Tripp (19 page)

I exhale the breath I was holding and nod, releasing her arm so she can walk around to the driver’s side. I stay where I am, breathing deeply, and pulling myself together so I can get into the car and not yell at her some more. Maybe she knows this—or maybe she just knows me as well as I know her—because, before she gets in the car, she says my name.

I turn and look at her over the top. She smiles—just a small one, a grateful one—then she’s motioning to the car. “Get your ass moving. I don’t want to be late.”

And we’re back.

26

Present

“I’m glad you’re still naked.”

Rachel laughs, and her smile is almost as intoxicating as her touch. “Back at you.”

My fingers are tracing over her back and into her hair. For the last little while we’ve been staring at one another, our heads on the same pillow, our lips so close we’re sharing breaths. A moment ago, she smiled at me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as blissful as I do in this minute.

We lay entwined together, happy to continue laughing and explore one another with small touches. I know her mom’s in Portland and won’t be home for a few hours more. I tell Rachel how I almost cried last weekend when she got out of bed after we’d been together. Ever the competitor, she ignores my pain—telling me that since she did in fact, cry—I get no sympathy. She doesn’t change her stance even when I mention that she ran out wearing my shirt; I had to leave her house and walk home in my jeans and no shirt.

“Serves you right for making me cry,” she says and I laugh.

“God, you’re tough.”

I’ve rolled her; she’s underneath me, and I feel myself tense with anticipation when our skin slides together. She rubs my jaw and smiles.

“Speaking of,” she says, and asks me how the bruise is after the hit she landed last weekend. My pride is still sore with the memory; I retaliate by rubbing my day-old stubble on her, pinning her hands before she has a chance to reach for my ribs and tickle me.

It’s small, but the fact that she can’t get out of my grip brings me a deep sense of satisfaction—no matter how often she demands to do things herself, I’m still able to be strong for her. Plus, I know she hates that she can’t loosen my grip. Simply beating her at something brings me pleasure. I’m a man; I can’t help it.

Never one to admit defeat, Rachel thrashes underneath me, twisting her hips and arching her back, doing her best to shake me so she can sneak past my defenses and make me pay. At the beginning, I just laugh at her. Tall as she may be, she’s a little on the lean side. I still outweigh her by a good fifty pounds; there’s no way she’s getting away from me when I have the upper hand. But it’s not long before her movements have the hunger I was sure I sated earlier appearing again—bigger and stronger this time than the last. When she finally stops moving and looks at me, the widening in her eyes tells me she sees exactly how much I need her.

“Again,” I say and my lips capture hers. It’s not playful this time, not soft and thoughtful. It’s fast, desperate, aching—everywhere her fingers or her lips touch sends a scorching blaze of awareness over my skin and down to my nerve endings—until I’m sure I’ll explode if I don’t get to have her all the way.

I take a second to thank whatever god is listening that my brothers always told me to be prepared and carry two condoms. How right they were when they said one is never enough. Never in all of my time with Lauren did I use them both in the same night. Not until Rachel.

I grab the second one. It seems everything was waiting for her, for us, for this moment right here. I sink inside of her, and my world tilts—everything makes perfect sense.

~

The next morning I get to school before Rachel. I try not to panic—I’ve called her twice and she hasn’t answered either time. It’s not like her, but she’s also busy. One missed phone call doesn’t mean anything. I feel like a total girl—I have to swallow my anxiety and remind myself it doesn’t mean she’s backing out of
us
.

I’ve never known real fear, not until Rachel. Growing up the youngest of three boys cured me pretty quickly of the fear of physical pain. Every other day ended up, and still does, in some sort of wrestling match or fistfight to solve whatever dilemmas we have. With Lauren, the only thing I feared was that I would never fully feel for her what I was so desperate to convince myself I should. With school, sports, the future—fear’s never been something I allowed to move beyond my peripherals. I know what I’m capable of doing. I know what I want—and there’s little I won’t do to get it.

But with Rachel, everything’s different.

