Chapter Fifteen
Maverick
Something happened after I left Windsor in Georgia. I watched her drive away from the Atlanta airport after she dropped me off curbside, by my request, and I knew she’d forever changed me. I sat in that crazy fucking airport and thought about everything. I started to feel a little bad for John Nash, which pissed me off. Because I know Windsor is the type of person who is hard to get over. Maybe you never get over her, actually. You’d have to push the memory of her to the back and let her live there, quietly tapping your shoulder at any given second. Forgetting her completely isn’t an option. You need the reminder of her, and of how she affects you, to feel alive. At least I do and I assume any person who is close to her needs it too. I never want to try to get over her. My ultimate weakness has been exposed, ripped open so wide that I’ll never be able to fill the fucking gap with anything or anyone except her.
Stone grunts beside me, as he shifts to a seated position on his surfboard. “Fuck, I can’t wait to get back to Virginia tomorrow,” he says. The Pacific Ocean is fucking freezing cold, even through our 3-millimeter wet suits. The waves in Pacific Beach, San Diego are worth it, though. We finished the dive training we came for, squeezed in a few skydives in Otay just for fun, and now we’re killing our last day catching some waves.
I paddle past him and stop. “Me too, dude. Me too.” I’m actually ready to get the hell out of California and this water. Not because I’m cold, but because I want to check my cell.
Windsor and I have been texting back and forth every day I’ve been gone. She tells me the crazy shit her mother says, and I tell her tiny snippets of my day. How deep I can dive. To which I responded, Just wait and find out. What type of flippers I use. What diving in black waters at night actually feels like. She asks me a lot of questions, and I secretly love it. No one has ever taken any interest in what I do. Certainly not my fucking family. The only people I care about are next to me doing the same damn thing, so that steals my thunder. Windsor wants every gory detail. Of course I can’t tell her most things about what I do, or what I’m training to do, but the fact that she cares is enough. She’s more than enough.
Stone rattles on next to me about how we’re going out to a bar tonight to meet up with the rest of the guys. The same guys that give me shit because I’m no longer bagging pussy every night I’m out. I’m not bagging anything. My cock hurts. In the beginning of my relationship with Windsor, I thought that not having sex was going to be the biggest challenge. How can I keep my dick to myself when the woman who I’m most attracted to on earth is bouncing up and down on my dick, only separated by fucking underwear? That night I thought I’d break, but I didn’t. Windsor knew something changed that night. Blue eyes told me so. The hardest thing is keeping my fucking mouth shut. If I tell her how strongly I feel about her, I know she’ll run. I should give her more credit, but I can’t. I can’t control her…I have no power over the situation. Scary fucking shit.
“You are always out in fucking space, Bro,” Stone says. I look at him. He’s not smiling. Fuck. He starts paddling for shore and shouts, “Should I grab a helmet and join you out there?”
Sometimes it blows dicks he knows me so well. I swear we live in the same mind sometimes, so alike in so many ways. Running my hand over the wax on my board, I try to come up with something to say—an excuse to placate him for the moment.
I paddle my long board behind him. It’s silent this morning. “I’m not in space. I’m just ready to get back. That’s all,” I explain, coming up next to him. He glances over and smiles that asshole fucker smile.
“You need to bang her out, Mavvy. You really fucking do. Bang her out real good. What’s going to happen if Windsor pussy is on your brain when we load out?” He splashes me. I stop paddling and sit up. It’s still too deep to touch the bottom.
“I can’t fuck her, Stone,” I say, pausing. I take a deep breath and let it fly. “I’m in love with her.” This can go one of two ways. He doesn’t start cackling, which is a good sign.
“I know you are. Usually you fuck em’ if you love em’,” he explains, a serious expression on his face. Of course he knows I’m in love. My fucked up past always makes me feel like he feels sorry for me, but I know better. He cares. In his own demented way. “Tell her you love her and bang her out a few times every day until we leave. I promise you’ll feel a million times better. Then maybe you can come back down to earth with the rest of us.”
