K. Bromberg - Bend

My cell is ringing. I hear the familiar tune, the beats dragging me awake, my hand fumbling over the empty bedside table. I wake more, hanging half off the bed as my fingers trip over carpet until they encounter my purse. I answer it a second short of too late. “Hello?”

“You slut!” The screech of Mitzi’s voice is way too loud, and I pull the phone away from my ear. Blink in the darkness. Try to figure out where I am. One bed, not two. Room twice as big as the one I spent last night in. Movement comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see well over six feet of dark gorgeousness watching me, on his side, the dawn light contrasting with the intense look that he rocks so well. ‘Good morning,’ he mouths, his hand reaching out, wrapping around my waist and pulling me flat on my back. He is on one side, head propped up on one hand, eyes on my face.

“What do you want?” I mumble into the phone.

“I just got back to the room. I know your prude ass can’t be shacking up with that delicious piece of man you left with last night.”

“I can’t talk right now.”

“You know wheels are going up in three hours.”

“Then you should get some more beauty rest.”

A snort. The beginning of some lecture. I hang up the phone, lock it and toss it onto the floor in the direction of my purse, before rolling toward Brett and closing my eyes. I try to memorize the look of him in morning shadows. It’s a good look. Way too good of a look. “I’ve got to go back to my room.”

“No you don’t.” He bends over, pressing a kiss on my collarbone. Pulling at the sheet, he reveals a breast. He exhales, moves his mouth to that spot with soft kisses until I push him off. Cuddle into the crook of his shoulder. Rest my head on him when he lies back against the pillows.

“I have to go back to Georgia.”

“When?” The word vibrates through his chest, and I roll closer into him. Run my hand over his chest.

“One. Which means I need to pack, and shower …”

“… and eat breakfast.”

I look up at him. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at ordering room service.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at eating it.”

We eat on the bed like kids, cross-legged, cartoons on the TV, trays on the crumpled sheets before us. I lean over, swig a generous swallow of mimosa from the flute and then return it to the bedside table. “So … Mister …” I tilt my head at him. “I don’t know your last name.”

He scowls. Brings a forkful of omelet to his mouth and chews thoroughly before swallowing, the clench of his jaw as he chews drawing my attention to the strong curves of his face, the way dark stubble makes the green of his eyes pop. The gulp of his throat is somehow sexy. “Jacobs.”

“Jacobs. Why the Bahamas, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Isn’t that a question you should have asked me before you …”

I raise my eyebrows as he struggles for words. “Before I what?”

He meets my playful gaze. “Trusted me with your body.”

I shrug. “Jena has your business card. She makes a practice of digging into every aspect of my life. I’m sure she has your blood type and latest draft of your resume by this point. She hasn’t called to warn me of anything, so I think my body is safe in your hands.”

When his eyes darken, they become hunter green. A heart-stopping change. Intensity looks incredible on this man. “I’m here for pleasure. I enjoy the fishing.”

My eyes pick up on his tan, the flex of his forearms as he reaches forward and snags a piece of toast. I suddenly want to see him. On the deck of a boat, wearing only swim trunks. The flex of his muscles as he battles a fish. The break of his smile when he catches a prize. I’ve never seen him during the day. When the sun reflects in those eyes. I look down, scoop up a spoonful of grits, and bring them to my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Look back to find him watching me.

“Have you caught anything this trip?”

His mouth twitches. “Been too busy with a certain blonde to get any time in.”

“Ahhh … sure. Blame your bad luck on me.” I shoot him a look that he finds humorous, his mouth splitting into an easy grin.

I am digging out grapes from the fruit bowl when he speaks. “Stay a few more days with me.”

I pause my quest for red ones. “I can’t. I have work tomorrow.” As I speak the words I realize how out of character they are for me. Blaming work. Not the fact that staying here, with a stranger, is foolhardy enough to say no. I want to stay. The warm buzz, the state of euphoria that seems to accompany every moment in this man’s presence … it is a high I haven’t experienced in a long time. New love. Love that—at previous interactions—skipped along on its merry way after a few weeks. My last experience with this heady, butterflies in my tummy, elation in my heart feeling was … high school? Almost twenty years ago, when I had fresh, unwounded eyes. Before I realized the selfishness and deceit that we, as adults, hold. The ugly truths of life that pull apart love and make relationships obligation centers that carry us from year to year, life transition to life transition.

