I CLOSE MY EYES BEFORE the shirt is over my head. If Bash were just a little closer, he’d see that my body has a slight tremble. A vibration struck from within, born of nerves and apprehension. Aside from family, no one has seen my scars after the doctors didn’t need to look at them anymore.
It has taken me years to love my body again. It might not be smooth and soft in places anymore, but the scars are a sign that I survived.
And I love the way I look—now that I’m used to it.
Doesn’t mean other people will see the same thing. I can’t handle the pity, the questions, the glances, and the speculation.
It’s easier to hide the scars behind clothes than feel the eyes of strangers when I go somewhere.
Hiding them forever isn’t an option. I mean, I live in Florida where seasons don’t really exist and it’s miserable wearing jeans in the summer, when the humidity is at a kill level. Death by denim is how I’ll go if I keep wearing them.
I’m just scared and find it easier to hide behind clothing than hear the whispers of nosy people.
Yet, there was something in Bash’s words that gave me the small courage to show him. Something unexpected that caused a rush of strength in my veins.
So now, I’m standing in only the cropped pants and my bikini top with nothing covering my stomach. Cold air brushes against my belly in a tentative caress.
My eyes are tightly shut. Body shaking. Adrenaline steadily flowing.
My shield has been lowered and I can’t look at Bash. Refuse to.
He doesn’t say anything.
I hear no intake of breath.
I hear nothing and the soundless air hanging between us has me almost opening my eyes to see if he silently slipped out the door.
Almost.
My eyes remain closed. I remind myself to breath.
Still no words are spoken.
I’m about to yell fuck this and put my shirt back on when large, calloused hands run slowly up my stomach.
I shiver for a completely different reason now.
He doesn’t falter at my scars. Tracing them, learning them, as if committing them to memory.
His hands move at a snail’s pace, fingers working over every inch of skin, smooth and raised.
I keep my eyes closed. Lids squeezed tighter as I lose control of my breathing.
His fingers are the first to touch this part of my body in years and I don’t want to see what is reflecting in his eyes.
I don’t want to know.
Soon, too soon, his fingers are pulling away. My eyes flicker, about to open, when hot breath and soft lips touch the very place his fingers just were.
His tongue flicks over once, twice, and for a moment, I have no beating heart. No working lungs.
My fingers dive into his hair, pulling him closer.
The nerves on the scars are extra sensitive. Sometimes I don’t feel sensations as intense on that side, sometimes I feel too much.
Right now, I feel everything.
With my eyes shut and Bash’s mouth moving methodically over my flesh, my nipples tighten. Fireballs race down my body as my core tightens, heavy with a need so strong I feel tears prick my eyes.
Soon, Bash’s mouth is working its way up and over my scars, moving higher up my stomach. His pace never wavering as the skin transitions from raised to smooth. He grazes my nipple through the fabric with his teeth.
“Bash!” I cry out, my fingers tightening around the locks of his hair. He sucks one last time. Hard. So hard that I feel my breath start to become labored, heavy lungs and sharp gasps. “Fuck.”
“Open your eyes, Emery,” his growls in my ear.
His voice. His voice is so strong, so thick, like rich whiskey and cigar smoke. So different from his usual carefree attitude.
I shiver again, my body responding to his command.
My eyes snap open and the heat in his eyes is so intense, I’m sucking in a breath the same time his lips crash into mine. He might have slowly explored my body, but exploring my mouth is a different story.
His lips are hungry, rough over mine.
Hands graze my stomach and then cup my breasts in a flurry of stolen touches as his wandering fingers journey north.
His hands go to either side of my neck, tipping my head back, creating a whole new angle for him to invade.
As his mouth destroys mine, moans escape from my throat only for him to steal the noises, locking them away.
“You’re beautiful,” he growls into my lips, his hands on the move again. Caressing my scars.
His rough mouth is at war with his soft touches.
He’s destroying and cherishing me.
