Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance)

by Loren, Celia

  Still, something was missing. He got up and paced the floorboards, gingerly, so as not to wake Tilde. He paused in front of the mirror, and took an appreciative glance at his resurrected physique. His biceps had begun to curve again. The panels of his abs were distinguishing themselves. He ran a hand over the back of his head and noted that his dark black hair was starting to get shaggy in back. Soon enough, he would almost blend in with his new hipster company.

  Ryder meandered over to his desk, where a roach lay waiting for him in an ashtray. His only remaining vice, and a sweet one at that. He brought the clip to his lips and inhaled sharply, welcoming the cloud that descended over his thoughts. Now that he didn’t have his nightmare guardian, weed did feel necessary again. It felt better to drift, to ignore the world’s sharp edges.

  Of course the downside to marijuana was that it made it harder for him to shut up his thoughts. Even the forbidden ones drifted down all lazy, like deflating balloons. And there she was, suddenly, perfectly: in her favorite, peach button-down cardigan. Her mermaid hair swam around her shoulders in loose waves, framing the heart of her face. As usual, as in life, she wore no make-up—just that wary grin, and those slightly furrowed eyebrows. In this particular fantasy, she clutched to her chest the book that had brought them together in the first place: Anna Karenina. That line about all unhappy families being different had never felt more true.

  “Hello,” Ryder told his vision, flexing, as if she could really see him. She smiled her doe-eyed smile, so the knobs of her cheekbones twisted. He loved the red in her cheeks. He loved the light smattering of freckles, so light you had to look close to see them. He approached, and imagined he could smell the faint floral mist that seemed to cling to her clothes. She’d once told him it was fabric softener. But it might as well have been rose petals.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, letting the words make him vulnerable. She watched, dolefully. She was a woman who waited, who was cautious—wasn’t that part of her appeal? He took another hit and she had moved closer, so he could reach out and touch her if we wanted to. And he did. Oh boy, he did.

  She smiled shyly, as she had all those stolen evenings in the basement, and proceeded to peel the pearl-y buttons of her blouse apart. He watched her skin materialize, in all its freckled perfection. He couldn’t help himself. His lips inched forward, toward the bow of her sternum. He kissed her there, and was instantly drunk on the promise of what lay below: those perfect, cuppable breasts, which he’d come to know so well. He felt like swallowing her. All of her.

  “You missed me,” the vision repeated. She bit her lip. Ryder reached through the air and grabbed at the gentle crest of her ass, which felt warm and ripe even below its typical layer of woolly, sex-repelling skirt. He bunched the fabric in his fist, seeking the warmer entrance below, and she started to sink into his touch. He thought he heard her moan a little, into his ear. That’s when his cock started to nudge against his jeans. Insistent. Hungry.

  He brought her over to the bed. His bed, he noted with pleasure. In here, they didn’t have to worry about her oppressive family walking in—there was just dotty Tilde, who wouldn’t make a fuss. She began to kiss him, greedily. Her lips mashed against his own. Her soft paws moved to his cheeks, where they gripped his face firmly. As if he was the one who was in danger of disappearing into thin air.

  “Chloe,” he groaned. She only got brighter when he spoke her name. His fumbling fingers successfully peeled off the skirt, and began work on her black stockings. He thought of how much he missed her taste. Moving faster, beginning to rock his ass against the bed to imitate thrusting, he finally brought her pussy into the light. The urge was irrepressible now; he turned her over, throwing her down on the mattress. He spread her legs wide apart and buried his face in her secret sanctum, thrilling at her slickness.

  He and Chloe had never had bona fide intercourse, which was something that continued to haunt him. He wished he could have given her that pleasure, even as he knew it might have made things worse when they’d been forced apart. Often, his dreams had stopped the buck at oral and anal sex, as if even his sub-conscious felt guilty about deflowering her. But tonight felt different.