“She’ll leave me. Look at my fucking life, man. I’m gone all the time, not to mention my shit past. If I bag her, there’ll be nothing left for her to wait for. She’ll leave,” I repeat, swallowing all my fucking pride. “I just need her man. I just fucking need her to be with me,” I say.
We’ve reached the shore. Rolling off my board I lay down in the sand. I hear Stone settle next to me.
“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want her. I’ve also never sucked at anything more,” I admit. I can’t think straight when I’m around her. I’m an intelligent man. I know a lot of things, but it’s like half my brain is missing when I’m around her. My hands start shaking, right now, on this fucking beach 2,000 miles away from Windsor, just when I think about touching her. It’s really God damned bad.
“You remember how long it took me to tame Morganna into submission? Years, man. You know that. She loves me, but I sucked so hard at dating her that I honestly thought I’d lose her a time or two. You’re also forgetting that I’m gone all the fucking time too and Morg waits. A good woman will always wait. If you love her, she’s a good woman. For as big as a fucktard as you are, you have a solid heart. You always have. I’m a little jealous someone else penetrated the cement wall you have wrapped around you,” Stone says. I feel his fat fingers brush my upper thigh. I smile and swat his hand away. Now, he cackles.
I laugh a little as I grab my backpack and fish out my cell phone from the plastic bag I put it in. Stone’s already chattering away on his own phone. It’s definitely a guy, and not Morganna by how many fucks and pussies I hear flying out of his mouth, to balance out our heart-to-heart conversation, no doubt. What happened to the days where we talked about work and my weekend fucks? I’ve complicated everything. It’s affecting every area of my life. I have one new text. I click on it so fast you’d think it was about to self-destruct.
It’s a long message from Windsor. I’m safely back in VB. Krazy Kath has a friend staying with her for the time being. Still no sign of #5. Can I pick you up tomorrow? I can’t wait to get my hands (and wet mouth) on every single inch of you. Mainly, the 10 inches that reside below your belt. I’ll come to your house?
I text her back. Yes. To all of the above. Especially the wet mouth part and the you at my house part.
Stone’s words rattle in my skull. I wonder if he’s right. If I should confess it all, put it out there and let her do with it what she will. Maybe she won’t be scared. Maybe the Nashhole didn’t ruin her completely. Before I lose my nerve I type another text. Stay at my house until I leave.
Like move in with you? How I wish I could interpret the tone of a text message. I’ve never wanted anything more. Fuck.
Yes. I want you sleeping in my bed every night.
A long few seconds pass. Sleeping sleeping? Or sleeping?
Sex is always there. In every single moment we’re together or just merely talking. It’s the elephant in the fucking room. I promise to make you come twice every single night. I want to be little spoon. I grin as I shoot off the text. Stone’s waving me to the truck, trying to pack up to leave the beach.
Okay. I’m bringing my other boyfriend with me then. I ignore Stone’s shouts, because I only see red. Before I can type a text back and hit send another of hers comes through.
Battery operated boyfriend, Mav. Get yo’ panties out of a wad. He has no problem going Windsor diving. Maybe you could help me with him? Sometimes he gets out of hand. :)
Fuck yes. I pop wood just thinking about it. Yes. Please.
I miss you so much. I want you in my arms. I miss your smile. You’re so miss-able. My heart does that weird hammering thing it always does when it comes to Windsor. I read the text a few more times. And I smile, because if she misses it, I’ll do it constantly to make her happy. I want to text her back and tell her how missing her is worse than any sort of torture I’ve had to endure in my life. I want to tell her inside her arms are where I’m happiest, where I want to call home. I should tell her I love her and that I want to make love to her the second I’m back. But I still can’t say any of those things. Time is running out, too. I’ll be down range trying to do my job and I’ll be drowning in all the words that I couldn’t say. Stone is right. I need to clear my fucking head.
