Authors: S. Jackson Rivera
Chapter 4
“R
hees?” Paul stopped at the little window of her bedroom that faced the porch. He’d walked her home and left her to get ready for the deck party later that night while he ran back to his place to shower. “Are you decent?”
“I’m dressed. You can come in.” He heard her unlock her bedroom door and reach over to take the lock off the screen door. He followed her inside and stopped to watch her. She reached for her shoes, the bronze sandals, but seemed preoccupied and didn’t look up at him.
The brown dress didn’t survive the Rohpynol, and he missed it. He’d asked his laundry lady to try, but the vomit stains wouldn’t come out—no dry cleaners on the island. The sadness of the loss didn’t last long though as he watched Rhees from the doorway.
She wore his second favorite outfit, the orange floral shirt and white shorts always looked great on her. He thought about it—everything she wore looked great on her. She had a unique sense of style, classic, crisp, clean . . . modest—he leaned against the doorjamb and admired the view as she put her foot up on the chair to fasten the strap on her sandal. She did the same on the other foot.
“Mm.” He grunted to show his appreciation. “You look
very
nice
. But I can’t believe you’re already dressed. I thought there was some universal rule. Girls are required to take hours getting ready.” He thought of all the hours of his life he’d never get back, waiting for girls to get ready just to go out. It annoyed him. He just wanted to eat or go get a drink. In most cases, he’d already
had
them. He didn’t care what they looked like anymore.
“It’s easy to be fast here,” she said. “I hate cold showers—no lingering there. I get clean. I get out. I don’t have a hair dryer—so drip dry.” She pointed to her still damp hair. “Also—no curling iron—this is as good as it gets. And even if I tried on everything I have, looking for the perfect outfit, it would take me all of one minute.”
“If you miss them, why didn’t you bring a curling iron and more clothes?”
“Kind of the same reason I don’t have pajamas.” She laughed.
“You wore panties and a sports bra to bed before I gave you some of my T-shirts.” He snorted, remembering the first night they’d slept in her apartment after the Mario incident. He’d raced to her side during one of her nightmares, and when he climbed onto her bed to calm her, he’d found her sleeping in her clothes because she didn’t want him to find her in her usual night attire.
“You packed minimalistic to meet the airline’s weight limit.”
“Exactly. My gear alone weighed thirty-four pounds. I had to make some sacrifices. No pajamas, bare minimum clothes, and no hair dryer or curling iron.”
“You could have paid for an extra bag.”
“Pfft. Fifty dollars? The sacrifices haven’t been
that
bad.” Her incredulous expression turned to disappointment. “Except in times like these.”
She put her hands up, as if showcasing herself, but surrendering at the same time.
“Mm.” He grunted again.
“Thanks,” she said with a giggle. She finally got a look at
him
. He wore dark blue jeans—he always wore jeans in the evenings—a contrast after seeing him all day, every day in nothing but swim trunks or board shorts. Always the same fit, his Levis varied from faded with ripped knees, to brand new dark blue or black, but they always looked a little too good on him.
His slate blue button up shirt with collar was a soft, shiny, fabric. He’d rolled the sleeves up, as usual. His shirttails hung out, untucked—he never tucked his shirttails, but it suited him, accentuating the long outline of his form from his broad shoulders to his slim hips. He looked nice, almost dressed up, but still casual enough for the island. Rhees actually stared for a few seconds. He looked so good, she felt underdressed and out of his league.
“What time is it?” She wanted time to find something better to wear, but then she surrendered to the lost cause. She had nothing better since her brown dress had given up the ghost. She frowned.
“We have time.” He walked into her bedroom and lounged on the twin bed. “Rhees? What’s wrong?”
“I need new clothes.” She shook her head. With the exception of a few shops that carried souvenir T-shirts, there were no clothing stores on the island. “I packed for three weeks. I’ve been wearing the same few things for months. Not only is my wardrobe lacking variety, things are wearing out.”
“Did you hear me when I told you how nice you look? I could have easily said you look beautiful—I should have. It’d be more accurate.”
“It’s just . . . no one is going to believe we’re really together.” She sat on the edge of her bed.
“Don’t say that.” He sat up. “If anyone has trouble believing it, it’ll be because they know you’re too good to wind up with me.”
