8. Aspen
Chapter eight
Aspen
T he cappuccino is good. There’s no denying it. I’ve had some of the best coffee in my life since I arrived here. But no amount of caffeine is going to get Rick to talk about what he was really doing tonight. I want to believe it was just trying to wrangle that painting down, but really? In the middle of the night? In so careless a fashion? He could have been seriously hurt, yet he seems to have no care for his own safety or health. I believe it was an accident, but I don’t like it. Not at all.
The caffeine only heightens the buzz that hasn’t stopped sweeping through me. I feel like I can pick up some big, huge piece of furniture that Rick doesn’t like and heave it onto one of the ever-present piles forming throughout the house.
I feel like I can bounce off the walls.
I feel like I can run a thousand miles.
I need to get out of the house.
“Let’s go to the park,” I say.
“What?” Rick is wearing a new, unripped set of black jeans along with the same style of black Henley he always goes for. All this time, he’s been careful not to meet my gaze directly, and I don’t know what it means.
“That coffee was strong. I need to do something, and I want some fresh air, so we should go for a walk.”
“I’m not going for a walk,” he states.
“Are you too much of a big bad baddy badass to go for a walk?”
He sighs, and when he finally looks at me, I give him one of my most stubborn, annoying looks. I’m clearly not going to let this go. When I can’t take the silence any longer, I leap off the seat on the island.
“I’m going to get dressed. I’ll go for a walk by myself.”
“The hell you will. Not at this hour,” he growls.
“I guess you’re coming then because I’m going. And yes, at this hour.”
He mutters things about stubbornness and damned letters under his breath, but I don’t stick around to hear it. I head upstairs and slide into a pair of jeans and a lightweight hoodie because it might be cold out there, even in the summer in San Jose. Then, I throw on my favorite pair of ankle boots. Nina One and Nina Two. They’re black and chunky, and Jace used to make fun of them when I wore them, saying I looked like I was going to join the military and go on marches.
Looking at them always makes me miss him more, and it somehow also makes my chest swell with happiness for all the good times we had together. I knew what he did was dangerous. Special Forces is no joke. I made sure that I made all our time count, and I never took him for granted. Whenever he left, or after every time we talked, I knew it could be the last. Did I ever truly think it would be? No, not truly. Who could live like that? But I knew it was a possibility. I just always, always tried so hard to deny that it would ever happen. Like my denial would make it more of a truth.
I shudder when I pass the spot on the steps where Rick was hanging over earlier.
Imagine being pulled from a dead sleep by someone cursing and yelling and hanging half over a very high, very scary railing. Also, I touched his butt, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
I know it’s expert-level wrong, but the sight of his tight, muscular ass is going to live rent-free in my head for the rest of my life.
Downstairs, Rick is pacing the empty living room. He’s stripped everything out of it, but it’s not for me to comment on. This is his house, his life. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I’ll have ten days left here. If this helps him, then he should do it. That’s what I think about it. I can’t ever fully understand the life he’s lived or the scarred-up wounds that are probably always going to be fresh and nasty on his insides. Ten or fourteen days or even ten or fourteen years isn’t enough time to make that better for him.
“There’s a park not that far,” he grunts. He opens the front door, and we step out into the night.
It’s not that cold, but I’m glad I wore a sweater. I like this sweater. It’s my furry bunny one where the fur is just this big cluster with ears and a smile and huge eyes. It’s absolutely and ridiculously adorable.
It’s never really dark here. The streets are well-lit with streetlights, and since this is an expensive part of town, all the houses have tasteful security lighting that gives off quite a bit of illumination as well.
We walk silently, Rick a few strides ahead of me, and me totally not letting my gaze stray to his ass every few minutes. I’m not sure what’s going on with me, but every single day, when I wake up and spend time with Rick, I dislike him less and less. It’s not anything he’s done. It’s me. I’m pretty sure it’s that thing where you get to know someone and realize what someone else who knew them better said about them was right. Salt of the earth. Yeah, Jace was right about that, I think.
