Reverb (28 page)

Once again she’s humbled by his insight. He’s right, of course. She smiles. “Thank you for today.”

He grins, nods. “Did you challenge yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Did it excite you?”

“Yes.”

“Did it ignite you?” His smile broadens.

“Yes.”

“Do you crave it even now?”

“Yes.” She smiles, blushes, looks away. He’s right again. She does. She’s framing his face through the lens in her mind as they speak.

He studies her. Smiles, then laughs. So does she. He squints at the remains of the orange ball as it sinks into the sea. His tiger-eyes twinkle behind his long, dark lashes.
Click.

And the sun is gone. She sets the camera on the bench, goes to the rail and watches the blue absorb the last of the yellow light. A bright shooting star blazes across the darkening southeast sky and disappears into the ambient sunlight as it blazes west towards horizon. “Wow!” She turns back to him. “You see that?”

“Yeah.” He stares up into the twilight with his wide-eyed kid look.

Elisabeth looks back up at the sky, searching for more fireworks. She hears him get up, thinking he’s going to join her at the rail, but when she doesn’t hear his footsteps she turns back to him. James stands by the screen door, the camera in his hand. He’s still smiling, but the kid is gone.

“Ready to look?” He holds her camera up.

Suddenly she’s paralyzed, anticipation choking, and she can’t move. It’s one thing to view them alone. It was a whole other thing to see them, raw, with
him
.

“I’m gonna make some tea.” He stretches, still holding the camera. “Why don’t you come inside, plug this in and see what you’ve got?”

She just stares at him. She still can’t move.

He smiles this disarming grin. “Think of it like a game of Tavli, Liz—to pass the time while waiting for the water to boil.” He turns away and goes in with the camera. The screen door slams and she loses sight of him inside.

Follow him. Don’t let him plug it in.

He’s at the sink when she gets into the kitchen, filling the teapot. He glances over his shoulder at her, then turns off the tap, sets the kettle on the burner and ignites it. He’s set the Canon on top of the laptop.

She glares at him, growls low in mock anger. He ignores her, busies himself preparing their tea. When the mug and sippy cup have teabags and milk in them, James turns to her, leans back against the counter, crosses his legs and wraps his long fingers around the edge of the counter top behind him. “We have a deal.” He flashes his punk grin. “I’m being very reasonable,” he mocks her.

Elisabeth goes to the laptop, opens it and turns it on. The day has been unbelievable, damn near perfect. Whatever the pictures look like, they can’t take away the day, sure to be etched in her mind for as long as she’s sentient. She plugs the camera into the USB on the side of the laptop and pulls up the file of pictures, then double clicks on the first and holds her breath.

Onscreen, James sits in the kitchen, almost glowing. It’s earlier this morning. Light pours in from the window over the sink, bouncing off the wood floor, the chrome rimmed table, the whitewashed cabinets, his white linen shirt. He’s slouched in his chair staring straight into camera so the picture gives the illusion that his eyes follow. She captured the insolent child.

She glances back at him, standing behind her looking over her shoulder at the laptop screen, his expression impassive, unreadable.

Next. James and Cameron. In profile. In the living room. The clarity of their images and the bronze of their skin is in sharp contrast against the gray stone fireplace in soft focus behind them. They’re exquisite. She’d captured the moment.

The kettle whistle blows, and blows, and blows, until James finally goes and turns it off.

Next. James stares down at the guitar in soft focus on the ground in front of him. He’s sharp, in profile, his eye somewhat shrouded by his hair, but she’s caught his trepidation.
Got ya.
Elisabeth smiles, remembers thinking she’d missed it. She hears him pouring the water into the cups and clicks to the next shot. It almost doesn’t matter what he thinks.
Almost.
She can tell they’re good, or, at the very least, what she was aiming for.

On the monitor, James cleans Cam’s feet with the hose. Focus is only on James’ huge hands and Cam’s tiny toes partially covered in sand. Grains falls away with the water stream, exposing the virgin skin of her son’s toes, and most of James’ exquisite fingers, like they’re sandmen turning human.

