Just Once (35 page)

“And then he asked me how I felt about you.”

Now I put real effort into wrestling out of his choke hold, eventually succeeding. I pull back and stare at Shane, horrified. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” His expression is carefully blank, dark eyes fathomless.

“And…you said…”

“I said…”

“That you’re in awe of me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That you admire my work ethic?”

“Yep.”

“And envy my wicked sense of humor?”

“No.”

“My fabulous legs?”

“Meh.”

“You lie!”

Shane smiles at me. He’s being deliberately infuriating.

Well, we can both be frustrating. I yawn dramatically. “I think I’ll go take my afternoon nap now. Alone.”

“Why alone? I’m right here. I’ll make sure you don’t fall out of bed.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Kate.”

“What?”

“What happened in Jamaica?”

For a second it’s hard to breathe. When I speak, my voice is barely audible. “What?”

“Stanley told me to ask you what happened in Jamaica.”

My mouth is dry. “Why would he tell you that?”

Shane hesitates, obviously unprepared for my shaken reaction. “I may have asked him what it was you keep saying you want to leave in the past. Why you’re trying so hard to be…different.”

“What did he say?”

“To ask you about Jamaica.”

“I hate him.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It was just…a rough time, that’s all. It was months ago.”

“What happened?”

“Shane…”

He gets up from the couch and goes the trailer door, leaning against it and effectively blocking the exit. “Tell me.”

It was my second of four weeks in the beautiful Caribbean country. I’d spent my first week in Kingston and was on day three of my week in a new resort development on the north side of the island. It was beautiful. Sun, sand, new friends, new restaurants, new clubs.

I’d been to Jamaica before, and I’d always enjoyed myself. It’s hard to complain about an all-expenses-paid trip to a beautiful island, but I was already getting bored. And not just with Jamaica. It was starting to feel like all my days were running together: wake up late, swim, eat, shop, drink, dance, sleep in. Carve out a few hours to write. It didn’t matter where I was; the pattern was always the same.

That day I’d joined up with a group of Dutch tourists, and we’d spent the day snorkeling and complaining about the lack of a party atmosphere at the resort bar. Some locals we met on the beach told us about a club a mile down the road that not a lot of tourists went to—a place we should visit it if we wanted a “real” island experience.

My Dutch friends were up for the adventure, and I was desperate for something to break me out of my monotony. After a late dinner at the resort, washed down with several glasses of wine, we flagged a cab and rode the short distance down the two-lane road, surrounded on either side by palm trees and sand.

Because this area was just starting to be developed, there weren’t a ton of tourists, but we were far from the only ones. We were warmly welcomed and soon fell into the regular routine of shots and dancing and more shots. But it just wasn’t doing it for me. As nice as everybody was, all I wanted to do was go back to my hotel room, fall asleep, and wake up somewhere else—somewhere new, somewhere with a purpose. I knew that was unlikely to happen, but the idea of climbing into bed held serious appeal, so around two o’clock in the morning I left by myself, weaving through the small parking lot and pausing on the side of the road to find a cab.

It was dark and warm, and there was no traffic. No cabs. I waited a few minutes, then reasoned that it was just a mile to the hotel—no reason I couldn’t walk back. The combined effects of alcohol and high heels made progress slow, but I was determined, picking my way along the edge of the road by the moonlight. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t bad either, until suddenly it was. Until suddenly it was awful.

People find it hard to believe that in ten years of traveling alone I don’t have any real horror stories to tell, and compared to some I’ve heard, this one isn’t all that bad. But for a single woman alone on the side of the road in the middle of the night, surrounded by three strange men reeking of alcohol and contempt, it was as bad as it got.

“Give us your purse,” one ordered. Another came up behind me and shoved me when my shocked limbs didn’t move fast enough. I almost never carried a purse when I traveled, but I’d felt safe in my group of friends and wanted to keep my notepad in case I needed to jot down story ideas.

I stumbled. One heel caught in a crack and snapped in two, and I crashed to my knees on the pavement. My mind told me to get up, to run backward or forward—I had to be halfway between the resort and the club—but I couldn’t seem to move. I was too drunk. I’d had so much to drink that I hadn’t even realized how drunk I was until it was too late. I recognized that this was becoming a habit with me—waking up more mornings than not with a patchy memory of the night before—but this was one night I wouldn’t forget.

I felt a boot hit my back and searing pain shot up my side. Someone else kicked my thighs and shins, and my purse was yanked off my arm so hard that the strap broke. I tried to scream for help but managed only a moan. The person who grabbed my purse dumped the contents on the ground and roared in outrage when he found just a few American dollars and a handful of local currency. “Where’s the money, bitch?” he shouted.

“No money,” I mumbled. This got me a whack in the face with my empty purse. My lip split, and I tasted blood. Kicks rained down all over me, and I covered my head with my arms and finally managed a scream when a foot connected with my forearm, snapping the bone.

“Then you can give us something else,” a sour voice hissed in my ear. I was wearing a short designer dress, and I felt fingers at the hem, yanking hard at the fabric.

“No,” I gasped, lowering one hand to hold the dress in place and exposing my nose, which was a mistake. Someone punched me in the face, and I felt blood pour over my cheek and into my mouth. I covered my head again and felt more hands on my dress, trying to pull my legs apart, pinning me down.

I’ll never forget the softly accented voice of my savior, the sharp but calm “What’s going on here?” that sent my attackers scattering. I can still feel the smooth skin of his fingers on my shoulder. He asked my name, asked if I could stand. The closest hospital was an hour away, and he took me in his cab, refusing payment and helping me limp inside, my broken arm shrieking in agony.

