Restless Waters: A Left Drowning Novel (Left Drowning #2) Read online

  We fuck steadily, letting ourselves groan and call out each other’s name.

  “Come on, Chris,” I whimper out through the erotic fog I’m in. “It’s been so long. Baby, it’s been so long. You can fuck me harder than that, can’t you? Fuck me like you mean it.”

  Romantic? Maybe not. But we’re not after romance right now. We’re after screaming and intensity and fast, hard fucking. The benefit of being so in love is that we get to do this with meaning.

  Chris’s hand slaps against my ass as he grabs on to pull me closer against him, and he rakes his other hand down my back.

  “Jesus, Blythe,” he growls through a moan when he comes.

  There’s nothing like a shower with Chris.

  When we’re both satiated—for now—I lather him up. I figure we have another five minutes before the hot water is gone. The automatic outdoor lights have come on, and I admire how strikingly gorgeous Chris is. When his hair is dry, it always hangs in soft waves around his face, so I push it back under the shower spray and gaze up at him. That hard jawline, those green eyes, the perfect shape of his mouth…

  He smiles down at me. “Hi.”

  “Hi, back.”

  “I didn’t make dinner,” he confesses. “I was too hot for you to focus on boring cooking.”

  “It’s okay. Because, while you’re a great cook, you’re an even better lover.”

  I kiss his chest and let my hands roam over his back. He doesn’t flinch anymore when I trace the many scars, even when I touch his back. I know exactly how to rest my arm against him so that the scar on my forearm fills the break in the line of the significant one that crosses from his shoulder to his lower back. Chris holds me tight as I do it this time. It’s become an unspoken symbol to us, a connection too uncanny and powerful to speak about often.

  We just let it be.

  I move my arm and continue touching his skin. While the scar that connects us is the biggest, it is not the only one he has. Courtesy of his father, there are more—a few I know the stories behind, a few I don’t. Certain ones, he won’t talk about. Christopher’s father was sick but smart, I suspect. He was careful that the result of his abuse would be easy to hide under clothing.

  This shower feels like a reunion of some sort, so I take my time now to explore his body again, the entire shape of Chris. I work my hands over every inch of his skin. He holds still while I lower myself to slowly trace the line from his ankles to his waist, to slide my hand between his legs, and to reach back further and stroke a finger over him. I continue to move over his form, relishing every curve. My mouth tastes the water running over his hip bone, over his lower back, over his ass. This man has a gorgeous ass, so I take my time.

  I entwine my fingers with his when I later move up and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his shoulder and his neck. I touch the solid strength in his lean chest and arms. I could do this for hours.

  It can be difficult to get Chris to relax fully, but I feel him ease into my touch as his muscles drop their tension. He watches me with interest, as though slightly amused or curious that I still find him and his body as exciting as I always have. He should understand though, given the care and thoroughness with which he makes love to me so often.

  His expression changes when my hands move from his waist to the top of his torso and then to just under his armpits. It’s a subtle change—a flicker of fear in his eyes. It’s only because I know him so well that I catch it.

  My heart sinks because I know this look, and I know what’s coming.

  I hold my touch where it is. “It’s all right, Chris. Don’t be scared.”

  He nods.

  “Left side or right?” I ask.

  “My right,” he says evenly.

  I inch my left hand up and feel for it. It takes my force of will for me to stay calm. As many times as I’ve seen Chris naked and as well as I know his body, I’ve just found another scar. It’s not exactly in a highly visible place, not somewhere I often have my hands, so I failed to notice this one. Or maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Chris has enough nightmare stories as it is.

  But because it’s important, because truth is important, and because I want him to keep releasing secrets, I very softly rub my fingers until I find texture changes. This scar is about two inches long and an inch wide. I could fucking kill myself for never feeling this before. The skin here is so tender, and I feel sick over the pain Chris must have felt when this was inflicted on him.

  He looks away while I touch him, but he doesn’t stop me.

  “Do you want to tell me about this one?”

  Christopher takes a deep breath and forces a smile. Finally, he makes eye contact and shrugs. “I was egging him on, mouthing off. He retaliated.”

  He isn’t telling me the truth. He wouldn’t have prodded his father. Chris has always done what he can to facilitate peace, not ignite war.

  “You don’t want to tell me about it?”

  He thinks for a moment. “I don’t.”

  My fingers keep moving. “It’s a burn?”

  “It’s a burn.”

  “It must have been…” I refuse to choke on my words. “It must have been very painful.”

  “Yes.” Chris shuts off the water and kisses the top of my head. His arms fall over my shoulders, and he pulls me in so that our naked bodies are pressed close together.

  The rise and fall of his chest reassures me. There is life after hell. There is breathing and life and profound love after hell. He holds me like this for a while, and together, we just breathe.

  “I’m so glad he’s dead,” Chris says calmly. “I don’t care how that sounds to anyone else but you because you understand. Maybe I’m supposed to forgive him. Maybe it helps other people to do that. But I’m just glad that son of a bitch is dead. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand.” I’ve never told Chris that I came close to murdering his father myself. That the only reason I didn’t was because Zach stopped me. “I’m glad he’s dead, too.”

