Chasing Peace Page 7

  Annie had been quiet during the exchange. When I look her way, her wide brown eyes connect with mine. A slight frown between her brows questions my response as if she doesn’t quite believe me, but she says nothing.

  * * *

  Annie and I walk over to the sandwich shop for dinner after class. We haven’t talked since the party and have some catching up to do. When we arrive I order a turkey and avocado sandwich, she a turkey with brie.

  “I see you’ve recovered from the party.”

  “Ugh. I have one class on Friday and it’s not until two. Would you believe I almost didn’t make it?”

  “I totally believe it. How did you get so wasted? We were only there a couple hours.”

  “I’ve never played beer pong before. I guess I’m pretty bad.”

  “Still, you shouldn’t have been that drunk.”

  “Oh, I don’t like beer, so they let me play with shots.”

  “Seriously Annie?”

  “Well I said I’m not very good.” She juts out her lower lip as she shrugs.

  “You know Boston had to carry you to the car.”

  “Great.” She rolls her eyes making it clear she doesn’t consider it great at all. “Did he use the cradle hold or ass in the air? They each have their merits.”

  “You’ve considered the merits?” I ask wide-eyed.

  “At my size, guys don’t usually think twice before picking me up and hauling me around. How did he do it?”

  “I guess ass in the air.” I picked the closest description. “He carried you across both shoulders, holding a leg with one hand, arm with the other.”

  “You mean the fireman? Oh man, that’s embarrassing.”

  “I tried to tell him, but he said it’s your own damn fault for getting so drunk.”

  “Well that’s true. So what’s going on with you and Boston?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  She studies me for a minute, eyes questioning.

  “What happened at the party? Did you guys hookup?”

  “No.” Disdain curls my lip and furrows my brow at the question.”

  “It’s not such a ridiculous question. You invited him to the party.”

  “I invited him for you Annie.”

  “You know I’m in a relationship. I told you. Besides Boston thought he was there for you, not me.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “So what happened while I ran off to party?”

  “I didn’t see him nearly the entire night. I guess he found a poker game.”

  “Slacker. He drove you home though. I want details.”

  “He asked me to dance.” My cheeks heated at the admission and my lashes fluttered down to cover my eyes as I busied myself with adjusting the avocado slipping from my sandwich.

  “Oooooh,” Annie squealed like a preteen girl. “You danced right?”

  “I wouldn’t have, except I met a guy.”

  “What?” Annie shook her head, eyes squinting, startled by the sudden change in storyline.

  “We talked. That’s all. I kept my distance by telling him I was with someone.”

  “Aaaah. And?”

  “When Boston found us and asked me to dance, I couldn’t refuse in front of Luke.”

  “So how does he dance?”

  “My eyes dart sideways. “It made me nervous.”

  “That’s a good thing. A little chemistry ... a little tension … a little something more.”

  I burst out laughing. “Who says that?” My eyes return to Annie, hers brilliant with mirth.

  “I think you like him,” she taunts.

  “Noooo. He’s a friend and a coworker. That’s all.”

  “Protest all you want, but when you talk about him, your cheeks get pink and your eyes go all soft and mushy. You might not admit it, but I think you like him.”

  “I wouldn’t put money on it,” I snap, my sandwich sitting heavy in my stomach and my cheeks going red for another reason entirely.

  “We’ll see,” she teases.

  * * *

  We don’t talk on the way to work today. I’ve given Boston a ride to and from work since he drove me home a couple weeks ago. We’ve been friends and nothing more since we kissed.

  Last week we’d talked about everything, majors, weather, professors, work, Lyla and probably some stuff I’d already forgotten. This week we talk about nothing. I’m back to being awkward with Boston. I don’t know what I want from him. Actually, I do know, and I also know better.

  I still haven’t returned his shirt and he didn’t take it last weekend. Maybe he left it so he’d have an excuse to come back. I don’t fondle it or smell it or rub it on my face. That’s creepy, but keeping it, leaving it where he left it, waiting for his return makes me feel like there might be future where none exists right now.

