Page 31 of Hearts Adrift
I jerk awake.
Eyes fly open.
A strange living room. TV on the wall reflecting a ray of sunlight straight into my eyes from the window. Coffee table in front of me with an empty bag of hot Cheetos.
I sit up, confused, and find a blanket on top of me. Still blinking sleep out of my eyes, I clutch the blanket and look around me.
Oh. Did I …
Did I seriously fall asleep in the bungalow?
The house is quiet. I rise to my feet, still clutching the blanket, and slowly move through the room. River isn’t in the kitchen. The containers of take-out I brought from the Easy Breezy are stacked neatly by the sink appearing cleaned, even though they’re totally disposable. I go to the hall next and check the larger bedroom.
He’s in bed on his side, facing away, sleeping on top of the sheets. Barely audible, all I hear are his soft inhales and exhales. Watching him like that, seeing him so peaceful, I find myself swept away a bit by the idea.
Peace is a precious thing I don’t think either of us have enjoyed for a while.
Then I remember he saw my erection.
And massaged me into a coma on that damned couch.
How could I let myself fall asleep like that? Either I reallymust’ve been more exhausted from everything going on lately than I realized, or River did pick up a trick or two from his time in Thailand.
I decide to leave a note. I snatch Brooke’s letter out of the welcome basket—which River left out on the coffee table—and think about what I might say. Thank you for the massage? Sorry for conking out? Your eyes are beautiful, too? Every idea I come up with is lamer than the last.
So I decide not to write anything at all.
I put the note back where I found it, leave the pen next to the basket, and see myself out through the back door. A quick check of my phone tells me it’s barely seven o’clock as the rush and pull of waves fills my ears and the sea air blasts against my face. I make my way around the corner of the bungalow—swinging bench is having a lovely morning as it lets the wind do with it what it wishes—and head back to my car on the curb.
I stop for a second, sensing something, and peer over my shoulder. Just the nearest bungalow on the corner of the intersection, appearing silent and still. And the stop sign at that intersection creaking in the wind. And a plastic bag in the air, fluttering around like it dreams of being a seagull.
No one’s there.
I’m probably becoming as paranoid as River.
I get in my car and go.
The second I’m home, I head straight for the shower—narrowly avoiding Heather in the kitchen making herself a coffee—and wash away the night. When the water hits my body, I’m reminded instantly of the unparalleled pleasure of digging fingers, crotch in my face, and my own moans.
And I’m stunned that that isn’t describing sex.
We didn’t havesex.
We hadmassage.
Massage on the couch. Massage all over my shoulders, allover my face, all over my aching, worn-out soul.
And now I’m hard again. Hard in the shower. Hard as I feel River’s fingers all over me—in more places than just my shoulders. He’s become a goddamned obsession. Every thought I have begins and ends with his handsome smirk.
Brooke told me once that I fall fast and I fall hard.
For all my alleged strength, it’s such a huge hole in my armor that it leaves me vulnerable to situations like this.
And while I’m already vulnerable, reeling from Theo.
It’s a dangerous cocktail I’m downing by the mouthful.
Now I’m thinking about cocks in that cocktail.
