I croak.
“Oh. Sorry, sugar.”
She repositions her arms around me, but thankfully her hold is tamer than what it was, allowing me to move and breathe as I increase our speed up the small hill. Just a few more yards until we reach our property, and a few more after that before we fall into a soft bed.
I breathe in the salty sea air fluttering my hair as I stop in front of the electronic keypad. The house, while a good distance away from the beach, is still only a short walk from the shore. My parents purchased the property when they were first married, but didn’t build the house until Landon was a few months from starting school. They liked the view and the close proximity to the beach, they just preferred not to be smack dab in the face of a hurricane should one hit.
I punch the keypad, causing the gate to open with a mild creak and allowing my drunk cohorts through. “Open sez a me,” I say a little too late.
Sean who’s crashed here before jogs ahead, likely to call dibs on a bed. Hale and Becca have stayed over more times than I can count, but they remain by my side. The rest of our party walk slowly behind us, the solar powered lights casting their glow against the weeping willows, palmettos, and dogwoods, allowing them to take in the property.
“You live here?” the girl who made out with Mason asks. I hadn’t noticed that she’d tagged along.
“I do,” I answer. I offer a smile over my shoulder, making sure to catch Mason’s stare. He tilts his head, his way of telling me he’ll keep an eye on her. While I like to think most people are genuinely good, I still have to be cautious of who I allow in my home.
My attention returns ahead to take in the light brick color Momma and I wanted, and Daddy and Landon did not. It’s a great shade, bordering on tan with traces of peach, and even in the darkness, it seems to welcome us home.
I hurry up the steps and unlock the door. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should have invited Callahan with us. It’s a stupid thought―he would have said no―not to mention I’d just met the guy. But maybe I should have. Like I said he seems so lonely and . . . well, doesn’t everyone deserve a smile?
“Trin?” Hale says.
“Uh, sorry, what?”
He cocks his head. “I asked where you wanted us?”
“You can have my room. Becks and I will take my parents’ room.”
“Okay,” he says, looking back at Becca. “Hey, Becks. Want to hang out on the terrace for a little bit? Maybe kick back some water instead of more beer?”
“No, shug. All I’m thinking about is warm sheets and a long sleep,” she answers, yawning.
Disappointment swirls along his features as he watches her trail inside with the others. I punch him the arm affectionately. “It’s a marathon,” I whisper. “Not a race.”
He shoots me a sideway glance, and oh yeah, there’s that panty-melting grin again reminding me he’s not giving up hope yet.
“Trin?” Mason calls from the kitchen. “Can we heat up the frozen pizzas in there? I’ll swing by tomorrow with a few more to pay you back.”
I shove Hale away when he pulls me into a headlock and tousles my hair. “Sure,” I answer, Mason. “But consider yourself in charge, ‘kay? I’m tired and going to crash.”
“No problem, Trin,” he says.
By his serious tone, and that stiff nod he offers, I know he means it. I hurry up the steps behind Becca. “Spare toothbrushes still in the linen closet?” she asks when reach the top.
“Yeah. Be a pal and see who else needs them, okay?”
“All right,” she says, hurrying off.
I grab some clothes for us out of my room and my toothbrush from my bathroom before crossing into the other wing and slipping into my parents’ suite. I’ve already showered and have my hair up in a turban before Becca returns and slips into the bathroom with me.
My hair falls against my shoulder blades with a smack as I tug off the towel. I reach for a wide tooth comb and pass it through the length as I think back to Callahan. He didn’t notice me like I wanted him to. In fact, some might call my first impression disastrous.
As friendly as I can be, I’ll admit I was more than a little intimidated by him. The fact that he’s gorgeous may have had something to do with it, and so might the little tidbit that those hands could bust a skull open with a single squeeze. That doesn’t mean that I won’t try again. He’s not exactly enthralled by my charm, mind you, but right around closing, I did catch him looking at me. His stare didn’t linger . . . yet it was there, totally taking me by surprise.
What surprised me more was he didn’t seem to notice Becca.
I glance at her as she shoves the shorts down her tiny waist and long legs, her large breasts bouncing as she shimmies her hips. Y’all, everyone notices Becca!
Except maybe Callahan.
It affirms my suspicions that he’s seen, or maybe done, more than his conscience could live with. And it breaks my heart. But his sadness draws me, making me determined to get to know him, and hopefully lift his spirits.
In a way, I’m actually freaked out that I’m attracted to Callahan. It’s something I haven’t felt or wanted in like, forever. And again, while I don’t know him, I can’t suppress my grin every time I think about him.
