Somewhere on St. Thomas: A Somewhere Series Romance

by Neal, Toby

  The truck hit an especially deep pothole and it threw me against him. His skin felt hot. I scooted away, fumbling in the crack of the bench seat for the seat belt.

  “No belts,” Rafe said. “You’re gonna have to take your chances with me.”

  The dirt road dead-ended at a cow pasture. On the other side of the pasture, the long arms of ridges ran down from the steep mountain.

  “The trailhead’s on the other side of the pasture,” I said.

  “I never would have found this without you,” he said as we swished through bunchy grass.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So why are you so eager to leave?” He made an arm gesture encompassing the jewel-colored mountains, the deep blue sky with its feather-bright clouds, the velvety field trimmed in ornamental orchid trees.

  “It’s boring here.”

  He laughed. “You just haven’t lived anywhere else.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “California. Talk about a place with a lot going on. But I used to think it was boring, too.” He told a few stories about a family home in a place called Red Rock, where Saturday-night excitement consisted of driving back and forth in cars packed with friends on Main Street and lighting bottle rockets at a drive-in movie theater.

  “We don’t have a Main Street, or even a movie theater of any kind except in Charlotte Amalie,” I complained, jumping over a cow patty. “I’ve had it with this place.”

  “What about water sports?”

  “I can do all of them.” I waved a disparaging hand. “Surfing. Diving. Fishing. I’ve even been learning windsurfing, that new thing with the sail attached to a board. They’re all fine. Probably the best thing about living here. But I want things that have to do with the mind.”

  “What about the body?” He turned those deep blue eyes on me. “You seem fit. For a girl.”

  I snorted. “Maybe I’ll join some sort of sports team when I get there. There are no teams here, so I figure if I have a base of fitness, I can learn to play any sport.”

  “Any sport, huh?” We were approaching a giant fallen log at the edge of the pasture. He pointed. “Let’s see you get over that.”

  “No problem.” I reached up and grabbed a branch near the top. I hauled myself up to stand on top of the log, then jumped the six feet to the other side. I ran when I hit the ground, full speed, across the rest of the pasture and into the jungle on the other side. I’d show him how “fit for a girl” I was! I dodged and wove through trailing vines and towering trees, finally flattening myself against a mango tree draped so heavily in vines I was able to slip in under them as easily as hiding behind a curtain.

  I heard him running, crashing through the brittle branches on the ground.

  “Ruby!” he yelled at last. When I was born with red hair, my dad, in a poetic fit, named me Ruby Day Michaels. It was hard to live down.

  “Boo,” I said from behind him.

  He whirled, and for a moment I was frightened by the intensity of his face. He took two steps and loomed over me, and as suddenly as if we’d had a mind meld, I knew he was annoyed and aroused and amused with me all at once.

  I could even see how I looked to him, my green eyes the color of the jungle leaves, the red hair I was named for bright as a lit match in the gloom, my skin flushed and lightly tanned as a perfectly done marshmallow, my body an hourglass with amazing legs and a tight, round ass.

  I suddenly knew how his hands itched to cup my breasts, heft me up against him, put my legs around his waist. He wanted to explore every inch of my flushed skin in the dusky light of the jungle.

  It felt terrifying and wonderful to so completely know what he was thinking and feeling. I wondered if he could read my mind, too, and my face heated up even more.

  “You’re a brat,” was all he said. “This the trail?” He pointed into the greenish murk. Mosquitoes swirled around us.

  “Yes. It’s lighter up ahead on the ridge.” I slapped at my arms.

  “Okay. Let’s get out of these mosquitoes.” And he broke into a jog, leading the way.

  I kept up with him for a mile or so, but by then the trail was switch backing heavily uphill, and though we’d left the mosquitoes behind, now we were in the sun, which ratcheted up the humidity and made my redhead’s skin even pinker than usual. But I wasn’t going to ask for a rest.

  Instead I reached around into my knapsack and grabbed my water bottle, drinking some and pouring a little into my hand, splashing it onto my face and chest. He must have heard me because he stopped abruptly in the shade. “Let’s take a break.”