He sets her mug on the counter within her reach and resumes his position behind her again, holding his tea. She hears him blow on it, then take a sip.
It doesn’t matter what he sees.
Good, bad, or indifferent, capturing dynamic moments—stopping time and directing perspective onto beauty instead of strife is beyond fulfilling. It’s intoxicating.

Next.

Cameron full-faced, through the turrets of their sandcastle. James in profile just in front of him, focused on his task. They look remarkably alike, could easily be father and son with their mass of fine hair to their shoulders, and falling over their brows; their wide eyes and long lashes, full lips set in a whisper of a pout.

Next. Cameron splashing, sunlight faceting the water like diamonds falling all around him.

Next. He and James in a water fight. Beads of water flying off James’ long fingers are frozen in motion, the stream only two inches from hitting Cam’s face. Cameron’s eyes are hugely wide, as is the smile on his laughing face an instant before the water hits him.

Next. James stares into camera, head shot, his hair haloed with the sunlight behind him. He looked cast in bronze.

One shot after the other resonates. The images vibrate on the screen as if they are breathing. Breathing life into her. She holds her breath every time she double clicks. When the image appears and tells its story, she exhales. The camera is a portal to the past; her aim with every shot—to create a time machine back to the scene to relive it, or to view for those who missed it. And it occurs to her right then that James is right again. She loves engaging with the camera.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks.

Last shot. Double click. The shot is wide. James is just to right of center, staring straight ahead, his mass of dark hair frames his stunning face; his green eyes are striking against the whitewash exterior of the house, and the complementary colors of orange to violet to deep indigo of the sunset reflected in kitchen window above him. The balance, chiaroscuro and juxtaposition are as perfect as he is beautiful.

She looks at it another moment then picks up her tea, sips it and turns to face James. He stares at his image on the screen. He does not look at her. And she stops breathing again.

“Don’t quit. Ever. No matter what.” He looks at her then he looks back at the laptop, takes a drink of his tea, then turns away, picks up the guitar against the wall as he walks out of the kitchen, leaving her with his image on the screen.

She hears the screen door shut, and a moment later he starts playing. She stares at his image one more second than closes the picture, closes the file, shuts down the computer and clicks the laptop closed, then disconnects the camera and sets it back in the corner against the back-splash. Then she goes to join James on the deck again.

Elisabeth shuts the screen gently. No indication he’s heard her. He’s picking a fast riff she’s never heard before. His fingers crawl up and down the frets quickly and precisely. He gets a sharp, tonal resonance from each string he plucks, his fingers a blur of fluid motion. His eyes are closed, and remain so as she stands watching him. She sips her tea. Tastes rich from the milk. The night is warm. Cameron is safe in his bed. James plays on, lost to his muse. It will never be her. And suddenly she recognizes loneliness, or at least that feeling she used to get so much with Jack. And she freezes up inside.

He looks at her, holds his hand over the strings silencing the guitar. “What?”

“I am so screwed.” She glares at the guitar. She can’t help it.

“You’re not.” He sets the guitar down, leans it against the bench. “I won’t touch it again tonight.”

“Don’t say that. I’m sorry. Do what you want to do. Play. Please.”

“No. I don’t want to. I was just hanging out, waiting on you.” He stands, moves to the railing. “It’s a nervous habit. I can’t help picking it up if one’s around.” He turns back around, leans against the rail, shoves his hands deep in his pockets and glares at the guitar. It reflects the moonlight and the ambient light from the kitchen windows. He gives a quick laugh. “I’ll knock it off. I promise you, I won’t go back to obsession. I can’t get there anymore anyway, even if I wanted to.”

“Do you want to?” She holds her breath even though she knows the answer.

“In moments, yeah.”

She sighs. Any other answer would have been a lie. “This moment?”

“No.” He flashes his single-dimpled grin. “I’m right here, ‘Lisbeth. I want to be with you.”

