by Debbie Burns
Still holding her wrist, he stepped back a foot or two so that her arm was extended.
She considered pulling away, but her body wasn’t listening to her mind. “Carter, a thousand wild horses couldn’t drag me out there, so you might as well stop trying.”
“A thousand wild horses wouldn’t drag you anywhere; they’d stampede you.” He took another few steps back and pulled so that she began to slide across the bench.
“Carter!” she groaned as she reached the edge. In an easy swoop, he pulled her to her feet. She bumped against his chest. “You’re invading my personal space, but I think you already know that.” She stepped back, fighting a smile. “You don’t want to dance with me. I have no idea know how to line dance, or whatever this is.”
“You don’t have to know; I’ll show you.”
“Look, if I humiliate myself with one dance, will you promise not to say another word about Zoe and New York?”
“Cross my heart.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay. One dance, and we’re both going to look like idiots, because I’m going to be bad enough to bring you down with me.”
* * *
Carter hadn’t brought Josie here to dance, and he’d half expected her to shut him down when he pulled her off the bench like that. He hadn’t line danced in years, but when Kenny Chesney’s “Get Along” started playing over the speakers, and he led her to an open spot in the corner, it all came back. He passed her one of the beers and wrapped his free hand around her arm.
“It’ll be considerably less painful than hauling it up those stairs like you do every day, I can promise you that.”
He broke the steps into a series of simple moves. The music was booming; for her to hear him, he leaned close and spoke into her ear. His mouth brushed against her hair, and he forced himself not to think of how much he wanted to lose his hands in it. Only one beer in, he had the strength to refrain from attempting it.
Her outfit didn’t help him any; a dress, something formfitting at the top and stopping an inch or two above the knee, called his attention to her toned calves. Halfway through the second song, they sat their empty beer bottles on a nearby table, and she shed her jean jacket and hung it over one of the chairs. Without the jacket, his attention was drawn to the top half of her body as strongly as it had been to her bare calves.
Most of the time he thought of her as an enigma, someone whose shell he’d never crack, no matter how many ways he tried. Then he’d brought up New York, and she’d looked vulnerable and exposed in a way she’d managed to keep hidden so far. It was obvious that a part of her wanted to let Zoe experience New York; she just found the thought terrifying. It made him even more committed to finding out what—or who—she was afraid of.
Fear seemed to have been getting the best of her for a long time. He was more and more committed to helping her shed it.
By the time the song switched to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” she had the pattern down, though she still tended to turn the wrong direction a quarter of the time. “You’ve got moves.” He flexed his hand to keep from locking it around her waist. Her little smile had widened into a big one, and he didn’t want her shutting down.
The next song that came on was Kenny Chesney’s “Me and You.” As if a giant magnet had been aimed their way, couples all around pulled close together, and the floor became dotted with tightly paired bodies tangled in hungry arms.
Josie stepped back involuntarily even before Carter reached for her. “Thanks. That was more fun than I thought.”
“Then stay awhile.” He held out his hand, palm up.
She shook her head. “I don’t do slow dances.”
“Don’t, can’t, or won’t?” he said, bringing it around to their earlier conversation about driving.
“Considering it won’t change my answer, I don’t think it matters.”
She looked like a deer debating whether to stand frozen or take flight, so Carter closed his hand around her arm slowly. “Come on, just one.”
Her eyes seemed to shut involuntarily, but she didn’t attempt to pull away.
Not letting go of her arm, he stepped closer, and was a bit surprised when she didn’t back away. As they began to move to the rhythm, he wrapped his arms around her waist, carefully, at first, then more confidently.
As sure as he was that he could pick out her body in a lineup of a thousand other women’s, he was still surprised by the way she fit against him, thighs, breasts, hips—all parts he longed to explore.
Gradually, Josie’s body relaxed into his, and Carter slowly began to trust this unspoken truth more than any declaration she’d made at the start. Releasing his hands from where they’d been locked around the small of her back, he allowed them to slide over her hips and up the sides of her body, stopping just under her arms. He craved to explore her more, but that was a trust he needed to earn.
Her eyes closed again, but she didn’t step back. Her dress was so thin, he could almost envision it being flesh upon flesh.
And he was certain it wasn’t just him. As the song went on, she melted closer into him. When he glanced over at the couple next to them who were well into their seventies and had the smoothest moves on the floor, his lips brushed against Josie’s forehead.
He was damn certain in all his life he’d never wanted to kiss anyone more. He raised one hand and traced his thumb along the ridge of her jaw, then let it trail over her lips. For a second, he was impossibly close to doing so, and from the way her lips parted as she looked at him, he was confident she was going to let him. Then, it was as if she remembered something—or someone—and the longing in her gaze shut like a curtain.
She stepped back and tugged at one earlobe. “I told you I…” Her eyelids pressed closed a second. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”
She took off without waiting for him, heading back toward the booth they’d abandoned to dance. Halfway across the room, she switched directions and headed to the bar. By the time he collected her jacket and made it over there, she was flipping through one of the vertical drink menus.
