Burying Water

  “And you were going to be alone all night, weren’t you.”

  “Yeah.” I hear the hurt in her voice. I have a good idea why he’s not coming home and I’m guessing she does, too.

  Fingers snap to my left. Boone, mouthing, “Who’s that?”

  I answer him with a middle finger. Last thing I need is for him to know that Viktor Petrova’s wife is calling me and it has nothing to do with a car. I’m guessing she just wants to talk.

  Or maybe not.

  I go out on a huge limb and ask, “You want company?”

  There’s a moment of hesitation, then, “Yes.”

  I spend all of three seconds evaluating whether this is a good idea. It is 100 percent not a good idea.

  “Where are you?”

  The second she opens the door into her dimly lit hotel room, the second I see her long, shiny blond hair, I feel the urge to tangle my fingers in it.

  “Hey.” She steps back just far enough to let me pass through, close enough that our shoulders brush and I catch her perfume. Much milder than what she wears to the club. From this vantage point, I have a good view down her loose purple top and I try not to stare.

  “You look good. I mean . . .” Even in the shadowy entryway, her cheeks glow with a blush. She scans the soft, navy V-neck I grabbed from Boone’s closet while he was huddled under the small overhang outside on our balcony, having a smoke. It’s better than anything I have. And tonight, I wanted to look good.

  I let out a low whistle as I step into the room, my eyes taking in all the abstract patterns and dark colors. When I pulled my shitty Corolla into the lot of the RiverPlace Hotel, I knew the rooms would be way out of my price range. “How much does a night here cost?”

  “Close to eight hundred for this room.”

  Jesus. “Nice view.” I push back the black-and-white curtains to take in the dark silhouettes of docked sailboats along the river.

  I sense rather than see her close the distance to stand right behind me. “Well, I figured that Viktor should at least pay for me to be in luxury while he’s cheating on me.” Her bitterness is palpable. Which explains what motivated her to pick a place like this.

  “Is he? For sure?”

  “I called the hotel he stayed in last time—when I found the receipt—and asked for them to put me through to Mr. Petrova. He answered on the fourth ring.”

  “He’s not going to stop. You know that, right?”

  “I do.” So much resignation in those two words.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  She doesn’t respond right away and when she does, it’s not an answer. “Why am I not good enough, Jesse?” I can’t imagine what it’s like—to be twenty-two, beautiful, and married to a guy who has no intention of being faithful. He sure as hell doesn’t go out of his way to hide it, either.

  I admit, I knew what I was getting myself into when I scribbled her room number on a scrap of paper; when I stuck a couple of condoms into my wallet. Since hanging up the phone, I’ve felt like a live wire, exposed: just waiting to make contact with her so I can pass this current through me, so she can feel it too.

  And when I turn around to meet her eyes, I know that she’s waiting for it. “You’re plenty good enough, Alex. He’s the problem. Not you.”

  The second my tongue touches her lips, she responds, opening to let me taste the inside of her mouth. There’s no doubt she wants it. But when I slide my free hand under her shirt and up her back, pulling her tight into me, I can’t ignore how stiff her body is. I break free to look down at her, at the wild mix of thrill and fear and nervousness dancing within her wide eyes.

  What she said to me last night in the garage . . . I can read a lot into that, but I don’t want to. I shouldn’t. She’s trapped in a shitty marriage with an asshole, she’s kissing strangers on the side of the road—the girl’s a head case right now. I don’t want to confuse her, make things harder for her than they already are. “Is this really what you want?”

  She lets go of my arms and takes three steps back to the bed. Turning off the one lit lamp in the room, leaving us with only the glow from the city lights outside the window, she pulls the hem of her shirt over her head and tosses it to the bench at the end of the bed. Her bra follows quickly, giving me a glimpse of a set of small but firm breasts, with perfect pink nipples. And then, gripping the waist of her pants, she shimmies them off, underwear and all.