Her ire dissolves. She so wants to believe him...

He comes to her then, takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard but soft, gentle but with power. Deep, intertwining, connected. He sucks her in, almost swallowing her up, pulling her to him, his hand now on the back of her head, the other at the nape of her neck, his body pressed firmly against hers, her nipples grazing his chest as he pulls back. He lets his lips linger just barely touching hers, and whispers, “I want to be with you.” Elisabeth is literally swooning, dizzy with desire, lust. Then he slides his hand into hers and leads her inside. She can hardly breathe, let alone walk as he guides her down the hall to her bedroom.

He stops next to the bed, stands facing her and begins undressing her. He kisses her again as he unbuttons her shirt, then softly kisses her neck down to the top of her breasts, and every part of her tingles. He gently pushes her now open shirt off her shoulders then moves his huge hands over her breasts, caressing them lightly while his slender fingers graze her nipples.

Elisabeth gasps with pleasure. James smiles, bends his head to put her breast in his mouth, massages her nipple with his tongue. She groans, her nipples harden to rocks, and she runs her hand through his hair and gently holds the back of his head to her a moment. Then he moves back to her mouth and kisses her again, and again. She doesn’t touch his sex, fearing any approach by her may startle him and spark evil memories.

James slides his hand down her belly, unbuttons her pants, slides his hand inside, combing the tips of his long fingers through her pubic hair and cupping her crotch, pressing his palm into her clitoris. Another gasp escapes her lips and he smiles again. She does, too, then kisses him gently, passionately. He unbuttons his shirt while they kiss, unzips his jeans and dribbles them off his narrow hips, then sits on the bed, puts his hands on her hips and gently pulls her khaki’s down. She steps out of them as he pulls her to him.

He’s very gentle, almost cautious, but tantalizing to the extreme, with a slow hand focused on pleasing her. He separates only to get a condom from his wallet, shyly explaining it was gifted from one of the locals he plays tavli with, on the day they’d fought—the old man’s solution to all problems with women. Elisabeth quivers with his touch, welcomes him exploring her body, directing the scene. James strokes her inner thigh, her body arching with desire, then runs his long fingers through her pubic hair, up her belly, then gathers her breasts and smooshes his face in between them, then releases them and runs his hand ever so lightly over her nipples again. Her body shudders and she draws a quick audible breath, which solicits another smile from both of them. She’s breathing in quick gasps now, her heart coming through her chest, lust consuming her.

“Please
...
”
she begs. “Be inside me.”

Then he’s on top of her. Then inside her, filling her up. He’s kissing her neck, up to her lips, finds them with his, but Elisabeth feels his shift as he pulls back and stares down at her, but not at her, more like through her, clearly seeing something else in his head. His eyes are wide with terror. She grabs his face with both her hands and kisses him. He resists at first, for an instant pulls back, glares down at her, but then his eyes narrow and he draws her into focus, seeing her, and returns her kiss, but hard. Aggressive. It almost hurts, skates the pleasure/pain line.

“Don’t stop. Don’t pull away. Stay with me.” Elisabeth whispers in his ear. She slides her hands to his back, presses gently at the base of his spine to get him deep inside her. Her hips move of their own accord now, pressing against his, plunging him into her again and again. She groans, breathing fast and hard, intense pleasure climaxing in her groin, the pit of her belly. Her body shudders and quivers with lingering delight. She grins up at him. “Thank you,” she whispers.

He smiles down at her, kisses her lightly then rolls on to his back, pulling her on top of him in a swift, smooth motion as if she were virtually weightless. Elisabeth laughs, puts her hands on his chest to adjust him still inside her, then feels his stomach go rock hard and his expression morphs from pleasure to rage. His hands go rigid on her waist and she’s locked in his grip. He’s back in his hell again, eyes filled with fear and anger, she feels him trembling beneath her. His jaw is tightened, squared, lips set in a hard line. He looks like he wants to kill her.