“A chocolate martini,” she said to the bartender. “Two actually.”
“Thanks, but I’ll just have another Stella,” Carter said, resting an elbow on the bar, facing her. “Seeing as how I’m driving and all.”
Josie shot him a look. “Just because I ordered two, doesn’t mean one is for you.”
He took a second to read her. Her defenses were back up. “Thank you kindly, Dr. Seuss.”
The bartender overheard and chuckled. “Would you two like to start a tab?”
“No, we’ll be leaving soon,” Josie said, clearly realizing she no longer was wearing her jacket by the way her hand froze halfway to her nonexistent pocket.
Carter had already pulled out his wallet and handed over his credit card.
“You don’t need to get mine.” Josie eyed the jacket draped over his arm without reaching for it. Maybe she still felt too raw to initiate any form of touching too.
The bar was packed, and Josie shifted from one foot to the other as she waited.
“Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll bring it to you?” Carter offered.
She didn’t argue. She took off for the bathroom, and they met up at the booth seconds apart.
“Two chocolate martinis,” he said, setting them down. The thin, angular glasses were decorated with swirls of chocolate along the side, and the drink was topped with chocolate shavings. “I didn’t realize you had such a sweet tooth.”
“I don’t. Usually. Nothing else sounded good.” She took a cautious sip of the first one. “It’s good.”
He swigged his beer and watched as she had another few sips, twirling the glass in a slow circle when she wasn’t drinking. “So, mind telling me what the objective is here? While you’re still sober?”
Josie frowned. “I just—I need you to
understand that I can’t do this. Not now. Not ever.”
He took a minute to respond. “Do you want to tell me why, at least?”
She was halfway through the first martini. She wanted to get drunk, that much was clear. When she wasn’t drinking, she was using the plastic pirate sword to scratch away at the syrup stuck to the inside of the glass. What is it you’re trying so hard to keep buried, Josie Waterhill?
“Because the thing is,” he said when she didn’t answer, “I kinda think we could be good together.”
She winced at his words and gave a light shake of her head. “When this is all over for you—when you’re done unearthing whatever else you can about your grandfather’s story and you’ve written whatever it is Myra wants you to write for her and you leave—you’re going to be like the syrup in this glass. You’re going to leave behind a residue.”
A slow grin spread across Carter’s face. “A residue, huh? I’ve gotta say, I can’t remember being compared to residue before.”
“Myra will remember you,” she continued undeterred. “Zoe will remember you. I’ll remember you.” Josie shook her head. “But none of that means you belong here.”
She raised the first glass and finished it off. When she sat it down, Carter reached out to wipe away a smudge of chocolate under her lip. “It might not be any of my business, but two of those will probably put you on the floor.”
“We’ll see about that.” She wasted no time moving to the second martini. “I can’t do this with you. Can you just tell me you agree?”
“Do what with me, Josie?”
“Dancing. Sex. All of it.”
“What if we put a few more steps between dancing and sex?”
She shook her head and swallowed a few sips of the second martini. “You aren’t as funny as you think you are.”
He closed one hand over hers. “How about giving me a chance, at least?”
“I can’t. How could I do that? For goodness sakes, Zoe said you smell like doughnuts and special days.”
Carter shook his head. “That’s touching, but I don’t see how the way I smell has anything to do with this.” It was obvious a buzz was hitting her hard, and he suspected the decent thing to do was table the discussion until tomorrow when she was sober.
“She’s wrong,” she added, pointing a finger his direction and blinking heavily.
“How so?”
“You smell like Santa.”
He chuckled softly. “You mean like Scotch tape and freshly baked cookies?”
She set the half-finished second martini down and looked at him, her head cocked sideways, and her lips parted slightly. Her red-gold hair spilled over her shoulder, beckoning him again. “Is that what your Santa smelled like?” Her words were just a whisper.
“I can’t say I ever thought of it before, but that’s what came to mind. Why, what did your Santa smell like?”
She traced one finger over his hand and stayed quiet a long time before answering. “Like hope and disappointment.”
He shifted in his seat, her words stabbing him in the heart. “Are you going to tell me why?”
“Because I used to be little enough to believe he could fix everything. To think that, if I was good enough, for long enough, he would.”
“And Christmas came, and he couldn’t?”
“Most of the time, it just came without him.”
What would he take on to fix that for her? To make sure nothing like that ever happened to Zoe? No wonder Josie didn’t want to let anyone in. “Not everyone leaves, Josie. Not everyone disappoints.”
She turned his hand over and traced the lifeline of his palm. Her gentle touch heated his blood again. “Everyone leaves sooner or later. Especially the ones you want to stay.”
Carter closed his fingers around hers, stopping her caress before his blood boiled too hot. With her free hand, she raised the second martini and swallowed down the last of it. Her eyes drifted closed and stayed that way for close to a minute.