I had no identification—the contents of my purse were strewn on the side of a dark road sixty miles away. The doctors and nurses were kind and efficient, and the police were too, though we all knew it was unlikely anyone would ever be charged for the crime. When a young nurse asked if there was anyone she could call to come stay with me, I had to admit to her and to myself that there was no one. I barely knew my Dutch friends, I couldn’t explain to my mother why I’d been staggering down the road drunk in the middle of the night, and the only real friend I had was Stanley, who was away on his honeymoon with his new husband, Anton.

I spent the night in the hospital, then returned to the resort, locking myself in my room and jumping whenever anyone passed by in the hall outside. I tried desperately to convince myself I would be fine in a few days, the bruises would fade, the cast would come off, everything would be okay. But it wasn’t okay. I was alone. I was friendless. And there was nothing I could do about it.

On the third day I caved and tried to call Stanley, but his phone was turned off. On the fourth day I tried again, cursing myself for not writing down the name of his Parisian hotel. I tried on days five, six, and seven too, though I knew the result would be the same. I cried myself to sleep, rich and blond and sorry for myself, and on the eighth day, I called the airline and booked a flight home.

When I finish the story I look up at Shane. He’s staring at me with a mix of shock and horror. Carefully he lifts my right arm, the one that was broken, and inspects the smooth skin.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It was months ago.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says.

“I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why, Kate? Why keep it a secret?”

I shake my head and force myself not to cry. “Because I was stupid. I was drunk. Not just then, but all the time. I made terrible decisions, and I’m lucky that’s the worst thing that happened to me. I learned a lesson from it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!”

“I’m not glad it happened, Shane, but it did, and all I can do is move past it.”

He’s struggling to control his temper. “Did they catch the guys?”

“No.”

His calloused fingers trace the contours of my face, finding the small scar on my hairline that once held eleven tiny stitches, the hollows under my eyes that were stained black and blue for weeks. “You think this happened because you were reckless?”

“I think I needed to grow up, and this was the catalyst.”

“So now you’re older and wiser?”

I sniffle. “I’m just older.”

Shane kisses me very carefully. “You should get some rest.”

“Lay down with me.”

“I’ve still got some stuff to do in the barn.”

“Please?” I know he has time to lay down with me. We freaking scheduled this visit. He opens his mouth to say no, but I try again. “Please?”

He sighs and nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

We move to the small bedroom, and I climb in bed first, slipping out of my jeans and socks so I’m wearing just the ranch polo and panties. Shane lies beside me, fully dressed, his body stiff as a board.

“Don’t be weird,” I say, putting a hand on his chest.

“I’m not.”

I lean over and kiss him on the mouth. His lips are soft and warm, but he doesn’t kiss me back. “Do you want me to go?”

He looks startled. “Of course not.”

“Then kiss me.”

“Kate.”

“I’m not broken, Shane. This is why I didn’t want to tell anyone my sad little story. It’s in the past. Let it go. I have.”

“You haven’t if you’re still punishing yourself for it.”

“How am I punishing myself? By not jumping off bridges every day?”

He stares at me, struggling with something, but then his eyes flatten and I know he’s not going to tell me what he wants to say. I lean over and kiss him again, levering myself on top of his broad chest, soon straddling him. Eventually he kisses me back, and I slip my tongue into his mouth, enjoying the novelty of being the one to instigate things.

I smooth my hands over his shoulders, down his arms, stroking his fingers. I touch his chest, rubbing my thumb over his nipples until I feel them tighten through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. At length I feel his cock start to stir, and I gently rub myself over him, feeling him harden and grow.

“I want you,” I whisper.

“Kate…”

“What?”

“I would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

“All that stuff…the rough stuff, if you don’t like it—”

“I love it. I love everything you do. I’d tell you if I didn’t.”

“You would?”

“Of course. Just like you’d tell me you love everything I do, even if you didn’t, right? Because I can do no wrong?”

I feel him smile against my cheek. “You’re one hundred percent right.”

“Knew it.”

We reverse positions so Shane’s on top, and he laces his fingers through mine and kisses me leisurely, thoroughly. I wrap my legs around his waist and grind my pussy against his now-straining erection. He frees one hand to gently stroke my breasts, tweaking my nipples—but not painfully so—before sliding his hand down my belly to cup the heat between my legs.

I groan and writhe, and he dips beneath the thin fabric of my panties to push one finger inside me, stroking deep, spreading my moisture everywhere, readying me for his cock. I slide a hand between us and unbuckle his belt, pushing down the zipper and slipping my hand inside to find him, making him groan.

“Kate,” he breathes into my neck. “Dammit.”

He rises over me to take off his T-shirt, then pushes his pants and underwear down, kicking them off. He swiftly divests me of my top and bra, then covers me again, his hot, hard weight a delicious reminder of his strength, his power.

I jerk his cock harder, knowing he likes it this way, enjoying the emotions that rage in his dark eyes. He spreads my legs and takes away my hand, holding it aside as he leans back on his heels. “Are you on the pill?” he asks.

“I have the shot.”

“I want to come inside you.” He raises his eyes to mine. “Is that okay?”

I swallow. No one has ever come inside me before. Even in my committed relationships—however brief—I required condoms. But now the thought of Shane being inside me with no barriers, of him leaving a trace of himself behind, makes my heart pound. “Yes.” I nod. “I want to feel you.”

“Watch.”