My fear comes from nothing I can battle or overcome. My fear is purely instinctual—like it was that first time I spent the night with her, only greater. Whatever my young heart felt for Rachel, with our time apart, what I feel for her now has doubled. I want everything from her, and going slowly is killing me. This morning, when I called and she didn’t answer, I had to remind myself it was because she was at volleyball, and then home getting herself and Gracie ready. I had to remind myself
over and over
whatever I may be ready for…she is not. Therefore, I have to be patient. A missed phone call doesn’t mean regret.

Christ, Jesus, please don’t regret us, Rachel. My heart can’t take it.

By the time her Explorer pulls into the parking lot, I’ve worked myself into such a frenzy that I’m grabbing the smoothies I brought with me and jumping out of my truck, not even allowing her to turn her engine off before I’m setting them on the roof of her car, opening her door, and leaning down to press my lips to hers. She’s surprised, but when she kisses me back, my heartbeat slows slightly. The garbage that’s been clouding my mind dissipates until the taste of her is the only thing left.

“Hey,” I say when I pull back and she smiles at me. “I called you this morning to see if you wanted to drive together.”
Three times. Why didn’t you answer
? I leave the last part out, because no matter how much it might seem like I’ve grown ovaries and a vagina in the last twenty-four hours, I’m actually still the proud owner of a penis.

“Yeah, sorry, I had an individual with Coach. Then I was in a hurry to get home and change before getting Gracie to G’s.”

This is the logical answer I expected. I should be happy, because it has nothing to do with me or regret; her life is busy—end of story. Except, there’s a part of me that still feels like she’s not one-hundred-percent with me. I understand she’s busy, but I thought she understood…when I said I wanted to
be
with her, it meant I wanted to
help
her.

I rest my arm on the hood of her car, trying to act casual as I tell her that she could have called me. I wouldn’t have minded getting Gracie for her so she didn’t have to rush out of practice.

“It’s no big deal; I’m used to it,” she says. It takes everything I have not to tell her to readjust the way she’s used to doing things. I physically have to swallow the words and remind myself this is Rachel. She needs to be in control, which means I need to be patient.

I nod my head and change tactics, grabbing the smoothie from where I set it and handing it to her. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I stopped by Jamba Juice on my way here then.”

Her eyes light up at the cup, and then her lips show her gratitude. I’m slightly mollified.
Something
. At least I’m allowed to do
something
for her. I take the kiss deeper. I use my lips to tell her what she isn’t ready to hear yet—I’m hers, and that means I’m here. I
want
to be here. No matter what she said last night, I know she’s not ready to depend on me all the way. She’s not ready to let me in and become a part of her everyday life. In the back of her mind is still the fear that I won’t stay, that no matter how much I love her, it won’t be enough to actually fight through it all with her. She’s holding pieces of her life back so she still feels in control.

I hate that it’s only been twelve hours and I’ve already recognized I might always need more than she’s willing to give. Because I’m afraid I’ll take this farther—just to prove she can’t shut me out completely—I pull away, and wait for her to open her eyes.

She gives me a lazy grin. “Is that all you’ve got?”

I laugh and hand her the cup, happy when she drinks from it as she gets out of the car. “Thanks for this. I didn’t really eat breakfast, and since I’ve got training tonight, too, it helps.”

“Good. Maybe now you’ll realize you can depend on me to help you.” Ah, word-vomit, old friend, you’re back. Thanks for helping me be patient, asshole.

She stops in the act of grabbing her backpack to turn and face me. I see the shock on her face, the question in her eyes. Though I had hoped to wait, I prepare myself to lay it all out there, to tell her exactly how much I need her to need me. Before I can, her expression changes from unsure to irate in point two. What the..?

“Oh my god. Shit,
shit
, Tripp. What are you wearing?”

My mind goes blank. I’m momentarily afraid I was so distracted by thoughts of her this morning that I forgot something essential like pants. I look down and relief blows through me when I spot the dark blue jeans covering my legs. I can see the black T-shirt covering my torso. I raise my eyes to Rachel’s to ask her if she’s suddenly become a fashion critic when I spot the source of her terror.
Oh my bleeding Jesus, we’re wearing the same outfit
.

