Only when its us, p.7
Only When It's Us, page 7
So, last time, I offered to host at my place, take a turn making dinner, and Willa accepted.
I’m nervous to have her here. I’m nervous to host her and feed her and have a woman in my space as I never have. Because the girls I dated and brought home in high school were just that—girls. The few I’ve shared casual sex with thus far in college, much the same.
But Willa? Willa’s a ball-busting, fire-breathing, hellraising woman.
That’s not the only reason I’m tense. It’s probably not even the predominant reason. I’m shaking in my actual boots because I did something stupid, or maybe brilliant—I’m not sure yet. I went to the audiologist and got the hearing aid tweaked. I refuse to wear the one in my mostly ruined ear. It still just picks up harsh noises, shrieks with feedback and exacerbates my tinnitus. But the one for my semi-good ear was worth revisiting. The audiologist emphasized that this is the hearing aid’s final test. After this, I either pick up where I left off with the hearing aid or have to write it off for good.
My hair’s down, and thankfully it tends to fall parted to that side, covering my right ear and the hearing aid tucked behind it.
Tucker, one of my roommates, walks in. “Smells good.”
When he leans over me and tries to stick a finger in the meatballs, I smack him off.
“Geez, Ry. Can’t a man eat?”
Tucker’s my height but has even more muscle on him. Dark, glowing skin and an afro he’s committed to growing bigger and bigger, he loves giving people shit when they ask how he could possibly head the ball with “all that hair,” which he obviously can. One of the many reasons we get along is because we both similarly enjoy trolling ignorant humans.
We also went to high school together and lost our collective shit when we were both admitted to UCLA and signed onto the soccer team. We were roommates, already moved into the athlete’s dorm, but when everything went south for me during summer training and I left the team, Tucker insisted on us still living together. We got a place right off-campus and haven’t stopped being roommates since.
Becks walks in next, scratching his stomach before his hand disappears down his pants to adjust himself. He’s an oddball I met in a freshman humanities gen-ed. He’s weird and funny, and he makes my six-foot-three height look dainty. While he doesn’t play any sports for UCLA, the guy’s a beast to have on your rec-league volleyball team. He’s also slovenly, evidenced by the junk groping, especially as he advances on the food.
I lift a hand to signal he needs to stop.
“What?” he asks.
My finger points from his groin, to his hand, followed by a colorful expression he knows by now means, Get the fuck out of here.
Becks groans. “But it smells so good.”
I make a shooing motion, then shove Becks and kick him playfully in the ass when he won’t leave the kitchen. Both he and Tucker flop onto the sofa which takes up the far end of the combined living room and dining room in the house we rent. I clap my hands twice at them, earning their attention. Get out, I mouth.
“Hell, no.” Tucker throws his feet up on the coffee table. “I am one hundred percent staying for this.”
I shake my head, pulling out my phone and typing, No you’re not. Get out. She’ll be here any minute.
Becks peers down to his phone, swiping open to join the conversation. Duh. That’s why we’re here. I bet she’s hot as hell. Twenty-five bucks says she’s got a bubble butt. Ryder’s weakness is a woman with an ass.
Tucker snorts. Twenty-five bucks says that our boy Ryder’s bit by the love bug. He never cooks Mama Bergman’s homemade meatballs for *us.*
Tucker’s laugh quickly turns into a howl of pain as I wrench his nipple in a violent twist. I pick up Becks’s hacky sack and very accurately launch it at his nuts, earning his groan.
Every noise stops when a knock on the door draws our attention.
“I’ll get it!” yells Tucker. He flies by me, shoving me out of the way.
A stifled growl rumbles in my throat as I reach Tucker, just in time to shove him back from twisting the doorknob.
When I open the door, it’s not quite the welcome I was hoping to offer Willa. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene. Becks still rolls on the couch cupping himself. Tucker climbs up the wall from where I threw him into it.
Willa tugs her lip between her teeth and cocks her head. Her hair’s wet and twisted tight in a bun. All I see are those big brown eyes dancing with amusement, the shine of her cheekbones. “Sounded like a gladiator battle was happening inside.”
