Untouched: a Cedar Cove Novella (2 page)

“Where are you
going?” I demand, still holding onto her arm. “You can’t just
walk away from this!”

She pulls away, looking
confused.

“Are you listening?”
I bark again, still on edge.
What the hell just happened?
I’m
not the guy who drifts off like that—especially not over a girl.
Maybe the near-miss shook me up more than I figured.

Yeah, that must be it.
Almost dying. Not the way she was looking at me, like we’d known
each other our whole lives.

I wait for a response,
but the girl still doesn’t speak. Concern suddenly ripples through
me. “Wait, are you hurt?” I ask anxiously, moving closer again.
“Did you hit your head?”

I reach for her face,
trying to be gentle as I cup her jaw and slowly turn her head from
side to side, checking for a bruise or cut. Her skin is soft under my
touch, and when her eyes meet mine again, something blazes between
us, like a shock of electricity that wakes every nerve in my body and
sets them screaming with one thought.

Fuck, she’s
beautiful.

The girl wrenches away
from me, and something slams shut over her expression. Guarded, like
she can’t get away fast enough.

“I’m fine,” she
snaps, putting a few steps between us.

In a rush, I realize
what a mess I must seem to her: last night’s clothes, probably
reeking of beer and smoke and hell, sex too. No wonder she’s
repulsed.

“Then you’re lucky
I don’t kill you myself right now.” I try and get my head
together. “What the hell was that back there?” I demand.
Anger.
Yeah, that’s what I need.
I advance on her, glaring. “Don’t
you know you shouldn’t drive fast in a storm?”

I expect an apology,
maybe even some tears, but instead, the girl’s face blazes with
fury. “First of all, I wasn’t driving,” she yells back at me. I
step back in surprise. “And second, it was an accident! Our tire
blew, it happens. How is any of this my fault?”

She scowls and folds
her arms, pulling her T-shirt tight across her chest. The fabric is
damp now from the rain, and it clings to the shape of her small
breasts. I can see the lacy outline of her bra under the thin shirt,
and the faint peak of her nipples.

Lust spirals through
me.

I can’t stop my gaze
from drifting lower, taking in the sight of her all over again. The
damp hair tangling over her shoulders, the slim curve of her waist,
her long legs, bare below her cut-off shorts, pale skin wet and
shining in the rain. I have a sudden flash of those legs, wrapped
around my waist; her soft lips parted, moaning my name.

How would she taste?

The thought whispers in
my mind, but I shake it off and drag my eyes back to meet hers. She
looks mad as hell, standing tough there in the middle of the highway,
like she would try and rip me apart with her bare hands if I touched
her, despite the fact I’m twice her size.

I try not to smile.
She’s got guts. “How are you the mad one right now?” I ask,
amused. “I’m the one with my truck totally fucked back there.”

She looks past me to
where the truck is buried in the mud. She shrugs, like it’s no big
deal. “Yeah, well we’ve got a flat tire and no spare.”

I grin at her attitude.
“What kind of idiot doesn’t keep a spare? We’re miles out from
anywhere.”

Her eyes flash. “Maybe
the kind of person who drives in the city, where we have little
things like cellphone signal and tow-trucks!”

I drop the smile.
“You’re summer people.” I say. I should have figured: entitled
asses waltzing in every year, acting like they own the place.

“Let me guess,” the
girl snaps back. “You’re a townie with a chip on your shoulder.
Well, maybe you should save the issues until we both get out of
here.”

My mouth drops open in
surprise. I’m about to let it rip about how she’s the one who got
us into this mess in the first place, when I look around the empty
road and realize, I’m still running late for work, and fighting
over it isn’t going to solve anything.

“Fine,” I admit.
“I’ll call for Norm to come get us.”

She frowns. “I
thought there wasn’t signal out here?” The girl pulls a phone
from her pocket and checks the screen.

“I’ve got a CB
radio in the truck.” I tell her, turning to head back towards the
truck. “Stay there!”

As I walk away, I hear
a sigh.

“Where else would I
go?” she mutters.

