He watched as Gena grabbed a pink bottle and flipped the cap open. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and put the offending bottle back on the shelf. Then she grabbed a green bottle. That one must have been really bad because she shuddered. Next up was a white bottle. It made the cut and landed in the basket.
Curious, he grabbed the green bottle and sniffed. Girly and fruity, but not repulsive.
“What?” she looked at him.
“Nothing. I just realized I’ve never been shopping with you.”
He’d shopped
for
her, but that had usually involved only lingerie and jewelry stores. The memory of stripping away sexy underwear, leaving her wearing nothing but a sparkling gold chain, had him white-knuckling the cart’s handle.
“You can see you missed a lot,” she said.
“I suppose you’re used to shopping at, uh, other stores.”
She started to say something, then stopped. “Once
upon a time, maybe. I’ve since learned to be more frugal.”
She turned at the next aisle and selected toothpaste, a toothbrush, and floss. He followed her up and down a few aisles. She added fewer items than he’d have expected, especially in cosmetics. Not that Gena needed a lot of make-up, but he recalled a trip they’d taken once. It had seemed half her luggage was a traveling salon.
Still, seeing her wearing so little make-up now made him realize how young she looked. At thirty, she could pass for a college freshman.
Gena grabbed a neon-colored toiletry bag from an end-cap display. “Done here.”
They headed to women’s clothing next. In less than five minutes Gena picked out three pairs of jeans and three shirts. She was even faster in lingerie, grabbing underwear, bras, and socks.
“Shoes?” he asked.
“My sneakers are fine.” She leaned against the cart and rubbed her head. “I think that’s it.”
He realized she was exhausted; on the verge of collapse. “Come on. We’ll grab a suitcase and leave.”
He paid for their purchases with cash. She limped as they walked out of the store, and this time she didn’t protest when he put an arm around her shoulders and helped her to the car.
“Where to next?” she asked after he started the engine.
“It’s late and we both need sleep. We’ll get a room, call it a night, and hit the road early in the morning.”
“Do I get my own room?”
“No. I’ll get double beds. I know it’s awkward, but
I’m not letting you out of my sight again.” He braced for her protests, prepared to go gangster on her if necessary. This wasn’t optional.
Instead she shrugged. “I’m too tired to argue, though I probably won’t be able to sleep. When I close my eyes, I see … Lupe.”
“You can watch movies all night.” Rocco headed back in the direction they’d come, toward one of the busier roads with lots of newer hotels and restaurants.
A short time later, he carried their stuff to a second-floor room at the Holiday Inn.
“You can have the bathroom first,” he said. “I’ll get ice and some sodas. It’s just two doors down.”
While out of the room, he checked the selection of snacks in the vending machine, just in case he could tempt her to eat more.
A7. Ding Dongs. His current favorite.
B1. Creme-filled chocolate cupcakes. His childhood favorite.
C3. Twinkies. Not.
He scanned the lower rows for something healthy. Granola-fied. Gena had read the list of ingredients off his box of Ding Dongs once.
“What language is this?” she’d teased. “Do you know what this stuff does to you?”
“Yeah. Chocolate makes me horny,” he’d defended.
His eyes locked onto G9. Chocolate M&M’s. He had a flashback. “Does this make you horny?” He and Gena had been in a movie theater. Gena had held up the box of M&M’s he’d bought her and proceeded to drop them down her shirt. They’d left before the previews had finished.
Rocco sighed and got pretzels and oatmeal cookies.
Back in the room, he emptied the Walmart bags on
the bed and began cutting tags off her clothing. Gena poked her head out of the bathroom.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said.
“Gee, try to contain your enthusiasm.”
“I mean, I need clothes. Would you hand me a pair of jeans and a shirt?”
“Uh, oh. We forgot to get pajamas, didn’t we?”
“We? Um, I forgot to buy them, yes.”
And I don’t own any,
Rocco thought. He picked up a pair of the stiff denim jeans they’d just purchased.
“You’ll be miserable sleeping in these. How about I lend you a shirt to sleep in? It’ll fit you like a knee-length tent.”
For a moment, she didn’t respond. “Fine. But I want to get PJs tomorrow.”
