Crossing the Line

Page 9

Static on the other side. Crap. Maybe I went too far.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It grew over time. I guess I first knew something was up when I wanted to scratch out Stephen’s name from your letters.”
I giggle, totally unashamed that I like that he was jealous.
“Honestly, though...You wrote me a letter back before school started and I took it with me on one of my climbing trips. At the top of the rock, I read your letter and realized you were the one person I wished I could share the view with.”
My lips tilt up with his words.
“What was the letter about?”
He chuckles. “Nothing. That’s the strange part. You’ve sent me letters about Echo and Stephen and Grace and your family and Florida and I loved those letters. I knew you were sharing your soul with me. But this one letter, you talked about lying in your backyard and watching the leaves in the trees blow. When I was done reading, I found a four-leaf clover tucked into the envelope. I knew then that I wanted to share the big moments with you, but more important the small. I want to climb rocks with you, Lila, then spend quiet time at the top sharing the view with you.”
Warmth curls around my heart. I want the same exact thing. “I sent you the clover so you’d have good luck with your admissions letter.”
“It worked,” he says. “And it’ll work again.”
“So I have to find you another clover?” I tease.
“Nope. I still have the first one tucked safely in my wallet. I like having something from you close to me.”
Overwhelmed, I feel my throat swell a little. He kept a gift I gave him. In his wallet. That is unbelievably sweet.
“How about you?” he asks hesitantly. “When did you know?”
“The night of the meteor shower,” I answer automatically. “And then the letter you sent after it.” I think of the hundreds of lights dancing across the night sky. “I knew you were watching. I know it sounds stupid, but I felt you with me, and then when you sent that letter describing that night...” I drop off, unable to find the right words to explain the emotion.
Lincoln rescues me. “I know. Me too.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds, both of us absorbing the moment. Finally, I clear my throat and ask, “How many hours is the University of Florida from you again?” We’re going to take turns driving back and forth to visit on the weekends and we’ll talk on the phone and we’ll Skype and, of course, write letters.
“About four if I stick to the recommended posted limits.”
“It’s the law,” I remind him. “Like the get-a-ticket-if-you-break-it type of law.”
“A suggestion,” he responds.
Before I can compose my comeback, Lincoln breaks in through the radio. “Incoming.”
My chest tightens. They’re here. My eyes sweep the yard around my house and my pulse begins to beat in my ears.
I wipe my hands on the side of my jeans to dry them of sweat and lie flat on the ground. Movement out of the corner of my eye causes my breathing to hitch. Three forms skulk against the side of the house. One of them raises its hand in the air, waving for the other two to head toward the front porch.
The lone stray shadow creeps to my bedroom window. Asshole. This has to be Stephen.
I ready the paintball gun, the tank tucked into my shoulder. I align my sight and decide against the shoes, aiming for the heart. Let’s see how he feels after I sink a couple of balls into it.
Lincoln’s under strict instructions—he’ll shoot only after I fire, and Stephen is mine.
After a few seconds, Stephen raises his hand and rakes his fingers down my window.
It is so not your night tonight, buddy. Last night, I was terrified. Now, I feel empowered.
I pull the trigger. Pop, pop, pop, pop. The figure yelps and bends over as each ball pummels his body. Shouts from the front of the house tell me that Lincoln has hit his prey.
“They’re on the move. On the move.” Lincoln’s voice crackles on the radio.
His silhouette swings down from the tree in effortless grace, and once on the ground he takes off for the front of the house. I refocus on Stephen. His head whips back and forth, looking for his attacker in the bushes. “Who’s out there?”
I drift up from the ground. Still hidden by the rain of branches from the weeping willow, I plug two more balls into the ground, right near his feet.
“Hey!” he yells as he dances away from the paint.
With a snap, I flick on my flashlight and aim it at his face. He places his hand above his eyes in an effort to see who approaches. Paint smears his favorite shirt and jeans. Good. I aimed too low, though, and barely stained his two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar athletic shoes.
I toss the flashlight in his direction on the ground. He blinks twice when he recognizes me. “Lila?” Shock widens his eyes. “I can explain.”
This time I aim directly at his shoes. Pop. Pop. Light blue bleeds over his ex-white sneakers. “I’m going to Florida, Stephen. Do you have a problem with that?”
Headlights flash near the driveway. “Stephen!” yells Luke from the driver’s side. “Let’s go.”
When Stephen hesitates, Luke honks the horn and beats his hand against the door of his car. Stephen glances at me one more time. “Lila—”
“There’re still some white spots on your shoes.” I set my sight on his obsession again.
“I’ll call when you’ve regained sanity,” he huffs as he retreats to his moronic friends.
“I’m shooting you with a paintball gun at midnight,” I shout after him. “I think we left sane behind a couple of days ago.”
