Chapter 11
Dakota
The late-afternoon weather was cloudy, but the forecast hadn’t predicted any rain—not like the last time I’d been sitting on this rock on the sand.
I’d been missing the tranquility I always found at this beach. It wasn’t well-known, and kind of a pain to get to, which made it empty most of the time. I was grateful for that. I liked being alone.
The hood of my sweater was pulled up over my head, a few baby hairs blowing around my face as I balanced my journal on my thighs, my feet planted up on the rock in front of me.
The pages were a little crinkly from past wetness, the blue ink of my pen smudged in a few spots.
I’d glued some lace scraps to the front cover and attached a charm to the ribbon bookmark that fit between the pages.
I wrote lots of random things in my journal—poems, lists, typical journal entries, pretty descriptions of places in real life or in my head, plans and schedules, cursive doodling, letters I’d never send to anyone.
It was almost full, and then it would go on the shelf with my other finished journals.
Wind tickled my cheeks and ruffled a few pages as I watched the mesmerizing cycle of the waves crashing on the beach. The water swelled, white-capped and frothing, then curled over itself, spreading out flat on the sand before gliding back in the vastness of the Pacific. My favorite hypnosis.
Black rocks lined the beach I was sitting on, sticking out into the water at my right in a large peninsula and forming the cliffside behind me. There were other, separate rocks that stood like small islands out alone in the ocean, surrounded by waves webbed with seafoam.
I liked those rocks, liked to watch the way the taller waves crashed over them and water poured down their sides, trickling through their divots and over their ridges.
Sometimes I wanted to swim out to one of those rocks and sit on it, just by myself, surrounded by the unpredictability of the ocean.
If I ever grew those wings, I’d do that.
I’d sit on that rock for a few hours, then I’d get the hell out of here.
The only part of that fantasy I’d never been able to figure out was where I’d go once I left.
Deep down, I knew all the things I was trying to run from would follow me, but if I thought about that too long, it became hard to breathe.
It was better to pretend all the shit in my head was tied to this location and if I could just get far enough away from here, it might all be okay.
I looked down at my boots on the rock; the soles were scuffed up a bit but the black leather still looked okay. I’d had them for almost seven years at this point. I had my tight black jeans tucked into them, and a chunky sweater on top, the knit a dark purplish color.
My eyes shifted to the dark sand, idly searching for sharp treasures.
I sometimes found shark teeth on this beach, but they blended in well with the sand, so it wasn’t very often that I spotted them.
There was a small jar on my nightstand in my bedroom that held all the shark teeth I’d found, some sharper than others.
I liked pressing them against the pads of my fingers, not nearly hard enough to cut me, but enough to hurt a little bit.
I tapped the end of my pen on a blank page in my journal, trying to come up with some pretty words to describe the jar of shark teeth, or the feeling of poking my skin with them.
Something about performing an autopsy with a fragment of one, performing it on my memories. Cutting out the good and the bad alike. Starting over.
Do sharks remember things like I do?
I caught motion in my peripheral vision and instinctively froze, slowly shutting my journal with the pen inside. Someone was climbing down the rocks.
And I feared I knew exactly who it was.
Even though that was insane.
Even though that was so incredibly unlikely.
But with him, everything was like that. Improbable. Intense. Scary like standing on the slick, unstable edge of a cliff. Mason was every bit the storm-veiled danger I’d expected him to be the moment I first laid eyes on him. Before I even knew anything about him, I could see that.
I pulled my hood farther over my face, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. If the person climbing down the rocks was Mason, a hood wasn’t going to stop him from approaching me.
Sure enough, a hand was tugging my the fabric off my head after a minute.
I peered up at him, the look in his brown eyes instantly putting me back in the backseat his car, back on that day which never left my mind. In my gaze, he could probably see just how often I’d been thinking of him.
“I was hoping you’d come here again,” he said, nudging me to the side so he could sit next to me on the rock.
He wasn’t wearing his swim trunks today, just dark pants and a white long sleeve shirt.
All the strong lines of his arms and chest were clearly visible through the cotton.
I averted my eyes, staring out at the ocean.
