Only when its us, p.12
Only When It's Us, page 12
A man stands far down the field, juggling the ball, his head bent in that easy way you have when you’re effortlessly screwing around, juggling when you could do it in your sleep. His hair’s tugged back in a small bun at the base of his neck. His blond facial hair catches the sunlight when he flicks the ball and lands it on his back, steadying it easily between his shoulder blades. The ball hovers seamlessly until he bounces it off his shoulder. On a scissor kick while the ball is mid-air, he cracks it straight into the goal.
Rooney’s whistle cuts the silence. “Well, hi, and who ordered him from the hot stranger vending machine?”
I smack her chest again. My heart is racing. “Rooney, I think a ball pump fell out of the bag. You better double back and check.”
“What?” She frowns. “How could I have possibly dropped tha—”
“Rooney?”
She finally notices the dangerously brittle edge in my voice. Staring out to the field, Rooney narrows her eyes and takes a longer look. “Wait, is that…holy shit. Holy. Shit.”
I can’t even manage a nod of agreement.
“Okay, I’m going to, uh…I’m going to go check my ingrown toenail. I’ll hang back here.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I’m so distracted, I walk off with the gigantic bag still hanging on my shoulder. I trudge through the gate onto the field, selfishly, and perhaps wrongly, trying to be as quiet as possible. I can’t imagine he—if this is Ryder, and I bet my left tit it’s him—is wearing his hearing aid. For how active he’s being, it could easily fall off.
As I walk, a searing pain knifes through my sternum. It’s heartburn but a hundred times worse. Now he rainbows it, flicking the ball around as easily as a puppy lobs a toy and artfully, consistently catches it. I’m close enough to recognize that mangy beard. That perfect nose. It’s him. It’s Ryder.
It’s hard to appreciate the way his shorts sit on his hips, how he wears tall soccer socks the way all hot soccer dudes who are too badass for shin guards always have, crinkled at his ankles. His cleats are beat to shit which means they’re perfectly comfy. Your cleats always finally get comfortable right before it’s time to retire them. His muscles press against his T-shirt, which he lifts to dab his face, revealing the narrow taper of his waist, a stretch of tan skin and divots right above his shorts. The asshole soccer jock has butt dimples. Of course, he does.
I don’t exactly know why tears prick my eyes, or why an overwhelming sense of betrayal surges up my throat, constricting it painfully.
Suddenly, Ryder whips around, eyes widening as they take me in. Thank the Lordy, the beard’s still there. I just don’t know that I could handle anymore transformation in one day.
Instinctively, Ryder abandons the ball, then jogs up to me, yanking the massive bag effortlessly off my shoulder and transferring it to his. He cocks his head, fumbling for his phone from his pocket. What are you doing here?
I read his text and exhale a long, jagged breath. Sharp blades of confused emotion etch their marks in my throat as I try to swallow, then speak. “Just came to shoot a little bit.”
Ryder studies me, then his eyes drop to his phone. Why do you look upset?
I have two choices. I can tell him what this means to me. Pour out my guts. Confess my shocking hurt that he didn’t trust me to see past his surly lumberjack surface, that I can’t wrap my head around why he’s so good and why he doesn’t play. Demand his explanation for knowing what the game means to me and keeping his own deep connection to it such a closely held secret.
Or, I can do what I’ve always done. Repress the pain, bypass the uncomfortable truth, and move right along.
“I’m fine, Ryder.”
He squints and clenches his jaw. He’s about to get feisty with me and call bullshit. I don’t think I can handle any pushy demands or singeing banter this morning, so I stop him, holding his wrist.
“I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”
Before he can answer, I rip the bag off his shoulder and carry it back toward the other end of the field. When I dump the balls and wave at Rooney, showing her the coast is clear, I feel Ryder’s eyes on me.
I tell myself I couldn’t care less what Ryder Bergman does, let alone that he’s watching me. I don’t want his trust, and I particularly don’t want to know him.
It’s a lie. Luckily, if you tell yourself a lie enough times, eventually it becomes a truth.