  “You read my mind,” I panted, rubbing the water into my neckline. I could feel it trickling between my breasts, wetting my shirt. I held his eyes, daring and naughty, and poured another handful, splashing it on my face, hair, and chest.

  “Oh damn,” he muttered, and turned away, pretending to focus on the view. I could see the front of his shorts bulging.

  The sight did something to me it had never done before.

  I knew about erections. I’d had boys get them looking at my breasts since sixth grade. Until now, knowing that had been an uncomfortable mixture of embarrassing and disgusting. To be honest, I thought less of men for reacting to my body, to women, that way. It demeaned us all, reducing people to animals.

  But today, seeing how I affected him brought an answering rush of blood, loosening my knees. I was beyond nervous. And yet I had an urge to keep provoking him. I took a long drink of water, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, and lowered the bottle to see Rafe staring at my shirt. He turned away with a wrench of movement.

  This whole thing was a bad idea. I had a dream, and it was to get off this miserable little piece of paradise and go somewhere that was all about the intellect. I wasn’t giving in to my hormones without a fight.

  I had to keep moving. That was the answer.

  I screwed the top on the bottle, stowed it in my knapsack, and passed him to hit the trail at a run, leading the way.

  Of course, that meant Rafe was looking at my ass the whole time, and I could feel him doing it.

  We were both exhausted and dripping, conversation impossible, when we crested the highest point of the ridges above the town. I sat in the lee of a boulder, panting, and looped my arms around my knees as I took in the huge vista. After a moment of hesitation, Rafe sat beside me, leaving a good two feet between us.

  Magen’s Bay swooped before us, cobalt toward the horizon and turquoise inside, the white beach so bright it hurt my eyes. The fringe of palm trees around the bay looked like lace from this distance. Belatedly, I remembered my sunglasses in the knapsack, took them out and put them on.

  We both sipped water. Mine was gone first. He’d been right. I should have brought extra water.

  “So. Why did you pick Northeastern University?” He still said the name like it was something bad.

  I shrugged. “It’s where I got a scholarship. And it’s the farthest I can get from here.”

  “I think you might get a little homesick,” he said softly, “when it’s blowing sleet and snow off the Charles River, the sky’s a flat gray ceiling, and there is nothing but buildings all around.”

  “You sound like you know what it’s like.”

  “I’ve been there. Went to college in Boston. It was enough to make me take to the ocean full-time.”

  I didn’t want to hear that.

  There was no water left, so I took out a mango and my trusty Swiss Army knife and used it to cut lines around the fruit, stripping off the skin in a few economical gestures. I handed the peeled mango to him, and saw he’d taken out a Buck knife with a carved horn handle.

  “Mine is bigger than yours.” He grinned, taking the sweet, slippery fruit.

  I smiled back. “I won’t hold it against you.”

  I stripped the skin off my mango and we ate companionably side by side. He cut slices off and ate them off his knife. I did the same, sneaking a glance at his large, capable hands holding the mango,
the flash of the blade, the shine of his teeth as the fruit disappeared between his lips.

  He’d taste like mango if I kissed him.

  I pictured licking the fragrant juice off his sculptured mouth. Fortunately, he was gazing out at the beauty of the view below and the crystal turquoise of the bay and didn’t see me staring. He had a mouth that looked perfect on his face, but might look too hard on someone else—the top lip a full, arched line, the lower one wide and mobile. His jaw was a stubble-roughened angle, his brows made secret caves over the blue of his eyes. That long blond-and-chocolate hair waved back from his brow, damp with the sweat of the hike.

  He glanced at me, and I looked away. I took another bite, but butterflies were fluttering around in my belly so wildly my appetite was gone. I offered him the rest of my mango, holding it out mutely.

  Instead of taking it, he leaned over and sucked the juicy tips of my fingers, his eyes sparkling blue mischief as he drew them into his mouth.

