A Love Soul Deep (3 page)

“Why is she hung over? I didn’t think she drank that much last night.” We’d hit a late dinner at a Cuban fusion restaurant and had a couple of drinks. Not enough to get anyone slurring or anything, though. “What’s up with that?”

Moira crossed her arms. “I think she went back to the bar after we all said good night.”

I felt my left eyebrow jab upward before I could stop it. Insinuating things about Kim kept the bloodhound away from my own scent. If Moira found out about the dream or the locket’s photo, I’d be facing the best friend inquisition.

“I know, I know. Just don’t say it, okay?”

“Say what?” I surreptitiously tucked the locket around a bra strap so it wouldn’t go flopping into plain view again. I felt miles better. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Oh, no you don’t. I saw the look.”

“What look?” I bit back a smile, fearing she’d see my relief. What I wouldn’t give to go back to bed and dream that dream all day long.

Moira pointed a finger at my forehead. “That one.”

I threw my hands up and laughed. “Sorry. My eyebrow has a mind of its own, okay? I’ll stop.” So, Kim and I had a little history that I had a hard time forgetting. Yes, it had been three years but the girl sent us on a wild, freaky carnival show of a night once, and I had a hard time forgetting the fact. “Who am I to judge?”

“I know you won’t believe me, but this isn’t like her.”

I wanted to point out how exactly like Kim “this” was, but I could see just how much it bothered Moira. Her eyes shifted in that way that said she was mentally unraveling a knot of a problem. Kim and she were like sisters. Having Kim out here in Savannah instead of back home in Fresno was taking its toll. I watched Moira go to the ground for “cat pose,” and I did the same.

The sooner I lightened the mood, the sooner I could go take a nap. “You know, Moira, there is the slim chance she was lying to you.”

Moira pinned me with an accusing look. “What?”

“She did get out of yoga.”

I didn’t get out of Yoga.

Or breakfast afterward.

Or walking and shopping alllll daaaay long.

Part of me wanted to play sick and fake a headache just to go back to bed. What if Crew returned in another dream? The other part wanted to avoid last night’s memories entirely. What if I never got over him, and never loved again? The two sides warred within me while I struggled through chatting and shopping. I found a great billowy drawstring top and somehow kept Moira off my angst scent. By the time we returned to the bed-and-breakfast, it was late afternoon.I marked the day a success.

I’d avoided my drug of choice—memories of Crew. I’d avoided worrying my friend, ruining the day. Staying busy even helped me feel a bit grounded back in reality. Crew gone. Me here. Moving on.

No. Not moving.

Moved.

Having a dream didn’t mean anything, except that my subconscious longed for something. Not necessarily him. So why did butterflies thud around my belly when I slipped the old-fashioned key in my door’s lock? With a deep breath, I flung the door open, half expecting to see Crew’s ghost propped up on the bed, all James Dean—like before.

Nope. Nothing but hospital-cornered covers peeking out from under a down-filled duvet. The door fell shut, and my heart sank two or three hundred feet. “I’m out of my mind,” I said to the empty room. I sat down with a sigh. The scent of the clean sheets met my nose. I breathed it in and shut my eyes.

Who was I kidding? The dream had felt real. I wasn’t over him.

I stared at the television.

I had two hours before meeting up with Moira and Kim downstairs for dinner. I could try to sleep, but would fail. I kicked my shoes off, scooted back, and pulled a pillow over my face. “Bwaaah,” I yelled into the crisp pillowcase.

No matter how much I fought it, images from the dream surfaced. I relented and let them in.

The feel of Crew nuzzling my neck. The relief of smelling him, the longing to simply touch him again. To feel his hands on my body. Awareness buzzed over my skin at the thoughts. A soft ache formed in my belly. I thought of all those days, years ago, we spent kissing and pressing and doing everything except
it
.

We never seemed to be near a bed, or rarely got left alone. Friends who wouldn’t take a hint. I’d been living at home still. We’d steal away here and there. A few stolen moments off the path on a hiking trail. The side alleyway of a restaurant or behind the shed in his parents’ backyard. His mouth on my neck, sucking softly, then harder, forcing a moan from my lips.

We’d get so close then have to stop, to listen if someone was coming.