Following an awkward reunion two hours later, Ryder and I pass the forty-five-minute drive along 1-North onto the Pacific Coast Highway in silence. Silence was a given anyway since Ryder can’t text and drive. Since I sit on his right, he could have worn the hearing aid and I could have talked his ear off, I suppose, but I’m not supposed to know about that. Another facet of his obvious distrust in me.
So he doesn’t trust you, he doesn’t tell you much. You’re the same way. You hold your cards close, too. What do you care?
I don’t know. It’s an infuriating refrain in my head: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. God, I’m so confused.
My forehead’s smooshed against the glass, taking in the views until we blur by a sea of parked-in cars. Ryder seems to know some secret place, because he confidently speeds by the masses and rolls down the road. All I’ve heard is Escondido Falls is a dreamy view but a nightmare when it comes to parking. When he brings the car to a stop under a shady nondescript grove, Ryder pulls out his phone.
You were quiet. Did my driving make you nervous?
I glance at the message, then force myself to meet his eyes. “No, Ryder. You drove fine. I was quiet because we can’t talk while you drive.”
He fusses with his keys, then he drops them in his lap and types, Some people aren’t comfortable with a deaf driver. I should have asked you.
My stomach sours, anger on his behalf surging through me as the words rush out. “Well, those people are assholes, Bergman. I know I can be a salty bitch, but I don’t see you as any less capable or safe because your ears don’t work the way they used to, okay?”
I can’t handle the look on his face or the way the car suddenly feels like a sauna. Throwing open my door, backpack in hand, I stare up at the trail before me.
I did my homework before I agreed to this hike, lest the mountain man decide on torturing me with some horrifyingly technical trail. Seems Ryder was looking out for me. The hike to Escondido Falls is only four miles, round trip, beginning just off the Pacific Coast Highway and reaching its apex at a dramatic waterfall. Our journey starts on asphalt, below a cluster of swanky Malibu homes. The online guide I read promised it soon transitions to coastal wilderness, and that the rugged, lush beauty of the falls is a well-worth-it reward for dealing with the oddly residential beginning.
My phone dings. Have your water?
I meet his eyes. “Yes. And my eighteen granola bars you insisted I bring.”
He smirks as he types. You are not a woman to be crossed while hangry. Consider it a personal insurance measure.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back toward the trail. I feel Ryder’s attention on me again but ignore it. Hiking my bag higher on both my shoulders, I begin walking.
After a few hundred feet of ascent, we pass the houses and leave the paved part of the trail. A sign reads Escondido Canyon Park, and a nearby dirt path bears another marker: Edward Albert Escondido Canyon Trail and Waterfall.
I turn over my shoulder for direction from Ryder. He nods toward the dirt path.
We walk in silence that starts off chilly, thanks to me and my bottled-up feelings. But, as we ascend and the sun moves higher in the sky, our frigidity thaws in the growing heat to companionable quiet. After trekking a field of fragrant mustard and fennel, we cross a creek that flows through an open thicket. Ryder takes my elbow, pointing left, so that we continue upstream into Escondido Canyon.
The path broadens. It’s level and packed dirt, a safe trail to take that isn’t likely to make me twist an ankle or tweak my knee. If Coach knew I was hiking, she’d murder me. Twice.
At some point, my five-six frame starts to fall short of Ryder’s long, steady strides, and he takes the lead. Shade buys us relief from the still-strong November sun, as we walk under a canopy of trees. But soon we’re out in the open again, traipsing through fields of dying wildflowers. There’s something haunting about them, a sea of husks and pods, the last lingering petal on a dry, cracked stem.
It reminds me of what Grandma Rose always said as we winterized the garden, as we ripped out plants and pruned bushes and buried bulbs. Life begets death begets life. The only thing we can do is honor the beauty and dependability of that cycle.
I can’t say that I see the beauty just yet, especially in its dependability. I’d prefer it if death weren’t dependable at all.
We come to a creek crossing that immediately I can tell I won’t be able to manage on my own. The water is high, and to get past it will involve hopping several rocks that my legs won’t span before the level drops low enough to trudge through.
Ryder throws his backpack onto his front and for a second I fight a laugh. He looks like he’s pregnant and very proud of it. He squints at me from beneath his ball cap as his mouth twitches. Maybe he’s trying not to laugh, too. Crouching down, he pats his back. Get on, he mouths.