  She cried out above him, wrapping her soft thighs around his skull. She pressed her firm little hand into the base of his hair, delighting in its new length. Her fingers twisted and kneaded, an echo of his tongue. He flicked his tongue back and forth across her clit for long minutes, than directed his attention to her warm hole. He furrowed inside, lapping her juices. Chloe’s whole body clenched as one muscle, then shook, then shivered. She lay panting above him for a few delicious breaths. Though he remained stiff and ready, it was no chore to relish in ecstasy with her.

  I love you, she’d said. He hadn’t responded. It was like an unfinished puzzle between them, those words he hadn’t gotten a chance to say. Some days he thought he’d write Chloe a letter, some beautiful tell-all explaining his feelings and his decisions on that fateful day, but then he’d imagine her tearing the words. Maybe it was better like this, he told himself, rolling over onto his back and extinguishing the jay. Maybe it was better just to imagine, forever.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gwen wouldn’t stop rubbing Chloe’s shoulders, as if the repetitive motion could possibly keep her friend from freaking out.

  “You got everything?” she asked, for maybe the ninety-ninth time. Chloe still took mental stock. Her few dresses and pants were folded into her suitcase, along with some toiletries, her beloved ice skates, and a few hundred dollars in cash c/o of Gwen. Her cell phone was still in the family’s custody, so she traveled today with no way to contact anyone.

  Beyond this, Chloe carried only a plastic bag full of airport paperbacks, and a heart full of hope.

  “It’s gonna be fine, you know,” Gwen repeated—also for the ninety-ninth time. “You can call me any hour of any day. I’ll run right across America and pick you up.”

  Gwen’s own flight North—she was off to visit her father and Alton—didn’t leave for another few hours. But she’d come to the airport early just to see her bestie off. The past few days had been a draining whirlwind, complete with long talks with each member of her family, much yelling and many tears. The battle had ended finally on Wednesday night, when Elder Johannes slammed his open palm down on the table. “Go!” he’d cried, red face inches from his only daughter’s. “Go. But don’t you ever expect a welcome in this house again.”

  No one but John had watched her leave, dragging meager belongings out to a taxi at the curb. Her older brother had seemed about to say something. Chloe had waited, a part of her still hell-bent on receiving the Christiansen’s blessings, if not their apologies. But just as he’d opened his mouth to speak, her father’s shadow had darkened the stairwell, and the gloom his figure cast over the house drowned out even the possibility of reconciliation. So Chloe turned her back on her family, as she felt they’d done to her.

  “This doesn’t have to be an ending,” Gwen said, playing her usual intuitive self. “Your Dad and Freddy don’t represent this whole community. If you ever want to come back, the world will make room.”

  It was a sweet thought, but not especially comforting in Chloe’s present moment. Logical or not, she’d been unable to divorce the church’s more rigorous doctrine from her father’s and brother’s behavior; to her, it seemed like all of Provo, not just the Christiansens, had conspired to destroy her spirit. A small piece of her lamented the loss of God, of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints—but she was still too angry to imagine a happy homecoming. Not yet, anyway.

  “I’m gonna see what the rest of the world has to offer right now,” she told Gwen. “I’m like the Amish. Off on Rumspringa.”

  “Well, but maybe a bit more specific than that,” Gwen smirked. “New York’s not exactly a random choice of city, is it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Ya-huh. Say no more, ballerina.” Gwen leaned over and kissed her best friend on the
cheek with a sweet, aunt-like smack. Chloe tried not to think about how much she’d miss this lady.

  “Go get him tiger,” were her friend’s parting words—for just as she spoke, the gate attendant announced that Flight 2903 to LaGuardia Airport was boarding.

  In truth, Chloe didn’t know what to expect when she got to the city. Between her confiscated cell phone and redacted internet privileges (not to mention Johnny’s refusal to provide her with an address), she had no idea where to find Ryder Strong in a big, throbbing metropolis. She kept telling herself that the world wouldn’t end if she couldn’t find him. In the end, she’d broken ties with her family for herself, not for some guy. Yet. Yet, yet, yet, yet, YET.