He rifled through his rucksack, pulled out a black T-shirt, and handed it to her.
She grimaced as she took it from him. As if the thought of wearing something of his revolted her.
If it bothers you that much, sleep naked,
he thought.
But when she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, he did a double take. Couldn’t help himself. What should have been a big, baggy turnoff had never looked hotter. His shirt dwarfed her frame, making her look even tinier. Except for her breasts, which were anything but tiny and made an indentation that shirt had never known.
He turned away, in part to hide his erection. Couldn’t help
that
either. He grabbed a pair of his own jeans and his shave kit. “I’ve got dibs on the bed closest to the door. There’s soda, ice, and some snacks. Help yourself.”
“You said you wanted to be on the road early. Do
we need a wake-up call?” She had moved to her bed and was flipping back the spread.
Rocco’s internal clock would wake him, but Gena had never been one to spring out of bed without smacking the SNOOZE button a couple of times. “Suit yourself.”
“Where’s the remote for the TV?” she asked.
“Check in the nightstand drawer.” At the bathroom door, he hesitated, concerned about leaving her alone.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said when he peeked around the corner.
She was already under the covers, and looked—
Don’t go there.
He moved away. “I won’t be long.”
In the bathroom, Rocco eased his jeans down over his erection. Seeing Gena wearing his shirt hadn’t helped. Thinking of her naked beneath it hadn’t helped either.
He climbed in and turned the shower on. The blast of cold water did the trick. Until he picked up her bottle of shampoo and flipped the lid. “Night Jasmine,” the label read. That it smelled like her had his cock hardening again.
He set the shampoo aside. “Hope I don’t run out of cold water.”
When Rocco came out of the bathroom, he found Gena sound asleep, the remote clenched in her hand, the television tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel.
Moving without sound, he checked the door locks and turned off all the lights except the one in the bathroom, which sent out a sliver of light. Then he slipped the remote free of her grasp and lowered the volume slightly. He left the news on, not wanting
to disrupt her sleep if he switched channels or turned off the TV.
He felt tired. Though he hadn’t been through the same ordeal as Gena, he was going on seventy-two hours with minimal sleep. If he didn’t get some decent rest, he’d be no good protecting anyone.
Shirtless, he left his jeans on and climbed into bed. While he preferred to sleep nude, he had slept in his clothes plenty of times, under much worse circumstances. He watched the news through slitted eyes and was just about to roll over when he became aware that Gena’s breathing pattern had changed.
In the time it took him to toss back covers it changed again. She started writhing as if in physical pain, alternately crying and then sobbing.
Rocco knew she wasn’t having an ordinary nightmare. Night terrors were a thousand times worse. They sucked you down, into the darkest abyss of hell. Made you aware of feeling trapped but unable to escape or awaken.
During his first deployment to the Middle East, Rocco had been plagued with night terrors. He recognized Gena’s pain. Watching another person perish while you’re helpless to stop it was agonizing.
“No! No!” She screamed now, thrashing violently.
Rocco leaned over her bed and grasped her shoulders. “Gena! You’re dreaming.”
When she didn’t respond, he shook her more firmly. “Wake up, sweetheart!”
Her eyes opened wide and unfocused. Disoriented, she sucked in a sharp breath of air.
“It’s me,” Rocco soothed. “You’re safe. We’re in a motel. You were dreaming.”
“You mean, Lupe’s not …”
“Lupe’s dead. The fire did happen. But you’re safe.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, I remember. It’s all my fault.” Gena tried to climb out of bed. “I have to go, to find her grandmother.”
Rocco gently caught her hands. She was trembling, from grief, from lack of sleep, from trauma.
“None of this is your fault. And it’s too late to go anywhere,” he said.
“But—”
“Shhh.”
Her misery tore at him. Shifting closer, Rocco wrapped her in his arms. She collapsed against him, as if desperate for comfort, and started to sob.
Rocco stroked her hair and let her cry. The urge to charge in, take over, and fix it—anything to make her happy again—rose strong. Except there was no fixing what had been done to her friend Lupe.
When she quieted, he tried to ease her back down to her pillow.
“No!” She struggled to push back up. “The dreams. They’ll start again.”
“Scoot over then.”
“Huh?”