Also, every day, when I wake up, I’m more aware that Rick is so much more beautiful than I ever gave him credit for. Right now, he’s walking with confidence, with a sway and athletic stride. He looks a little bit dangerous in the dark, dressed all in black.
I tried hard not to think about what Jace really did. I didn’t want to think about my big brother ever having to hurt anyone, but I know he did. And Rick? I could see him transforming in the blink of an eye, turning himself into a human weapon. He’d be lethal if he had to be.
I don’t want him to be lethal lethal, but knowing he’d keep me safe if anything ever happened to us out here in this very safe neighborhood where it’s gated, and there are security driving by every other hour, makes my body heat up a few degrees while other parts of me feel tingly and cold.
A few minutes later, he stops dead on the sidewalk.
“Oh, this is the park.”
It’s obviously made for little kids, though there are a few sturdy metal benches at the sides. There’s lots of grass and sand surrounding big plastic play structures and a huge bank of swings.
“Ooh! Swings!” I race toward them like I’m five years old again. I plunk down excitedly, my hands looping around the chains, my feet already trying to lift off the sandy pit beneath me. Then, I see Rick, and I freeze. He’s just standing there, still in the middle of the sidewalk. I maneuver sideways and grab the swing to my right. Hauling it in with the chain, I pat the plastic seat. “Come on.”
“No way,” he grunts.
“It’s more than strong enough.” I think. At least if he ends up head over arse again, he won’t be falling to his death.
“Grown men don’t swing.”
“Oh, I see. You’re too bad baddy badass for this,” I say loudly.
“Yes, definitely.”
It’s probably four in the morning, and I’m practically shouting at him. “Unless you’ve wrestled a shark underwater, uppercut the beast, put it in a headlock, and tapped it out, you are not too badass for this.”
He huffs, but I see the way his shoulders twitch like they want to detach from his body and come and enjoy the swings. Did he ever do this as a kid? I know he didn’t have any of the good family stuff, but surely his boarding school had swings? Unless they were the evil kind of boarding school where only strict, nasty teachers ruled, and there were no playgrounds. Where their version of fun was extra math and scrubbing down toilets.
“If you come and swing for two minutes, I might be persuaded to forget this night ever happened.” Yeah, right. There is zero chance I will ever forget how perfect an ass the man has. Just saying.
He lets out another huff, but he moves. I let the swing go and watch as he takes it and sits down hard enough to make the whole structure shake. He looks grumpy and surly but also strangely adorable. I would be afraid of this man if I saw him on the street all dressed in black and snarly, but not when I now know how much he loves toasted peanut butter and banana sandwiches, how Jace trusted him with his life, and how Jace trusted him with me when he would literally trust no one with his little sister.
Rick doesn’t move. He doesn’t even start to swing. Doesn’t he know how? Oh, he’s just going to sit there for two minutes and call that good enough. Well, that is not swinging.
I leap up and race behind him. Before he can react, I throw my arms around him, capture his shoulders with the chains, and push.
“Aspen!” he hisses, but the swing moves. It bumps into my thighs. He bumps into my thighs. And his broad, muscular back brushes against my chest.
Either my body has enough wild sexual energy with that contact to power this entire street worth of streetlights, or it’s the cappuccino hitting hard with a delayed reaction. Either way, my lady bits are buzzing, and I think if it’s coffee doing that, more people would invest in home espresso machines.
I wind up for another push, but he makes a sudden sound that stops me dead. I don’t know what it is, but it sounds choked and pained, and it tears at me like my chest is made of ancient fabric that can just be ripped in half because it’s so tattered and fragile.
Instead of clutching the chains, I sweep my arms around his shoulders and lean in like I did on the stairs. I hug him. Hard. He’s not fast enough to get an arm up to stop me. He could pull away, but he lets me. I think it’s because I’ve shocked him in a way that no amount of violence ever could. I breathe in the scent of his hair, and this time, I’m not as frazzled as I was after nearly losing him. This time, I can appreciate how he smells like coffee beans and fresh air and himself , which is dark, earthy, and spicy.