  A bare and trembling Alex sits down on the end of the bed and stretches her hand out for me. As if I wasn’t hard enough, the rest of my blood rushes downward and I feel myself strain in my jeans. I don’t think I could stop myself from going to her even if I tried. Still, why does this not feel right? I mean, I’m dying to get inside her, but something is setting off alarm bells inside my head right now.

  Her hands immediately go for my belt and I yank my shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Her eyes skate over my chest as adept fingers unbutton and unzip, pushing my pants and boxers down to my thighs. Her hot, wet mouth takes me in immediately.

  “Damn.” I close my eyes as my head falls back, remembering that arrogant asshole’s comment yesterday about Alex’s talents.

  Now I know what’s bothering me. Well, aside from the fact that we shouldn’t be doing this, period. And that I’m thinking about her husband.

  “Stop.” I groan as I ease her mouth away from me. It takes me a few moments to slow my breathing. “You’ve never been with anyone other than Viktor, have you?”

  She bows her head. When I slide my hand under her chin to lift her face and she twists away, I clue in and mentally kick myself. She thinks I’m rejecting her. She thinks I wasn’t enjoying that.

  That’s not the issue at all.

  The issue is that all she knows is an egotistical, demanding husband who has probably never even considered what she may want or need. I won’t claim that I’m not a selfish person. Right or wrong, I want this. But I don’t want it to be all about me. I drop to my knees in front of her and say, “Alex. Look at me.”

  Dejected eyes meet mine. “That’s not what I meant by that question.” I slip my hands around either side of her jaw. “What do you want? Right now, from me.”

  Tentative fingers reach up to touch my lips. “I want you to just kiss me for a while. A long while.”

  She wants to go slow. I pull her face down into mine, sliding my tongue past her lips, quickly losing myself in her mouth and her eager response, letting time tick away, fighting every urge I have to let my hands wander. Ten minutes, an hour, an eternity passes—Alex’s lips are red and swollen—and then she eases herself back on the bed, her hands pinning mine to her face, pulling me with her, until we’re both lying down. I can’t help myself anymore, my fingers memorizing the firm, smooth curves of her breasts and the insides of her thighs.

  And how ready she is for me.

  She gasps against my mouth as I touch her for the first time, and then releases a soft, shaky breath before kissing me again, letting her legs fall apart.

  If she told me that he’s never bothered to touch her like this, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  But she won’t be saying that about me.

  When I try to break free from her mouth and move, her hand on the back of my head tightens and a soft “no” escapes. “Don’t stop kissing me, please.”

  I smile, dropping my mouth into the crook of her neck. “I won’t. I promise.” Her body tenses only slightly when I start sliding down, her fingers gently digging into my back as my mouth leaves a wet trail the length of her body. She squirms lightly when I dip my tongue into her belly button.

  And when I push my hands between her thighs and slide my tongue inside her, I’m pretty sure she stops breathing for a moment. But I don’t stop, not until her muscles strain within my grasp, and her fingers tug at my short hair, and her pelvis bucks against me, and her entire body shudders.

  I stretch out on my back alongside her, watching her chest heave with each ragged breath, her body lying limp. Wondering
what’s going on inside that head of hers as she stares up at the ceiling.

  Finally she rolls her head to meet my gaze, her lips red and raw and so damn tempting, and my mouth is on hers again, and my body is covering hers, her thighs wrapped around my hips.

  “Shit.” I pull back just before I slide into her. It would be so easy to—she’s so ready. “Hold on.” I hang off the bed to grab my pants and fish a condom out of my wallet. I’ve never had issues opening one of these, but now I struggle to rip the foil open with my teeth as Alex’s hot tongue slides up and down my throat. “Fuck,” I groan, finally getting the package open and the condom on.

  Locking eyes with her—because I need to know that she wants this as much as I do—I slowly push into her. My name escapes her lips, followed by a low moan that makes me swear under my breath. With parted lips, she watches me expectantly as I pull out and push back in again, deeper, earning another moan. She curls her hand around the back of my head and pulls me down to kiss her again. We keep that slow rhythm, our mouths breaking apart just long enough to let her little moans out, her arms and legs wrapped around my body, her thighs squeezing me tight, her nails dragging along my shoulders and back.