“So, I know tonight’s the night, but you haven’t filled me in on how we’re going to let everyone know we’re . . . supposedly, together. I hope you’re not planning to bushwhack me again, like you did with my roommates.”
“Bushwhack?” He chuckled. “I was thinking more along the lines of just doing what comes naturally.”
“Not instilling a lot of confidence in me—your natural or mine?” She cocked her head to the side and bugged her eyes at him. “Because my natural means we’re staying home and eating quesadillas. Your natural means we have an appointment with Frock?” She shuddered at the idea.
“No Frock,” he grimaced. He wanted her—
really
wanted her—and he wasn’t used to not getting what—
who
—he wanted. The irony of the whole thing would have made him laugh if it wasn’t so damned frustrating. His ability to win anyone else was the very reason he couldn’t have her. So he’d taken a page from her book and set his own goal to get his life under control, if possible . . . so far, so good.
“You’re right. Sorry.” His face twisted up in thought. “First off, I should drink. People expect it.” He hadn’t been drinking his usual amount since the night he kissed her in her bedroom. He wanted to be careful, to ensure nothing like that happened again. He needed to stay clear to keep on track with his new goal.
“Then, when the sharks start to circle—” It embarrassed him to admit aloud how he knew the girls would compete for his attention, but they would. “—I’ll look your way and pay no attention to any of them, at all. I’ll only have eyes for you.”
Rhees made a skeptical face, probably not meant for him to see, but he did.
She doesn’t believe that’s possible,
he thought. He’d let the way he’d said he’d only have eyes for her, sound like a joke, but—Shelli knew it was true, several other girls too. They’d said as much. They wished he would just have Rhees so he could finally move on. In the back of his mind, he never allowed himself to dwell on the thought too long. He’d begun to enjoy
not moving on
.
“And at some point in the night, I just need to do what I usually do, make my move. We’re talking blatant, over-the-top, gross, non-disputable PDA—typical Paul style, and then I’ll drag you off with me, leaving everyone to gossip about what they’re sure will happen when I get you home.” He watched her eyes, waiting for her reaction, suspecting she’d be uncomfortable.
Right on cue, she grew anxious, wringing her hands, practically trembling, on the verge of hyperventilating. She jumped up and walked to the far corner of the room. He stood too and grabbed her, putting a stop to her pacing.
“Rhees.” He kept his voice low and comforting, the tone he used during the night to calm her down when she woke crying and thrashing in the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please?”
“Paul.” She scrunched her eyes closed and made a pained face. “There’s something wrong with me. I get nervous . . . uptight—scared even—with intimacy . . . I freak out!”
“
No shit!” He chuckled. He’d hoped for an explanation as to why, not an admission of what he already knew.
She just stared, shamefaced, not saying a word.
“Yeah! It’s kind of hard to miss . . .” He watched her for a second then glanced down, bashfully. “But it’s nice to hear it isn’t just me.”
“If you already know the way I am, what makes you think we can pull off what you’ve planned? It’s not going to convince
anyone if I panic and start screaming at you to get away from me.” The volume of her voice steadily increased.
He pulled her chin up with his finger and tilted his head, studying her.
“Then don’t.”
“I can’t. Help. It.”
He stepped closer, reached for her hands and held them. “I know. But you’re letting me touch you now.”
“You can’t tell how fast my heart is beating.”
“You kissed me at Ray’s, and it seemed quite convincing to me.”
“I was just pretending to be grown up. I was making a point. You’re the one who turned it into . . .
convincing
.”
“I wake up every morning with you
all
draped around me like your life depends on being close.”
“I’m not conscious when I do that!” Her answers amused him.
“Don’t you see?” Her voice raised a couple of octaves. “This isn’t going to work! No one will believe you could possibly be happy with a frigid, uptight freak like me.”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
She took a step back, tried to put some space between them, but he stepped closer again.
“Paul! The point of this whole idea has everything to do with what everyone thinks.”
“Oh, yeah.” He pretended to scowl as if his plan had just collapsed. He feigned concern, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. “What shall we do?”
It was her turn to smirk. “You tell me, smarty pants. You obviously have an idea, or you wouldn’t look so smug.”