“C’mere.” His teeth and stubble nip my chin. He lifts me up, setting me on the sink countertop and spreading my legs apart. Stepping between them, he lifts my thighs high around either side of his waist, pulling me close, angling our bodies so I can feel how hard he is.
With only the light fabric of his swim trunks and my leggings, I feel everything. Every hard inch of him as he rubs our bodies together. Hard. Fast. Rough.
Losing myself to the sensation, I break away from Bash, my head hitting the mirror.
The cool glass does nothing to quench my scorching skin.
“Fuck, Emery.” Bash grunts. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you don’t even know, Firecracker.” His voice is so deep with need. “You don’t even know what you do to me. How many times I’ve thought of your sexy as hell body.” He sucks my neck and I groan at the feeling. “But no matter how many times I’ve fantasized about you, the real thing is so much better.” His stubble scratches my jawline as he moves toward my ear.
He doesn’t push for more. He doesn’t ask for more, taking the limits I’ve set and running within them. Each touch has power, but tentative. It’s like we’re back in high school, two teenagers daring for exploration.
I reach out to trace the curve of his swollen bottom lip.
He buries his face in my neck where he takes a nip of skin before placing a kiss, when loud banging on the door douses us like ice water.
We stiffen.
“Fuck off,” Bash yells. It comes out muffled with his face still cradled in the crook of my neck.
“Dude,” Dez yells back and I groan. Of course, it would be him. “We’re heading out.”
“Give me a minute.”
I bite his ear to keep from laughing. He’s going to need more than a minute.
His fingers dig into my thighs.
“No can do, broski.” Dez sounds causal. Way too casual. Casual like when a situation is anything but casual. “Can’t have you and Emery fucking in my parents’ house. There are children who stay here.”
We both stiffen.
Dez knows.
And if Dez knows, how many other people?
Gah, how good are these bathroom acoustics?
“We both still need a minute,” Bash growls, turning around to face the door in case Dez decides to barge in. Pretty sure neither of us thought to lock it when we came in here.
We hear Dez’s laughter, not as muffled as his voice, and I notice the door is slowly moving.
I smack Bash’s shoulder, frantically pointing at it.
“Fucking hell, Dez!” I scream. “Close the damn door, what is wrong with you?”
“Calm down, Surfer Princess.”
That name. That fucking name. Red swarms the edges of my vision. I am going to strangle that fucker.
“Don’t get your bottoms in a twist—if you’re wearing any that is. I’m just bringing my boy these. Figured he might need them.”
Another pair of swim trunks come flying from the other side of the cracked door and, by some twist of fate, hits me in the face. “You better run, Desmond. Or I’m going to throw my shoe at your head so hard your ears will be ringing until Christmas.”
“Sheesh, Emery. Not even a thank you? I’m wounded.” He sounds anything but.
“Go the fuck away now, Daimon.” Bash’s tone leaves no more room for jokes. He’s serious. And this voice is kind of really sexy.
We’re rewarded with the sweet sound of Dez’s laugh, retreating down the hallway.
“Come on, Em,” Bash calls through the door. “I got the glow sticks.”
I’m standing in the bathroom, alone this time.
I told Bash to give me a few minutes and I’d join him. Not sure how long ago that was.
I’m not hiding, per se, but I’m not rushing to get out.
After Dez interrupted, my high crashed hard and the full gravity of what Bash saw sunk in.
I still can’t believe I did it. I’ve been hiding behind my shield of fabrics and showing Bash has left me emotionally bare. Raw. I feel lighter, more exposed, and free.
I want the high back, sipping the intoxicating adrenaline.
I want to show someone else. I want to show Bash the rest of them. All of them and all of me.
But not yet, not while I’m feeling impulsive and lightweight.
I need to wait for this night to end, when my rational, sane thoughts return.
Well, as sane as my thoughts can be.
Inhaling a deep breath, I look at myself one last time in the mirror.
