Relentless(22)

I want to tell him it is more than okay. I desperately want him to keep going. I want to feel him inside me. I want to release all this tension we’ve built up on the beach and over the past week. But I keep thinking about the day my life changed one year ago and the events—and mistakes—that led to that day. And the countless lies I’ve told since then.

I push him off me and sit up on the bed. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I bury my face in my knees and he lets out a frustrated sigh as he sits up next to me. “Hey,” he murmurs as he lifts my chin. “I’m not irritated with you, if that’s what you think.”

I purse my lips, unconvinced, as I lay my cheek against my knee. “You should take this opportunity to run as far away from me as you can.”

He lays his palm on the side of my face and strokes my cheekbone with his thumb. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. You still owe me something.” He sweeps my hair over my shoulder then lightly traces a heart on my back.

I close my eyes as he slides over to sit behind me. His legs stretch out on either side of my hips as he rubs my shoulders. I keep my eyes tightly shut as I try to ignore the tingling between my legs when his hand touches my butt as he adjusts his crotch.

“I’m… I’m thirsty. It’s really hot in here.”

He kisses the back of my neck before he scoots off the bed. “I’ll get you some water.”

As he walks out of the bedroom, Jo pops into my head. I wouldn’t have the day off today if it weren’t for her willing to switch shifts with me. I should go thank her again. No, I’m just looking for an excuse to get out of this apartment.

I tap my foot on the mattress as I wait impatiently, but after ten minutes I begin to worry. Then the smell of smoke makes my nose perk up and my body tense.

I scramble off the bed and slip on my flip-flops before I head out to the kitchen. Adam is standing in the kitchen blowing smoke out through the window above the sink. He holds a plastic blue bong in his right hand and a lighter in his left. I walk into the kitchen and he smiles at me.

“Sorry, I should have brought the water first. It’s right there.” He nods toward a tall glass of ice water on the counter, but I don’t pick it up.

He’s a pothead. That’s what he smokes every night.

He sets the bong and the lighter down on the counter and I glimpse a tattoo on the left side of his chest: Ride it out. The letters are written in dripping block text beneath a tattoo of a compass. The inner part of the compass is filled with brilliant blue waves. The water is his compass. I want to touch it, but I’m too peeved by the fact that he’s a pothead.

“I should go,” I say as I turn toward the door and, as expected, he grabs my hand.

“Hey, are you pissed that I didn’t bring your water or that I’m smoking?”

“Neither,” I say, without looking at him.

He reaches up and turns my face toward him. Even through the haze of smoke in the kitchen, he still looks beautiful.

“Don’t go.”

I close my eyes to block out the sight of his perfect lips and the slight pinkness in the whites of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, this is going to sound totally lame, but I can’t date a pothead. My mom died of a drug overdose. And I know weed is nothing like heroin, but I promised myself a long time ago that I would never get involved with someone who does drugs. I’m sorry.”

I pull his hand off my face and turn to leave once more. He clambers around me and blocks the front door. His smile is gone and I can only imagine how I must be killing his high.

“I only smoke after work and sometimes on the weekend. It’s not a debilitating addiction, but I can understand why you might feel hesitant. What if I promise never to smoke around you?”

The smell of the smoke on his breath is starting to turn me off and I instantly shake my head.

“All right, come with me,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the bedroom. “Just go sit in there and I’ll be right back.”

I sigh as I trudge back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. The faucet turns on in the bathroom and I imagine he’s probably in there brushing his teeth and gargling some minty mouthwash. He finally comes back and I can smell the mouthwash as he sits next to me without saying anything.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He finally smiles and grabs my hand. “You wanted to know why I left Wilmington to come here.” He takes a deep breath and stretches his neck before he continues. “I almost killed someone three months ago.”

I want to pull my hand out of his, but now I’m afraid of what he’ll do. “What do you mean by almost?”