  Until I can’t hold out anymore.

  “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” she whispers, her hands cradling the back of my head.

  Neither did I. I rest my forehead against hers, both of us struggling to steady our breathing, our chests rising and falling together. Enjoying the intimate silence.

  Until a tear touches my nose.

  “Oh God. What have we done?” I feel the tension start to course back into Alex’s limbs.

  Pulling out of her, I yank the condom off and toss it to the floor—something I normally wouldn’t do but right now, I don’t want to let go of her long enough to find a trash can. I roll onto my back and scoop her into my chest, holding her tight.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m just . . .”

  I kiss the top of her head. “You’re just a good person.”

  “No, I’m not. Not after that.”

  “Do you think Viktor’s lying in bed right now, crying over what he’s doing?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m no better than he is.”

  I shut up and let her cry against my chest, watching the minute and hour digits on the clock change as her breathing grows slow and heavy with sleep and my own guilt sets in. I really like Alex—talking to her, laughing with her, just being around her.

  Feeling her.

  But tonight, I took advantage of this girl, even though I was trying not to. And I feel like a complete dickhead.

  The sky begins to lighten when I carefully roll her off me. I pull my clothes on and after watching her sleep for a long moment—I don’t know when I’ll see her again—I leave, needing to get home to change before work.

  I hope she doesn’t hate me after this.

  EIGHTEEN

  Water

  now

  The scent of lavender and sandalwood announces Dakota as she places a tall black coffee and a pastry in front of me.

  “What a wonderful morning it is!” she exclaims with a broad smile, dropping her suede fringed purse onto the counter. In the three weeks since I started working at The Salvage Yard, the twenty-four-year-old shopkeeper has greeted me with those exact words every single day, rain or shine.

  You would think that it might have gotten old by now. And yet it’s a daily reminder that every morning is a wonderful morning. Because I shouldn’t be alive to see it.

  Short, natural fingernails curl around the top of a box. “Oooh! I’ve been waiting for Ms. Teal’s jewelry. Is this it?”

  I nod through a sip of coffee as she reaches in and pulls out several copper-colored bracelets made from guitar strings, her big doe eyes sparkling with excitement as she slides them onto her wrist. The shop is tiny and jam-packed with all kinds of recycled merchandise, from jewelry to clothing to furniture. And, of course, Ginny’s quilts, which I found out are made from discarded scraps of fabric from a local sewing store.

  “What do you think, Water?” She holds up her arm to display the various pieces.

  “They’re beautiful.” Especially against her naturally dark Native American skin. She says she’s only one-quarter Chinook, but it must be an awfully big quarter, given her exotic dark features, thick black hair, and svelte figure. I would describe her more as hippie by choice, though, opting for flowing maxi dresses and Birkenstock sandals and a makeup-free face.

  She drove back to Sisters from San Francisco in her 1982 VW Beetle seven months ago after the great-aunt who raised her and owned The Salvage Yard died, leaving her the shop. Dakota expects to head south again one day, but right now she’s enjoying “being back with nature.”

  I think that’s why, the day I walked in here with Meredith and introduced myself as Water, she offered me a job on the spot, saying something about the stars aligning and a kismet connection, her slightly glazed eyes getting this dreamy look in them.

  The rumor that Dakota smokes a lot of weed is not so much rumor as fact.

  Luckily for me, my hippie boss believes in things like gut feelings instead of résumés and references. She also doesn’t believe in paying taxes, so I’m handed cash every second Friday.

  “They’ll go fast with the tourists. Just you wait.” She slides the jewelry off her wrist. “All of this stuff will.”

  I help her cut open the rest of the boxes delivered over the last week, pulling out hemp-woven bags, log lamps, and metal sculptures, until my fingertips grasp a coarse fabric.

