Giving In (The Sandy Cove Series Book 1) (7 page)

Shit. I better make this good.

“Can I go talk to her?” She nods.

“Last room on the right, and remember what I
said asshole, she needs to stay, so do your best to keep her here.
I know being a nice guy may be new to you, but you better try, if
your genitals know what’s good for them.”

This chick is scary, and if I don’t make Harlow
stay, I’ll be afraid to go to sleep at night.

I take a deep breath in, as I pass two very
pissed off broads, and make my way to Harlow’s door. I reach it and
quietly knock a few times. This is really not my thing, but here
goes nothing.

I hear her faintly tell me or whomever she
thinks it is to come in.

I slowly turn the knob and make my way in. She’s
turned so her back is to me and the rest of her is in her closet,
taking out items of clothing. A large suitcase is on her bed, open,
with a few things already in it.

I close the door behind me and lean against it.
When she turns and sees me, she looks shocked, but surprisingly
calm. Her eyes only meet mine for a split second, and she goes back
to doing whatever she was doing. She addresses me without another
glance.

“What are you doing here? You got what you
wanted, I’m leaving. Hope you’re satisfied.”

Why do I suddenly feel bad? That’s not like me.
I don’t feel bad for anything. Not even homeless kittens, but when
she looks at me, I can tell she’s been crying.

I push off the door, arms still crossed and go
to sit on the edge of her bed.

“I’m not satisfied, actually. I’m… I’m sorry,
okay. I’ve been hard on you, and we’ve only been in each other’s
company for a few hours. I haven’t been, well, I haven’t been fair
to you.”

She snorts and gives a small ‘ha’.

This isn’t going as planned. I better step up my
game.

“No, I’m serious. I’m just not used to girls
being so…” She stops me.

“Cold?”

And I have to agree with her. That night, as hot
as she was, she was cold as ice. I’ve bagged dozens and dozens of
girls and very few stick in my mind, she was one of the few.

I smirk, “Yea, I guess you could say that.”

She continues to throw shit in her suitcase,
this time with a little more gusto.

Yikes.

“Listen, your friends want you to stay, so does
Porter, and I’m trying to be honest with you.”

She stops the assault on her clothing and places
her hands on her hips, giving me an amused look.

“Well, I’m guessing that’s a first for you,
Officer Cruz.”

I give my best one-sided smile and fiddle with
her scarf that was meant to be thrown in her suitcase, but
missed.

When I don’t answer, she turns back to her
closet, picking up shoes and emptying hangers. I bring the scarf up
to my nose. I don’t know why. It smells like a chick. It’s soft,
silky even.

Like a chick.

Actually, it smells really good. I don’t
remember how she smelled that night, but I imagine that’s what this
scarf smells like. Is this what Harlow Hannum would smell like?

Does that sound sick? Maybe.

I throw it in her suitcase, and now I need to
plead my case.

“Look, you’re right. I’m usually the one who’s
right in a situation, and I’m not a nice guy sometimes, but I don’t
deliberately go around hurting people.” I pause because what I want
to say next may not go over very well, but I have to try before
Morty is served on a bed of lettuce.

“Um, your friends and Porter tell me you’ve had
a rough year and that you need a break, so I have to convince you
to stay.”

She turns around quickly and her eyes look
weird, and she looks incredibly nervous.

“What did they tell you about me? What did they
say? Tell me, you asshole. I need to know.” She’s close to my face,
taking a fist and punching the bed next to where I’m sitting.

What the hell?

“Nothing. All they said was that you had a rough
year. They didn’t get into specifics. Chill.”

This is getting weird to me. She smooths out her
shirt and looks calmer now that she knows what her friends said.
She shuts her eyes and swallows so hard, I can hear it.

“Fine.” She slowly reopens them, but our eyes
don’t make contact. She looks at her suitcase, stares at it, and
bites her lip.

“I do need this break. I don’t want to go
home.”

There’s a sadness when she says it, and for some
unexplained reason, I kinda feel something I’m not sure of.

Sympathy? Is that what it’s called? I dismiss it
quickly. I stand up when I see her trying to zip up her suitcase
and lug it off the bed. When it hits the floor, I still her hand
with mine.

