Tattered Innocence (6 page)

Rachel peered through the companionway at
Jake polishing the ship’s wheel. His curls bounced with each
movement. Her gaze returned to the grocery list on the salon table
in front of her, the hardest part of her job. She rubbed her neck
to stave off the headache that came from over-concentrating.

Jake had never inspected her list, but he
might. Her normal dyslexic shorthand made her look like the village
idiot. Even if it took her three times as long, she’d pen perfect
grocery lists and menus. Jake would never find out if she could
help it. With student assistants and using the phone whenever
possible, she’d hidden her dyslexia for five years from the
athletic director. She’d certainly learned the hard way that people
thought dyslexia shaved points off her IQ. Sometimes they even
slowed their speech and annunciated carefully around her.

July fifteenth. She hadn’t seen Bret in the
six weeks she’d been sailing the
Smyrna Queen
. Perfect
sobriety—no calls, no texts, no face time. If Bret had cared for
her at all, he would have tried to contact her. Her fingers brushed
the locket at her neck. Even if he hadn’t cared, she had.

She glanced back at Jake as he hefted the
cockpit bench to stow his cleaning supplies. Jake and sailing had
turned out to be methadone to her Bret habit. But what was the
methadone for her guilt?

A whisper of a memory flitted through her
mind—Bret telling her he loved her in the dark on the beach.

Oh, God.
It was almost a prayer. She
didn’t want Bret—really—a man with a character flaw the size of
Florida. Amazing how much more clearly she thought now.

An evening she spent with Bret spun in the
background of her mind like a CD on constant replay. Thank God
crewing kept her busy enough to drown out the scene for chunks of
her week. But in quiet moments like this, the memory blared.

She had swung open her apartment door to
Bret standing on the landing. The TV mumbled from the corner of the
room, and an apple spice candle burned on the scuffed coffee table.
Her roommate, Cat, wouldn’t be home from work until eleven-thirty
l
ike every Thursday night.

“Hey.” Bret’s eyes searched her face. He
kissed her, his mustache wisping against her skin, stepped into the
living room, then tossed his keys and wallet on the coffee table
and dropped onto the futon.

Rachel shoved the door closed with her foot.
“Right on time, seven o’clock.” Their once a week date.

Bret quirked one light brow. “Like last
Thursday?”

“Something came up.” The interview with
Jake, then a solitary walk on the beach.

Bret frowned. “Maybe you could have stopped
by my classroom and told me.” The emergency dire enough to break
their no texting, no calling rule would never happen.

Rachel turned her back on him and gazed out
the window at the overflowing dumpsters behind the theatre across
the street. “It’s my life.”

He patted the cushion beside him. “Come sit.
Let’s talk about this like adults.”

Rachel sank down, her back stiff. Wary.

Bret sat back. “You know I stayed away from
you as long as I could. But this thing between us is too
strong.”

Bret scooted toward her and pulled her
closer. He nuzzled her neck. “Come on, I haven’t broken my wedding
vows, and I don’t plan on it.” He nibbled on her ear.

She pulled away, and he sighed.

“Rachel, I don’t think you have any idea how
pretty you are—those deep brown eyes, your long, lean lines, your
silky hair that curls around my fingers.” He combed his fingers
through her hair. “Your hair has strands of milk-chocolate,
dark-chocolate, red, blond…Your lips—” He rolled his head toward
her. “Did you know I imagined that kiss in the pump house a hundred
times before it happened?”

Excitement knotted under her ribs. “I
thought it happened by accident.”

Bret grinned at her. “Why do you think I
asked you to be my assistant swim coach?”

“That was first semester. You didn’t kiss me
until March.”

“I fought the attraction—since the day you
held Colton—we both did. After almost three years of dreaming of
that kiss…. But you’re the prettiest female at New Smyrna Beach
High. I didn’t have a chance.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.
“Right. Guys still call me Legs from junior high when I was a head
taller than all of them.”

Bret chuckled. “Knocking them on their butts
on the basketball court probably didn’t do you any favors.”

Rachel smiled.

“I, on the other hand, am not threatened by
tall, athletic women.”