“What do you do?”

His question brings me back. I pop an elusive red grape in my mouth before answering. “I’m a financial advisor. I work at a small bank in a town called Macon.”

“Why Macon?”

I shrug. “It was my hometown. After college I spent a few years in Athens with a guy I was dating. When that ended … I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Didn’t want to stay in Athens. So I came home.” The super exciting story of my life. I change the focus of the conversation. “What about you?”

He leans back. “Fort Lauderdale. The bank can’t do without you for a few days?”

I shake my head. “No, they can’t. Why Fort Lauderdale? What do you do there?”

“I sell boats.”

God, this guy is a regular chatterbox. I let my eyes float over the suite, the dining room table we seem more likely to fuck on over eating at, the watch draped over his wallet, a brand I don’t recognize, but one I can guarantee is worth what I make in a year. “You sell boats.”

He chuckles. “Yes.” He slides over, pushing his tray forward, so close to the edge of the bed that I watch it nervously, my attention redirected when his lips close over my neck. “Stop thinking,” he whispers, taking another taste of my neck, this one more aggressive, one that will probably leave a hickey. Super classy, Riley. My mother will be thrilled. I close my eyes. Lean into his mouth. Let his arms slide me up the bed and roll me atop him.

“I was overdramatic last night. What I said to you. About owning you.”

“I figured it was for effect.”

“But this isn’t something I do. I don’t make a habit of fucking strangers.” His words tumble awkwardly over the expletive, as if he isn’t used to swearing.

“Neither do I.” Hell, I live in a town where strangers don’t exist, and I still haven’t done any fucking. Shows what happens when I try to brave life outside of our dirt roads.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

“Nothing.” The lie comes out convincingly. Kasey Craig, my second cousin on some distant family member’s side, is actually having a baby shower on Saturday. Her fourth one in the last six years, yet there will be serious repercussions if I am not present. It is the South, after all. Not to mention, I also have plans to spray the garage for bugs. Super important stuff that my lie pushes to the side. I want this man. I know little-to-nothing about him, but I crave something outside of my world. I’m sick of pantyhose and mutual funds. Potluck dinners and familial obligations. This weekend is the most alive I’ve felt in a decade. Part of it is the location; the majority of it lies atop me. Had moved inside of me. Had woken me at four AM begging for five minutes inside of me, then blessed my world for twenty.

I am thirty-two. I am not dead. I am not in a relationship. I am bored. I am tempted to say, had he asked me to pack up my house and move to Florida right now, I would say yes.

“See me next weekend. I’ll send you a plane. It won’t be the jet you girls flew in on, but it’ll get to Lauderdale easier than commercial.”

I look at him. “How do you know what we came in on?”

“Don’t get too excited. I was at the private airport when you arrived.” He runs a hand through my hair. “Pretty blondes always catch my eye.”

I let out a huff of air. “We’re almost all blondes.”

He smiles, that grin tugging hard at my vulnerable heart. “You leave them all in the dust.”

The blush hot on my cheeks, I lift my mouth, stopped from a kiss by his hand on my chest. “Next weekend?”

I smile. “Next weekend. I’m not promising anything more after that.”

My words may not have promised, but my heart? It is toast. It is already booking wedding venues, picking out baby names, tying unbreakable knots in the bond between his heart and mine. I feel his hand relax, the resistance gone, and he closes the distance between our lips. Surrendering myself to him, I feel the crush of our souls, as our touches say what our lips are not ready for.

I came for vacation. I found, in those hours, the other half of my soul.

The End

At the height of singing the last note, when my lungs were still full and I was switching from pure physical power to emotional thrust, I was blindsided by last night’s dream. Like most dreams, it hadn’t had a story. I was on top of a grand piano on the rooftop bar of Hotel K. The fact that the real hotel didn’t have a piano on the roof notwithstanding, I was on it and naked from the waist down, propped on my elbows. My knees were spread further apart than physically possible. Customers drank their thirty-dollar drinks and watched as I sang. The song didn’t have words, but I knew them well, and as the strange man with his head between my legs licked me, I sang harder and harder until I woke up with an arched back and soaked sheets, hanging on to a middle C for dear life.