Scratch the Surface

I’d missed when his eyes had turned molten, but I saw them now, dark and wet and hot.

“Yes, Cam, I wanna be all over you.”

My moan was filthy and needy. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“I will collect, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And I could hardly wait.

I was in a daze after talking to Jeremiah. When I got back to my father’s room, my mother told me to go home; she was staying overnight with him. And I’d been a trooper, but I needed to take a shower and check on my house.

“You’re starting to smell,” she informed me.

I kissed and hugged my folks—we all did—and grabbed my suitcase. With our mother watching over our father, we left to get some rest. Downstairs, I waved off everyone’s offer for a ride home. I could get a cab. They all lived in Palo Alto, I was the only one in Pacifica, so they didn’t argue much.

In the cab I checked my email, followed up with the Rauch Group, and assured them I would be back in Sacramento the following week. Mrs. Nichols answered me back, telling me she appreciated it and that they were holding off their meetings with Lass until my return.

The cab dropped me off in front of my house, and I took a minute to admire my terraced front yard, impressed with what Cody, Mike, and I had been able to do in a weekend. There were three distinct beds outlined with large rocks on each side of the steps leading up to the front door. There was a small porch to the left that I needed some furniture for, even though I never sat out there. My sister had suggested plants, but with all the traveling I did, I worried about coming home to death and decay and zero curb appeal.

Once inside, I locked the door behind me, flipped on the lights, and punched in the code to disarm the alarm. It looked the same as it had when I left, nothing out of place in my renovated two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath bungalow. Built in the 1950s, it had not been pretty when I bought it, but it had good bones, and I was two blocks away from the ocean. That alone was worth all the work that had gone into making it my sanctuary. I’d had a choice between my house and one on the hill with views of the ocean and coastal valley, but when the realtor said I could walk to the beach, I was sold. Nothing was quite as calming and serene as sitting in the sand on a cold day, listening to the seagulls as the waves pounded the shore. And I loved the fireplace and the large windows I could slide open to let in the sea air.

After taking a shower and putting away my clean clothes and throwing the dirty ones into the hamper, I started thinking about Jeremiah. Between him working two jobs and going to school, I had to wonder how often I would get to see him. I had always tended to retreat from anything that wasn’t optimal, but with Jeremiah, my brain went immediately into problem-solving mode. I had to see him, so what would it take to make that happen?

My phone chirped, and I saw it was a text from Jeremiah with a picture of a motorcycle in what seemed to me to be far too many pieces.

“Will it live?” I texted back.

“Bite your tongue” came the reply seconds later. “That’s my angel. If it doesn’t make it, I definitely won’t see you for Thanksgiving.”

I opened the FaceTime app immediately.

“Oh”—he smiled at me—“your hair looks good wet.”

I could feel my face get hot. “Listen, don’t flirt with me. This is serious.”

“What is?”

“I want to make something clear. If the bike is dead––”

“Oh dear God,” he moaned.

“If it is,” I stressed to him, “or even if it’s not, I will drive there to get you and then drive you back home. It’s ninety miles, two hours in the car. That’s not a deal-breaker for me.”

“It’s two hours one way.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh no?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I don’t know, Cam; you’re being awfully accommodating.”

“Perhaps because I want to see you.”

“Are you sure? I’m just a simple guy living a simple life. Might not be sophisticated enough for ya.”

“And yet, scratch the surface and that’s not you at all.”

“You think?” he teased me, the rakish grin firing his eyes.

“You’re not at all simple, and stop pretending that you are.”

He grunted.

“And you really do need to rethink your mode of transportation.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ll need something far more dependable to make the drive on a regular basis.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, you will. I see us driving back and forth quite a bit,” I assured him. “It’s how we’re going to make this work.”

“What is it we’re making work?”

“Us.”

He chuckled. “We’re an us?”