I tried to tame my hair as best I could, but this is as good as it’s going to get. A mess of controlled tangles and waves. Less sexy-times-messy and more of a I-tried-to-make-this-messy-on-purpose-and-failed.
Whatever.
It’s fine.
It’s dark outside.
I wiggle my eyebrows at Bash as I open the door and he smirks, holding up the goods.
“Hand them over, Surfer Boy.” I hold out my palm and he places the sticks in it.
He’s already wearing a necklace, one bracelet on each wrist and the same goes for his ankles. Bare essentials.
I, on the other hand, make quick work with the multitude he gives me.
I slip a small stack of bracelets on each wrist, three necklaces around my neck and two on each of my ankles. I’m a glowing mass of color and I love it.
“How do I look?” I ask, twirling around slowly.
“Like one of those lights that flashes different colors.”
“Perfect! Let’s go.”
We don’t say anything as we walk outside to grab our boards, but when I see what his looks like I can’t stop laughing. “Nice pink hearts and—is that a princess crown?”
Laughing.
So much laughing my abs clench from the workout they’re getting and I wipe tears from my eyes.
“Yes, it is,” Bash deadpans.
So serious, I think as my laugh keeps rolling.
“It’s Dez’s sister’s, funny girl.”
I can barely hear him.
Laughing.
“Did you find laughing gas in the bathroom while I was gone?”
“Nonono.” I gasp for breath, trying to calm myself down. “I’m just really happy and apparently when I reach this level of happy, I can’t stop laughing.”
I flick on the lights around my board, making it come to life. Colors fade and bleed into one another as we walk toward the bank.
“What kind of happy? ’Cause, I might just keep you in a constant state of this.”
“Ugh.” I bump his shoulder with mine and he laughs. “You’re trying to be cute-funny, but you can’t be me, Bash. This relationship will never work if there are two Emerys. Plus, I love myself, but not enough to date me. Although that would make holiday parties a lot more bearable—Bash?”
He looks a little dazed, a little crazed, but I can’t tell if it’s on the good or bad side.
He grabs me, pulling me as close as our boards will allow. “Relationship?”
Oh.
Right.
“What? Relationship? Are you trying to tell me you’re in a relationship, Bash?” I wave my hand, as if that will somehow carry our words into the breeze. Taking the memories of this conversation with them.
As it turns out, my superpower is not erasing memories. It’s creating awkward tension.
“I’m trying to fucking be.”
Oh.
Well. Then.
“Emery.” He’s trying not to be amused, the corners of his mouth are fighting to turn up, rebelling against his serious tone.
“Sebastian.”
“Do you want to be in a relationship with me?”
“Do you want to be in a relationship with me?” Is it childish to parrot his words back to him? He doesn’t get a chance to answer. “You don’t want to get in a relationship with me, Bash. I’m going to fuck it up. I’m not an easy person to deal with. Commitment scares me and when I get scared I run—”
“Emery.”
“What’s our expiration date?”
He blinks, his grip tightening around me. Like he’s not sure if he wants to pull me closer or push me away. “Do we have to have one?”
“I mean, yeah. We live on opposite coasts,” I remind him. “Even if you don’t want to admit it, you have to go back home one day, Bash. You have a career. Responsibilities.”
“Last time I checked, you have oceans here. I don’t have any ties really holding me in California. I had planned on staying for a vacation, but then I met you—get that scared look off your face, Emery.” Is my face scared? If it is, I can’t help it. Did he just hint that he’d move here? For me? “I’m not talking about moving here for you. But I can come see you and have it not affect my surfing. You can train with me when I’m here. It’ll help you get back on a routine at a pro’s level.”
“We haven’t even gone on a date.”
“So let’s go on a date.”
“Do people still go on dates? Dates that don’t come from a dating app?”
“I don’t give a fuck if people don’t go on dates anymore. They should. We should. Go out with me. Tomorrow night. For our first date.”
