I've walked these paths barefoot before, usually on my way back to the Compound after a walk down the beach and back, and there's something about the sand and sea salt on my feet that makes me feel alive, too good to want to spoil the feeling by slipping shoes back on. I've felt disconnected from my life for so long that it feels good to just be carefree again, to not be thinking about the job or a case or anything involving home right now. It's a little hard for me to dwell on the past when I'm caught up in the present, with him, the fingers of one hand curling into his arm as I clutch onto my shoes with the other.
"Going well so far," I promise, wondering if he's questioning my ability to do so with him as company. The path that stretches out ahead of us will lead to the water eventually, especially if the warm breeze is any indication, the sensation of sand underneath my feet on the path, tread here by others who have walked its length. I can feel more and more of it grinding against my skin as we continue.
"What about you? Not getting bored of me already, are you?" I tease lightly, tilting my head back in order to find his face in the near-darkness. In this light, it's even more difficult to read him, but that just raises my curiosity even more.
Her eyes catch the flare of light from one of the lamps strewn up and down the path and I shake my head. "No," I tell her. The boardwalk needs more lamps like that, but I still think it's kind of amazing there are any at all. Nothing about this place makes sense, nothing. I almost tell her so. "Not even close."
In those patches between lights with only a bit of moonlight peering through the trees, I can see the line of her profile in shadow, the tiny curve of her nose, the slight pout of her full mouth, the slope of her neck. She's outlined in shadow and light, and she's beautiful. That makes sense, maybe. The part where she's here with me doesn't, I don't know if she does, but some things are simple.
"Good," I quickly reply, tipping my chin down and turning my gaze ahead of us to the boardwalk that continues on. The sound of the beach only grows louder the farther we walk, and pretty soon the wood gives way to yielding sand underneath the soles of my feet, a soft and cool contrast to what we were walking only a few seconds earlier. It's a feeling combined with the alcohol in my bloodstream that contributes towards giving me something of a giddy headrush.
My heels fall from my grip and I pull my arm away to start walking faster until I nearly break out into a run, moving carefree over the sand towards the water, splashing up in tiny bursts when my feet finally hit the ocean. It's cold, almost a shock to the system against heated skin, and I shriek and laugh, a sound that sounds foreign and girlish to my own ears. When I turn my head to find him again, brushing small pieces of hair away from my face, I run back to where he stands, catching myself before I run into him by bracing my hands against his arms. "I'm glad you're here," I say, and I mean every word.
I break into a trot after her, stopping some distance from the waves to watch her. Part of me is gripped by the fear I'll fail her, that one minute she'll be there and the next the water will pull her under and there'll be nothing I can do to stop it. It's as clear as fact in my head, the way she disappears like she never existed at all. It's only her laughter that pierces through, keeps me here, my hands in my pockets.
The ocean is a novelty to me. It's not like we couldn't have gone to the beach if we'd made the drive, and there were lakes around, but it wasn't anything like close and we never went. We barely went anywhere outside of a fifty, sixty mile radius. I've already been out here a couple times, and as I wait that minute or so, I kick off my shoes, too, to feel the sand underfoot, still startled by it. It's rough and cool against my skin. I don't know how to feel about it all. It's like the sky. Sometimes there's comfort in feeling this small and sometimes it's just lonely.
But she comes running back, breathless and beautiful, holding onto me and speaking what sounds like nonsense to me. Tentative, then firmer, my hands settle at her waist, and when I answer, it surprises me probably more than her. "Me, too."
The judgment is what goes first, they say, that little voice in the back of your head that warns you against making a sudden choice, a snap decision that you might be bound to regret no matter which way you decide. The drinks remove all of that, but only to an extent, enough for me to feel that voice tickling at the back of my brain - not enough to sway me in any direction but just enough to be irritating. I close my eyes, trying not to let the sensory overload overwhelm me - the smells, the sounds, the sensations under my hands and feet.