I turn, in time to
catch her checking me out: her eyes lingering on my ass. Busted. I
grin, watching as her cheeks flush a bright pink. So, she’s not a
total ice princess, after all…

I know I should ignore
it, just call in to Norm, and get back on the road. Leave this girl
here with whatever’s making her so pissed; stay away from those
dark, watchful eyes and those soft pink lips and all the fierce
passion she has clearly just lurking beneath the surface.

But I can’t.

I want her.

“You didn’t tell me
your name.” I call to her, still half-hoping she’ll tell me to
get lost.

“You didn’t ask!”
The girl yells back to me.

I smile, and wait
another second, and then, finally, something in her expression gives.

She bites her
lip.“Juliet.”

Juliet.

It figures. The girl
was trouble. I didn’t pay too much attention in class, but even I
know, Romeo was screwed from the first minute she walked into his
life.

“I’m Emerson,” I
call back, and then I can’t help but smile. Because she’s still
looking like a dark, pissed-off angel there in the middle of the wet
highway. Because for some strange reason, I feel better now, just
knowing her name. Because when her eyes meet mine again, there’s a
crackle of possibility between us, sweeter than anything I’ve ever
known.

This summer just got a
whole hell of a lot more interesting.

“Welcome to Cedar
Cove.”

The house is just the
way I remember it from when I was a kid: sitting squarely in the
lush, green yard like something from a picture postcard. There are
blue shingles and a white trim, with a wide wraparound porch and a
path winding past the house, back to the beach. As we pull off the
back-road into the drive-way, I can see the pale sands of the
shoreline through a gap in the trees, and hear the sound of the
waves, crashing just out of sight.

The rain has passed
now. The scene looks so peaceful, it’s hard to believe I’ve got a
tight knot of dread in the pit of my stomach, just at the thought of
being stuck here with my family for the whole summer.

“You OK now,
sweetie?” My mom puts the car in park and turns to me, concerned.

“Fine.” I snap
back, tearing the car door open and getting out.

“Are you sure?” Mom
follows me around to the trunk. “Dr. Atkins gave us a prescription,
for when you get these panic attacks—”

“It wasn’t a panic
attack.” I cut her off, lying. “I was just freaked out. You did
nearly kill us, remember?”

What I remember is that
guy on the road, Emerson, and the total fool I made of myself
stammering all over him. I cringe at the memory, hauling out my
duffel bag and heading up the porch steps. When I try the door, it’s
unlocked; I step inside, trying to calm myself down. I’ve been
anxious and on-edge ever since our near-crash out on the highway.

Don’t you mean
since meeting the hottest guy you’ve ever seen?

I pause. In a flash, I
can see Emerson right in front of me: his dark hair wet from the
rain, his shirt clinging to the muscles of his torso. He was wearing
faded jeans and scuffed old work boots, with the dark ink of a tattoo
spiraling up across one taut bicep.

Everything about him
screamed trouble.

I blush, remembering
his smirk when he caught me checking him out—and the heat of his
gaze as he slowly raked his eyes across my body, from my head all the
way down to my toes. I don’t think anyone’s every looked at me
like that: with such blatant desire. It made me feel naked, and
self-conscious, as if he could see through my damp clothes to every
inch of my bare flesh. It set my blood singing in my veins, made my
skin prickle with a quicksilver shiver.

It made me feel alive.

“What do you think,
sweetheart?” My mom comes in behind me, snapping me out of the
memory.

I quickly look around.
It’s like a time-warp in here: childhood photos on the walls, the
scuffed floorboards laid with threadbare rugs. Through the hallway I
can see the kitchen and dining room with their faded floral
wallpaper. “Just like when you were younger, right?”

“It’s smaller.” I
reply shortly. She laughs,

“You’re just bigger
now. My baby girl, all grown up.” Her expression gets wistful, and
I have to duck quickly past her to avoid a hug.

“I’m going to
unpack.” I tell her, already taking the stairs, two at a time.

“OK. I’ll bring in
the rest of the stuff…”

Her voice echoes behind
me as I check out the bedrooms on the first floor. There are two
rooms here, and a small blue-tiled bathroom, but up another flight of
stairs at the back of the house, I find another small bedroom, buried
under the eaves. Mine. There’s barely room for an old dresser and a
bed, but the room is light and airy, and the windows open out to a
drop-dead gorgeous view of the shoreline.