My lady bits stand up and start doing the wiggly, waggling, happy dance of joy that those tube man things do in front of sales tents and car dealerships.
Yes, they do a real happy dance for a man I thought wasn’t the least bit attractive when I first saw him.
I thought he was hard and muscular before, but now his body goes rigid, and I can feel the tensing strain in every bit of him that I have my arms around. “You shouldn’t do that, Aspen.”
“Why not? Everyone should be hugged. You’ve had a total lack of love and warmth in your life, and you need it just as much as anyone else. I might not be your first choice, but in Jace’s letter, we were both asked to look after each other. This marriage might not be real, but the letter is.”
He tenses up even more. “I’m…I don’t know how to explain it to you.”
“You can try.” Goodness, he smells so freaking good, and my nose is having a total nosegasm being so close to him.
“I was a soldier. Soldiers do things. I’m not clean anymore,” he mutters.
I sigh. “Jesus, Rick, I know what you’ve done.”
“No, you don’t know. You’re never going to know. No one is. We don’t talk about it.”
“If it’s PTSD, you have money. You can get help. I’m sure there are people you can talk to, even if you can’t really talk about much of anything. It’s the aftershocks that you’re having a hard time dealing with, and you can’t be alone in that.”
“It’s not PTSD,” he grunts, letting out a huff. “Maybe a little. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
I let him go because he asked me to, even if it was for the wrong reasons. I’m not here to force something on someone if it makes them uncomfortable. I walk around to the front of the swing. He’s so still on it. He looks up at me as I look down at him. I really want him to see that I’m utterly sincere in this.
“I think someone needs to tell you that you’re great, Rick. You’re not dirty, and you’re not a monster. I never thought of my brother that way, and I knew he’d done things. Probably some of the same things you’ve done.” I crouch down and set my hand on his knee. He jerks back, the swing chains rattling loudly. “Okay.” I put both my hands up where he can see them. “Okay, Rick. I won’t touch you. But seriously, you can’t like osmosis this shit off on me through touch.”
He jerks upright and walks away. I chase after him, feeling very much like an annoying little kid tailing after someone who wants to be left alone. Does he? I don’t think he truly does. Not in the sore spot in his heart that is probably larger than he’d like to admit.
“Rick,” I call out.
He doesn’t turn. He circles past the swings and heads toward the playground equipment. He walks past the monkey bars, the slide, the rope and net contraption for climbing, and a set of plastic tunnels that connects one piece of equipment to another high above the ground.
“Rick!” I call out louder.
“What?” He spins around, his eyes blazing. He’s a little bit scary but a whole lot magnificent, and right now is probably not the best time for my knees to go weak.
It’s not the best time at all for my body to realize it’s very much attracted to this man.
There’s no good time for that.
“You’ve spent a long time being told your body is a weapon, but it’s not. You’re not this thing that causes destruction. It was just your job. It wasn’t you. It’s not who you are anymore. You can let it go now. If you’ve done things that bother you this much, then you absolutely need to talk to someone. It’s not healthy to keep it all locked away. You need to be able to put all that emotion into words and then get it out. And you need to sleep. Staying awake is probably making your brain squirrely.”
“I know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. I know you want to fulfill the letter and make Jace proud, but you can’t get close to me.”
I hold up my hands and wriggle my fingers, breaking into a goofy grin. “I grabbed your bare bottom earlier and didn’t die. That’s probably as bad as it’s going to get, so I think we’re going to be okay.”
His eyes narrow. He looks badass and dangerous and a little bit lethal, and it takes my breath away. “Let’s never, ever talk about that again.”
“Alright. As long as you promise to never do anything that dumb again.”
“It wasn’t dumb. I had the angle perfectly calculated. I just didn’t think the stupid fucking painting would be stuck into the wall with the same kind of anchors that are used for bridge moorings.”