  This feels . . . I pull the material out and find a red-and-blue checkered blanket. I rub one corner between my fingertips, the strange blend of soft and rough textures pricking my skin.

  “Those are wool, from the McMillan farms, about twenty miles south of here. We get a dozen each spring and they’re snapped up within weeks.”

  An eerie tingle runs through my body, holding the blanket in my hands. When it comes times to pull them all out and lay them on a table, I find I can’t let the red-and-blue one go. But the price tag Dakota just stuck on one is more than I make in a week! “Is there any chance I can set one of these aside until I have enough money to buy it?”

  She smiles. “Why don’t you take it home tonight and I’ll just deduct a quarter from your next four pays. At cost for you, of course.”

  “Thank you.” I know I’ll have to remind her or she’ll forget. I tuck it under the counter with my purse and then continue my work, hanging the rest of the bracelets.

  Dakota hums to herself, reviewing a small notebook she keeps tucked in the old cash register. She doesn’t believe in computers. “How’s Ginny doing with her quilts?”

  “She’s been working hard.” I set to break apart the cardboard box.

  “And you? How is your new hobby?”

  “I think I need to come up with another one.” Ginny showed up at my door one night two weeks ago with a bag of scrap material, a ruler, and a “cutter.” She started me off by showing me how to make basic squares. That was easy. Last week, she showed me how to stitch the squares together.

  I’ve learned that I’m not the most patient person.

  Apparently I also stitch like a drunk, according to Ginny.

  The bell hanging over the door jangles and my stomach tightens just a little. I automatically shift my stance and shake my hair forward. I do this anytime someone walks into the shop. That’s the problem with having a long scar line running down the length of your face. The concealer provides marginal help, but it can’t hide the creases when I smile. At least I don’t have a giant gap in my teeth anymore.

  “Dakota Howard. Well, I’ll be damned. Look at you!” the tall dark-haired guy who just walked in announces, straightening the collar of his black coveralls, a tag that reads “Fanshaw Electrical” sewn into the breast pocket. “When Dad told me you called for some wiring issues, I had to take the job.”

  Her face pinches
up with recognition. “Chuck?”

  He grins. “You bet! How long has it been?”

  “You were a couple of years ahead of me in school, so . . . maybe eight years, I guess?”

  That’s the thing about a town like Sisters: everyone knows everyone. And everything about everyone. It’s a miracle I’ve kept my own situation under wraps.

  Chuck stops in front of the counter and throws me a wink. “Who’s your lovely coworker?”

  “This is Water. Ginny Fitzgerald’s cousin, who moved here a few weeks ago from . . . ?” She squints in thought.

  “Pittsburgh,” I fill in. I feel bad for lying to Dakota, as nice as she is.

  Chuck’s eyes widen. “Crazy Tree Quilt Lady?”

  “The one and only.” I force a smile. Yes, she may be crazy, but she has her share of reasons and it bothers me that people call her that so openly.

  “Dad says he saw Old Fitzgerald’s yellow truck driving through town but figured Ginny had sold it, given she hasn’t been seen in years. She still have those horses?”

  “Just the two.”

  “She’s nuts for not selling off some of that land, or at least taking in some boarders. My pops drove out there one day to suggest it to her.” He chuckles. “That didn’t go over too well.”

  “Let me guess. She chased him away with a broom?” He’s right—renting those stables would be great for her, financially. But that would mean people coming onto her property, and everyone knows how Ginny feels about that.

  “You should talk her into it. I know lots of people who’d be interested.”

  “I’ll mention it to her,” I offer, though I’m not sure I will. That will earn a thirty-minute rant about nosy Sisters townspeople.

  “She’s got over a thousand acres, last I heard. It’s worth a mint, so close to the mountains. Get on her good side and maybe she’ll leave it to you when she kicks it.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “What’s it like, living with that old nut, anyway?” They’re both looking at me as if they expect me to pull up a chair and start listing all of Ginny’s quirks.