There's a warm pressure at my hips and I feel the slight curl of fingertips and reflex has me stepping in, my arms moving up to slide around his neck like twin snakes coiling, and when I open my eyes again, everything else seems like it fades into the background, almost like there's this tiny bubble hovering around us. It's the kind of bubble I could've used a long time ago - or maybe a hard shell, an exoskeleton, my own personal set of armor that feels like it's been breaking down for the past two years, piece by piece, a little at a time. I wonder why he can't seem to be able to see the cracks.
"You're still so tall," I whisper, and my voice is what cracks next, breaking on the vowels. There's more than that breaking, already broken, and more than anything, I just want to be whole again. I want to go back to before I met Patty, before everything went to shit and I let the one man I've ever truly been in love with slip through my fingers, his blood still warm and sticky on my hands. My hands are clean here as one cups his face, the other sliding along his arm, and I rise up on tiptoe to hover near, my face tilting up to his.
My blood pounds in my veins like a warning, an alarm going off, telling me now's the time to push her away, to make it stop. This place isn't fair. They say it takes all the damage away, like you can step out of the ocean and be clean again, everything you did and had done to you stripped free of your bones. It isn't true. That blank slate is nothing more than the way serial killers can walk around back home and no one knows there are bodies in the basement, because people don't wear their cruelty on their skin. It's something darker, deeper, something under the surface. The bad things don't go away. We just wind up somewhere knows about them.
I can't. I don't. Her hands are warm on my skin and I shiver. The salt breeze off the ocean carries a chill I never expected. I can't remember if Callie was ever this tender. I just remember she slid her hand inside my pants before it ever touched my face. I remember I was in her and out again without ever kissing her.
She's small, fragile, under my hands. I pull tight against her waist and draw her closer as I bend in to kiss her hard. I wish I could repay her softness, but I don't know how, too eager to bother being as nice as she and the moonlight deserve.
A strangled sound rises in my throat, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and I hang in that moment of uncertainty, trying to decide which direction to turn in the second that his mouth collides with mine and takes the breath right out of me, almost like a punch in the stomach. There's no pain in this, though, not physically anyway, and this is something I know, something I can do, if only to help me forget.
My eyes fall shut and for once, I don't see David's lifeless face on the inside of my eyelids. I don't see the bathroom of our apartment covered in his blood. I don't see that damned Liberty bookend matted with red and dark hair. I remember to breathe in and there's nothing but this now, the scent of sea salt and sweat and skin and beer and I cling to him harder, more desperately, another sound passing from my lips to only end up muffled by his. It's less harsh this time. A sigh. A moan.
My thumb sweeps over his cheek, the kiss deepening along with the closer proximity. I keep waiting for something to shift and change, for me to wake up in the hotel room with nothing for company than cold bedsheets, but the seconds tick away for what feels like hours and his mouth is still moving over mine, and my lips part against his, my hands clutching his upper arms as my hips pivot into his.
The sounds she makes echo in my head, the first telling me to let go. I hold on tighter, though, hands sliding against her back to pull her against me. Every small motion of hers feels less like a surrender than a demand and I submit gratefully, sucking at her lip, tongue pressing between hers. She tastes of salt and alcohol and things I don't have names for, soft and hot, and I remind myself again and again not to think, not to think so much, except I keep thinking about that and about whether I'm doing it right or if I'm still shit at this. Of whether or not it's wrong to make use of advice another woman gave me when the other thought I can't shake is how badly I want to fuck her. There's nothing here but miles of sand and sea, no one around to see us, nothing to stop us from going at it right here and now if we wanted. And I do.
My mind's a fog anyway, all of it a buzz in my brain, and I wonder if that's the beer or her. I decide it's her, because she's so warm, so pliant, and the open back of dress takes me by surprise when my hand travels higher to bare skin. I know I should slow down or be careful, that as giving as she is, any second I could find some unknown line and cross it and wind up sitting here hard and alone on the empty beach. I can't make the idea stick, though, groaning into her mouth as I reach to push fabric under her thigh just to feel her skin, just to get closer.