“You don’t want to date me, Bash.” I shake my head. I continue my sentence from earlier as I retreat a few steps. Bash moves with me. “Seriously, I’ll drive you up the fucking wall and I run when I get scared and being in a relationship will send me running. I’m already terrified.”
“You, the most fearless girl I know, are too afraid to go on a date with someone you see every day, anyway?” Well, when he puts it like that…yes, very much so. “It’s a date, Em. The start of many—”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?” I can’t stop myself. When things get serious, a joke is almost guaranteed to slip out, which is how I hear myself asking, “Who says I’ll want to go on more than one?”
Bash ignores my question. “Say yes, Emery.”
“Yes, Emery.” Despite the uncertainty and the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, I want this. I want him.
Bash tweaks my nose and I laugh as he says, “I’m taking that as a firm yes.”
I don’t disagree.
He’s supposed to. As much as I’m a pain in the ass, I really want this. I’m tired of being afraid of living my life, of doing what I really want. I have a voice and I need to use it. For more than just sarcastic quips.
We don’t say anything as he puts his board in the water. I stand off to the side, watching him step on it, finding his balance before he uses his paddle to push himself out further into the river.
I haven’t mentioned this to anyone, but I’m more afraid of going in the river than I am the ocean.
With the ocean, it’s almost guaranteed you’ll see a shark. When I don’t see one, I make a wish. It’s that rare while surfing. But with a river, where it’s home to a lot of bull sharks, who are very territorial, it’s that much more dangerous, especially since they breed in the river.
With the ocean, I’m okay because it holds no secrets of danger, the hazards are present in the back of my mind the entire time. With the river, it masquerades as serene, peaceful, but underneath that calm there are threats unseen.
But I can’t back out. I’ve wanted to do something like this for years. And as if the party people, who are already paddling out on the river, can feel my hesitation, they let out loud whoops, cries, and cheers.
Laughter ringing into the night.
Fun.
That is what this night is supposed to be about.
That’s what the night has been so far.
Bash isn’t too far out; he stopped when he noticed I hadn’t joined him. He’s out there floating, waiting for me. His arms are open as if to say, well, aren’t you coming?
I get on my board. I get on because I want to. Because I can. Because I have to.
I can’t let this fear rule me forever.
The light from my board illuminates the water in my path. That creates more comfort, knowing I can see under me.
I paddle harder toward Bash, who is still waiting for me to catch up. He shouldn’t have stopped. As I get closer to him, I decide that Bash and I are going to race to the rest of the group.
Ready, set, go starts now.
I’m passing Bash before he realizes he’s in a race and he’s losing. I laugh, picking up as much speed as I can.
The thing with paddleboarding is that it’s not easy. At all. It takes a lot of strength. Both physical and core strength. Even after years of surfing, I find it challenging.
Once you find the balance and a rhythm, there isn’t much that can stop you.
My muscles pull and stretch with every stroke.
Power. That’s what it feels like to be on a paddleboard.
Exhilarating.
“Slow down, Firecracker.” Bash pulls up beside me.
“Why?” I taunt. “Afraid you’ll lose?”
“Ha! I don’t lose.” Maybe in surfing he doesn’t, but he hasn’t competed against me in a paddleboarding race. “I don’t want to join the rest of them just yet.”
“You’re not sick of me?” Warmth floods my belly.
“Not yet,” he teases and I splash him with my paddle.
We slow down and sit on our boards, under the full moon and the shining stars, facing each other.
There are no street lights to drown out the beauty in the night sky, so for a while we lay back on our boards, hands linked together, tethering us so our boards don’t drift with the current, and see who can find the most constellations.
It’s Bash, with all of them.
I can’t even find the North Star. Every time I think I’ve found it, it moves quickly through the sky.
If we were counting airplanes, I’d kick Bash’s ass.
The wind starts to pick up around us, bringing a bite of cold breeze.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“No, I just felt the urge to shake my body in a spasm-like way.”
“Smartass.” He shakes his head.
It’s the perfect night.