  “Hi Lyla.”

  “Hey sweetie. What’s the matter with you two?”

  “Who? Boston and me?”

  “Who else? Last week you walked in chattering and laughing like best friends, this week, not a peep and you with a grimness that smacks of something dreadful.”

  I shove my purse under the bar before dragging on the ugly polyester uniform jacket. “It’s nothing even close to dreadful.”

  “Tell me about it?” she prods.

  I plunge two glasses into the washer, letting the swirling brushes and soapy water scrub them clean before moving on to rinse and then drip dry. “It’s nothing. We’ve barely talked since last weekend.” I shared all the details including his coming back the next morning.

  “It sounds to me like he’s a good guy.”

  “Yeah, well, I have rules for a reason. Logan seemed to be a good guy too and look where that left me and Brock turned out to be even worse.” Tears stab at the edge of my eyes and I hurtle back in time, remembering the devastating end to my relationship with Brock.

  “Sterling sweetie. You have to grieve to move on.”

  I dash away the tears clinging to my eyelashes and laugh. It is derisive and self-deprecating and sounds a lot like a bark. “I don’t have a problem with the grieving. It’s learning from my mistakes I seem to find challenging.”

  “What makes you think Boston would be a mistake? Maybe he’s just what you need right now. Maybe he’s just a nice guy you can enjoy for awhile to show you there’s still happiness in this world?”

  “Or maybe he’s here to torture me for all the dreadful decisions I’ve made.” I stopped talking, but my mind didn’t stop. Maybe he’s here to torture me for wishing for a normal life, for dreaming of what life could have been, for looking for happiness in all the wrong places. Oh how I wish I’d made different choices, but I did the best I could and look how my life has turned out.

  “Now you listen to me Sterling. You’re talking like you’re ready to die and you’re reviewing a lifetime of regrets.” She glared, daring me to interrupt, but I’m not dumb enough to do that. I know better. When Lyla’s on a roll, I just listen. “Well let me tell you, people might regret the outcome of some of their decisions, but they regret more all of the missed opportunities, what might have been. Everyone wants to be happy. That’s why we’re here, what we’re looking for in life, why we do all the seemingly crazy, upside down, inside out things that we do. We all deserve a chance at happiness, but it doesn’t just happen. You have to go find it. You have to decide to live your life or let it pass you by. You have to decide whether you’re going to jump at opportunities or hide behind the sofa and you have to make these decisions for yourself. Do we take a lot of chances that don’t lead to happiness? Sure we do. We’re human and we have regrets. We don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, so we keep trying. That’s what we do.”

  “Let’s say that’s true. So what if I’m not ready to try again? What then o-wise oracle?” I’m defensive and snippy, lashing out at Lyla because I feel frozen and uncertain. I have my rules for a reason. They protect me from the bitter, soul-sucking devastation that could squeeze me dry. I won’t take a chance
with Boston no matter how much I want to because experience has taught me better and I’m not going through that again.

  “You pick yourself up and you try again because we don’t get some secret decoder ring or x-ray glasses that tell us what the future holds. We use our best judgment. We listen to our hearts. We take advice from friends. We trust our intuition. We check our facts. That’s what we do and what we keep doing, because there’s no guarantee. You just try and see what happens and then you try again, until you’re feeding worms and you can’t try anymore.”

  She’s right. That’s what I’m supposed to do, but I’m not ready. All I have to do is think about Emma and I’m frozen. Sometimes simple everyday decisions have horrifying consequences and I don’t know how to cross that line.

  * * *

  A nervous quiet settles over us in the car on the way to Boston’s dorm. We don’t even have music, the hollow spot where the radio should have been a yawning black void with wires reaching out like tentacles. An urban campus offers all kinds of new experiences, including the quiet that comes from the violated, broken dashboard on my car.