Those hands—how they passed along the bar in smooth motions—makes me wonder if he’s a gentle lover or one who takes full control. Not that it matters now or maybe ever. Men, especially who look like him, always think “little sis” not “little minx” when they see me coming. It’s not that I think I’m ugly, but no way will I win h
im over with my looks—not with the supermodel types scattered all over Kiawah. So tonight I’d used what I had, my personality, even though it accidently ended up all over his face with a touch of lime.
I meant to make him laugh when I spoke to him, or at the very least smile. He did neither. Given I’m stubborn, I see his rebuff more like a challenge. And given my insane need to save the world, and leave it a little brighter, I also see him as something more.
“What you smiling about, shug?” Becca asks as she fumbles through the linen closet for a towel.
“Callahan,” I answer truthfully because it’s Becks, and I can.
“Fair enough.” She turns on the water and blasts it until steam starts to cloud the glass doors. “How do you think he’d be in bed?”
I laugh because it’s so like Becks to go there with me. Southern ladies are like that, all proper and polite in public, but not so much in private. “I’m thinking rough and hard,” I admit, remembering the ease with which he carried that keg in from the back room. “What about you?”
“Oh, girl, my guess is that man will ride you like a bronco straight from the gate until a rodeo clown runs in to save you.” She strips out of her bathing suit, revealing a body that’s totally unfair and hops in the shower. “Did you get me something to wear?”
“Yes,” I answer. “But I think you’re better off in one of my daddy’s T-shirts.”
She runs the soap over her melons as I drop away my towel and stare at my strawberries. “For the love of all,” I say, when they appear to be laughing at us.
“Don’t complain,” she insists when she catches me eyeing my so-called rack. “You’ve got plenty. I have too much. It’s a wonder I haven’t bumped into a grade schooler and killed him.”
“Or blinded one during winter,” I agree, pulling my nightshirt over my head.
She cracks up, slipping out of the shower as I head into my parents’ room.
I toss her one of Daddy’s old T-shirts when she joins me. She’s pulls on a pair of the panties I’d brought from my room because not only is she big on top, but tiny on the bottom. Sometimes the scales of sexy totally tilt in someone else’s favor, regardless of the rest of us jumping on the other side.
Becca shifts into bed after me, we roll to face each other just as we’ve done a thousand times over the years. “Can I ask you something without you thinking I’m feeling sorry for myself?” I ask.
She brushes a strand of my wet hair from my face. “You know you can ask me anything.”
I know I can, but it doesn’t make what I have to ask any easier. “Do you think I could get someone like Callahan interested in me? I know he’s different from other guys I’ve dated, but . . . do you think I might stand a chance?”
She analyzes me closely, her eyes searching my face as her hand slips away from my hair. “Trin, you’re smart, you’re beautiful; you can have any man you want.”
I shake my head, but not at the sting her words cause. “We both know that’s not true,” I remind her softly.
A flicker of anger finds its way into her face, and voice. “You’re better off without him, and her.”
I know she’s right, but it’s not just Hunter I’m talking about. After years of too many men calling me their best friend, it’s hard to consider myself the man-killer Becca is trying to make me out to be. Hunter was the first cute guy I liked, who thought I was cute back. The only guy to ever pledge his love for me, only to ultimately betray me. It’s not exactly a stellar record on my end.
“I don’t want to think about them,” I admit truthfully, wanting to leave the past where it belongs. “Let’s get back to Callahan, okay?”
“All right,” she says, softening her tone and her expression.
My short nails skim along the mattress. “Be honest with me,” I tell her. “Can someone like him maybe like someone like me?”
She watches me carefully. “As more than a fuck?” she asks.
Considering I asked for the truth, I’m no longer sure I want to hear it. “Yeah.”
“I don’t know,” she says, taking a moment to mull through her thoughts. “A man like that is hard from life, and probably more, Trin.”
“I figured as much,” I confess. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve some good and maybe a little happiness in his life.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But can I ask you something? Why him?” She holds up her hand when I shoot her a look. “I get that he’s hot, Trin. Hell, the man is sex, dipped in honey, with a cherry on top of his penis for the lickin’. But he’s no boy―not like the ones we know who are just now barely men. He’s different, steely, and from what I can tell, someone who’s innocence was lost a long time ago.”
There’s a whole lot of truth in what Becca says. The young men who generally pique my interest are like Hunter: more Abercrombie and Fitch, and usually on the smaller, leaner side. Callahan is jeans, work boots, and I have to crane my neck to meet his face.