I walk over to the end of the plastic slide and sit down. Then, I kick off my chunky boots and dig my toes through the sand. Rick stands where he is, preternaturally still, watching me like I’m the one who is doing something risky and dangerous. I weave my fingers together on top of my knees and look at them because I feel like not staring him directly in the eyes takes some of the pressure off.
“If you don’t want to be touched, that’s okay. I respect that. But you have to try to let me help. You have to let me in. I can’t just leave here in ten days knowing you’re not okay.”
“I’m fine,” he says insistently.
“You’re not! You just said you’re dirty. That’s not okay. It hurts me to the bottom of my soul, Patrick McDonald.”
“It’s not your problem, Aspen Oak.”
It’s the first time he’s said my last name, and it doesn’t sound silly like when other people say it. Still, I’m frustrated. He is my problem. He’s so, so, SO my problem.
“Argh!” I yelp as I dig my toes too hard into the sand. Something catches—something sharp and nasty—and I gasp.
Rick is in front of me instantly, and I mean instantly . He’s on his knees in front of me, lifting up my foot and looking for injury. He holds up a small, sharp rock and tosses it aside, then spreads my toes and runs his fingers over each one.
My big toe feels like someone just rammed a spike up the nail, but other than that, the rest of me is getting mixed as fuck messages. I’m hot and cold and buzzing way too hard from those strong fingers searching me for injury and assessing the situation, ready to fix and save and protect. I want to arch my foot and lean into his touch. I want his hands to continue to my heel, up to my ankle, over my calf, up and up and up, to my knee. And then higher.
For the love of meatballs and cherry pie, I need to stop.
I’m tired, and I’m over-caffeinated. We had an almost life-or-death situation involving a bare bottom that was anything but heinous. My nerves are frayed, and so is my brain. Right now, the air feels alive between us. It feels like it’s pulsing. My sore toe is pulsing too, and there’s a good chance my clit is also going to get in on the action.
“Are you okay?” His fingers brush my toes again like they’re not all sandy and gross and toes to begin with.
“I’m fine.” I lean forward, arching in the middle until our hands meet and brushing mine over his before he jerks back. “You and Jace did the same stuff, right?”
“Yes,” he answers reluctantly.
“Do you think my brother was…contaminated? Do you think he was dirty? Do you think that wherever he is, he’s beyond redemption?”
The agony on his face is razor-sharp. It’s boiling water poured straight onto my wounds, and salt rubbed into my chest cavity. It’s impossible to take a breath. How could I have ever thought, at the first meeting when he talked about burning Jace’s letter, that I could legitimately hate this man? “No! Of course not.”
“If you both did the same job, side by side, then why should he be good to go and you not? Because he died? Because the job took his life? Purification by death?”
“That’s not fair, Aspen.”
“I know it’s not. It’s not fair to you . You’re doing yourself an injustice. You can’t heal if you keep telling yourself you’re all yucky and fucky on the inside. Fuckyucky. It might not be fair, Rick McDonald, but it is logical, and it’s good logic.”
“You’re right.” He stands slowly, all the power in his body obvious under his black clothing. “It’s late. We should be sleeping.”
“You mean I should be sleeping so we don’t have to talk about uncomfortable things anymore, and you should be prowling the house, making more piles, and pretending you’re sleeping?”
“I’ll sleep too. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”
Well, if that’s what it takes to get this conversation to stop. We’ve gone from shallow waters to the deepest parts of the ocean really fast, and neither one of us is ready for that. My heart is pounding so hard that I can practically feel it in my ears since they’re picking up on the wildness going on in my neck just below them.
I’m running out of time. Two weeks is two weeks not long enough. I know I’ll have some line of communication with him after. I don’t think he was joking about the pen pal thing, and I could probably push for more, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t change the fact that in ten days, I’m not going to be here anymore. Still, I can’t push this any further tonight. I want to help, not dig deeper gouges into either of us.
“Okay.” I reach for my boots and stand on one of the wooden platforms so I can brush my feet off before putting them on. “Let’s get some sleep.”
I don’t know if he actually will, but I hope he tries.
For himself. Not for me.