  “Sorry about the music. I can’t imagine why anyone would want the radio.”

  Boston shrugs as if the quiet doesn’t matter. I continue. “This beast is twenty years old and it sucks gas through a big straw. The only amenity had been music.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Quiet time is good thinking time.”

  We’re quiet, my mind racing with possibilities, thinking about what Lyla said and wondering.

  “I’m not ready to call it a night. Can we go back to your place?”

  I shouldn’t. I know I’m not ready and I don’t know where this might go. I only just told Lyla I need more time, but oh man I want to say yes.

  Boston turns toward me, his knees bumping the broken plastic on the console, just below where the radio should have been. “Shit!”

  “Careful. It’s sharp. You’ll tear a hole in your jeans.” I thought about the suits he wore for work and wondered why he doesn’t have his own car, but before I can ask, he begins talking again.

  “Never mind. I’m hungry. Let’s pick up something and take it to your place.”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to drive you back when we’re done eating and it’s already late.” I stop at a flashing red light and stay there, wondering if my deliberate misunderstanding is a defense mechanism. There’s not a car in sight, but I don’t go, waiting for his response. I look left and right and then left again and I still don’t go. Agitation spews from my inner struggle. It holds me captive as I slide one hand over the other and push down to pop the pressure from my wrist.

  Do I dare cross the line between friendship and intimacy? He kissed me last week and I wanted more. Maybe we can keep it light, a hook-up, nothing serious. We can enjoy each other and then go our separate ways. I’d always counted on my relationships to fill a void in my life, but what if I don’t do that. What if I go into it thinking it’s temporary? I’m living, enjoying life, nothing major.

  I can keep it casual, I know I can … I think I can. The sparks are brighter than the shadows are dark and I’m not sure of anything with Boston.

  He doesn’t plead or cajole. “No pressure. You decide,” he says in a low throaty tone that floods my lower belly and makes me want so much more.

  “My last two relationships didn’t work out so well.”

  Now why the hell did I say that? I bash myself with disgust.

  “Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t. We just keep looking until we find the right one.” He seems to see right into my weary soul, his words so similar to Lyla’s.

  I jump.

  The light flashing red like a beacon calls out to me, but whether beckoning or warning I can’t tell and I don’t care. I check again for nonexistent traffic before rolling through, heading for home. Uncertainty wells like black tar bubbling up from my belly producing dread and a sense of giddiness too, maybe I’m excited to be spending more time with Boston. The contradiction feels like whiplash within me so rather than trying to understand, rather than working it out, I give up. I just let go. Sometimes, when the world is tilting and swirling out of control it’s best to just let go and let life carry you through.

  Chapter 8

  The darkness we encounter walking across the parking lot to my door hints at intimacy. The enticing scent of wet leather tickles my memory. The events of that night we dashed across the parking lot in the rain somehow foretold what would transpire this night. The weeks between were nothing more than a dance of denial.

  We never stopped to pick up something to eat. When I make a decision I’m all in, no detours, no equivocation, no stalling. I unlock the door with shaking hand, my fingers suddenly fumbling with keys that worked with the practiced skill of daily use only this morning. Finally the key slides home.

  Pushing through the door with Boston on my heels, I struggle to pull the key from the lock, finally disengaging. Closing the door, I lean back into it, sliding my hands behind my butt, aching to move yet afraid.

  Unlike past relationships, this time I learned about Boston before diving in headlong. It makes no difference; I’m still nervous. Scratch that. I’m worried about the impermanence of life.

  Weak light dribbles from the small lamp on my desk, a touch lamp that started dim and brightened a bit with each tap. Little more than a night light, I usually find it comforting to have illumination when I enter. Tonight it seems too scant, casting a halo behind Boston, but cloaking his features in shadow. I can make out the breadth of his shoulders and nothing else, adding tautness to the air around us.