  I gasped at the feel on the sensitive pads of my fingers. The sucking sensation, his mouth so hot and slick, seemed to go straight to my breasts. I could feel my nipples tighten, hard as acorns. My whole body seemed to light up, and I felt a rush of heat between my legs.

  It was totally unfamiliar, yet as if my body had been designed for this, knew what to do, and had been waiting for a switch to turn it on.

  That switch had just been thrown.

  I couldn’t seem to move. His tongue flicked my fingers, traveling between them, his mouth taking them all the way in, sliding back out, tongue flicking the sensitive nerve endings at the tips again and again.

  In, out, in and out, as his blazing blue eyes held my hypnotized green ones.

  I couldn’t breathe or look away as he made love to my hand with his mouth. I leaned inexorably in his direction. Finally, he encountered the mango on my palm and took it, sitting back with it between his teeth and taking a bite.

  “Thanks.”

  I realized my hand was still extended, as if in supplication.

  Take me, that open, trembling hand seemed to beg.

  So did the rest of me, yearning toward the source of these electric feelings. I shot to my feet, flushed with humiliation and arousal, confused and terrified. I grabbed my knapsack and ran back down the trail.

  I ran all the way to the truck and then stood there, dripping sweat and mortification. I looked back across the pasture. No sign of Rafe.

  Well, hell if I was going to stand there and wait for that arrogant ass to meander down when he was good and ready.

  Besides, I had nothing to say to him and he was as dangerous to me as kryptonite. Good thing I was in shape and it was no more than a few miles back to town. I set off at a jog down the sandy-dirt road. I could have used some water, but there was no help for it.

  He eventually caught up with me close to the park, slowing the truck down beside me as I ran.

  “Hop in and I’ll drop you off at home,” he said through the open window, chugging along beside me.

  I wouldn’t look at him, still running, holding the straps of my knapsack. I didn’t answer.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, and gunned it. The truck kicked up some bad-smelling exhaust and a little gravel in my direction. He drove on and turned left, going out of town.

  “Son of a beehive!” I screamed after him, all the profanity allowed in my world.

  I took a moment to wonder where he lived, what his place was like, if he wanted to try to see me again…and then I ran hard to punish myself for my weakness.

  “That man is bad news.” I muttered out loud, panting. “I just have to get on the plane and get out of here. That’s all I have to do.”

  Chapter 2

  I managed to avoid Rafe for the rest of the two weeks until my departure. He made no gesture toward me, either, ignoring me at church and turning his back when we ran into each other at my parents’ office.

  This just made me want him more. I tossed and turned at night, waking myself up with sensual dreams, all starring Rafe doing things to me I’d only read about in the coverless paperbacks I picked up at garage sales. I knew women could touch themselves and have orgasms, but every time I’d tried in the past, I got too embarrassed and couldn’t get it to work.

  Now I couldn’t seem to stop. Rafe’s hands on me, Rafe in me, over me, all around me in fantasies got me there quickly. The day before I left, supposedly packing, I threw myself on the bed and tried to get him out of my mind, but all I ended up doing was touching myself.

  “You feeling okay, Ruby?” Mom’s worried voice came from outside my bedroom. “You’ve been in there awhile.”

  “Yeah, just sorting some things,” I said, breathless with mortification, hating myself for the whole situation. Thank God I’ll be gone tomorrow and will never see him again. I came out, washed my hands and splashed water on my flushed cheeks in the bathroom. “I’m okay.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not coming down with something. We’ve got the bonfire party tonight and tomorrow you’re flying out.”

  “Like I could forget. I’ll be fine.”

  I felt like I was living a double life. On the outside was the smart, good, virtuous daughter of missionaries who’d hardly been kissed, on her way to Northeastern University. On the inside was a tormented soul whose body had been switched on by the wrong man at the wrong time and now couldn’t be turned off.

  How I wish it could.

  The bonfire going-away party was wonderful. My friend Jenny, who was staying in Saint Thomas and going to community college, cried the most, hanging on to me and garlanding me with flowers. We sang songs around the fire to the strumming of guitars and beating of drums, and a wonderful potluck dinner filled my tummy with delicious island food.