There's a hand against my back suddenly and I tense, only for the slightest of moments, just initially. I should have expected it with a dress like this one, but it's been a long time since anyone's touched me that intimately, not even necessarily in a sexual context. With Wes it was always heated, but the passion was tempered down by need, by my knowing I could literally beat him up in our bed and he would still keep coming back to let me take it out on him. Part of me wonders if he needed the punishment as much as I needed to dole it out. There's none of that here now, none of that desire to be rough, just desperation, just the need to feel something, even if it's only for a few more seconds. I can afford to be greedy. I've been selfless for too long, and I'm not holding out anymore.
The hem of the dress rises up my thighs with the press of his hand and I hitch a leg up slightly, notching it against his hip like I'm trying to crawl up his body. I don't want to be this needy, but somehow it's turning out that way. The kiss deepens again and I feel his tongue moving against mine. There's a lazy insistence in it now, not completely rushed but still eager, and I gasp into his mouth when his fingertips slide against my back, my thigh, and my own move over his arms, his chest, trying to find purchase to grip anywhere at all before they settle on his shoulders again.
Just the feel of her leg against me like that drives me wild, and I tighten my grip on her thigh to keep her there. It's what I hoped for when I walked up to her, or on the way to it, but it's not what I expected. Even here where gorgeous women are a dime a dozen, there's no reason any of them should want to go anywhere with me or do anything. But here she is.
The ocean's so close, the sound of her gasp gets swallowed up by the waves or by me, I don't know which, but I can feel it. I stop kissing her so I can kiss her neck instead, soft skin catching briefly under my teeth. I could swear I'm shaking, but I think it might be inside my head or under my skin. It's impossible to know anymore, my head gone blank but for the rush of blood in my ears, indistinguishable from the water, and the constant, throbbing awareness that I want her. I want to push her down to the sand right now, forget that we're somewhere public. It's late. It doesn't matter. I hope this counts as the fun she was looking for. For me, it feels desperately serious.
This isn't vengeful. It isn't controlled by my need to have power over another person, but I'll admit that I like having the choice here, having the ability to decide what I want in this moment - not to mention every moment that's happened since I've been here. I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder, and there's a freedom in that. It's a feeling I want to keep preserving in any way I can, and if that involves the sensation of his skin under my hands, as they slip down from his shoulders and underneath the hem of the threadbare shirt, feeling skin and lean muscle beneath my fingertips.
My eyes linger closed as his mouth moves along my neck, lips and teeth alternating, and the graze of the latter has me clutching a little harder, thigh squeezing against his hip. I feel my center of balance tilting as I tip my head back and for once I don't care that I'm in this nice dress, out in the middle of the beach, standing in the dark. I'm not going to waste the energy to bother caring, not about anything else but this.
Somewhere along the way, all that uncertainty goes out the window, lost in the sound of the waves and her breathing and the taste of salt on her skin. It's hard not to feel more confident when a beautiful woman, barely more than a stranger, clutches at your skin that way, and the way her fingers drag under leaves me pressing into her fingers. It's relieving and maddening at once, a cool balm that reminds me the burning goes deeper than that.
My hand slides higher up her hip to the curve of her ass and I keep mouthing down, to the hollow of her throat and lower to the edge of the dress. Instinctively I stop there, even though I don't want to. Somehow it seems like a line I shouldn't be crossing, not because of her, but the dress itself, and I don't know why, but I can't think clear enough to ask questions of myself. Of her's a different story. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" I ask, muffled against her skin, trying not to beg her to say yes, yes, yes, berating myself for phrasing it so stupidly.
I can feel him pause and that snaps me out of it somewhat, my eyes fluttering open as the world blinks back into focus and I finally zero in on his face - or his forehead, more accurately, as he utters the words half-muffled against the hollow of my throat. I swallow, drag teeth across a slightly swollen lower lip and then pull back slightly to face him directly, nodding once.
"Okay," I softly tell him, though whether we're going is definitely still a question in the back of my mind. Still, there's not very many places on the island I haven't explored yet - other than the dinosaur territory, and I don't think he has any intentions of taking me there. My hand slips down to take hold of his, squeezing. It's almost too innocent in contrast to what we've just been doing, to his other hand still pressing against the small of my back.