  Without sight, smell takes over: earthy leather, the sultry citrus of bergamot, fresh brightness from shampoo or maybe detergent and the warm smell that I can only describe as Boston. They all come together in a rush warming my chest and sinking to my belly.

  A creak from Boston’s leather jacket breaks the quiet stillness as his fingers skim up my arms, light as a feather, yet heavy with promise.

  Cornered, nearly pinned against the door, I wish I’d moved into the room. Flashes of past relationships gone wrong, horrible endings and second guesses clamor within my head.

  “Are you sure you want me to stay?” The light shining over his shoulder glows dim and I’m not sure of anything except that it hints at my expression. His knuckles kiss my cheek, scanning the contour with a tenderness that makes me feel guilty. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

  “I’m not afraid of intimacy,” I say on a whisper of air.

  It’s what comes after that terrifies me, the exposure, the risk. I take a deep breath, honest with myself for the first time in weeks, even though I just lied to Boston. I want everything. I’m just not sure I deserve it.

  I’m afraid of me. I’m afraid of making a bad decision; I’m afraid of falling in love, I’m afraid of getting hurt when he leaves. I’m afraid he’ll take parts of me along with him, leaving me like a discarded puzzle, no good because I’m missing too many pieces.

  His fingers slide below my ear, like a ghost.

  Most of all, I’m afraid of living with even more consequences than I do already, but he’s enthralling and what is life without consequences? I lean into his palm and reach for his shoulders as he presses me back against the door.

  I can feel his erection straining through his pants, a thick ridge against my thigh and we’ve only just touched, soft, hesitant, testing, inquiring. His lips crash into mine, or maybe mine crash into his with demand and assertion and need.

  Worry and fear are gone in an inferno that knows no mind, no conscious thought.

  My fingers scramble for purchase at his shoulders, snapping and dancing across the slick leather like water droplets on an overheated skillet.

  Boston pulls me away from the door, holding me close. I gasp for breath as he releases my lips, his beating a trail across my jaw before skidding to a stop below my ear where he feasts. I am no longer aware of the low light. My apartment melts
away, leaving only Boston and me. I can see him with my eyes closed as I touch, taste and smell while working my hands under his tee.

  His lips are back on mine, his tongue tracing the seam, his teeth worrying my lower lip. I can’t get enough, can’t stop kissing him. My tongue ventures out searching for his and when they met my knees buckle and I groan, giving into the sensation. He holds me up, not with his hands, but with his body as he pins me against the door. I am snared and no longer capable of thought, only sensation. His erection threatens, pressing against me with promise, his lips sipping at mine before sliding to my throat. His hands cross my chest to my breasts, kneading through my tee, plucking at nipples standing proud and seeking.

  My hands tangle in his tee, grasping at flesh. His under my shirt, move. I don’t know how that happened. They skim across my belly making my muscles contract and cavort, jumping and quivering in fitful anticipation. He reaches his destination, thumbs and forefingers cupped below my breasts, plumping them before sliding his palms over my nipples, rough calluses on his hands snagging on the fabric of my bra.

  Arching my back, I press myself into his hands, my internal muscles clenching at nothing while wanting everything. Wriggling one of my hands free, I slide over his straining cock. The denim from his jeans deadens my grasping fingers and raking nails into needy caresses.

  Boston’s lips return to mine, his hands unhooking my bra, one eyelet at a time. I can’t slide the straps from my shoulders with my shirt in place, but no matter. His hands move under the loose band, circling around until they’re between my breasts and my bra, his fingers scraping my nipples.

  I groan when his fingers come together tweaking my nipples and then I gasp, sizzling as his teeth take a tip, teasing me through my shirt before laving the fiery point and saturating the fabric. Then he draws the tip into his mouth.

  Holding his head to my breast, I wrap one leg around Boston’s hip, pulling him close and sliding my moist heat along his thigh aiming for his cock. “Pants,” I pant, sensations dulled with both his and my jeans in the way.

  His mouth had moved to my other breast and he raises his head seeming disoriented.