“Stop for a minute and listen. You should stay.
I think maybe we can come up with some kind of solution, so we can
both live here and enjoy the summer without being at each other’s
throats. I’m really trying here.”

I grab the suitcase from her and throw it back
on the bed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She’s so difficult. In less than twenty four
hours, I can tell.

“I’m trying to tell you let’s figure this out. I
work a few nights a week. You won’t have to see me. You don’t even
have to talk to me when you do see me. If we are on the beach,
ignore me. I can do it, if you can. It will be like we’re
strangers.”

She closes the closet door and turns back to me.
She’s quiet for a moment, almost like she’s thinking what she
should say next. “We are strangers.”

I laugh, and I’m thinking that yea, we are.
Strangers, who had sex. How funny is that? I never even thought
about something like that. People say it’s such an intimate thing,
and I’ve never thought of it that way. It’s always about how it
makes me feel. The pleasure of it, not the… what’s the word Porter
uses… intimacy? What a weird word.

It’s all about the pussy.

“Yea, I guess we are, in a way. Guess I didn’t
think of it that way even though we, you know… did the nasty.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Do you always have to
be so crude?”

What does she mean? That was crude for me to
say? Wow, we really are strangers then, because I can be a whole
hell of a lot cruder than that.

“No, baby, I’m not always that crude, but when
it comes to the ladies, I can be a bit… free with my words and
actions.” I wink at her.

She grabs the handle of the suitcase and tries
again to pull it off the bed.

Did I say something wrong?

“Wait, what are you doing? I thought I was
getting through to you?”

She’s quiet as she pulls the suitcase towards
the door. I get out of her way, and I’m about to just let her
go.

Then I think about Morty, and the thoughts of
him no longer being with me, and now I’m scared. Shit.

“What did I say this time?”

She stops before she gets to the door. She looks
so small with that big suitcase in her hands, so petite, so
fragile.

“I think I’ve told you at least a half dozen
times in the last few hours, not to call me baby. It’s insulting,
and it sounds like something only a male chauvinist pig with a
small mind would say.”

Not this again. What the fuck does she have
against guys calling her baby? This is so not worth it. I’ll ask
Porter for my money back and sleep in my car for the next ten
weeks. It’s all bullshit.

“You know what? Forget it. Letting you leave is
worth getting my dick chopped off for… well almost. Maybe I’ll run
away to Siberia. Eskimo chicks are hot,” I mumble.

She turns to me, confused, but amused.

“What in God’s name are you rattling off about?
You are the most vexatious person I have ever met.”

Is that English? The vocabulary on this girl is
unbelievable.

“Ok, so I have no idea what that means, but it
sounds like you are insulting me.”

She lets out a frustrated groan as her hand goes
to the knob of the door.

“Wait.” I make a sudden move for her hand to
stop her. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m doing it,
but I do. She stops, and I hear her let out an exaggerated
sigh.

“Willow said she would cut off my dick. I… I
mean penis and sell it to a seafood restaurant if I didn’t convince
you to stay. I really like my penis, and I’d like to keep it, so
please, let’s come to some kind of agreement, learn to get along
with one another, and make it a nice summer.” The room is silent.
Eerily silent, and I wait to hear her reply. Then I hear her
giggle. She giggles. She fucking giggles.

“She really said that?”

“I wouldn’t lie about something like that, trust
me.” And I wouldn’t. Morty is like a brother to me. “I’m not a bad
guy, really. I’m not once you get to know me. I’ll behave.”

“Ok. Fine. I have a few conditions.”

She turns around and motions for me to sit on
the bed. I do, but she remains standing, and I feel like I’m about
to be scolded. She paces in front of me, looking at the floor and
not at me.

“First things first. No more deck sex, please.
I’d like to enjoy the view from it without seeing you and your
flavor of the week engaging in sexual acts.”

“Ok, I can deal with that.”

“Second, when you are entertaining someone of
the female persuasion, please keep the noise down to a minimal
roar. I fully understand that this may be a difficult feat for you,
being the man-whore you are, but have some respect for the people
living next to you.”