“Scoot over. We’ll lie here and watch television.”
“Together?”
“Sheesh. We’re both adults. And we’re both dressed.” He shook his head. “You know what? Never mind.”
“Wait.” To his surprise, Gena moved to the middle of the bed and began patting the covers. “Where’s the remote?”
“It’s here.” Rocco grabbed it from the nightstand before climbing into her bed. He adjusted the pillow behind his back and began to surf channels. “Good-bye
CNN.” Stations flew by, until … “Hello, Homer Simpson.”
“D’oh! Bart!” one of the animated characters screamed.
Gena sat forward, hugging her pillow as she stared at the television screen.
The Simpsons
was one of those zany shows they’d both liked, but right now Rocco wondered if she was even seeing the on-screen antics.
He pretended to watch the show, but when he glanced at her again, she had her eyes closed. Until her head toppled to one side, causing her to jerk and awaken. Then she looked ready to cry again.
“Come here.” Rocco opened his arms and Gena literally fell onto his chest.
He lay still, letting her fidget, half expecting her to pop back up and flee to her own side of the bed. But within seconds she relaxed. The next time he checked, her eyes were closed, her breathing soft and even.
Unbidden, memories from their past came forth. In sleep, Gena looked innocent. Trusting.
Exactly the way Rocco remembered her. Back when things between them had been perfect …
Seven Years Earlier
A Private Caribbean Island
The island and the cabana were just as Rocco’s friend Dante had promised. Comfortable and private. No phone. No Internet. No distractions.
Solar panels provided basic electricity and a cistern collected rainwater, and this time of year rain was plentiful. The hot tub out on the back deck ran on bottled gas, which, like food and drink, had to be brought in.
But once here … God! What a paradise! The distant relative of Dante’s who owned the place was putting it on the market, and if it weren’t for the multimillion-dollar price tag, Rocco would have to seriously consider buying it.
Gena had been as eager as Rocco to explore the island. After changing into swimsuits, they’d spent the day in the ocean, swimming, snorkeling. Touching
, feeling. Moving real close, then apart, like it was an extended pre-foreplay session.
Just before sunset, he’d grilled steaks and made the salad while Gena sipped wine and made him laugh with her tales of growing up on her father’s ranch in the Rio Grande valley of Texas. She’d been an only child, born to the solitude of wealth and privilege, but raised by a loving nanny. Her late mother sounded like a nut job, but hey, Rocco’s mom was no prize.
He’d kept his own childhood stories light, making jokes about growing up poor, in a Kentucky trailer park. He’d never known his biological father, but the presence of a caring grandfather had kept misery at bay for Rocco and his sister.
After a leisurely supper, he’d taken Gena for a moonlight stroll along the beach. When the night breeze picked up, they’d hurried back to the cabana and built a fire in the living room while waiting for the hot tub to heat. Rocco had gotten up to refill their wineglasses only to discover they’d emptied the bottle.
“Red or white?” he had called out from the kitchen.
When Gena didn’t respond, he’d retraced his steps and found her zonked. Sound asleep atop a nest of pillows in front of the fireplace.
Seeing her lying there nearly naked, wearing only a tiny bikini, had been torturous. Deliciously torturous. He decided to take advantage of her snooze and slipped into the bathroom, where he’d promptly jerked off in the shower.
What he’d told himself was the chivalrous thing to do, to not scare the bejesus out of her by waking
her up with a giant woodie, now made him feel lecherous.
It didn’t help that, asleep, she looked way too young. Not twenty-three, but more like a seventeen-year-old who’d donned make-up and styled her hair to look more mature.
Rocco didn’t feel especially old, until he thought about Gena being twenty-three going on twenty-four, which meant he was twenty-nine going on thirty.
Thirty
felt ancient.
She was just starting out in life. And him? He’d lived three lifetimes.
She was living alone for the very first time. He’d lived alone forever. She was working her first full-time job. He’d had a lawn-mowing business at eight.
And while Gena had a trust fund that afforded her a different standard of living, she didn’t act spoiled or haughty. In fact, he’d seen glimpses of her tomboy side that she tried to keep hidden. He’d heard her infectious belly laugh, the one that wasn’t
ladylike.