After everything else, her hand in mine takes me by surprise. It's not even just the fact we've been standing out here making out and the gesture is an almost alarmingly tender one. It's everything before that, too, life before the island, life before tonight. It's not something that happens a lot for him, and I don't know how to feel about it except uncomfortable aware of my fingers and the instinctive worry about whether or not my palms are going to get all sweaty even though they aren't at the moment. It's a distinct possibility, the kind of thing you worry about without meaning to, because her opinion shouldn't matter since I barely know her, except it matters desperately.
"Okay," I echo, stepping reluctantly away. Reluctant until I remember why I asked, anyway, and then it's more hopeful than anything else as I lead her back toward the path. I don't know where we're going yet, which is as much reason as any to go slowly, even though I want to bolt forward and get there fast.
"Going well so far," I promise, wondering if he's questioning my ability to do so with him as company. The path that stretches out ahead of us will lead to the water eventually, especially if the warm breeze is any indication, the sensation of sand underneath my feet on the path, tread here by others who have walked its length. I can feel more and more of it grinding against my skin as we continue.
"What about you? Not getting bored of me already, are you?" I tease lightly, tilting my head back in order to find his face in the near-darkness. In this light, it's even more difficult to read him, but that just raises my curiosity even more.
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In those patches between lights with only a bit of moonlight peering through the trees, I can see the line of her profile in shadow, the tiny curve of her nose, the slight pout of her full mouth, the slope of her neck. She's outlined in shadow and light, and she's beautiful. That makes sense, maybe. The part where she's here with me doesn't, I don't know if she does, but some things are simple.
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My heels fall from my grip and I pull my arm away to start walking faster until I nearly break out into a run, moving carefree over the sand towards the water, splashing up in tiny bursts when my feet finally hit the ocean. It's cold, almost a shock to the system against heated skin, and I shriek and laugh, a sound that sounds foreign and girlish to my own ears. When I turn my head to find him again, brushing small pieces of hair away from my face, I run back to where he stands, catching myself before I run into him by bracing my hands against his arms. "I'm glad you're here," I say, and I mean every word.
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The ocean is a novelty to me. It's not like we couldn't have gone to the beach if we'd made the drive, and there were lakes around, but it wasn't anything like close and we never went. We barely went anywhere outside of a fifty, sixty mile radius. I've already been out here a couple times, and as I wait that minute or so, I kick off my shoes, too, to feel the sand underfoot, still startled by it. It's rough and cool against my skin. I don't know how to feel about it all. It's like the sky. Sometimes there's comfort in feeling this small and sometimes it's just lonely.
But she comes running back, breathless and beautiful, holding onto me and speaking what sounds like nonsense to me. Tentative, then firmer, my hands settle at her waist, and when I answer, it surprises me probably more than her. "Me, too."
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There's a warm pressure at my hips and I feel the slight curl of fingertips and reflex has me stepping in, my arms moving up to slide around his neck like twin snakes coiling, and when I open my eyes again, everything else seems like it fades into the background, almost like there's this tiny bubble hovering around us. It's the kind of bubble I could've used a long time ago - or maybe a hard shell, an exoskeleton, my own personal set of armor that feels like it's been breaking down for the past two years, piece by piece, a little at a time. I wonder why he can't seem to be able to see the cracks.
"You're still so tall," I whisper, and my voice is what cracks next, breaking on the vowels. There's more than that breaking, already broken, and more than anything, I just want to be whole again. I want to go back to before I met Patty, before everything went to shit and I let the one man I've ever truly been in love with slip through my fingers, his blood still warm and sticky on my hands. My hands are clean here as one cups his face, the other sliding along his arm, and I rise up on tiptoe to hover near, my face tilting up to his.
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I can't. I don't. Her hands are warm on my skin and I shiver. The salt breeze off the ocean carries a chill I never expected. I can't remember if Callie was ever this tender. I just remember she slid her hand inside my pants before it ever touched my face. I remember I was in her and out again without ever kissing her.