“I think we should
practice
.” He drawled his sometimes accent on the last word and put his hand over her butt, pulling her sharply against him. He leaned to within an inch of her face and studied her, waiting to see what she’d do.
She tried to brave through it, closed her eyes. He squeezed, wrapped his other arm around her waist and stroked her back. She fidgeted for a second before she twisted sideways to him, as much as his strong hold allowed. He didn’t allow her to turn too far. Using her elbows, her forearms braced along his chest, she set her hands firmly on his shoulders to maintain some space, unwilling or unable to look him in the eye.
“See? You can do this.”
She stopped pressing away from him to laugh. “Yeah, looks like I can’t keep my hands off you, I’m
wilting
, right in your arms.” “That reminds me—I have a questionnaire I need you to fill out.”
They both laughed for a second, but as the merriment subsided, without thinking, one of his hands reached up and he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before he leaned down and brushed her lips with his. She tensed and tried to duck away but seemed to regret it immediately. “Sorry, reflex.”
“Relax. Look at me.” She finally met his gaze and he felt her ease in his arms, but the concern lingered in her eyes. “Remember your first dive? You practically tackled me on the shelf. I thought you were going to jump my bones, right there.”
Her eyes grew wide, full of disbelief at his audacity. He used the distraction to bring her in even closer. “. . . And as we ascended, you clung to me so close—you couldn’t keep your hands off me. Can’t talk underwater . . . or I would’ve said, ‘Rhees, not now, I’m too busy saving your life’!”
She didn’t seem to notice how intimately he played with her backside. She just gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing again, several times before she finally found her tongue.
“It wasn’t like that and you know it. I was more afraid of dying than getting ra—” She cut herself off abruptly and looked down.
“Than getting what?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head, refusing to look at him again. He made a thoughtful face and moved along.
“Rhees, I’m holding you
very
close . . . taking liberties with your ass.
He’s
getting all hopeful and excited, but you haven’t flinched. You’re not tense, writhing, or screaming. You’ve even stopped pushing me away. Why is that?”
“I don’t know. You—you’re flustrating me.” She shook her head again, still looking down.
“Flustrating.” He narrowed his eyes to think before one of the corners of his mouth twitched up. “Let me guess. Flustered and frustrated. I like how you do that.”
He gently weaved his fingers into her hair and pulled just enough to bring her face up to look at him so she couldn’t get away. He kiss-bombed her mouth. His tongue pushed its way inside, eagerly. He continued mauling her mouth until she gagged. He threw his head back and laughed.
“What the crap was that?” She glared at him indignantly.
“
Practice
.” He tried to stop laughing, but it took him a second. “You didn’t push me away or crawl out of your skin.”
Again, her mouth hung open, appalled.
“You did gag . . .” He feigned serious contemplation with a slow-forming grin. “But that may have had more to do with my germs than whatever it is you have going on about being touched. Did you gag because of my germs? Or something else?”
“You’re not funny,” she snapped. “None of this is funny.”
“If you’re having second thoughts—have you changed your mind?”
“No.” She’d been a mess since the Mario incident. Panic attacks, anxiety, nightmares, paranoia. She couldn’t be alone for very long without driving herself into a hysterical frenzy, but Paul was always there for her, always able to help her through it. He’d become her anchor.
“No, you haven’t changed your mind, or no, you don’t want to do this anymore?”
She shook her head, confused. “I haven’t changed my mind, but you’re—”
“Rhees, you’re tough as nails. You can do this.” He didn’t seem to be going for the laugh anymore.
“You always say that, but I don’t feel so tough.”
“You
can
do this because you’re—
we’re
making a point, we’re pretending, try not to be so conscious of everything all the time, and maybe think about how much worse it’ll be if we don’t pull this off.” He used every one of her excuses. He still had a hold of her and she still didn’t notice or mind. “You won’t be alone. I’m in this too.”
He tightened his hold around her waist and leaned in for another kiss, but she tensed, her hands squeezed his arms where she’d placed them, giving a push while she turned her head. He breathed a heavy sigh of defeat.
“See!” she cried when she realized what she’d done.
“Okay, plan B. We get you drunk.”
“I don’t like to drink. It tastes nasty and the last time, it made me sick.”