I say the only thing I can that encompasses it all without actually saying it. I’ve said it once before and I think she knows what it means. You’re everything to me. See you tomorrow, baby. 5 p.m. Airport.
I unzip the top of my wetsuit, pull out my arms, and sit on a towel in the passenger seat. A few minutes pass without a message back. We’re rolling down the freeway, the beach passing alongside us as we head back to Coronado. Stone is hammering the steering wheel pretending it’s a drum, beating along to an old rock song. I smile. My phone chimes a few minutes later.
Her message reads, You’re everything, too. There it is. Just as good as I love you, too, but it’s not. And it’s my fucking fault.
“Let’s go get new tats,” Stone says, breaking up my thoughts of Windsor and my inability to tell someone I’m attached to them.
A new tat is exactly what I need. The sting of the needle, something permanent etched on my body. It’s fucking genius. I can show Windsor how much she means to me. Pulling out the big guns is what needs to happen. I’ll be gone for six months. That’s a long ass time for her to wait for me in the real world, with every male clawing for her attention. She’s oblivious to her beauty. It only makes things worse. The dolphin dick tattoo was a joke.
I pull out my phone and Google search something. I know exactly what tat I want to get and where. This will be a grand gesture she can’t ignore. She’ll know I’m hers. All hers. Forever. Permanently.
Stone screams out a few lyrics. “I want to get a lobster body with Morg’s face. She’ll fucking love it,” he says, patting his forearm where he plans on getting the monstrosity that Morganna will surely hate. She’ll come around, like she always does with his dumbass body art, but I would pay money to see her face when she sees a lobster with her head. Fuck yes. Hell fucking yes.
I smile wide. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” I tell him. It probably is. He usually comes up with stupid fucking schemes. Like the time he wanted to hold donkey races at our camp in Afghanistan. Or when he thought bringing a filthy puppy from a surrounding village back to our base would be a good idea. We had fleas in our tent for weeks. Fucking asshole dropped the dog off at least eight miles away after everyone got pissed at him. Do you know that damn dog came back? It was in Stone’s bed one morning weeks after he’d dumped it. He said it was because it was a female puppy—woman can’t resist him, even dogs. Idiot. Tattoos are always a better idea than anything he comes up with.
We hit up our favorite tat shop in San Diego. We both left with white bandages and huge smiles. I paid for both of the tats because I lost credit card roulette. We threw our cards in a hat and the artist drew one out. Of course it was mine. I don’t mind. I owe Stone more than I could pay him in a damn lifetime.
“She’s going to drop her panties the second she sees it,” Stone drawls. I clap him on this shoulder, still smiling.
“Panty dropping isn’t the problem, man. It’s keeping them on her that’s the issue,” I tease. Windsor dancing naked pops into my head. I yank out my phone to check for messages. I glance at Stone’s bandaged forearm and shake my head. Morg is going to shit when she sees his new art. “Morganna is going to sue your ass when she gets one look at that.” I point to his arm.
The artist did a good job. The best he could have done. It still doesn’t negate the lobster wearing a bikini with his wife’s face and hair. He pulled a photo off her attorney website to show the artist. So Morganna looks like a fucking shark, no smile, all serious bitch face. Both are underwater animals at least.
My tat is understated and small. It means something. It’s on my body, but it’s not for me, nope. It belongs to someone else.
*****
The bar the guys chose is so fucking loud. It’s a good blend of people. The girls in San Diego are always a mixed variety. There are the surfer girls with the jean cut-off shorts so short you see ass cheeks. Then there are the ones who wear mini dresses and fifty-inch heels to a bar.