She's small, fragile, under my hands. I pull tight against her waist and draw her closer as I bend in to kiss her hard. I wish I could repay her softness, but I don't know how, too eager to bother being as nice as she and the moonlight deserve.
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My eyes fall shut and for once, I don't see David's lifeless face on the inside of my eyelids. I don't see the bathroom of our apartment covered in his blood. I don't see that damned Liberty bookend matted with red and dark hair. I remember to breathe in and there's nothing but this now, the scent of sea salt and sweat and skin and beer and I cling to him harder, more desperately, another sound passing from my lips to only end up muffled by his. It's less harsh this time. A sigh. A moan.
My thumb sweeps over his cheek, the kiss deepening along with the closer proximity. I keep waiting for something to shift and change, for me to wake up in the hotel room with nothing for company than cold bedsheets, but the seconds tick away for what feels like hours and his mouth is still moving over mine, and my lips part against his, my hands clutching his upper arms as my hips pivot into his.
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My mind's a fog anyway, all of it a buzz in my brain, and I wonder if that's the beer or her. I decide it's her, because she's so warm, so pliant, and the open back of dress takes me by surprise when my hand travels higher to bare skin. I know I should slow down or be careful, that as giving as she is, any second I could find some unknown line and cross it and wind up sitting here hard and alone on the empty beach. I can't make the idea stick, though, groaning into her mouth as I reach to push fabric under her thigh just to feel her skin, just to get closer.
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The hem of the dress rises up my thighs with the press of his hand and I hitch a leg up slightly, notching it against his hip like I'm trying to crawl up his body. I don't want to be this needy, but somehow it's turning out that way. The kiss deepens again and I feel his tongue moving against mine. There's a lazy insistence in it now, not completely rushed but still eager, and I gasp into his mouth when his fingertips slide against my back, my thigh, and my own move over his arms, his chest, trying to find purchase to grip anywhere at all before they settle on his shoulders again.
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The ocean's so close, the sound of her gasp gets swallowed up by the waves or by me, I don't know which, but I can feel it. I stop kissing her so I can kiss her neck instead, soft skin catching briefly under my teeth. I could swear I'm shaking, but I think it might be inside my head or under my skin. It's impossible to know anymore, my head gone blank but for the rush of blood in my ears, indistinguishable from the water, and the constant, throbbing awareness that I want her. I want to push her down to the sand right now, forget that we're somewhere public. It's late. It doesn't matter. I hope this counts as the fun she was looking for. For me, it feels desperately serious.
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My eyes linger closed as his mouth moves along my neck, lips and teeth alternating, and the graze of the latter has me clutching a little harder, thigh squeezing against his hip. I feel my center of balance tilting as I tip my head back and for once I don't care that I'm in this nice dress, out in the middle of the beach, standing in the dark. I'm not going to waste the energy to bother caring, not about anything else but this.
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My hand slides higher up her hip to the curve of her ass and I keep mouthing down, to the hollow of her throat and lower to the edge of the dress. Instinctively I stop there, even though I don't want to. Somehow it seems like a line I shouldn't be crossing, not because of her, but the dress itself, and I don't know why, but I can't think clear enough to ask questions of myself. Of her's a different story. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" I ask, muffled against her skin, trying not to beg her to say yes, yes, yes, berating myself for phrasing it so stupidly.
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"Okay," I softly tell him, though whether we're going is definitely still a question in the back of my mind. Still, there's not very many places on the island I haven't explored yet - other than the dinosaur territory, and I don't think he has any intentions of taking me there. My hand slips down to take hold of his, squeezing. It's almost too innocent in contrast to what we've just been doing, to his other hand still pressing against the small of my back.
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"Okay," I echo, stepping reluctantly away. Reluctant until I remember why I asked, anyway, and then it's more hopeful than anything else as I lead her back toward the path. I don't know where we're going yet, which is as much reason as any to go slowly, even though I want to bolt forward and get there fast.
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