When the red taillights of Luke’s car disappear, I drop the paintball gun to the ground, flop down beside it and rest my arms on my bent knees.
From the front of the house, a shadow emerges. Yesterday, I would have lost it if I were outside in the dark with a large figure looming. In fact, yesterday I did just that. Funny how much can change in twenty-four hours.
“You okay?” asks Lincoln.
Let’s see, my best friend has moved on, I’ve conquered my fear of moving away, I shot my pranking ex-boyfriend with a paintball gun and I’m alone with a guy who causes my heart to stutter. “Yeah, I’m great.”
And I mean it. It’s a small yet humongous realization: I’m always going to be scared of something—spiders, the dark, being on my own—but I don’t have to let the fear be in control.
*
“...and when I came around the corner, he ran into the door of his car and slammed right onto the ground.” Lincoln’s shoulders move with his laughter as he recaps tonight’s events, and I giggle along with him. We lie next to each other on my bed: me in my pj’s of a tank top and shorts and Lincoln in a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Our laughter fades and we both stare into the darkness. The chirping of the crickets from the other side of the window fills the silence. My muscles have that good, exhausted jellyfish feel. It’s two in the morning and even though I’m definitely tired enough for sleep, I’m not ready to give up this precious time with Lincoln.
As if reading my mind, he turns his head toward me. “Are you tired?”
“No.” I flip so that I’m facing him and traitorously yawn.
Lincoln chuckles and mirrors my position. He runs his fingers down my arm, starting at the edge of the strap of my tank and ending at the tip of my elbow. I shut my eyes with the exquisite tickle. I inch closer to him and happily sigh when he cups the curve of my waist. It’s a heavy, warm weight that creates the sensation of protection.
“You should go to sleep, Lila.” Good God, his voice is beautiful—deep and smooth.
I shake my head. “I can sleep tomorrow and the day after that. I only have you for a few more hours.” My stomach sinks and I open my eyes. “But you should sleep. You’ve got a long drive in front of you.”
“I should.” Lincoln shifts his head so that his mouth is wickedly near mine. I lick my lips and inhale to steady my breathing. We’ve kissed three times since this afternoon. Each time he’s hypnotized me, and I’m greedy to be captivated again.
I nod. “You should.” But I really don’t want him to—not yet. “Sleep.”
His hand slips to the small of my back and presses so that our bodies now touch. A rush of air escapes my lungs. Holy hell, he’s solid. I allow a hand to skim along his back, and Lincoln smiles with the caress.
“I will,” he says. My skin tingles as his mouth whispers against mine. “Sleep. But not now.”
“No?” I try to ask innocently.
“No.” He brushes his nose along the curve of my neck, and I could almost moan in frustration. I want kisses, lots of kisses, but I also love the slow burn. Lincoln has talent, and my heart beats faster when I think of all the hundreds of ways we could spend our evenings.
He slowly creates a trail along my cheek, and just when I’m on the verge of begging, his lips finally come within butterfly-inducing distance of mine. This is one of my favorite moments: the seconds before the kiss. It’s like dangling on a ledge with gravity pulling me forward and the wind daring me to let go and fly.
Lincoln breathes out and I breathe in. A synchronized movement that causes my mind to disconnect and conscious thought to float away. A nudge forward on his part, a tilt of my head, and then we fall.
His mouth is hot against mine and my hands tangle in his hair in response. Our lips part and our tongues slide together, a delicious slow movement that makes me want to purr like a cat.
Earlier, we let our kisses be just what they needed to be: simple, a sign of trust, a sign of what’s to come, but this feels like more. After the words we’ve said to each other tonight, I’m tempted by more, but I’m not ready to give up that slow burn.
Lincoln draws my lower lip between his, releases it and then lifts his head. The warmth and sincerity in his eyes tells me he’s not ready to leave the slow burn either. This is why I’m with him, because Lincoln gets me, understands me, possibly more than I understand myself.
“How about one more kiss?” he asks.
“How about more than one?” I counter. “Just a few.”
“A few,” he agrees. His body melts against me and our lips meet again—a warm, building kiss that causes me to arch into him. Beneath his massive body, I feel small, fragile and protected. I’ve never felt so feminine, so in tune with another.
Our movements are soft and deliberate. Fingers exploring skin, lips moving in time, feet rubbing against each other. Until it becomes time for one last kiss. One that will be singed into my memory and will carry over until I can be in his arms again.
Lincoln places his forehead on mine and caresses my cheek. My fingers trace the hollow of his neck, and I enjoy the beat of his heart against my chest.
“We should sleep,” he says.
Unable to speak, I nod. Lincoln rolls onto his back and pulls me so that I’m cradled against him. He kisses the top of my head and combs his fingers through my hair. “Thank you, Lila.”