“No.” I say it nice and loud, showing him my mouth so he’ll understand me. “Absolutely not. I’m too heavy with our gear.”
Ryder makes some noise close to a snort. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes lock with mine. There’s an intensity I haven’t seen in them before, an urgency. I hear it, what he would say if he could. I can feel how it would rumble in the air like thunder and vibrate through my bones.
Willa Sutter. Get. On.
My legs move without my direction, my hands wrap around his neck. Effortlessly, Ryder stands, his broad hands grasping my thighs. We’re two live wires that meet, making electricity flow freely between us. Sparks dance on my skin at every point of contact.
Ryder’s shirt is plastered with sweat. I lean into it, hungry for everything about him that isn’t tidy and cool and buttoned up. He smells heavenly. Like a lumberjack that just felled a tree, his muscles are coiled tight, his skin damp. I inhale cedar and pine and something undeniably manly. Pressing my chest into him, I almost moan. My boobs feel heavy, my nipples pebbled through layers of clothing as they scrape against the muscles of his back. He’s hot and perspiration drips down his neck. I have the weirdest impulse to drag my tongue along his skin and taste him.
Squeezing my thighs, Ryder’s dropping some kind of hint. I take it as a cue to hold on tighter, so I increase my grip around his neck and press my front to his back. I’m glued to his skin. His fingers dig into my legs as he pulls me even closer.
I knew Ryder was strong—mountain manly, feller of trees, and climber of trails—but I didn’t quite anticipate this. He steps evenly, long reaches from rock to rock with a solid-muscled woman on his back and two bags of gear. He’s not even winded when we make it to the other side of the water, and I slide down his body.
The air’s thick, not just with the heat of an unseasonably warm November day, but with something I can’t name. Ryder’s eyes hold mine as he straightens my gear on my shoulders. He steps closer, bringing our boots toe to toe. The sun beats down on us and makes every blond hair on his body glow golden. His chest rises and falls heavily, while his hands hold my shoulders, then slowly slide up my collarbones to my neck. Crickets sing in the grass and a hawk casts its shadow on us as it flies overhead. My pulse slams in my throat beneath Ryder’s thumb. His eyes are on my mouth, his head bending.
Suddenly something slithers through grass close by and I scream so violently, a chorus of finches shoots out of a nearby tree. Without thinking, I launch myself at Ryder, a petrified monkey, plastered to his body. His hands cup my ass as he watches the grass protectively and I almost orgasm on the spot.
Goddamn, that guy looks hot in his mountain man element. I’m all safe up in the stratosphere, watching his eyes dart across the grass. He’d murder that snake for me in a heartbeat. Then he’d spear it on a twig and roast it for me over the fire just to spite the amphibious abomination.
“Is it gone?” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine again. He tips his head.
“Is it gone?” I ask louder.
He nods. Our eyes search each other. The moment we almost had, another almost kiss hangs in the air between us. Unless…unless he wasn’t going to do it. Unless I had dirt on my face or a booger.
Oh, shit. What if I’m imagining all of this?
Ryder easily holds me one-armed and reaches for his phone in his pocket. I’ll admit it: I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. Is he about to set me straight? Tell me to quit making sexy eyes at his mouth and rubbing myself on him like a koala in heat?
I’m a pathological avoidant, I know this, but for me, facing painful emotions is like fear of heights—the moment I’m too close to a potentially fatal drop, I scramble back and bolt.
I slink out of Ryder’s arms and brush by him. Pushing forward, I can hear the faint din of the falls, and a sulfurous odor tinges the air. It’s a sobering scent, breaking the heavy sweetness of what we just did. It reminds me why I’m here, to hike and check off a box for asshole MacCormack. If I lose sight of that, there’s more than one way that I could fall off course. None of those ways are remotely safe.
The next mile is a gradual ascent, maybe another 150 to 200 feet, that brings us to the Lower Escondido Falls. It’s a fifty-foot cascade, its pool of water flanked by moss-covered rocks and dewy ferns. The sulfur smell is stronger here and plenty of people seem to be happy ending their trip at this peaceful spot. Ryder told me we could easily call this our halfway point. Sit and relax, enjoy the view for a while, then turn back.