I fling open the
shutters, and heave the old sash windows up. I lean out, taking a
deep breath of the salty sea air. The clouds are clearing, showing
patches of blue sky, and I close my eyes a moment, feeling the sun
burn through my eyelids. I should feel lucky I know, but no matter
how beautiful the scenery is, nothing can shake the twisted truth,
buried beneath my mom’s cheerfulness and all her bright chatter
about what an amazing time we’re going to have here together.

It’s all a lie.

The familiar panic
creeps back into my body, and I catch my breath, forcing myself to
stay calm. I’ve been getting these panic attacks for years now, off
and on, but lately they’re worse than ever. Stress, my doctor says
– with senior year, and college looming – but school has always
been the least of my problems. It’s only when I start thinking
about the things I can’t control that my chest gets tight and my
skin starts to prickle with heat, and a three-ton weight starts
pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.

Please, not now,
I try and shut it down before the attack can take hold. I cross to
the bed and grab my camera from my bag. It’s an old manual SLR
model, a gift from my grandpa, and by now, it’s like another limb
to me. I cradle the familiar case in my hands, carefully screwing on
a new lens and winding on a fresh film. The routine calms me, the
panic ebbs away. I snap the case closed, and thunder downstairs.

“Going for a walk!”
I yell to Mom, who I can hear settling into the main bedroom. I don’t
stop: racing out the back of the house and across the yard until I
hit the sand. I kick off my sneakers and sprint down to the water,
shrieking as the cold surf laps against my skin.

I snap photos of the
deep blue ocean, tipped with white foam; the grey clouds blowing fast
across the sky to reveal sailor’s blue and a bright midday sun. But
no matter how much I focus on the frame, and light, and all the
dozens of details that go into making up the perfect photograph, I
can’t ignore the real problem.

Three months. Here,
with my family, play-acting like we’re all OK? I don’t know if I
can make it.

It’s bad enough when
we’re at home: watching Dad knock back his fourth scotch of the
evening, rolling his eyes and insulting Mom with obvious disdain.
Worse still is the way Mom doesn’t seem to mind. She loves him,
through it all, turning a blind eye to all his drinking and late
nights with his TAs over at the college. I can stay out of it, most
of the time: study late at the library, work my after-school job at
the art supply store. But here, together under one roof, with my
older sister too?

I’m going to lose my
mind.

The only reason I said
‘yes’ to this whole charade is that Mom asked me. No, more like
she begged, all of us. For some reason, she’s got it into her head
we’re going to be one big happy family for one last summer before I
go off to art school in California in the fall. I’m counting down
the days until I can put a thousand miles between me and Dad, and
Carina too, but there’s one thing tainting the thought of my
escape: the fact I’ll be leaving Mom too.

The thought of her,
alone in that house, with no support against Dad’s bitter, drunken
tirades… It fills me with a guilt and shame that only gets
stronger, the closer I get to leaving. But part of me resents her for
it too—she’s made her choice, she’s choosing to stay with him.
Choosing to love him. So why should I feel so guilty, wanting to get
the hell away from that toxic house and never make the same mistake
as her, never settle for something so cold and silent and still? Love
isn’t meant to be a prison like that, trapping you with fear and
insecurity. She could go, find something better—hell, anything
would be better than the life she has with him—but instead, she
hangs on, through everything, waiting for the affection that never
comes.

Not me. I brace myself
against the splash of the cold surf, breathing in the salt and wind,
and the curve of the distant horizon. I don’t know what my life
will hold yet, I’m just on the edge of everything, but I swear, it
will be better than this.

It has to be.

I stay on the beach
taking photos for the rest of the afternoon. When I get back to the
house, mom is asleep in the porch chair, so I scribble a note and
leave it on the kitchen table.

Gone into town to
explore. Back later.

I pause. I’m still
dressed in the clothes from the journey out. My shorts and T-shirt
are dry now after the rain, but wrinkled and scruffy. I quickly race
upstairs and change, picking out a pretty tank top edged in lace, and
some cute blue shorts. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror
as I pull the fresh shirt over my head. I blush.