Crew would lick up my belly, slowly unhook my bra, letting the weight of my breasts fall against his chest. A finger trailed up under my shirt. Rough skin. Warmth. The leaves in the trees whispering above us. Me, panting, my gaze locked to his. He’d slip a finger down my jeans front, his fingers chilly compared to my hot skin, thrilling me over the chance of being discovered. His breath would grow ragged, his eyes would shine with want.

Want for me.

Only me.

He’d say so. “No one makes me feel like you do, Sara.”

The time in his parents’ backyard, he’d said those words, his fingers tugging open my jeans. His cold fingers wriggling downward as my pulse hammered upward. Would he stop? Would he keep going, closer and closer to where I wanted him? I followed suit, digging into the front of his low-slung jeans.

He shoved his thigh up between mine, pressing me back against the scratchy metal wall. The creak of metal behind me mingled with our hard breaths. His gaze held to mine. “You gotta stop. Someone will come, Sara.”

Always Sara.

Never honey, baby, or sweetheart.

He said stop, but his eyes dared me. Would his dad try to find us? His mom or brother? Nah. I wriggled my hand lower, mesmerized by his subtle reactions. How his pupils zoomed out and in. How he licked my lips and watched my mouth. My hand touching more than cotton boxers, more than smooth belly skin.

If someone did come, our little secret would be out.

Not so bad. Almost everyone knew we were together. Not so wrong. Moira would be okay with it. She’d want me to be happy.

A bang that sounded like the screen door hitting echoed from yards away. We fell still, silent amid the click of crickets. He pressed his thigh higher. I slid my hand lower. His head fell back, he leaned forward, making it difficult to grab what I wanted, but it felt so good having his weight pinning me. Solid and safe. I wriggled and teased. He grinned and teased back, making me lick my lips. He kissed them, shushing my little moan. “Someone will hear.”

Even now as I lay on the bed thousands of hours and days later, my cheeks burned from mere memory. I lay awash in the hot flashback, wishing I could feel his hands on my body again.

I would not think of it. I would not remember how he’d kissed me so deeply the world disappeared. Or the way his shoulder curved at the hollow of his collarbone. The salty taste of his skin. The way his eyes devoured me. As though he couldn’t get enough.

If I let myself remember any more, I’d drown. The memories would swim up around me so hard and fast that I’d be sucked under again. My body was reacting to the memory. Or the dream. Or, who knew? Hormones. But I didn’t want to feel my own hands.

I wanted his.

Hell, at this point, just about anyone with a pulse would do.