But I’m competitive. I love a good challenge, and I’ve never been one for taking the easy road, at least when it comes to making demands on my body. What I read when I did my recon for this mission was that for those willing to work for it, Upper Escondido Falls might be three times as high but it’s infinitely more beautiful.
To the right of the lower falls, there’s a treacherous wall of limestone. It looks like it will be difficult to ascend and downright crazy to scale on the way back, but we’re both wearing hiking boots, and Ryder said it’s intuitive. Grab on tight and enjoy the ride down, Sunshine.
It’s by far the hardest part, a gain of nearly 200 feet over less than a quarter of a mile. We grapple for roots, rely on a length of rope afforded us for a stretch. At one point, Ryder has to reach down and yank me up to him, until the climb finally flattens, bringing us to land at the base of Upper Escondido Falls.
The path veers left, and we trudge through massive, old roots, crawl between and over equally ancient boulders. Then, suddenly my breath is ripped from me.
Water roars, spilling past a fortress of moss-slicked stones. I’ve heard it’s not the best flow this time of year, but the waterfall’s power is still tangible. Its steady pound resonates in my chest, as it pours down the rocks and lands in a wide glassy pool.
This breathtaking view was worth the work.
As I stare up at the water, movement snags my peripheral vision. I turn, only to see Ryder yanking off his shirt. I swallow a choked sound, as my body incinerates, my every sense tripping like a wall of breakers. All those muscles I’ve gripped and poked beneath his shirt, muscles I saw for one fleeting moment in a drunken haze and wanted to punch myself for not being sober so I could remember them…
There they are. And shit. Ryder’s bigger than I thought he was. He has a lean grace to his body. His clothes drape off his frame, suggesting a narrow build, but those flannel shirts have been lying. Ryder’s shoulders are powerful and rounded, his pecs cut and shifting under his skin as he tosses his shirt. His waist is solid, his every abdominal defined. Lots of guys in college still have boy bodies.
Not the lumberjack. The lumberjack’s a man. And I’m a woman. Whose body is molten hot and bothered looking at him.
Next go his shorts.
Boxer briefs. Thank you, Lord Jesus, boxer briefs. Powerful quads that I recognize. Soccer quads. A scar across his knee. Long, solid calves. My eyes are stuck somewhere around the soles of his feet when Ryder shifts, jerking my attention upward again.
There’s a shallow overhang behind the falls that he stares at, hands on hips. Slowly, his head tips my way, his eyes trailing my body. One eyebrow lifts. You coming, or what, Sunshine?
Dammit, it’s like he’s infiltrated my brain. With only a tip of his head, a tilt of his brow, I know exactly what that asshole wants from me.
“Fine,” I huff, ripping off my shirt. I’m down to a sports bra, as I bend over and toe off my boots, then peel off my socks. Finally, I yank away my shorts. When I glance up at Ryder, his eyes are dark, their gaze traveling my body. Slowly. Patiently. How I imagine his hands would be. Calloused palms that would sprawl across my skin, slide up my calves, then my thighs. A hard grip that would spread my legs wide and pin my hips roughly.
I swallow. “Hell of a team-building exercise, huh?”
Ryder’s gaze finally meets mine. His grin is slow. But it’s warm and genuine. And somehow, I know it’s all for me.
12
Ryder
Playlist: “Set Fire to The Rain,” Noah Guthrie
Even if my hearing was sharp, next to the falls it’s difficult to talk, let alone hear. We climb our way to the overhang beneath the water and my body’s in hell. Willa’s wearing black panties that are sporty of course, a modest bikini, in some kind of stretchy material. They wrap around her magnificent ass that’s unsurprisingly perfect—muscular, soft, round.
I try to avert my eyes, but she slips once, and I have no choice but to brace a hand on her backside and shove her ahead of me. My palm burns from touching her, just how it felt when she leaped into my arms and almost pissed herself at a little garden snake. Jesus, her body, molded around mine as I carried her. Her tits smashed to my back, the heat between her thighs flush against my waist. My fingers still buzz from gripping her strong legs, feeling that smooth, velvety skin.
