Sail (Wake #2) (10 page)

I was thinking the words, “I want her to trust my heart,” when I saw her—frazzled traveler that she always was. Bag over her shoulder, lugging that rolling hell-box on wheels and looking at her boarding pass as she walked, probably quadruple checking that she was going to the right gate. I loved watching her before she knew I saw her. Like in Atlanta, I opened my camera and took a picture of her, stopped right in the middle of the walking lane looking at the signs.

Perfect.

She folded the paper and put it in her pocket, and then she wrung nervousness from her hands. Flopping them in front of herself like a fish robbed of water. It was funny, but I did that too. Shake it off. Everyone does that.

Then she saw me.

She smiled and I watched the tension leave her shoulders as she relaxed.

I tried to smile, but because I already was smiling my ass off, it probably looked like I was just showing her every tooth in my head.

I tipped my head.

She tipped too.

I’m not a prick. I could have got up to help her, but she had it on her own. She didn’t need help for the last ten feet between herself and me. So I sat there. And enjoyed one of my favorite pastimes, watching that magnificent creature come to me. If I’d propelled myself toward her at that moment, I would’ve been a runaway train—fucking her at gate G99 for all to watch.

Don’t be the one-night stand guy.

I’d be the one-forever man.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

HE STOLE MY BREATH. It felt like I’d been waiting to see that gorgeous man for forever. It had only been days, but there’d been a huge shift between us.

Finding him, sitting there peeling the plastic label from his water bottle, was almost like the first time I’d seen him. It was crazy how setting my eyes on him reassured me that all of the struggles had been worth it.

He was my fantasy coming true. Head cocked to the side. Hair perfectly messy. Jeans. White button-up shirt, tan army jacket, and a red scarf. How did he get away with looking like that? Like he walked right off the pages of a fashion ad. I didn’t know any man, in real life, who dressed like he did. I also didn’t know anyone else who I paid that much attention to either. Those curls. That smile. Had I really thought I’d ever
not
want him? I’d been crazy even trying to resist.

I lugged my bag over to the open seat next to him, but didn’t say anything.

I wondered why he didn’t get up or come over to me, but he was
right there.
The playful look on his handsome face indicated he was riling me up. Poking a friendly stick in my cage to see what I would do. Strangely, that was just his Casey-way of telling me to come to him. To keep taking steps in his direction. Or that was how it felt anyway.

I was a little nervous. It was the first time we’d ever been together. Like this together. We weren’t meeting up somewhere randomly. I wasn’t going to him or vice versa. We were going in the same direction together and something about that felt fundamentally right in every beautiful way.

“Can I sit here?” I said in my pretend southern voice, and then I second-guessed myself.
Betty.
His smile only fell for a flash of a second. We both wore bruises on the inside. Of all my sins, sharing that intimate secret with someone else—Betty—was one of my biggest offenses. And I just brought it up, the very first thing. I wasn’t very smooth.

“I was saving it for you,” he said. What he didn’t say was, “that still kind of hurts,” and what I didn’t say back was, “I’m sorry.” But through that one look, as I held his gaze, we told each other both.

I smiled even though I was scared I’d already made a mistake. “I like your scarf.”

“I bet you do,” he said, his genuine good humor shining through, just like it always did.

I sat next to him and put my bag against his on the floor in front of us. It wasn’t something I’d normally think about, but having my things and his things there, headed to the same place, was comforting. My healing heart pounded.

Casey wrapped an arm around my shoulder and drew me to him over the armrest and he whispered in my hair, “You look beautiful. And don’t worry, I know.” I watched as his hand covered his heart, and, therefore, the tattoo underneath his shirt. “Betty’s mine,” he breathed. My eyes fluttered shut from relief. “She was always mine.”

I exhaled and let myself unwind in his words. I let myself relax, feeling his arm around me. It. Felt. Right.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he said. “That’s old news now though. Okay? Let’s talk about something more important,” he said as he pulled away, but still leaving his arm around my shoulders. “Do you think there will be a nude beach in Costa Rico?” He’d tried to surprise me with our final destination, but when he sent me my flight information, I sort of figured it out. He got major points for trying.

I laughed and felt at ease, as if he always knew how to make me feel better.

“Well, God I hope so. I only brought shoes.” I said a silent prayer that his good humor would always get us through these awkward moments we were bound to have.

I smiled at my joke and what it did to his expression, catching him off guard. He bit his bottom lip. I wanted to kiss him, but quelled the urge with the knowledge that I’d be with him day and night in paradise for almost a week. Plus, we were in an airport and no one else wanted to see all that.

The flight was on time. He’d booked us first class. The funny thing about first class was on some planes it looked really impressive and on others it just looked like nicer seats. That flight was one of the best first classes I’d ever flown in. The bonus? It was my first, first class, with him.

After we were at cruising altitude, Casey unzipped his backpack and produced a pad of paper.