Rolling onto my stomach, I deep-breathed my way back to sanity and considered, if I had a chance, would I be up for dragging the first decent looking guy I met tonight back here and doing all I could to forget Crew Masterson?

~~~

Chapter Four

“There’s a blues club we could hit after dinner,” Kim said as Moira and I waited for her to grab her purse and lock up her room. “Want to eat here, or out?”

“I’m pretty sure Mrs. Dover cooks for an army regardless, so why not just eat here?” I said.

Moira shrugged. “I’m easy.”

I suppressed a snort. Moira was anything but easy. She was decisive and rigid once she made a plan.

“Let’s just eat here, then,” Kim said, and finished draping the shawl from Mystique Antiques around one shoulder so her cleavage peeked out but the curve of her hip drew the eye.

How did she ooze sensuality so easily? Did she practice in the mirror?

I’d hoped I’d nailed sexy to the wall with my platforms and skinny jeans. I’d even flat-ironed my hair. Yet there she stood, almost concealed under the shawl, yet hotter than a Vargas pinup. I rubbed the fabric of my blouse over the shape of the locket underneath. How was I supposed to prove I still had it with her as competition?

Crew wouldn’t have given her a second glance.

He’d have stared at me, looking like he was fighting to hide his emotions—and barely doing so. As soon as no one was watching, he’d flash those eyes at me and melt me into a puddle of need. Yeah. Except, that kind of heat couldn’t be counted on twice in life. So, I’d settle for Kim’s castoffs. If I did find someone to flirt or worse with, I’d have to get Moira good and drunk so she didn’t pull a mother hen on me. Just me thinking about it seemed to trigger her global protection system. From across the dining room table, her eyes narrowed on me in that “what are up to, Sara?” way.

Thankfully, Mrs. Dover bustled in, a distraction, serving us a salty but sweet summer stew. The butter on her fresh-baked crusty bread seduced my mouth to sin. I ate two helpings and realized too late how tight my jeans fit because of it.

We walked to the first bar on our list of potentials, taking turns complaining about our muffin tops and eating too much. We came to a stop outside the
Twisted Roots
blues club. “Ooooh,” Moira said, clapping her hands. “I love live music.”

The music reverberated out to us. I bounced my heels off the ground. I wanted to rush inside. I didn’t know why. I’d have to be bolder than usual if I wanted to feel a hard body against me tonight. The more I considered the idea, the more the feeling grew. I had something to prove to myself. My skin shivered. Could I do it? Hook a man? Intentionally? It had been years since I’d actually tried. I reached for the locket tucked under my shirt and wished for Crew. For someone like Crew. I wished for my heartache to heal.

Maybe I’d see him in some afterlife. Call it heaven or Nirvana or whatever, but I knew in my bones he still existed. Somewhere. I had to hope he’d understand if I didn’t wait until death to love again.

I had needs, damn it. My friggin’ DNA had needs. Procreation. And lots of practice at it. Right? Get busy living, or whatever that line was.

We rounded a corner and followed the sound of gritty riffs from a bass guitar. It led us to Moe’s. The band was warming up. We grabbed a high-top table and ordered a round of beers. The bar smelled like cigar smoke and barbeque. The drummer and bassist jammed and stopped intermittently. My body buzzed with anticipation.

This was the kind of place to meet a man’s man. Someone with a stubbly jaw, rough hands, and torn jeans. Hopefully, I wouldn’t end up humping the leg of one in front of everyone. Heat flushed in my cheeks and neck over the image.

Two tall beers later, the bar had filled and the show began. While we couldn’t see much of the show from our table, the music carried right down into the deepest parts of me. The raw lyrics spoke of heartache and a man finding his woman cheating. The rich beat of the drums, the rolling pitch of the guitar chords, left me swaying in my seat and wishing for a dark corner and hands on my body.

A few people moved in time on the dance floor. Kim looked at my hands patting in rhythm on the table, grabbed my arm and dragged me onto the dance floor. She untied her shawl and began to use it as a prop. Every pair of eyes in the place seemed to shift from the band to the new show on the floor. Three beers, and the back and forth between the bassist and guitarist punched at each other and sent my hips and belly into a sultry tease.

Let Miss Kim do her worst
, a wilder part of me whispered.

This, I could do, no problem. Music like this awoke my deepest desires. Only one other person on the planet knew how it drove me. My mind flashed. What bar was it? Some roadside dive on the outskirts of Queen Creek, Arizona. A blues country hybrid of a band with a songstress at the microphone whose voice could undress a nun on a winter day. Crew noticed what it did to me. My breathing. With every flush of heat and desire, he’d paid attention.

“Is it me, or are you getting worked up, Sara?” he’d said, his nose at the sensitive part of my ear. I’d taken him by my little finger and found the nearest shadowed corner. Back then, the world had disappeared. We’d kissed—soft, drawn out kisses. Our hands had laced tightly, and the music alone had plunged me into a bliss I’d never known possible.

He didn’t push me or grope me. He’d just breathed at my neck, his hands re-lacing in mine as the music weaved around us.

I shook off the past. Enough of that. Kim was good. She danced well and captivated a room, writhing my way then retreating in time with the music. She peered at me through seductive lashes. I knew her game. Get attention from every male set of eyes in the room.

We’d done that, and more, already.

And two could play this game. She used her shawl around my neck to draw me closer. I complied and let her dance on my body like a pole. I shut my eyes as she slid her body down mine, her hands tugging at the hem of my blouse. I kept my hips at a slow sway and ran my hands through my hair. The fruity scent of my shampoo suffused the air as the tresses trickled from my fingers.

I leaned back, hoping the peek of my belly on display would earn a few female hisses my way. Yoga hadn’t earned me these abs. A gazillion sit-ups had. Moira forcing me to contort every morning added definition to each muscle. Seeing Kim’s gaze falter at my waist with a flash of irritation satisfied me more than it should have.