CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (19 page)

I sit up, rub sleep gunk out of my eyes.

She calls, “You want some of this?”

I stand and stretch. “You know I do.”

“Get over here and earn it then.”

I stumble through the chaos of all the guys’ beds and clothes to the kitchenette where she’s working in front of the stove. She’s wearing bikini bottoms and a tiny tank top. “You’re looking good this morning.” I hope she didn’t wear that in front of the rest of the guys.

She tosses me a glance over her shoulder and sees that I can’t take my eyes of her butt. She giggles. “You’re a mess.”

“Are you going to feed me like this every morning after we’re married?” I rest my hands on her hip bones and kiss her neck.

She tilts her head to reveal more neck, and I keep moving my lips along it, slip my mouth to her shoulder.

“Naw—I’ll put you on tofu—don’t want you getting fat.”

My hands drift to her stomach. “You’re in no danger of that.” I close my eyes—caress her skin—enjoy the subtle changes I discover. “You taste good, too.” I chew on her neck some more.

“That’s the bacon.”

Banter. That’s all I get from her the past couple days. She won’t be serious—won’t accept the news we got from Stan for what it’s worth—won’t call her parents—won’t let me. She’s still the guiltiest person in the universe. Won’t let it go. Blames herself even more now. As soon as we’re done here, I’m going to ask—freak. I sucked too long on her neck. I rub the raspberry spot. “Sorry, babe.” I kiss it.

She reaches back and strokes my cheek. “I’m a marked woman now.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

She turns a piece of bacon over with a fork. “Mean the next one or you don’t get breakfast.”

“Babe!”

She holds a crispy piece of bacon up and wafts it close to my nose. “Get to work.”

I catch her mood. What will it hurt? “Okay. Okay.” I rub her bare shoulders and plant a kiss in the middle of her back. “Where do you want it?”

She tips her head the other way and points to the spot where her neck and shoulder meet. “Let’s see how long you can hold your breath.”

I laugh, hug her from behind, and start my free dive breathing cycles.

“Stop stalling.”

I blow air out all over her neck.

She wriggles with pleasure.

I inhale, inhale, pack it and then slowly, gently I place my lips back on her skin.

She melts into me.

My hands go back to her supple stomach. She feels so good. My lips suck harder and harder on her soft skin. She reaches up with one hand and combs her fingers through my hair, turns off the stove top and pushes the frying pan off the heat with the other.

She’s got both hands in my hair now—won’t let me stop sucking on her neck. Not like I want to. I close my eyes. Immerse in the moment. My hands stroke her stomach with more and more intensity, drift to her ribs, higher—

Freak.

I touched her.

I dart away and stare at my hands. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m sorry.”

She slumps over the stove. “Did I gross you out that much?”

“What? Stop it. That’s stupid.” I look up. “I just made you sin.”

She turns around. “Come back.” She laughs. “Let’s sin some more.”

I hate that laugh. It’s so not her. “Be serious. What do we do now?”

She walks towards me. “Whatever you want.”

I back up with my hands out in front of me to ward her off. “I mean to fix it.”

“Don’t bother.” She’s close now. I could touch her if I dared. “Nothing can fix me.”

“There was ice on the road, Leese. You’re not a murderer.”

“Shut up. You don’t know.”

“I’m calling your dad.” I head for my cell phone, but she gets there first.

She backs away, clutching the cell phone to her chest. “You’re so not calling my dad.”

I close my eyes—can’t look at her another second, or I’ll be all over her—try hard to think. What do we do? There’s something important I can’t quite remember. The red face of the president guy from her church back home—Jaron’s dad, no less—forms in my brain. I remember how angry I was when she told me she talked to him after our break up—told him about that night after the dance down by the pig barn when I marked up her stomach like I just stained her neck. “How about we call your president guy, then?”

“Jaron’s dad? I’m not confessing to him.”

My eyes open. I step towards her with my hand out for the phone. “But this wasn’t just making out or giving you a hickey. I crossed the line. Major sin—that’s what you used to call it.”

“It doesn’t matter any more. Why don’t you believe me?” She puts the phone behind her back.

“Because I’m still listening to the old Leesie.”

“Don’t—she lost.”

“Let’s find her. Please. Can Jaron’s dad help?”

She scowls. “I don’t live there anymore. He’s not my branch president.”

“Is there one here?”

“No.”

I pick up my laptop, flip it open, type, “Mormons in Grand Cayman” in the Google box. Yes. “Look, babe.”

She won’t.

There’s a picture of a small, gray boxy church with an unmistakable Mormon steeple. And a phone number.

I snag Leesie’s phone out of her room. Dial. Get somebody’s wife.

But she says he’ll be at the church tonight.

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM # 91, A BARGAIN

I want to steal the keys,
the car, and run,
but Michael makes me go with him.
I sit in the back of the makeshift
dive classroom, with my head
buried in my arms resting
on the folding table, and listen
to pens scratch and Michael’s voice
teach dive physics—one atmosphere,
two atmospheres, three atmospheres,
four.

I’m angry—want to hate him,
but his voice feeds my weakness,
my wanting, my worship, my desire.
I dream his body, his hands on mine.
No retreat.
Only surrender.

It’s a relief to cool
down in the pool
after lunch, swim laps
with his students,
help them and win
a smile from Michael.

A smile that says,
I love you,
I want you—
just do this one thing.

I shake my head.
No, Michael, no.
No.
No.
No.