Because there’s really nothing else to do, I laugh. My princess does not find this situation amusing. While she gets steadily more horrified at the fact that, and I quote, “We look like the fucking Spice Girls,” I laugh harder. She yells at me, because of course this is my fault—typical woman. She then questions every choice I made that led me to this outfit…including the black Chucks I’m wearing rather than my black Vans.

By the time I’m done laughing—at least enough so I can breathe—she’s called Katie to beg for another shirt to wear. Though she’s still angry, I can see there’s also amusement in her eyes.

“So, does Katie have something you can wear?”

She slams her fist into my shoulder, but because she’s not really mad, she pulls her punch. It comes off as more of a love tap. When she asks me once more how I could let this happen—again with the blame—I grab her hand.

“Relax. It’s a common outfit. I bet ten other people are wearing it right now.”

This does not appease her. “But are they sleeping together? Because that’s why this is embarrassing. Jesus, we look like one of those idiot families who all wear the same thing at Disneyland.”

Katie pulls up and she and Rachel immediately go about altering Rachel’s outfit with a pink scarf. At one point, I offer—quite chivalrously—to get dressed with Rachel in the morning so we don’t have problems like this again. Though she laughs, Rachel assures me that if I keep a shirt in my car we should be able to avoid future disasters.

I grab her hand when we begin our walk into school, and she comes to a halt. Thinking she’s still embarrassed about her shirt, that she might want to go put on her practice jersey, I stop and look at her. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t wear pink polo shirts.” Her face heats enough I can see the slight hint of pink beneath her brown skin; I raise my brows, at a loss.

“Okay… me neither… it looks like we can cross that outfit off our double-up list.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t wear pink polos… and I don’t really hold hands.”

Ahh, got it. Yeah, not happening. I look at our hands and then back to her. “With me, or with anyone?”

This seems to stump her enough she has to think about it for a second. “Anyone?” she wonders. I nod, taking a step closer to her.

“How about this,” I tell her, our mouths close enough that our lips almost touch. “You can keep the black V-neck, I’ll keep holding your hand, and we’ll both adjust to something new. Okay?”

I wait for her to argue with me, to tell me to let go of her hand or lose my own, but she shocks me altogether when she says nothing. Instead, she stares at me and I know I’ve won this battle. Pressing my lips to hers, I hold firmly to her hand and walk into school—careful never to lead or follow, but to stay right next to her so she knows we’re in this together.

27

Present

Rachel’s wrapped up in me with her back against the rough wall of the shop, her hands under my shirt and lighting little fires as they grab and score my skin. Her tongue begins to battle with mine; I show my appreciation by cupping her thigh and yanking her leg around my waist, flexing my hips into her. Our twin groans reverberate between our lips. I do it again.

My hands—never satisfied with just a piece of her— search under her shirt and down the smooth expanse of her of her back, needing the tactile connection. They seek the warm skin beneath her jeans, sliding between the stretchy fabric and her skin. Just as I meet the lacy top of her boy shorts—which look absolutely nothing like what I’ve seen a boy wear, thank Jesus—I hear one of my dumbass brothers saying my name.

“Tripp, some joker in a jeep just—Jesus Christ.”

Jesus Christ is right
. I don’t look at him since Rachel is now frozen. She’s yanked her hands from their delicious perusal of my skin to shove me. I give her a look, letting her know I’m not going anywhere, but I don’t let my hands continue down and over her skin. I can see the absolute mortification written all over her face, and I know she might try and do some damage to me if I push her right now…while we have an audience.

“Christ, you two better be thankful I came looking for you and not Mom or Dad. They might have had a stroke.”

“Go away, Griff. I’ll be right in.”

I use my best voice to convey the unsaid message of
I’ll kill you in your sleep if you don’t disappear STAT
, but being the youngest has its disadvantages. My idiot brother’s next words are one of them.

“Seriously, dude, I’m impressed. And a little turned on,” he says. Rachel loses it; her laugh bursts forth and her face disappears into the front of my shirt. I sigh before resting my hands on either side of her against the shop wall. It’s as much to shield her, as it is to block her from those assholes. They may never touch, but look? Who wouldn’t when her lips are swollen and pink and her shirt is all kinds of disheveled and appealing?