“I always come here,” I said, sliding my pen out from between the pages of my journal and flattening my palms over the cover.
“I like that. Sorry for intruding.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed, my fingers tracing the edge of the lace on my journal, feeling the ribbon bookmark with the charm.
If I’d wished that the time away from him would lessen the intensity of my feelings, I’d been wrong.
There was some awful magnetism between us.
Every molecule of my body recognized every molecule of his.
I didn’t know how it was possible to want him this badly, while wanting to get away from him just as badly.
He was still supposed to be a stranger to me, though it didn’t quite feel that way.
This was the problem with dipping into my own darkness with another person; he’d gotten access to such a deep, vital part of me, and it gave him power.
“Well I came back here looking for you.”
I could feel his eyes on my face, but I didn’t look back. Didn’t respond either.
I had this irrational fear that the second I gave into him, he’d consume me entirely.
He’d pull me under the water and never let me surface again.
It didn’t make sense and I didn’t know him at all, but I couldn’t stop myself from worrying about it, worrying about what would happen to me if I gave Mason an inch.
I know what you’re thinking in that pretty head. That nobody could ever understand you, and so you’ll never let anyone try. His words echoed through my skull, warping my thoughts and making me feel weird.
“How have you been?” he asked.
This time, I did look at him. “How have I been? You don’t care how I’ve been.”
“Classes going well?” he questioned, ignoring my accusation, his brown eyes pinning me to my spot on the rock next to him. My face felt warm.
“Classes are fine.”
“Yeah?” He looked conflicted for a second, like he wanted to say something else but was holding his tongue.
“Yeah…” I answered slowly, watching his face. “Do you want to see my grades or something?”
“No. You’re at Blackpine, right?”
“I never told you that.” He was right, though. It was the main university in this area. He probably knew that.
“Alright.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it up off his forehead, then rested his forearms on his spread thighs.
My gaze flicked down to his mouth for an instant, and I couldn’t stop myself from remembering how his lips felt against mine, on my neck, between my legs.
His strong body over mine. His sweat. His cock.
Tingles drifted across my skin, making me shiver.
A ravenous ache began building low in my traitorous body.
“What are you writing about?”
“It’s private,” I said, my fingers still playing with the lace scraps on my journal.
“You never answered my question last time,” Mason said.
I had a suspicion I knew what question he was asking about, but I didn’t want to be the one to say it. “What question?”
“About the most messed-up thing you want somebody to do to you.”
A pause; a sharp inhale passing my lips.
“I’m not answering that.”
“But you do have an answer,” he inferred. I wished he didn’t smell so good. The breeze coming off the ocean had shifted and I could smell it now, his addictive darkness scent, like pure sin, pure danger. I still couldn’t quite describe it correctly.
“I didn’t say that. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. It’s not your business.” I tucked my journal to my chest, crossing my arms as if I could somehow physically protect myself from this conversation.
“I’d like it to be my business.”
Why? Why does he care at all?
“Are you stalking me?” I questioned, not about to respond to his previous statement.
“Because I found you at the beach again?”
“And the bar.” The second I said it, I wished I could take it back, wished I wasn’t exposing myself like that. Too late. Whatever. I kept my eyes fixated on the continuous rolling of ocean waves, the splashing and dissolving of white water.
“What bar?”
Great.
I actually was hallucinating him.
“Never mind.”
“How about this: a question for a question,” he suggested. But I didn’t like the sound of his suggestion at all. Mason didn’t ask normal questions, and his proximity made it hard to think straight. I needed to be able to think straight to keep my head above water with him.
“Only if I retain the right not to answer your questions if I don’t want to.”
He let out a long exhale, clearly not pleased with my answer. He’d have to get used to not getting everything he wanted.
I shifted on the rock, putting another inch of space between us, but Mason’s hand snapped out and grabbed my thigh, pulling me closer again. Keeping me attached to him.
A tiny thrill shot through my blood.
“Fine. You can ask the first question.” He didn’t take his hand off my thigh.
“How did you get the scars on your back?”
“You asked that last time,” he reminded me.
“And your answer was terrible.”
From something bad. Probably shouldn’t ask people about their scars.