Chapter 21

A GAMBLE

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME #10

Dive Buddy:
Leesie
Date:
06/17
Dive #:
--
Location:
Grand Cayman
Dive Site:
East End Pool
Weather Condition:
sunny
Water Condition:
turbulent
Depth:
10 ft.
Visibility:
shifting
Water Temp:
thermocline
Bottom Time:
most of the day
Comments:

After a long afternoon of back-to-back pool sessions, I hustle Leesie up to the apartment. “We need to hurry.” The president guy’s wife said we could see him at seven. It’s almost six. She said the church is close to the grocery store on the way out of Georgetown—about forty-five minutes drive. Funny. I must have driven by it a hundred times and not noticed.

“You can’t make me go.” Leesie stomps across the apartment into her and Alex’s room and slams the door.

I’m on her heels. “Please, babe,” I croon into the door. I try the knob—not locked. I push open the door. What the heck. Gabriel’s always in there. Why not me?

She’s sitting, scowling on her bed. “You can’t make me tell him anything.”

“If you won’t”—I close the door behind me so the entire apartment full of tired dive guides won’t hear all our personal business—“I will. I need help.”

“Divine intervention?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“I don’t want to talk to a stranger.”

I sit next to her on the bed. “What you and I
want
”—I put my hand on her knee—“is massively irrelevant.”

“You want—?” She glances down at the bed.

“That’s what I’ve always wanted. You know that. I don’t believe any of this stuff.”

“But—”

“But you do. So it’s important. More important than what
I
want.”

She rests her head on my shoulder. “This is useless. Believe me. He’ll shake his head and show me the door.”

“I don’t think so.” I put my arm around her. “I’ve got a feeling—”

She sits up, ducks my arm. “That’s rich. You’re getting revelation these days?”

I hate the tone in her voice and the look she gives me. I glance down, find her hand, grasp it in mine. “Something in my gut says we need to do this. Please, get ready.”

“What do I get if I go? It’s going to be humiliating.”

I press her hand. “You’re wrong.”

“Want to bet?” She makes a sound half-way between a snort and a laugh.

“Sure.” I lean forward and kiss her forehead. “If it will get you in the shower.”

She kisses me. “You could get me in the shower.”

“Freak, you’re wicked.”

“You love it.” Her lips are on mine again.

I want to lie down with her in that bed and forget all about that guy at the church, but I disentangle myself and stand up. “What’s the bet?”

She runs her hands over the sheets. “If I’m right, we come back here and lock Alex and Gabriel out of the room.” She wrinkles up her nose. “No. Not here. If I’m right, we find a dark, lonely beach.”

“And if I’m right?”

“We’ll get married tomorrow.”

I take her hand and pull her to her feet. “If I’m right—getting married?” I start to lose it and have to turn away from her. “You might not want to anymore.”

She hugs me from behind. “Nothing can ever make me not want to marry you.”

I turn around and clutch her hands in both of mine. “We both know that’s not true.”

“You’re going to risk us”—light plays on my diamond on her finger, mesmerizing us both—“for a stupid feeling in your gut?”

“Here’s the bet.” I kiss her one more time. “If I’m right tonight, babe. You gotta call your parents.”

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM # 92, CONFESSION

“Look at that! There it is.”
Michael turns his rental RAV
in the parking lot next to
the Grand Cayman Branch
of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.
He parks, turns off the ignition.
“Weird we never saw this.”
I stare at the building—not a big chapel
but way nicer than where we meet back home.
“I guess we weren’t looking.”
He squeezes my shoulder.
“We’ve found it now.”

We find our way in, find
President Bodden waiting in his office.
He stands—taller than Michael—
gray touching the close cut
fuzzy black hair at his temples.
“Sister Hunt?” His voice echoes
the Cayman richness of my doctor’s
accent.
I nod.

My hand disappears into the warmth
of his huge black hand. He releases
me and turns to Michael. “I didn’t
catch your name. Brother—?”
“Michael.” He shakes President Bodden’s hand.
“I spoke with your wife.”
“Well. Come in. Come in.” President Bodden
stands aside, holding open the door.
I hold Michael back. “He’s not a member.”
President Bodden’s shoulders rise and his hands
motion welcome. “I can talk to you both.”
“Not tonight.” I’m worried Michael will say too much
or I will. I’ve promised to talk, but if I start,
will I ever stop? There is too much Michael
shouldn’t hear—can’t hear—ever. “Wait, okay?”
He smiles courage at me and backs off.

I close the door, turn to the office.
President Bodden sits and folds his large hands,
that seem made for putting on heads
to channel God’s power into the afflicted,
on top of his desk.
I take the chair he offers.
“How long have you been on Cayman?”
I count back—takes a moment to assess
the time. “Almost eight weeks, I guess.”
His silvery eye brows rise and fall.
“I’m sorry we haven’t see you on Sundays.”

I stare at my toes sticking out of white sandals
resting on the standard blue Mormon church carpet.
He continues. “When is the last time
you took the sacrament?”
“The Sunday before I left BYU.”
His hands come off the desk, he sits straighter, his brow
creases. “You’re a BYU student?”
“Was,” I whisper as the twin marks on my neck
pulse redder and redder. “I was.”
“The Lord gave you that great privilege,”
he tries not to let his disgust linger in his voice,
but fails, “and this is how you show your gratitude?”

He thinks I’m a slut breaking the honor code.
Fine that’s just what I’ll be. I stand up.
“That’s why I’m not going back.”
He stands, too. “Do you know how many
righteous youth want to go to BYU and can’t?”
I nod, hand on the doorknob. “I get the message.”
“No you don’t. Sit down, Sister Hunt.”
No one could resist his tone. I obey.