“That’s because I never knocked you on your
butt.”

Bret’s lips stretched into a bittersweet
smile. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Oh.

He took a deep breath. “Yeah, I remember
that kiss. It went something like this.” He touched his lips to
hers, gently probing. “You’re so sweet.” He leaned in, pressing his
lips more firmly on hers. His fingers threaded into her hair.

Bret had dreamed about kissing her since
that first day in his classroom? The seconds ticked by. Delicious
warmth curled in her stomach.

Bret moaned and his hand moved to her
hip.

Rachel broke the kiss and pushed his hand
away.

“You’re killing me, Rachel.”

She held herself away from him. “You’re the
one who says we’re not going to have sex, but I’m the one who
always has to slam on the brakes.”

“Who said anything about sex? I know you’re
religious. I respect that.” He ran a hand over his fine, blond
buzz. “We’re just enjoying being together. I love you. God knows we
have so little happiness, so little time. ”

“Your mouth says one thing, but your hands
say something else.” She hated the petulant tone in her voice.

Hurt sliced through his eyes. “We’re Anna
Karenina and Count Vronsky
.
We’re Cathy and Heathcliff in
Wuthering Heights.”

His English teacher references to books
she’d never read, never would read, made her feel stupid. “Would
you ever leave Sheri for me?”

“I want to—with every fiber of my being.” He
traced her jaw with a finger, agony flashing through his eyes. “But
I made a commitment to her, to my kids.” His finger drifted down
her neck, past her collarbone.

Rachel leaned away until he broke
contact.

“Does your church put out its own play book?
The way I read the big guy’s top ten, the only don’t is the
deed—which we haven’t gotten close to.”

In your opinion.
She crossed her
legs, swung her foot back and forth as she gazed out her apartment
window at the peeling paint on the theatre wall.

He reached for her hand. “Aw, don’t be like
that. Let’s not waste our time fighting.” His thumb rubbed the
inside of her wrist.

Rachel stood and blew out the candle, turned
off the TV. “Let’s go somewhere.”

He picked up the wallet, pulled out a five,
and flashed it at her. “What’s that going to buy?”

“DQ”

“Everybody in town will be at DQ.”

“In Daytona.” Rachel snatched his wallet as
though she were a kid. “Are you sure? Let me look.”

He grabbed for the wallet and missed,
grabbed again, and Rachel dodged him. He lunged over the coffee
table, but she pivoted as if she were on the basketball floor and
sprinted to the bathroom two steps ahead of him. She clicked the
lock as she heard his hand clamp around the knob.

“A man’s wallet is private,” Bret said
through the door. “I don’t go through your purse.”

Rachel leaned her back against the door.
“Hmmm.” Beside the five were several gas station receipts. And a
condom.

As if he could see through the door, he
said, “Okay, so maybe I don’t know if I’m strong enough to take the
high road. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to love someone
and hold back?”

Rachel slid the condom out from beside the
bill and held it up. Orange sunlight bounced off the foil wrapper.
She replaced it and wiped her fingers on her shorts.

“You’re acting like a two-year-old,” he
said.

“Yeah, that’s going to get me to open the
door.”

Her eyes fell to Bret’s family portrait. She
slid down the door to a sitting position and pulled the picture out
of a discolored plastic sleeve. Bret cradled a petite woman with
one arm. A hand rested on a toddler boy’s shoulder. A nearly bald
baby sporting a bow circling her head sat beside her brother.
Trusting, cornflower blue eyes peered from mother and children.
Flipping the photo over, Rachel studied the cursive writing.
We’ll love you forever, Sheri, Colton, Marissa,
she
deciphered
.

She wanted a husband and children, but not
someone else’s. Her finger traced the woman’s smooth skin and high
cheekbones. Rachel wasn’t following her heart, she was stealing
this woman’s husband, these children’s father.

Cat’s words from yesterday’s fight echoed in
her mind.
Would you want your husband making out with a hottie
every Thursday night, telling her he loved her? And if you think
this will end up anywhere but in bed, dyslexia isn’t your only
educational issue.