  She had one flimsy lead—a contact of Gwen’s (some hipster resident who aspired to be in on all the Mormon jokes, even as he mentored young churchgoers) had told her to hit up the VA. While medical records were necessarily sealed, it was possible that Ryder had put himself on some mailing list—and perhaps if she pressed the right chatty secretary, she’d find his number. As the flight attendants circled the cabin—two gorgeous, petite brunettes with their own disarming doll smiles, reminiscent of Freddy Eyring’s creepy Ken face—Chloe pulled the scrap paper with the hospital’s address on it from one of her pockets. She held the information in her lap, like a baby bird, and tried to get comfortable in the tiny coach seat.

  “Headed home?” This came from her paunchy seatmate, a tired-looking businessman in a polyester suit. Chloe immediately wondered if he was Mormon, or just visiting the wildlife.

  She didn’t know what she was thinking, when she blurted out ‘yes.’ She instantly felt like Gwen—savvy, capable, discriminate with the truth. But the white lie felt good. It felt, weirdly, true.

  She thought she’d seen enough of the world. Her church group had gone to Disneyland when she was small, and she remembered glimpsing stark California out the windows of the charter bus. She had been a part of crowds. She had attended campus rallies and talks. Plus, her mind’s eye was a world and time-traveler; in her books, she’d been to Paris in the 20s, London in the 40s, Rome in the Renaissance. Morocco, Guam, Japan. Still, none of this quite prepared her for the arrivals gate at LaGuardia airport. The sea of humanity there—so much darker, more diverse than her native land—made it seem like a light-switch had flipped in her brain. So this is the rest of it.

  But it wasn’t like she was dumb; she could read signs. If passing strangers seemed to judge her on her chaste paisley outfit and apple-cheeks, she took it in stride. Once, a leering man tried to start a conversation, as she waited at baggage claim for her familiar carpeted suitcase. She ignored him, feeling like a New Yorker.

  The noise didn’t let up outside, where people yelled at a few flustered men in fluorescent bright hats, demanding taxis. Chloe quietly took her place in line, and removed her journey’s only other map: an address to the Hampden Residence for Women, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Though every word in the chain felt unfamiliar in her mouth, she repeated the words over and over, sweat gathering on her brow, so when she took a place in the taxi’s passenger seat she was able to say her destination with confidence. Hampden House had been another one of Gwen’s helpful hook-ups. It was better than a hotel or a hostel, because the only clientele were businesswomen and teachers. No funny business allowed.

  “Where you from, sweetheart?” The taxi driver’s eye was wandering. “Kansas? Don’t tell me I’ve got Dorothy Gale in my cab.”

  Chloe smiled tightly. “As much as I love her footwear, we’re not related,” she snapped back. When the cabbie laughed, she was pleased with herself. Maybe she could make it in this tough town after all.

  The ride was long, but it didn’t feel like it. Out the window, the world whipped past like a fever dream. Chloe noted untold skyscrapers, homeless people, pedestrians who might as well have been racing one another, for their speed. She delighted in the spires of several elegant churches (“This is midtown,” the cabbie pointed out, pleased to offer a two-penny tour) whose big stone facades demanded grace. “Can just anyone go in?” she asked, pointing to a Neo-Gothic structure that reminded her of Notre Dame.

  “To St. Patty’s? Oh, you betcha.”

  “Catholic?”

  “Oh, born and raised,” the cabbie said, misunderstanding the question. “What about you?”

  “I’m Christian,” Chloe said. Another white lie. But this one, too, felt right. Her stomach leapt, with some combination of dread and excitement.

  The fun paused when, on arriving outside the modest-looking Hampden House, the cabbie informed her that the drive had cost sixty dollars. Her heart sunk as she forked over the bills, which represented a pretty hefty chunk of Gwen’s donation. She needed a job yesterday. At least, she reminded herself, she’d had the foresight to bring an emergency credit card. But this was in her mother’s name, so who knew how long it would work before someone in the family either tracked her down via purchases or cancelled the damn thing.

  “Be careful out there, love,” the driver said, as he peeled back into traffic. She turned to face her new home. Breathe deep, she told herself. You’re no crazier than Jo March, or Esther Greenwood. Practically all of your favorite literary heroines took off for New York at some point. Then, as she fumbled with the revolving door: Well, maybe not Esther Greenwood. She’s a bad example.