I shrug, fighting the grin pulling at my mouth. Her voice sounds even better than I hoped it would. I hear its honey warmth in the middle and a scratchy note on the bottom, which has to be from shouting and exercise. It makes a filthy thought snag in my brain. What else makes her voice raspy and breathless? My dick swells and things start to get tight inside my jeans. I clear my throat as embarrassment heats my cheeks.
A quick visual of when I walked in on Becks taking a shit does what I need it to. My jeans are no longer uncomfortable, and I wave her in.
When she’s inside, I have to reach past Willa to shut the door behind her, placing our bodies close. She smiles up at me and draws in a deep breath.
Our eyes lock. Carefully, I reach for my phone, swipe to open it and type, Hope you’re inhaling the aroma of Swedish meatballs, not me, Sunshine.
Her eyes widen as she reads it, then pokes my stomach. “I am not a Sunshine.”
I huff a laugh that’s all air. It slipped out, calling her that. It’s the color of her eyes in the rare moments she’s not livid, the sound of her voice, filling my ear. But I can’t tell her that.
Ever heard of sarcasm, Sutter? I type.
She reads the text and her eyes darken with irritation, the irises switching from rich coffee brown to murderous copper. It’s intoxicatingly fun to coax reactions from her.
I tap a finger on her nose. She smacks my hand away and then shoves me. I don’t even budge which just makes her scowl deepen. I try and fail to hide my grin. So easily provoked.
Taking her by the elbow, straight to the table, I pull out a chair, lift Willa’s bag off her shoulder and set it on the surface. I pat the seat gently. Sit. Get comfy.
She drops down, that scowl still tightening her face.
Both the guys have recovered enough to silkily drop into their chairs at the table. I take one look at both of them, then type in my phone, Say hi, then be scarce.
They read their phones and then obediently both stand.
“Hi,” Becks says. “I’m the tall, dark, and handsome roommate—”
Tucker facepalms him. “That’s actually my description. Tucker Wellington at your service, and that’s Becks. Do me a favor—don’t shake his hand.”
Willa bites her lip again as she boots up her laptop, her eyes dancing between them. Something funny happens in my stomach when I see she gives them both only a perfunctory glance. I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to acknowledge neither of my roommates are bad-looking dudes. By some deranged women’s standards, they might even be called attractive. Willa, it seems, could care less.
“Hi,” she says, finally. “Willa Sutter. Nice to meet you both.”
After I give them another death glare, the guys finally make their exit. As they back away behind Willa, Becks mimes the bang action with his hips, while Tucker flashes both hands. Ten out of ten, he mouths.
I flick them off and mouth, Go!
I thought Willa’s speaking voice was the best sound I’d heard, but then once again she proves me wrong. Her laughter settles like windchimes in my ear. For the first time in years, I want to laugh right along.
At some point, I should have considered the murky ethics of telling someone I’m deaf and then neglecting to inform them when I corrected my hearing, even if only partially and temporarily.
I didn’t want Willa to know about my hearing aid, because I don’t want anyone to know I’m still trying to figure out hearing and speaking again. Because I know what comes next. Pressure. Pressure to get back to aural processing and speech therapy, pressure to use my voice. And that hasn’t worked so far. It’s just not happening. Not yet, at least.
But now, I feel bad, because I didn’t realize up to this point—thanks to my shit hearing—that Willa talks to herself constantly, and I’m pretty sure there’s plenty of it she would prefer I didn’t hear.
“Asshole lumberjack,” she grumbles. “Shooting down another one of my ideas that I only spent—oh, ya know—hours researching.” She drops her voice, imitating how she must imagine I sound. It’s gruff and surly. “Hah. What a stupid idea, Willa. We can’t offer a sliding scale of payment. What is this, communist Russia? Small-brained woman.”
I open my mouth, about to defend myself when I remember that will reveal I’ve been eavesdropping on her. She’ll have every right to be pissed about it, and as much as I like ruffling Willa’s feathers, I’m not sure I’m prepared to see her that angry.