Oh, God. Is she serious? How the hell am I
supposed to keep a chick I’m banging quiet? I mean, I get the deck
sex thing, but damn.

“Now wait just a minute, baby, how am I…”

Shit. If I could eat that word, I would, because
now I know what’s next. Just the look on her face says it all. She
crosses her arms and inches her way a bit closer to me, actually a
lot closer.

“And then there’s number three.” Her tone is
soft, but what she’s about to spew at me, I’m betting is not.

“At no time over the next ten weeks will you use
the term ‘baby’ when you address me.”

Air quotes are gestured around the word
baby.

“I cannot begin to depict how much I despise it.
I have a name. It’s Harlow, in case you have suddenly forgotten. It
means meadow of the hares. People with the name have a deep inner
need for quiet, and a desire to understand and analyze the world
they live in, and to learn the deeper truths. That’s me. It’s not
sweetheart, or darling, or cutie, and it’s certainly not baby.
Learn to address me correctly, or we are going to have a
problem.”

She leans in, hands flat on the bed beside my
body, arms stiff, her hair flows in the front of her shoulders,
towards her chest. I can feel her breath on my face, and I smell
her. It’s the same scent as on the scarf. Sugar cookie, maybe?

“Do I make myself clear, Officer?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting the blood
from my teeth, and I nod. It’s all I can do at this point. She
doesn’t linger in front of me. She straightens up and crosses her
arms in front of me.

“Ok, fine, but why don’t you like anyone calling
you baby? What’s the deal?”

She stares at me, then moves to her suitcase and
begins to drag it across the room, back towards the bed. I grab it
from her and fling it back on the bed, but she still hasn’t
answered my question.

“So are you going to tell me why you don’t like
it, or do I have to guess?”

She unzips her suitcase and starts to pull
things out, still not making eye contact with me.

“I… I j-just don’t like it. It’s not cute. It’s
n-not sexy. It just makes me feel…” After stuttering her words, her
voice trails off, and I don’t hear the last thing she says. I’m not
sure what her deal is. I stand up, fishing some of her shoes out of
the suitcase, and I begin handing them to her. It’s a simple
gesture, and she looks confused by it. I shove a shoe in her hand,
rolling my eyes at her. She looks at it, then at me and places it
in the closet.

“Ya know. I’m not a monster. We can be friends,
if you want. Just because what happened between us last year,
happened, doesn’t mean we can’t get past it. We both know it’s
never going to happen again.”

I hand her another shoe, and a small smile shows
up on her face.

“True, and I guess we could be, as long as you
follow my list of demands. Especially the name calling one.”

I smile back at her, wondering what is going on
in that all-too-big brain of hers.

“So last year, why did you tell me your name was
Raphael?”

“‘Cause it is.”

“Why does everyone call you Cruz then?”

“’Cause it’s my last name. I’m not really sure
why I told you my real name. I never use it. Even my brother calls
me Cruz.”

“That’s weird. I think it’s pretentious, and I’m
not calling you Cruz.”

“Not as weird as the name Harlow.”

She laughs. “Harlow isn’t weird. It’s not common
either, but it’s not weird.”

“Well, I’m not a fan, and I’m not calling you
it, and don’t you dare call me Raphael.”

She yanks a pair of shoes out of my hands and
groans at me.

“Oh, really? Then what are you going to call me?
Not the ‘B’ word that’s for sure.”

I laugh at her. This is all too comical.

“Something not at all cute, or sexy, or funny.
I’m going to nickname you the most un-sexy name in God’s
creation.”

She places her hands on her hips, cocks her head
to the side, and waits for the name I’m going to give her.

“Now once I give you this name, there’s no going
backsies. It sticks.”

“Backsies?” She asks.

“Yea, backsies.”

“Ugh, fair enough.”

I hold out my pinkie for her to take. Harlow
doesn’t seem to get what I’m trying to do. Did she live a sheltered
life or something?

“Pinkie swear. You link your pinkie finger with
mine, and we shake on it. Have you been living under a rock or
something?”