  A chesty woman-out-of-time sat in the lobby, gazing at herself in a compact mirror. Chloe tried not to stare at the deep V of her cleavage, and settled on her fire-engine red hair, instead. If this chick was supposed to be exampling Hampden House’s stated values of “modesty,” and “respectability,” Chloe had a bad feeling about the rest of the city’s moral compass.

  “How can I help you, baby?” The woman snapped her compact shut with a click, and smiled a seductive smile. Chloe blushed, in spite of herself.

  “Chloe Christiansen. I’m from Provo? My friend Gwen got me a room here?” She hated how little-kiddish and small she sounded, but the woman didn’t seem to mind. Rather, she swiveled her attention to an ancient-looking computer, and started taking her sweet time to scroll through some kind of database.

  “New in town?” she drawled, without looking at Chloe. It occurred to her that Gwen would probably like this chick. They both probably identified as Samanthas, on Sex and the City. (Well, this analysis based on the one time Chloe’d snuck a viewing of the very-taboo HBO show, on some co-ed’s computer in college.)

  “Yep. I’m from Utah.” She wasn’t used to introducing herself by the name of her state. The words felt strange on her tongue.

  “Oh, bitchin. I’m from Oregon.”

  “So you’re not from New York?” Chloe tried to hide her surprise. The receptionist looked at her, and smiled impishly.

  “Darling, almost no one like us is from New York. We’re all immigrants.” She pressed a button on her computer, and a plastic key card emerged from some mysterious machine. “It’s Room 212, up the stairs and to the left. Activities and communal meal info is posted in every corridor. And my name is Lexi, if you need help with anything.”

  Lexi winked as Chloe took the key card from her lacquered nails. She swiveled her attention to the rest of the lobby. Us, Chloe remembered, smiling. She said ‘no one like us.’

  There’s no place like home.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lance Corporal Wallace Steenburgen, twenty-three, was not a fan of noise. He was not a fan of music of any kind, or what he dubbed “small-talk” (a lot of things counted as “small-talk”), and he wasn’t above shushing anyone. “I like my quiet,” he told Ryder, at their first meeting. And then he’d proceeded to return to his Kindle for the next hour, where he always seemed to be reading from some mysterious text.

  Ryder figured that Dr. Fisher had given him a difficult case for a reason. Even though Lance Corporal Wally didn’t look “difficult,” on the outside. Unlike himself or Johnny, the guy had—thankfully—not suffered any lasting physical damage during his tours, though the experienc
e had left him all-but-mute. When Ryder saluted him at their first meeting, Wally just snorted. Apparently, young Wallace retained nothing but contempt for the military.

  So, Ryder’d tried to go at his new project sideways. He brought a deck of cards to their next meeting—but Wally didn’t like “competitive sports,” it turned out, which left Ryder to fume for sixty minutes over a game of Solitaire. He’d tried to engage his new mentee with stories from his own life, as he’d done with Dr. Fisher, Nabby, Mirabel and Lexi. But Wally wasn’t to be charmed by the long story of his detour through Mormonland. The only thing he’d said after Ryder had laid out the most humiliating part of the story—the moment when he and Chloe had been caught (literally red-handed) by the pill-popping brother—was, “Man. Extremists, right?” This cryptic remark marked the end of their conversation.

  Wally was handsome. He had dark, tan skin, and lustrous hair and eyebrows to match. It seemed a shame that he appeared to have given up on a normal life so soon, though Dr. Fisher had told Ry several times “not to think of it as ‘giving up.’”

  “Just like you, with your nightmares, the boy has an illness. He’ll always have it. It’s our job to simply ease his pain, and make ourselves available listeners.” The advice only works if the kid fucking talks, Ry had retorted in his head. More than once.

  Today, as the sun was setting over the West side, Ryder was prepared to play his last hand. He’d brought his own book. The old favorite, A Confederacy of Dunces. Instead of trying to engage his mentee, he merely greeted him with a smile and cracked its dusty surface.