Carefully, I type a response, based on where we left off at our conversational impasse. How about this: we take your concept of making the business financially accessible, but instead of offering a sliding scale, we offer service trades, like a co-op. Then, maybe we can do some sponsored ads with willing brands in exchange for them comping us gear that we can gift to people in extenuating circumstances. How’s that?
Willa frowns, her hands flying over the keys. You’re serious? You’re actually considering a compromise?
I scowl, typing back, It’s not uncommon. A couple of places I used to buy gear from allowed you to do that.
She taps the table and I glance up at her.
“Where’d you buy gear, Lumberjack? Shredding black diamonds. Mounting summits. Wrestling grizzly bears.” She bats her eyelashes.
My guilt about the hearing aid is quickly offset by her ribbing.
It was mountain lions, mostly, I write.
That earns her smirk.
Washington State, where I grew up. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keys, before I finally give in. I want to run my own store up that way after graduation. Offer rentals and for-sale, stock accessible gear, too. Maybe learn how to be a guide for people like me for hiking and kayaking.
Willa’s grin is wide and genuine. “That’s badass, Bergman.”
I shrug. Doesn’t beat playing professional soccer, but at least it was my retirement plan, minus the accessibility part—that’s a recent addition obviously. I just skipped a few decades.
You want to play? I type.
She nods. “As long as these old bones will let me.”
I write back, I’m sure you will.
Shockingly, it doesn’t hurt to wish her well on the journey that I wanted to be mine. Willa’s a hard worker, a brutally determined and gifted athlete. All I can be is happy for her.
Willa sets her elbows on the table, resting a cheek in her hand. She blinks slowly, looking owlish as she yawns. “So the great outdoors, eh, Brawny—”
I text her immediately. Brawny?
She shrugs. “Like the paper towel stud. Muscles. Flannel. Brawny. So why the wilderness life? Come from an active, outdoorsy family?”
Thankfully my beard hides the blush that crops up at her indirect compliment.
I nod. It’s not a lie, just a partial truth. My family is stereotypically outdoorsy Pacific Northwesterners. I’m just not prepared to share the truth of how my retirement plan became my main career.
Willa yawns again. I glance at the clock to see it’s after eleven already. She has to be exhausted.
“I have to go,” she says sleepily.
I nod in recognition. When she stands, she sways. I lunge around the table, my arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.
Jesus.
I mean, I saw Willa in her kit at the game. I know abstractly that she’s strong and fit, but feeling those washboard abs under her hoodie, the narrow dip of her hips, nearly knocks the wind out of me.
I dig out my phone and text her. It’s late. I’ll walk you home.
“No,” she whines, making sure her face is tipped toward mine, so I can read her lips. “I’m too sleepy.”
A sigh puffs out of me. I type, I’ll give you a piggyback, Sunshine.
She shakes her head. “That’s a bad idea.”
Why? I sign, but she doesn’t answer.
Slowly, she steps out of my grip and wobbles toward the sofa. “I’ll just nap here for a little bit, then I’ll walk home when the sun’s up. Once I’m not so…”
I think the word I miss is tired, which she mumbles as she collapses onto the cushions.
Tugging my hair, I stomp toward her. Before I can text her again, her eyes drift shut. By the time I’m crouching down at the sofa, she’s snoring.
I’m not leaving her out on the sofa for Tucker or Becks to wander out here half-asleep and do something stupid like spoon her. Carefully I scoop her up and carry her into my room. I tuck her into my bed and set her alarm for six thirty, placing her phone on the pillow, near her head. I figure that gives her enough time before the earliest a class runs on campus, which is eight in the morning. Thankfully, I’m fastidiously neat and I just changed my sheets last night, so everything’s clean and fresh in my room. She should sleep well enough.
After I do my last few tasks and lock up for the night, I set an alarm for six. Throwing myself onto the couch with a blanket, I try not to think about Willa Sutter sleeping in my bed.
It takes me a very long time to fall asleep.