“Did I tell you Cat manipulated me into
going to The Beach—a church service on the water?” she said.

“When would you have told me? We haven’t
spoken in two weeks.” She heard the pout in his voice through the
door.

“The music got under my skin, sort of
pulling me to a place I didn’t want to go.” Like the photo in her
palm was doing right now.

“Like Homer’s Sirens.”

Whatever. She replaced the photo, knowing it
had already burned onto the hard drive of her mind. But under the
voices screaming
no
, Mama murmured,
You’re weak just like
me.

Bret thumped on the door and the blows
reverberated against her shoulder blades, startling her into
dropping the wallet.

Just because she looked like a clone of
Mama, they both chewed their nails, were lactose intolerant, and
ate all the peanuts out of mixed nuts didn’t mean she’d inherited
Mom’s weakness for affairs. “Go home.”

“Rachel, I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter. What we’re doing is
wrong.”

“For two months it’s a-okay. Now it’s wrong?
We’re in too far to turn back now. It’s bigger than we are.” Bret
spoke through the door, closer to her ear now. “You know how much
you like it when I—”

“Shut up, Bret.”

“You want to touch as badly as I do.”

His words kept coming, flowing over her
where she sat on the parquet linoleum, as surely as if his fingers
ran down her spine. As surely as Mama’s blood heated in her
veins.

“I keep drinking and drinking you, and I
never get enough.”

The honey of his words dribbled over her.
The voices in her head grew softer.

“I want to memorize the smoothness of your
skin with my fingertips. I need you.”

The door creaked. Rachel pictured them
leaning back to back, a quarter inch of wood and a lock separating
them. Her palm flattened against the door. She reached for the
wallet and shoved it under the door.

Bret’s sigh seeped under the door. Nothing
moved.

“It’s you I want, not the wallet.”

She heard the wallet skim across the floor
into the apartment.

“I missed you so much last week. I’m
starving here. Give me a taste. That’s all I’m asking.”

She listened for the voices. Only Bret’s
breathing answered. She reached over her shoulder and pushed the
tiny lever at the base of the knob until it clicked.

Bret moaned, and she felt his weight shift
off the door. The knob turned, and the wood nudged her. She scooted
toward the tub, and Bret eased open the door. He held out his hand
to her in the deepening gray light, and she slid her fingers into
his. The warmth she’d felt through the door pulsed through her.

He pulled her up and wrapped his arms around
her, his fingers splayed against her back, pressing her to him.
They stood motionless as the shadows deepened in the room. He
inched his face toward hers, desire swirling in sky blue eyes.

Her mind emptied except for anticipation of
his kiss.

His mustache feathered against her skin. His
lips touched down on hers like the gentlest landing of a jet.

The engines roared in her ears as the kiss
deepened.

His thumb, rubbing circles on her waist,
touched skin, and his lips dropped to her neck.

“I want you, Rachel.” His breath curled in
her ear.

A hand traveled the length of her arm,
raising goose flesh in its wake, and gripped her wrist. He tugged
her with him toward the futon.

The
Queen
jostled, and Rachel’s mind
skipped tracks to the fiction of how she wished the evening had
played out.

In make-believe her foot kicked something.
She glanced down and saw Bret’s wallet illumined in the streetlight
beam. Jet brakes screeched to a sickening thud inside her. She
scooped up the wallet, dodged left then right, almost in one
motion, putting the coffee table between them. She thrust out
Bret’s wallet, her breath coming shallow and fast.

Startled, Bret put out his hand. She dropped
the black leather into his palm, took two quick steps back, and
yanked the apartment door wide. Her bare feet touched the cool,
slick concrete, and her hand gripped the balcony railing behind
her. She filled her lungs with the cleansing scent of orange
blossoms. “You said a taste.” She cringed at the vibrato in her
voice.

He slid his wallet into the back pocket of
his cargo shorts and gathered his keys from the table, his face
grim.

She shrank against the railing, afraid of
her response if he touched her again. She hated her weakness.

He paused in the circle of light from the
fixture beside the door. “Don’t tease me again, Rachel.”