Out of Time

5

The next morning I woke up to Carrie climbing on top of me, kissing me until I forgot what the hell color the sky was. Her hands moved all over me, slowly waking me up, and by the time we were finished with each other, I was exhausted and naked and sweaty. I looked over at her and grinned at the smug smile on her face.

“More distraction, I see.” I tapped her nose. “You look awfully proud of yourself.”

“That’s probably because I’m feeling pretty darn proud of myself.”

She rolled over on her side, folded her hands under her cheek, and smiled at me. Something in her eyes pulled at me. Told me that beneath the smile and laughter was fear. Lots of fear.

But how could she manage to look so sad while still looking so damn happy?

“Get over here,” I said.

When I opened my arms, she rolled into them and closed her arms around me. I held her for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness, not needing to talk. It was nice having a person with you where you didn’t feel the need to blabber on and on just to fill the silence. As I was beginning to wonder if she fell asleep, she sighed and squirmed.

I played with her hair. I was beginning to think I had a hair fetish when it came to her. I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. “Hey, you want to go out on a date tonight? Are you all caught up on your homework and shit?”

She rested her chin on me. “A date? Like, dresses and suits and a fancy restaurant?”

I hadn’t been thinking of wearing a suit, no. I’d been thinking burgers or something along those lines. But I guess that’s what a girl like Carrie expected when the word date came up. She’d grown up in the lap of luxury after all. If she wanted to wear a dress and go to some French restaurant I couldn’t even pronounce, then so be it. I could certainly afford it.

I smiled at her. “Yeah. We can go to that French place on Pico. The one with the swans.”

She brightened up, her smile wide. “Oh my God, yes! I’ve been wanting to go there for a while.”

“Great,” I said, smiling, even though I didn’t feel like smiling.

“But I have to admit, I’m surprised to hear you suggest it. You’re more of a burger-and-shake kind of guy,” she said, her voice cheerful.

“And you’re not?”

Her mouth twitched. “I’m not a guy.”

“And thank fucking God for that.” I tapped her nose with my finger. “But you know what I mean.”

“I like them both,” she said, lifting a shoulder in a tiny shrug. “A little bit of variety never hurt anyone.”

Having her get all excited about a date in an expensive restaurant made me feel anxious and wound up. Shaking off the weird feeling creeping up my spine, I asked, “Do you still want to go surfing?”

“I do.” She rested her chin on my chest. “It looks cloudy out, so there might be some awesome waves.”

I tucked her red hair behind her ear and forced a smile. “All right. Want to eat before or after?”

“After.” She got out of bed and looked over her shoulder at me. “But make sure you get some coffee in your system. I don’t want to deal with cranky Finn.”

I laughed and rolled out of bed. “Cranky Finn?”

“Mmhm.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her red bikini. “He’s miserable without coffee in him. A real jerk.”

I came up behind her and nuzzled her neck. The feel of her skin on mine almost made me say the hell with surfing…but if she wanted to surf—then she’d get it. “Don’t worry. I’ll go make some now.” As I headed bare-assed naked into the kitchen, I called out, “I’m surprised you remembered your suit.”

“I thought we might end up going.” She peeked over her shoulder at me as she stepped into the bottoms. “But we’ll need to get my board from my dorm.”

“You can leave it here if you want,” I said, slipping a K-cup into the Keurig. “I don’t mind.”

“Really?” She stood up straight, wearing nothing but her tiny red bikini bottoms. Fuck, if she would let me, I’d snap a picture and make that my wallpaper. “Okay, sure.”

“You look surprised,” I said, raising a brow at her. “Why?”

She picked up the bikini top and turned almost as red as it was. “I always thought guys were weird with girls leaving their stuff at their places. They get all paranoid she’s trying to stake a claim or something.”