  I wonder how many more of these moments we’re going to have. How many more incidents and injuries and traumas I will hear about. How many more times I will wish that I had followed through and beaten the life out of Christopher’s father. It’s what that man deserved. It would have been justice.

  Or maybe not. Maybe there is no justice for his atrocities, and I would have done something that I wouldn’t have been able to live with.

  There really is no way to pay back the torture and terror he inflicted on his children.

  “Hey?” Chris grabs a towel from the hook and wraps it around my back, pulling me in.

  I notice it’s just the same way that Sabin did with me a few weeks ago on the dock, except that Chris refrains from shaking me around like crazy.

  Chris smiles. “Please don’t look like that. Remember what I always tell you?”

  “That you’re okay now. That it’s over.”

  “Yes. I am okay now, and it is over.”

  “But you still have nightmares.”

  “I’ll probably always have nightmares.” He smiles again, trying to comfort me.

  He knows that my love for him makes his history belong to me to a degree. He knows that, when you love someone, you take on that person’s pain. So, I feel his pain, and in part, it becomes my own.

  “But I am still okay, and it is still over. Those are truths that I hold on to more tightly than I hold on to even you, so you need to believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Now, let’s go to dinner and drink too much, and then we’ll come home and fuck too much.”

  I kiss him and whisper into his mouth, “There is no too much.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  We refuse to let the past wreck our today. That’s why we’re the team that we are.

  We dry off and head back up to the house. I check my phone and see a voice mail from Sabin. I listen to it twice and then put it on speaker for the third time.

  Sabin’s voice booms th
rough. “Blythe! Blythe! I found permanent and bedbug-free housing!” he shouts with somewhat alarming glee. “It is not in a pineapple under the sea for the simple reason that I am not SpongeBob. Thus, the pineapple-under-the-sea housing board fucking denied my application. Fucking bastards! However, I found something better. You ready for it, B? I live in a tree house! Like a goddamn cookie-baking fucking elf! Call me back!”

  I look at Chris with disbelief. “Did he really say that he lives in a tree house?”

  Chris grins. “Where else would Sabin live?”

  November brings temperatures in the forties, overcast skies, and a quiet town. While there are a handful of cross-country skiing fanatics who might come to the Acadia area, by and large, we are in full winter mode with many restaurants and stores shut down for the season.

  After struggling to acclimate when our respective siblings left, Chris and I are now back in our comfortable routine. I suppose we’re not like most people in their early twenties who would probably find the idea of semi-isolation totally unappealing. Maybe our troubled histories have influenced us in this way, but neither of us craves bars or crowds or packed social lives. Neither of us is on any social networking sites, which presumably puts us in a minuscule percentage.

  Holing up for the winter limits chaos and brings a kind of simplicity and clarity that is settling. It’s not as though we don’t have friends. Granted, working from home as I do doesn’t lend itself to meeting new people, but I still talk to my friend Nichole regularly. Chris has become friendly with some people from work, and we occasionally get together with them for small dinner parties or hikes.

  But very often, we’re alone, not in a pathological or dysfunctional way. It’s just because that’s what we prefer—for now at least. Maybe one day, we’ll both have calendars booked with plans but not now.

  So, it’s the two of us for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, and I’m perfectly okay with it—well, mostly okay with it. Flying everyone out here for such a short time really didn’t make much sense, and we’ll all be together over Christmas and New Year’s, so I’ll wait for the big family gathering and find plenty to be grateful for with Chris.

  Even though it’s just us, we’re going all out with tomorrow’s meal, and the kitchen is a bit of a disaster area.

  “Do you remember the first time we cooked for Thanksgiving together?” Chris asks.

  I look up from the apple that I’m peeling for the pie. “Like it was yesterday.”

  “Our cooking skills have gotten better. That’s for sure.”

  “I think Eric shamed us into devoting more attention to the importance of a well-cooked holiday dinner.”

  He doesn’t look up from kneading bread dough. “You looked beautiful in that messy dorm kitchen, sitting on the counter, all covered in flour.”

  I look back down at the apple and smile as I start peeling again. “And you looked incredibly hot when you asked me to ignore the cooking and dance with you.”

  “And you made me so fucking horny when you did dance with me.”

  I laugh. “I did not. You didn’t try anything.”

  “Doesn’t mean that I wasn’t thinking about it.”

  I smile again. “Good.”

  It was a wonderful Thanksgiving. The best, really. When I felt so alone, Chris told me that I had family. More than that, he showed me.

  “Are you sad that everyone isn’t here with us?” he asks.

  I set down the knife and round the counter to hug Chris from behind. “It’s hard to be sad when I’m focusing on all that I have to be thankful for.” My hands slip under the back of his shirt and cross slowly to his stomach.

  When I inch my fingers below his waistline, he laughs. “I’m kind of covered in bread dough here.”

  I duck under his arm and slip between him and the counter.

  He smiles down at me. “You’re about to get your hot self covered in flour again.”

  I quickly kiss him. “Keep kneading.”

  Chris rubs his nose against mine and then continues with the bread, his body rocking into me as he works.