  Rafe didn’t attend, though my parents had invited him. I’d noticed he wasn’t there from the moment the party began, and was annoyed that I noticed, annoyed with myself, that it mattered. All of those feelings added up to annoyed with him.

  Dancing around the fire with my friend Jenny, I realized I was going to miss this place, but that other world was so different I didn’t know what to expect. Due to finances, I’d never been to Boston, and again due to finances, tomorrow I was boarding the plane alone.

  The next morning was emotional. Getting ready to leave for the airport at Charlotte Amalie, I stood in the driveway for a last round of hugs from Jenny and my family. Both my parents were crying, and my sisters, Pearl and Jade, clung until I felt bruised.

  I heard the distinctive rattling of Rafe’s truck and looked up. He pulled up, parked, and got out of the truck as if his appearance were expected. He’d dressed carefully, I saw, in a patterned dark red shirt over black slacks. His long hair was still wet from a shower and combed neatly back.

  “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Michaels. Do you mind if I have a word with Ruby?”

  My dad, open-mouthed, shook his head. My mom just stared and I understood why. Rafe McCallum was indeed splendid to look at, with or without a shirt. Jenny wiggled her brows at me as Rafe took my arm firmly and towed me across the lawn to stand beneath a spreading Poinciana tree.

  The pattern of the tree’s leaf shadow fell around us and we were far enough away for privacy, but I was aware of watching eyes.

  “What do you want?” I snapped, tugging my arm away, because my body was humming at being so close to him. I could almost smell the pheromones spilling into the air around us, an intoxicating scent of what could never be, hovering just beneath conscious awareness but powerful nonetheless.

  “Just wanted to tell you—I enjoyed meeting you. And I’d like to keep in touch. Here’s my address.” He took my hand, set a little clamshell inside it, folded my fingers over it.

  “You have an address? And it’s inside a shell,” I said. He laughed. I thought I could look up at the shadow of him towering over me forever.

  He was still holding my hand, and then he pulled me close in a hug, socially acceptable in the circumstances. With his arms around me, my length pre
ssed to his, he whispered in my ear, “You’ve gotten under my skin. I’m going to miss you way more than I should.”

  “It’s the same for me,” I whispered back, and he held me away from him as if using all his strength to do so.

  “I wanted to see you every day since our hike, but I didn’t want to be a distraction to you,” he said. “But you are leaving today. I found I had to say goodbye.”

  “I wish you had come to the bonfire last night,” I said. “I was looking for you.” The words we said felt stilted but desperate.

  “Time to go!” Dad bellowed.

  Rafe took my hand and we walked back. I could feel my cheeks burning, conscious of my family and best friend watching. At the car he let go of my hand finally and said, loud and clear as a statement of intent, “I’ll see you again, Ruby.”

  And he hugged me one more time.

  I stared after him as he got into that funky old truck. The clamshell with his address in it was clutched in my hand, and I pressed that hand against my throat.

  “Wow,” Jenny said, appearing beside me and whispering into my ear. “I see why everybody’s talking about him.”

  I flipped my free hand. “Just another surfer.”

  “Seems a little more substantial than that,” Jenny argued. She traced a man shape, her white teeth gleaming. “I wouldn’t mind finding out how substantial. Sure you want to leave that bone behind for me to chew on?”

  I forced a laugh. “All yours. I’m off to the big city.”

  Dad and I got into the car after another round of hugs and turned onto the road for Charlotte Amalie and the airport.

  “How well do you know Rafe?” Dad asked.

  “Not well.”

  “You seem to have made an impression on him.”

  I thought of Rafe’s mouth on my juicy fingers. Whatever impression had been made was mutual.

  More hugs and prayers with Dad at the airport, his blue eyes emotional, and I got on the small prop plane and took off. The suitcase with all my worldly possessions in it was somewhere in the cargo area and the closed clamshell Rafe had given me was tucked into my pocket. I hadn’t wanted to look at it until I was safely in the air.