“Maybe some guys are, but I’m not one of those guys.” I pulled two mugs out of the cabinet and headed back into the bedroom portion of my apartment. The light blue comforter was halfway off the bed, thanks to our morning sex. I straightened it, then pulled it up over our pillows. “Besides, the guys who don’t want their girls’ stuff at their places are the ones with something to hide. I don’t have any more secrets.”

She nibbled on her lower lip as she did up her bikini top, tying it in front of her breasts before sliding it up over her neck. “I know that. But you had a pretty big secret before that.”

“You mean the fact that I was your father’s secret bodyguard sent to watch over you?” I snorted. “That’s nothing. What you really should know about me is this: I snore when I’m drunk.”

She smacked me playfully. “Don’t make me hurt you…and in that case? Maybe I’ll need to leave some earplugs here.”

“You can leave them right next to the bed.” I hauled her into my arms, liking the idea of her leaving her shit here more and more. “You can leave some shirts and stuff, too, if you want. In case you ever need a quick change. Maybe a few of those books with abs on it that you like to read when you’re not busy reading for school.”

She blinked up at me. “Okay.”

“Why are you looking at me like that again?” I flexed my fingers on her hips, not sure what the confused stare she wore meant. Did she not like the idea of leaving stuff here? Maybe I was moving too fast for her. Shit if I knew. “It’s just clothes, Ginger. It’s not a big deal. You have tons of them—just leave a few here instead of leaving them in a box that says ‘free: take one’ on the front.”

She laughed and pushed out of my arms. “I know. Now shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I tied my swim trunks and headed back toward the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Let me text your dad real quick. I’ve probably got like twenty texts from him already.”

She rolled her eyes. “Remind me to tell you about Italy.”

“Oh, that sounds…” I picked up my phone and swiped my finger across it. There wasn’t a single message from him. Not a single one. That never happened. “What the fuck?”

She came up behind me and rested her hands on my shoulders, peeking around me to check my phone. “What? What’s wrong?”

“He didn’t text me.” I opened his messages, scanning the time of the last text I’d gotten. “Shit. He hasn’t texted me since yesterday.”

“Is that different than usual?”

“Fuck yeah, it is.” I swiped my finger up, showing her how many times he usually texted me. “He texts me like ten times a day, Ginger. But I’ve got nothing. Nothing.”

She kissed my shoulder. “It’s probably nothing to worry about. He’s just busy, I bet. He called me yesterday at lunch and sounded fine. He wanted to let me know he might be a little bit quiet because of his schedule.”

I relaxed a little bit, but it didn’t feel right. Something was off, and I’d learned long ago to listen to my gut. If it said something was wrong, something was fucking wrong. “Yeah. Sure.”

She let go of me. “Now go get ready. I want to get out in the ocean.”

I headed for the bathroom, my phone still in my hand. As I brushed my teeth, I jotted off a quick text to Senator Wallington. Carrie’s okay. All is well.

Within a minute I had a reply. Thank you.

That was it. A thank you. There was nothing wrong with the text, per se. But it wasn’t right, damn it. I shook off the feeling that was bugging the fuck out of me, and focused on the date I’d promised Carrie. She had enough to stress about, what with that weird phone call I’d gotten that neither of us could make any sense out of, so I didn’t need to go obsessing about the tone of a text message like some pansy-assed little girl.

I leaned against the door, my eyes on my reflection. The nagging sensation that something was wrong wouldn’t let go. On top of that, I figured out what was bugging me from when we’d talked about our date.

I stared at myself, all tattoos, dog tags, muscles, swim trunks and five-o-clock shadow—it hit me. The problem with her wanting a fancy date with flowers and dresses and jewelry and valet parking was I wasn’t fancy.

I could put on an expensive suit and pretend.

I could afford to be that guy, money-wise.

But underneath the suit and the charming smile, I was the tatted-up Marine that had no place dating the daughter of a prospective President of the United States of America. She was supposed to be with a trust fund baby. One who had money and wealth and recognition.

Me? I so wasn’t that guy.

I never would be.