I’m not checking them out. Steve and a few of the other guys are pointing them out, telling me I should go fishing for them. When I told them they could get their own bags for the night, they got pissy. We’re in a corner of the bar, all fifteen of us, surrounding the largest table. Security looks at us every other second. We look like a bunch of drunk swinging dicks with more muscle than they can deal with. They’re praying we don’t fight each other. Or anyone else for that matter. They won’t fuck with us. We’re loud. We’re obnoxious and we can be. That’s end of fucking story. A few mini dresses approach the table. They’re decent looking. I would have bagged them. Maybe even at the same time. Before. Way before. Steve swoops in and makes some loud joke, and offers a compliment to each one of them. They blush and giggle. Putty. It makes my stomach hurt at the haunting reminder.
I got you a present. I text Windsor, my heart racing—half from thinking of her reaction and the other half is adrenaline, coursing through me like my favorite drug.
You are my present. (But I’m excited for a gift too!) I’m in a late meeting right now. Ugh.
I’ll let you unwrap it. Is my friend Garrett Garth there? It’s like 11 p.m. on the east coast. I’m immediately suspicious. I glance up. I feel eyes on me. One of the mini dresses is smiling that smile. Directly at me. The one that says she wants my attention, now and later. I’m not a dickhead, so I smile back. I wish I were smiling at someone else. Old habits die hard. The blonde woman walks toward me; her heels and obvious drunkenness cause her to saunter more than walk. Steve gleams at me over his shoulder and I know he sent her over here as a fucking test. Still no return text from Windsor.
“Hi, I’m Lexi,” the blonde woman says. I glance down at my phone when I see that Windsor’s typing back.
I meet her gaze. “I’m Maverick. Nice to meet you,” I say extending my hand for her to shake. My hand engulfs her tiny one, her bright pink nails standing out.
“Your girlfriend?” she asks, nodding at my phone. She’s cutting right to the chase. You have to admire a woman who knows exactly what she wants. It’s easy.
I smile the big smile. I slide my cell into the pocket of my jeans. “It is my girlfriend,” I admit. It feels good to call her my girlfriend. But I find myself noticing other things about Lexi.
She tilts her head to the side, letting her gaze land on every part of my body at least once. My cock? She went there twice. “I can be your girlfriend for the night,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. Like I said. She knows exactly what she wants. She’s taller than Windsor and her eyes are brown. They’re nice eyes. Her lips are full, covered in a nude colored gloss. It reminds me of bare skin. Windsor’s bare, tan, naked, skin.
Remember what I said about old habits dying hard? I start thinking maybe I could just take Lexi to a hotel and bag her. Maybe a few times just to get sex out of my system. It wouldn’t mean shit. It never means shit with the others. It’s like working out. Or cooking a meal. Or taking a shower. Something you have to do everyday for your health and survival. I’d go home and I’d be a better man for Windsor. I wouldn’t be wound up like a fucking top. She’d want that, right? I should fuck Lexi. She’s giving it up so easy that it’s meant to be. No attachments. Just raw sex.
I’m attracted to this girl, but I’d have to picture Windsor to get off. I know it. And how fair is that to the girl or to Win? Stone hooks his arm around my neck.
“How’s that tat feeling, man?” he asks. I’m snapped out of my weird fucking hotel fantasies, and disgust takes their place. Fuck. What is wrong with me? Stone stares down Lexi.
“I have a girlfriend,” I repeat to the girl, but mostly for my own benefit. The definition of girlfriend runs through my mind. I thought about cheating on Windsor. I did more than think about it. I had the whole scenario planned out—a mental cheat. Stone knows it too. He gives me a knowing look.
“Fine,” Lexi says, hiking her shoulders and walking off to the bar. I’m all but forgotten, written off her list of conquests for the night. I’m fucking relieved. This will happen again. It always does. I need to get used to rejecting the old Maverick norm.
“Let’s get out of here,” Stone says. He slams his beer and we leave. I drive back to our hotel. My cell phone chimes a few times in my pocket but I can’t take it out and look at it. I feel like an asshole. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol, but my stomach churns and my throat feels thick. I don’t deserve to see her kind, sweet words. I don’t deserve anything from Windsor. Not even her fucking trust.
I rub my chest with my palm. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. I’m a walking fucking disaster.