“Doing some writing?” I asked.

“Nope. We’re playing Hangman.”

“How do you know I’ll play with you?” I teased defiantly. I would do whatever he wanted. And, frankly, playing sounded fun, but I wanted to flirt. He brought it out in me.

“Because you’ll do whatever I tell you to,” he said like the boss he was. Then he winked. He flipped open the notebook and uncapped the marker with his teeth, flipping it and putting the writing end into the cap gracefully without looking. How many days had I squandered away and lost with him? I started to feel like the person who’d been robbed the most, after all the pieces fell, was me. Casey telling me I’d do his bidding was no joke. My instincts always responded to what he’d told me to do. Always. When he told me, outright, what he wanted from me, it killed me to deny him. When things went unsaid, that’s when I was unsure, guessing what to do.

What a revelation.

Before I could rethink myself, I told him that. Maybe he needed to know, too.

“I like when you do that.”

He stilled, giving me his attention, dropping the pad and marker on his tray table. “What?”

“That. I like when you tell me to do stuff.” Initially, I hadn’t been thinking about intimate things. Sexual things. But the sentiment was true there, too. I knew that’s what he’d taken from my comment because his face flushed and he looked around the cabin, even leaning up to make sure ears and eyes weren’t on us.

He chuckled when he knew we were safe from ear-shot, gave me a mischievous grin, then he stowed it—pretending I had a naughty secret to tell. The information wasn’t intended like that, but it wasn’t confidential how I reacted to him. I’d never been able to hide the physical effects he had on me.

“Exactly what are we talking about here? You like when I suggest Hangman or when I tell you what to do? We need to define
stuff.
I need this to be very clear.”

“Both,” I said quickly. Then confessed in a more hushed tone, “But I especially like when you tell me what to do when we’re alone.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. But he hadn’t drunk anything and the thought of my statement making his mouth water had my pulse quickening. He cleared his throat. I liked how powerful I felt, which was ironic because I pretty much just told him I liked him taking control.

“May I have an example?” he asked. “For clarity’s sake.”

My memory scanned over our history and all of my examples weren’t really times where we’d been in the best of places, relationship-wise.

“Well, it’s a little weird because we were kind of fighting,” I admitted, wondering if I should have brought it up. Worrying it might only bring up other unpleasant memories.

“Blake. We’ve fought a lot, that’s just who we are. This is me, telling you what to do. I’m going to need specific details about what you enjoy. It is my new mission in life to do things you like. So, for the love of Hangman, be specific.”

I was the worst at talking like that. I didn’t have a way with words like he did. However, it was much harder for me on the phone than it was in person, so I went for it.

“I liked the way you,” and I paused, looking for the best word. No I wasn’t. I knew the best word. Fucked was the best word. Fucked was the correct verbiage. The look on his expectant face told me he knew what word I was thinking too and he leaned in close so I could whisper it.

“…Yes?” he sang.

“…fucked me in Atlanta.” I was thankful I didn’t have to say it very loud. I barely said it at all. Regardless, the message was received.

“God, I take it back,” he said in a low voice and readjusted himself. All of himself.

“Why?” I’d thought that was what he wanted. He’d told me to be specific. What I’d said wasn’t graphic, but I was sure he knew which time I was talking about with regards to him telling me what to do. I was confused and it must have shown.

“Come here,” he requested. I leaned over, close enough I could smell the original flavored Trident he was chewing. “I know I told you to tell me, but that was a mistake. I forgot we were on a plane. I’d like to pick this line of conversation back up when I have you somewhere I can show you what that just did to me.” With his hand still on his lap, he slowly ran it over the impressive bulge he was failing to conceal. His strong hand gripped it through his denim—
and how I’d love to be that hand at the moment
—and I immediately agreed with him. A plane was no place to give my dirty talking another shot, but knowing how well it worked, I’d keep that card in my pocket and try again later.

Before I pulled away from him, he moved his hand from his erection to my chin. And when I thought he was going to kiss my mouth, he kissed my nose instead.

“Your nose is pink, honeybee. We better hang this guy before we get scolded by the flight attendant. She looks like she could whoop my ass.” I looked toward the front of the plane where Ruth the six-foot flight attendant manned her post with a watchful eye.

We held hands and played a very vulgar game of Hangman. With him being a lefty and me a righty, we didn’t have to let go once. His thumb would rub over my knuckles.

One more thing I loved about Casey. He was fun to travel with.

The poor hangman died at least twenty times no matter how we tried to save him. The last game he died because I didn’t get “Dirty Sanchez” before all of his limbs swung from our Sharpie’s noose.

First class was nice, but when the driver, who picked us up at the airport, held a sign that read
Honeybee and Lou,
that was a full-swoon moment. When he saw I’d spotted the sharply dressed man in the hat holding the sign, he squeezed my hand. The same hand he’d only let go of a few times in the hours we spent on the plane.