“For someone who was all excited, that I was all excited, you don’t sound very excited anymore,” I remind her.
“That’s before I knew you wanted more than something to ride.”
Yeah. I think she’s right about that.
She purses her lips. “If you’re looking for something more, Trin, I’m not sure this guy is a good place to start.”
I adjust my head against the pillow, more to give me a moment than something I really need to do. “So is that a no?” I ask.
“It’s a be careful,” she answers me truthfully. “You’re a good girl―an angel always willing to sweep in and save people. But, Trin, some people don’t want to be saved.”
Chapter Four
Callahan
I throw open the back door, grumbling from exhaustion and step onto the deck in my bare feet. As I lean in to stretch against the rail, a breeze sweeps in through the break in the trees. For a moment I still, expecting the grime to once more coat my face with its filth, and the smell of sweat and death to fill my nose.
Instead, only salty air strokes my beard in a gentle caress. I release a breath, remaining tense and unable to shake the memories that haunt my dreams every night. The squats, the presses, and the pull-ups I do during my grueling daily workouts only temporarily distract me. I need to run along the beach until my thighs burn, my muscles ache, and my brain forgets—everything. Feelings are bullshit. It’s numbness I seek. That, and to escape from everything and everyone.
I take off in a sprint, desperate to free myself of all thoughts, and eager for exhaustion. Only through exhaustion do I ever manage a few hours of decent sleep. It’s not easy, pushing my body the way that I do. But it beats those meds the army docs kept trying to get me to take—drugs that lock you into the nightmares with no way out.
Another breeze sweeps in, cooling my sweat-soaked brow as I reach the shore and turn left. It’s early, real early, the sun’s rays just starting to build in intensity. But already a few locals are out.
An old couple dip their spotted feet into the water, waving to me as I near. I tilt my chin, but not much more. I can’t give much more, and hell, I don’t want to.
The next group I pass is a cluster of old women speed walking, heads up, arms pumping, their focus tense and straight ahead. They don’t say shit, and neither do I.
A wave crashes along the beach, strong enough to cover my ankles and drench my shins. I ignore the cold sting it causes and push on. I’m only vaguely aware of the water’s withdrawal, losing sight of where I am, and who’s around me. And I’m glad.
Maybe I’m lost. But that doesn’t mean I want to be found.
“Spanky! Is that you?”
Jesus. H. Christ. No . . . just . . . no.
I know who’s there even before my stare cuts left. The brunette, the little one from the other night abandons the buoy ropes she’s untangling and waves, a big grin lighting up her small face.
I jerk my chin ahead and away from her, spitting every swear word I know through my teeth. My fists clenc
h tight as that now familiar, annoying―hell, did I mention annoying?―voice appears way too close in behind me.
“It is you!” she drawls.
I try to run faster, but I already ran a mile, and worked out close to two hours. So when the small graceful steps grow louder, and Cheerleader Skipper bounces to my side, it’s all I can do not to fall to the sand and beg God to take me.
“Wow, you’re fast. I almost didn’t think I’d catch you.”
She only sounds mildly out of breath which means she keeps talking.
Fuck. Me.
“I love running on the beach. Don’t you, Spanky? It’s like exhilarating and fun all at the same time—”
“Do not call me Spanky.”
“Iron Man?”
“No!”
“Batman?”
I turn enough just to glare at her. “Batman?”
She shrugs and continues to run like she’s prancing through a field of daisies, pointy toes and all. “You know,” she says. “Because you’re all broody and your voice is really deep―like Batman.” She beams up at me. “Take it as a compliment. Batman’s all sorts of hot.”
“There’s something wrong with you,” I tell her truthfully.
I continue to run. And so does she. For a tiny thing she’s freakishly athletic. She’s also fairly quiet which is more than shocking.
As I start to get winded, I notice her face is only mildly flushed. I make the mistake of sweeping my gaze along her form. She’s wearing a black sports bra, and shorts that are more like panties than pants. Her hair is pulled back in ponytail revealing a round face and bright brown eyes.
A small spray of freckles pepper her nose and cheeks, and although it’s still only May, her skin has begun to tan. The girl is a stick and would probably shatter if she tripped. Yet despite her puny frame, there’s definition to her arms, legs, and flat stomach.
My gaze lingers longer than it should because she notices and yeah, giggles.
“If you’d like, I can flex for you,” she offers.
I release a heavy breath. This woman can’t possibly be this, this, grrr.