“Will you take me home?” she asked when she opened them.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Carter?”
“Yeah?”
“If I get any drunker than this, I’m either gonna fall asleep in the car or come on to you. If I do that, will you turn me down?”
“Is that a question or a request?”
“No wonder my mom never cared to be sober,” she said, her head dipping to the side again. When she saw him watching her, she said, “Did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, and a few other things.”
“Oh.” She fell quiet again. “Carter?”
“Yeah?”
“Out there on the dance floor, it was nice.”
“I thought so too.”
“I didn’t realize martinis were so strong.”
“How about a glass of water?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think I should put anything else in my stomach right now. Can you take me home?”
“Yeah, and if you come on to me, I’ll do right by you. Promise.”
She nodded and lifted one of the glasses to lick at the chocolate on the rim which was somehow both sexy as hell and endearing at the same time. “I’d have put money on you being a gentleman.”
He stood up and reached for her hand. “Come on, Josie Waterhill, let’s get you home.”
Chapter 21
As Josie walked back into her apartment living room, the ice water in the bowl she was carrying sloshed over the side, splashing her bare feet. The frigid water helped pull her back from the shock she’d been in the last hour.
Sam was still curled on the floor at the foot of the couch, a sweaty, disheveled mess. He didn’t even seem to notice the tirade of words, senseless numbers, and phrases slipping from his lips.
Stepping over him, she took a seat on the couch and dipped a raggedy washcloth into the bowl, then wrung it out. She pressed the washcloth over his forehead, securing it with her hand.
“Sam. Sam…” She shook his shoulder. “You need to tell me what you took.”
He was sweating, but his teeth chattered uncontrollably. “Shit. Eight. Fifty-two. Forty-seven. Son of a bitch. Thirty-one. You’re the best, Josie. Don’t leave me. Shit. Shit. Sixteen. Sixteen is best. That’s it. Sixteen.”
Five minutes ago, she’d been hopeful he was coming out of it, but now he was slipping back in. When he recovered, she’d kill him. Somehow, she’d make him see what he was doing to himself. To his future. To her.
For now, all she could do was help keep him calm. Get him through until morning. Minutes passed like a line of dominos waiting to come crashing down.
During his calmer moments, her thoughts went back to Nico. Her arm still burned from his touch. For the last two years and three months, she’d had little more than bits of wild gossip and two quick sightings in passing, similar to tonight’s. Those sightings had left her longing for some deeper reassurance that he wasn’t the lost soul he was rumored to be.
Only tonight had been different. They’d spoken. Sort of. And he’d promised to send help. What had he meant? Maybe he’d just said it to get her back in that cab and away from that house with Jena inside, glaring at her from the window.
Sam had called her three hours ago as she was getting ready for bed. At first, she’d thought he was wasted. But it was worse than that. After a bit of cajoling, he’d spouted off an address. She’d never have believed for one second Nico had been there too. The party was forty-five minutes out at an over-the-top Redondo Beach house, where cars had been lined up a half-mile away, and music had boomed from its windows.
Leaving the cab driver idling out front, using up all the money she’d saved for groceries, Josie had headed up to the house and let herself in without knocking. No one would have heard had she tried. Some people had been dancing. A handful of couples had been gettin
g it on in corners. Others seemed to have been quietly riding out a buzz. She’d been scanning the crowded living room for Sam when she spotted Nico. He was sitting on a couch staring right at her, Jena at his side.
Surprised as she was to see him, she’d stood there, gawking at him until he acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head toward a nearby hall. That was when it hit her. He’d known Sam was there and hadn’t bothered to help.
Her feet had unstuck then, and she ended up finding her brother on a dirty bathroom floor curled in a ball against the bathtub, muttering incomprehensibly. It took a bunch of coaxing and a promise of no hospitals to calm him down and get him to his feet. Once standing, he leaned heavily against her, and she dragged him out and into the hall.
“Potluck,” he’d mumbled.
Halfway to the front door, he’d dropped to his knees and doubled over, refusing to budge. She’d been attempting to haul him to his feet when she noticed Nico was standing a foot away, his expression an unreadable mask.
“Let me help you get him outside.”
He towered over her, all the muscle and height and power that his body had once promised to become. He was eighteen now, closing in on nineteen.
Anger had rushed through Josie’s veins to know he’d been sitting on the couch while Sam had OD’d thirty feet away. She’d thought of Francie, all this time, all the long nights of worrying if her son was alive or dead or causing others harm. And Nico sat around at parties like this and got high.
Before she’d even knew she was doing it, she shoved him hard in the chest. “Asshole!”
He’d recovered with the grace of someone accustomed to considerably bigger blows. In the space of the time it took him to plant one foot behind him and steady himself, everyone was staring at her.
“You gonna teach that bitch some manners or want me to do it?” some guy had yelled.
Nico had raised his hand to ward off Jena, who’d jumped to her feet and was crossing the room with a string of angry curses.