Page 40 of I Wanna Be Your Lager

He drops his hand, and it falls to my thigh. His fingers splay over the denim, its warmth radiating through my jeans. I don’t know if he purposely put his hand there, but I’m afraid if I move, he’ll remove it, and I don’t want him to.

Turning toward me, a smirk on his lips, he says, “As soon as we’re out of this truck, it’ll be my turn to take pictures of you.”

I drop the camera on my lap and bite my lower lip. “What kind of photos?” I drag a finger across my collarbone and down my chest. His eyes follow the same path.

He clears his throat before turning his attention back to the road. I lift the camera and snap a picture, wanting to capture the slight pink that dusts his cheeks.

“Are you going to take pictures of me for the rest of the drive?”

“Maybe.”

He laughs again, and I snap another picture. I zoom in on his long fingers as his hand drapes over the steering wheel and take another. Panning the camera to the left, I focus on his face. He meets my gaze from the corner of his eyes, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths, but he doesn’t move. I snap another picture.

“So, what do you love about photography?” he asks.

“It’s like little moments frozen in time. Captured memories.”

“You ever worry about spending too much time trying to capture the memories versus just living them?”

His fingers flex on my thigh, causing butterflies to erupt in my belly. This right here is everything I want. This is precisely the perfect moment I want captured for eternity. Raising the camera, I press the button, taking a picture of his hand on my thigh. “There’s definitely a balance between the two.”

“Think of all the people who spend their time taking pictures, capturing the memories, instead of living them. How many pictures do you have on your phone that you’ve taken but you never look at? Who knows if you ever will? They just sit there, taking up space until you run out of room and delete them.”

“That’s certainly one way to think of it. But if you’re taking pictures with purpose, it’s different because when you look back at all the photos, and if they invoke an emotion, you know you’ve captured the perfect moment. They may be happy, sad,scary, frightening, or a deep love. If you feel any of those, you’ve captured the right moment.”

His soft gaze drifts to mine, and his lips twitch into a smile. He removes his hand from my thigh, and I frown at the loss.

“Come here.” He lifts his chin, motioning me over. “Bring your camera. Let’s capture the perfect moment.”

I lift the armrest on my side, and he does the same to his. Setting my camera in my bag, I grab my cell phone instead. Selfies with a regular camera don’t work. I slide to the center seat—it’s more of a child seat, but it’s a seat, nonetheless. He wraps an arm over my shoulders. I hook my pinky with his, hold out my phone, and snap several photos. Some where he’s smiling with me and others where he’s in profile. Perfect memories in case it’s the only thing I’ll have. After I finish taking pictures, I move to slide to my seat, but Lach tightens his grip, stopping me.

“Stay.”

A small smile curves across my lips. “In the middle seat? What am I supposed to do? Straddle the center console?”

He peers at me from the corner of his eyes. “I’ll give you something to straddle later.”

“Promise?”

He laughs and pulls me closer. “You certainly like to challenge me, don’t you?”

I smirk and shrug. Lach shakes his head and laughs. The constant shift of hot and cold with Lach is giving me whiplash. I’m going to go into shock one of these times. Tomorrow, we’re back in Harbor Highlands, and I need an answer by then. I can’t continue doing this back and forth any longer. In the meantime, I’ll savor this time I have curled against his side in case it’s all I’ll get. We sit mostly in comfortable silence, which is out of character for me. But with Lach, everything is different. My world seems brighter and more vibrant. The sounds sharper and more alive. There are no words to describe it. Almost as if weknow each other without knowing each other. Two lost souls reunited. I wonder if he feels it too.

After an hour passes, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, and my body stiffens. Lach peers down at me.

“It’s Jake. He’s wondering how far we are.”

Lach nods, lifts his arm from my shoulder, and pulls away. A pang of disappointment washes over me. Jake’s not even here, yet he still ruins things. Now feeling foolish for sitting in the middle seat, I sit up, unbuckle my seatbelt, and slide to the passenger seat. I reply to Jake before tucking my phone away in my purse. I shift my body toward the door, cross my arms over my chest, and stare out the window as we pass by flat fields and the sporadic patches of trees.

Soon, the bright sky turns to dusk and eventually nightfall as we pull into the parking lot of a hotel outside Chicago. With traffic and detours, the GPS-estimated eight-hour drive turned into twelve. I’m beyond ready to get out of this truck. Once we’re parked, Lach grabs his backpack and my small rolling suitcase, and we stroll into the hotel together. He gets us our room keys and escorts me to the elevator. Our room on the third floor is a standard king-size room with a small pull-out couch next to the bathroom that has a tub and shower. There’s a desk against the far wall by the window. It’ll be our little sanctuary for the next twelve hours.

“I’m going to jump in the shower.” Lach sets his backpack on a chair and stands my suitcase next to it. He grabs a couple of items from his backpack before going into the bathroom. The door softly clicks behind him.

I hear the shower turn on, and I plop down on the bed and grab my phone. I send a quick message to Jake and let him know where we are and that we’ll be back tomorrow. Several messages from Mr. Shart draw my attention. After the third “Don’t leave, I miss you” text, I delete all the others without even reading them.I send him a text with Jake’s address for my paycheck, then block his number. I’m slamming the door and throwing away the key on that chapter of my life.

I drop my phone to the comforter. I bite my lower lip, contemplating if I should just join Lach in the shower. Water conservation and all. He wants this as much as I do. His eyes tell me everything I need to know. Every time he looks at me, it’s like he has to fight with himself to not clasp my cheeks and kiss me. He’s given in a few times, and he beats himself up afterward. What we are doing isn’t wrong. I need him to understand that. I roll off the bed and rise to my feet as the water shuts off. A few minutes later, the door opens, and Lach emerges wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. Water droplets slide from his neck and disappear into the light smattering of hair on his chest. He runs a towel through his hair, causing his reddish-brown hair to sprout in all directions. His tattoos, a collection of bold designs and intricate patterns, are fully visible. I’m mesmerized by the way the ink slowly dances on his skin as his muscles flex with every twist and turn. In an instant, a flood of naughty ideas converge between my legs. I clench my thighs together to relieve the ache. His eyes meet mine, darkening to indigo with each passing second. All my thoughts are a jumbled mess when he looks at me like that, and instead of ducks, I need my thoughts in a row in order to navigate this. Also, I need the shower to have a removable showerhead to help me clear my mind.

TWENTY-TWO

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