  “I have to say that I admire your technique,” I say as I put my hands on his hips. “Such steady rhythm. And really throwing your weight into it.”

  “You are trouble, young lady.” Chris firmly pushes his body against mine and grinds into me while he buries his mouth against my neck.

  “This is going to be the best bread ever,” I say through my giggling.

  Just as I lift my hands into his hair, my phone rings. I pull back and reach for it. “That’s Sabin’s ring! I have to get it.”

  Sabin’s calls and texts have been sporadic over the past few weeks. I’ve been trying to give him space because I know how busy he’s been.

  “Hey, easy there,” Chris jokes. “Wrong brother to be getting so excited about.”

  I lightly slap him on the arm. “It’s just that I haven’t talked to him in—”

  “Just kidding. I know. Grab the call.”

  Chris steps back, and I catch the phone before it goes to voice mail.

  “Sabin!”

  “Whatcha up to on this fine holiday eve, oh Mistress of Maine?” His gritty voice booms through the phone.

  I have missed him.

  “Just being thankful and shit,” I say.

  Chris leans in toward my phone. “Tell him I am not thankful for his timing.” But he blows me a kiss and starts to shape the dough into a loaf.

  “Oh, horrors!” Sabin says dramatically. “Have I interrupted some sort of disgusting and unnatural sexual interaction?”

  “Sabe!” I yell.

  “Ah, I have. Well, I have no idea what that might entail as it’s been a hundred years since I’ve gotten laid.”

  “It’s the season to be grateful, not pissy.”

  “I’m grateful that I haven’t fucked anyone and been vulnerable to a hideous venereal disease. How’s that?”

  I frown. “Are you okay? This is hardly the attitude of someone who ran off to San Diego and fell into the most unusual life ever.”

  Sabin wasn’t kidding when he said that he lived in a tree house. He really does. An actual fucking tree house. In perfect Sabin fashion, he got a job with a company that builds rather luxurious accommodations for those who wish to live in unusual habitats. The owner of the business, Pearce, offered Sabin the tree house on his own property for minimal rent. Aside from a bedroom and living area, it even has a small kitchen. Not to mention, it has working electricity and plumbing.

  Chris nods at the sound system we keep high on a shelf, away from kitchen accidents. I hit the On button, and he waves for me to step out of the kitchen if I want. Music blares from the speakers, and I cover the mouthpiece on my phone.

  “I’m not done with you,” I warn Chris.

  “Better not be.”

  I find quiet in the living room and lie on the couch. “Now, tell me, how’s tree-house life?”

  “Lofty,” Sabin says.

  “Funny. Say more.”

  “It’s pretty awesome.”

  “When are you going to send me pictures? You keep saying you will, and you haven’t. How am I supposed to relax when I can’t picture you in your surroundings?”

  “I told you. I’m still fixing it up. It was sort of half done when I moved in. I mean, it was all there structurally, but it didn’t have much style going on. I added on a wraparound porch. Did I tell you that?”

  “How the hell did you know how to do that?” I ask.

  “Pearce helped me. He got me extra lumber from jobs they’d finished.”

  “You must be learning a ton. This guy Pearce sounds really cool, huh?”

  Sabin pauses. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, now, I’m roped into having Thanksgiving dinner with him, his kid, and a whole crew of people I don’t know. I’m supposed to make a side dish, but I haven’t really figured that out quite yet.”

  “Um, you’d better get moving. It’s, what? Almost six there? The markets are going to close.”


  “I don’t know if I’m even going to go. It’s gonna be dumb.”

  “If you were invited and you accepted, then you’re going. And this guy has been very good to you. He gave you a job and a place to live, so go be grateful.”

  “Fine,” he says grouchily.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

  Sabin has a social drive that I don’t, so I’m surprised he’s not more enthusiastic.

  “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be? I have sunshine and surf, missy.” His voice lifts, and I feel slightly better. “Just tired. We were doing a job two hours away. Lots of driving on congested freeways, plus the whole hauling lumber and raising it up a story. Oh, but get this! So, the guy we built that tree house for? He had us put in a zip line that goes from his main house to the landing by the tree-house’s front door and then a slide that loops out, like, three times from the bedroom to the ground. It’s fucking awesome.”

  “That’s so cool! And you like everyone you work with?”

  “Yeah, those guys are nice. Real friendly. We hang out after work, grab a drink, and stuff.”

  I don’t say anything about this because I’m not sure what he means by drink, so there’s a stretch of silence between us.

  “Blythe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you’re worrying now, and please don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “Like I told you, alcohol isn’t really my problem.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know you’re still worrying, so stop it. It’s awesome here. I’m building tree houses, so how could it not be awesome? Insane stuff. I mean, anything people want can happen. I saw a tree house being used as an office, and it had a lookout over the ocean and a hand-carved desk. And…and…oh, Pearce is designing a house now with a pulley system, so the owner can get her two-legged golden retriever up and down. Like, it’s a fucking elevator for the dog! Nice lady but even nicer dog. He’s almost fifteen, and he lost his legs when some asshole ran over him. Sad.