Page 12 of Marked By my Stalker
I shift in the seat, pretending it’s just the upholstery sticking to my skin. It’s not. It’s her. The way she climbed into the truck all quiet, trembling, holding herself together.
Why does that do something to me? Why am I thinking of holding her close until all the pain goes away? About keeping her safe from assholes like Brick? About stripping that cute, little, pumpkin sweater straight off her and suckling those firm tits?
I grip the steering wheel harder than I need to, telling myself it’s just adrenaline, just the fallout from laying Brick out on the pavement, but my heartbeat hasn’t settled, and deep down I know it’s not about the punch. It’s everything else. Her curved frame, her smooth skin, all that pretty hair… the fact that she’s saving herself like an innocent little prize.
She’s sitting inches away and I can feel the air vibrating between us. I try not to look, but my gaze drifts anyway. Her knees are pulled up, her fingers knotted together like she’s afraid of unraveling.
I want to say something, anything, but I don’t trust my voice right now, and that picture of her and her dad in the hospital at birth didn’t help matters any. I’m pretty sure that had to have been the year after we met. He was probably home on leave.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me?
I breathe in, out, repeat, and I keep driving. I know what I did. I jerked off last night. I got it all out of my system. In reality, though, all that did was fuel the fire, and probably taught my brain and my cock that thoughts of her mean pleasure.
Fuck!
She clears her throat, and I figure I need to speak before this gets more awkward. “Sorry about the punch.” I drag in a heavy breath. “I probably could’ve been more civilized.”
“Oh,” she sighs, “you don’t have to be sorry for punching him. He deserved it. I caught him sneaking out of some girl’s room on my way down.”
“What?” My head turns sharply toward her.
I don’t feel as bad now.
“Yeah, apparently, he wasgetting homework,” she laughs under her breath, “whatever that means.”
“You okay?” I try to keep my tone as soft as possible, but I’m ragged with anger. “You sure you feel up to going out? You’ve been through a lot today and its only noon.”
“Oh yeah,” she smiles softly, “I’m glad we’re going out. Otherwise, I’d just sit around all afternoon feeling sorry for myself. I mean… if you still feel like going.” There’s anxiety in her voice. She’s probably still shaken.
“I still want to go.” I straighten “Thought about this trip all night.”What am I saying?“I mean… about the places to get the best shots. I like this place a local told me about called Echo Ridge. I’ll take you there first.”
She twists toward me, tone bright, her hand on the console with mine, nearly brushing against me as she says, “What’s so special about it?”
“On a clear day like today, you get views of the peaks, a stream, and the ranches that have settled in the valley. Sometimes, you’ll even see wild horses running across the field.”
“Wild horses!” Her face lights. “There are wild horses up here?”
“Not always, but if you’re lucky,” I tap the steering wheel, grinning into the sunlight, “you’ll hear their hooves before you see them. Sounds like thunder rolling across the grass.”
She leans against the window, eyes lighting up with what looks like hope. “I’ve never seen wild horses before. Nebraska is one hundred percent flat plains and a lack of inspiration.”
“Well, we’ll find them today.” I say it like it’s a promise to see her smile, and now I know I’ll be searching all day for them. I can’t let her down.
She smiles and leans in, her arm brushing mine. “When I was little, my dad used to take us out to the dump to see the bears. We’d sit in the car, window down, ice cream in hand watching as they pawed through the trash. They’d let out these low grunts, and every once in a while, they’d get curious, and we’d have to roll up the windows really fast as they lumbered up the trail toward the car. It’s one of my favorite memories. There’s something so different about seeing a truly wild animal.”
“There is. They’re alive in a way we forget we’re supposed to be.”
She leans forward and smiles. “Yes! Exactly! I think about that all the time. I don’t want to be stuffed in some court room or law office, searching through documents all day. I want to be out here, wild like horses and the bears, free and alive, ya know? Is that why you loved the military?”
“It was part of it,” I admit, fingers tightening around the gear shift. “There’s this brutal kind of clarity out there. When everything’s stripped away and all that’s left is you, the dirt, and a task. I was out on this one mission… we had to extract a hostage from a mountain compound,” I say quietly. “No backup, just your dad and I. Got the guy out, but that was the day your dad saved me. I leaned on him as I hobbled three miles throughfreezing terrain that night. I’d have froze without his help. That kind of stuff changes a person.”
I glance over, and the way she listens makes me forget how dry my throat feels. No one ever listens to me like this.
“When I joined, I didn’t know who I was. And out there, in the middle of nowhere with nothing but heat and silence, I started figuring I didn’t want a life I had to survive. I wanted one that wakes me up every morning.”
“I love that.” She smiles sweetly. “That’s exactly why I want to live up here, find a little cabin, travel around the mountain, take pictures, fall in love, have a family, take more pictures… it sounds peaceful.”
I swallow hard and glance toward her as we climb higher, past fences twisted with wildflowers and old cattle gates. “A family, huh? Already thinkin’ about that?”