7
Willa
Playlist: “One Way Or Another,” Blondie
I stir from sleep groggily, moaning in pleasure. The scent surrounding me is obscenely arousing. I’m dreaming about misty pine forests and a blond-haired guy in flannel who has to start slowly unbuttoning his shirt when it comes time to fell a tree.
Wrenching awake, I sit up and realize I am neither in my bed nor in my apartment. If I go by the spruce and cedar scent infusing the air, the neurotic tidiness of my surroundings, I’m in Ryder’s bedroom, tangled in his sheets. His naked body has slept here.
Not that I’ve tried to picture Ryder’s naked body or anything. Not that I’m doing that vividly now.
Don’t. Just don’t, brain. Don’t go there. Don’t think about it, about the solid slab I’ve felt beneath his shirt every time I poked his stomach, about how much I’d probably enjoy dragging my fingers through his dirty blond bedhead hair. Definitely don’t think about those bulging biceps, always straining as he moves. Don’t think about them flexing while he braces himself above me, thrusting—
“Whoa!” I tumble off the mattress, scrambling upright. I have to get out of here. I’m drowning in hormones from my sexy lumberjack dream and this room is quicksand. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to escape its tug.
I hustle through straightening his bed, then quietly tiptoe out and scoop up my bag. A crisp pile of papers sits on the table, along with a note in his tidy scrawl.
The semester’s notes. All yours. Take the container with your name on it in the fridge.
– Ryder
My heart turns gooey and slinks down to my stomach. He printed the notes for me. A huge wave of relief that I finally have everything I need for this class is quickly replaced by suspicion. I’m not used to genuinely nice gestures from the lumberjack. I should run a little quality assurance on these bad boys in case this is his jackass idea of a funny prank. I flip through each page carefully, waiting for them to switch to hieroglyphs, but they prove to be in English and organized in chronological order.
First the delicious meal, then the hospitality of his bed, now these notes. The lumberjack is full of surprises.
Carefully, I slip the papers into my bag, sweeping up his note once again. Take the container with your name on it. “Bossy,” I grumble. He might be bossy, but this time I’m doing what he says because those were some damn good Swedish meatballs and twisty noodles he made. Container in hand, I pad softly toward the door, stepping into my tennis shoes, when I steal a glance toward the couch. Ryder snores softly, one hand draped off the edge of the sofa. What does he look like, asleep? When his defenses are down, is he just as maddening to stare at?
Don’t do it, Willa.
I’m at a fork in the road and I know it. It’s that moment in many of the books I’ve read, with two paths before the heroine. One is shadowy. An owl hoots. Leaves rustle. The other is sunlit. Birds twitter. The path is wide and well-trod.
A snort of self-amusement sneaks out of me. Well-trod. I may be a tad overdramatizing this.
Still, a sinister breeze whispers on the shadowy path I can’t stop eyeballing. This way danger lies. It’s the truth. I can feel in my bones that nothing safe will come from what I’m tempted to do. Problem is, I’m me: I tend to do what I want first, then regret it later.
“Eh, fuck it.”
Ignoring my own warnings, I walk back toward the couch and bend down, inspecting Ryder’s features. I don’t really mind the idea of a beard, but his frustrates me. I want to see all of his face, to know if he has dimples or soft lips. I want to see when he blushes and watch his throat bob as he swallows.
His hair’s in his eyes. Carefully, I brush it back, then freeze, when I see something curled around his ear. His right ear. His good ear.
A hearing aid?
Shock tightens my stomach. Has he always had it? I wrack my brain. Unfortunately, I pay a little too close attention to Ryder’s features. So much so, that I can confirm I’ve never seen this hooked around his ear before.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper.
By now, I’ve gotten comfortable with mumbling to myself in front of Ryder, because I know he can’t hear me. Maybe that sounds insensitive, but those are just the facts: he can’t hear me, and I tend to be a mutterer. If I can help it, I prefer not to ramble my private thoughts in front of somebody else for them to hear, but when I feel safe to do so, it helps to think out loud.
