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Eighteen

B erta is a sex-free zone, but I wake up in Ozzy’s arms anyhow.

We’re tangled together on the too-small bed. Van life, I’ve discovered, is an exercise in synchronized swimming. Its favorite game is Twister. I move here, so you move there, and then we both fit. There is no extra space. We both spread to fit the available room.

Last night, after he fell asleep, I landed my rocket ship and lay down next to him. We were side by side, lined up like two crayons in a box. Now my head is on his chest, his leg over mine. We curl into each other, fingers twining, breath mixing.

It’s early enough that the light that filters through the half-shut curtains is only pleasantly warm. When I lift my head, I see blue sky. A crescent of waves hitting the beach. A frigate bird screams shrilly and another one answers it back.

Ozzy is awake, too. “You should have kicked me out.”

I shift so I can see his face. “Who knew you were such a space-mining lightweight?”

“I blame space gravity.”

I mock-glare at him. “That’s not a thing.”

You know what? I give up, at least for today.

I can’t compete with him right now, and maybe I won’t tomorrow, either.

I liked space-gem hunting with him, but I’d also like to own a rocket ship for real, even if finding on-street parking would be a bitch in San Francisco.

I should get up, plan out my social media posts for the remainder of our trip, but all I can think of is tying Ozzy to the bed.

He’s playing with my hair. He’s looking at me.

I’m the opposite of put together. When I looked in the mirror yesterday, my sunburn was peeling.

Where I’m not vampirically white, I am cherry red with patches of golden brown.

The reality of van life is sandy feet, a layer of dust and sweat, and no privacy or hot water to wash. I’m always rumpled now.

And yet he likes me like this. His interest is all around me. It’s in the colorful pillows he brought for the bed. The glass bottle of aloe on the table. The funny, quirky photos he’s filled my socials with while I’ve been sick. And have you said thank you? No. No you have not. You are the asshole.

His mouth twitches. He watches me closely, in a sleepy, pleased way. “We’re such a cliché.”

I scowl just a little. “I’m going to need more words. Write me an essay. Five pages on why we’re overused and need retiring.”

“So many possibilities…” Another mouth twitch. He’s trying not to laugh.

“Your problem is an overabundance of choices.”

He nods. He arranges his face with the seriousness of a mourner at a funeral. “Office rivals. Fake dating for work. Enemies stuck on a business trip.”

“So true. I hear your competitor’s super scary. She’s going to win the promotion face-off.”

He’s unbothered by the possibility. “Plus she hates me.”

“You deserve it.”

“I do.” He sounds pleased with himself. “And now we’ve braved the dreaded one-bed scenario.”

“A total cliché.”

“We’re trapped.” I stare into his eyes. Fuck the door. The windows. The escape hatch in the roof.

“Forced proximity.” He says it with all the joy of Look! Free cookies! “Doomed. Doomed, I tell you.”

He shakes with laughter, because my fingers are dancing over his rib cage.

I slide them up under his T-shirt, stroke over the muscles and grooves, down the line of his ribs.

We wrestle playfully, and he lets me win.

The sheets are a puff of sad, wrinkled cotton.

The blanket has relocated to another continent.

“Why didn’t you kick me out?” The hot, thick length of him kicks against my cotton panties like an exclamation point. This is the best game ever.

My body loves him. It’s singing a happy song, rolling out the Welcome Wagon. “I’m trying to be a better person. More likeable. Less—”

He leans up, his abs crunching, to kiss me gently. “You do do the best hedgehog imitation ever.”

“What can I say?” I grin down at him. “I have so much practice. Can I make it up to you?”

I rub myself against him. Use him, ever so slightly. He’s my own personal pleasure device.

“Yes, please,” he says. He runs his hands down my back to cup my butt. His fingers curl inward, teasing.

“Plus, we have a legion of internet stalkers who claim we’re already doing it.”

Neither of us is in any rush. I lean into him, kissing him, in charge for the moment, and it’s exactly perfect.

He lets me lead. I explore his mouth with mine.

This here is my favorite spot , I think, and this spot here.

And this one, too. We use our teeth and our tongues.

It is messy and imperfect, and I love it.

When we come up for oxygen, we’re both panting. I skim my fingers up and down his ribs, tracing the bones and muscles that hold Ozzy’s heart. I’m learning him inch by inch.

My panties are soaked when he slides a finger underneath the lacy edge. He strokes me gently, making a place for himself. I make a sound. And then another.

“Are we making out?” His voice is husky, rough.

“Someone’s stolen third base.” I’m greedy. I push my hand between us, palming him through his shorts. “He should steal home.”

He groans. “So we’re—”

“Yes.” I squeeze the heavy length of him. “How about you? Is that a yes?”

He’s gripping my hip with the hand that’s not inside my panties. “God, yes. Let’s prove our internet detractors right. Yes , let’s do that right now. I have an idea.”

I don’t realize what he intends. Maybe because Ozzy is always unexpected.

Maybe because I’m pulling off my clothes and the bed really is too small and all we can do is laugh about it and help each other out.

And then I’m on top of him again. It does feel so much better naked.

He’s so beautiful , I think. He’s so everything .

I don’t care about the world outside or the stupid, stupid digital world.

Everyone that matters is right here, and I’m riding him like a horse or a motorcycle or some sexy, wonderful beast. I love how he sees me, his eyes darkening as he looks at my breasts which are right there because, again, the bed is small and forced proximity is the best .

I love how my thighs straddle his hips and he pushes them wider, making space for his monster dick.

He’s the perfect amount of too much, and I want all of him right now. I need to have sex with him. I so do.

He wraps his hands around my waist, and I giggle because, God, I’m ticklish, and there’s just a moment where I think about showers and prep time and maybe sucking in my stomach and then he’s lifting me up and over him and he makes a sound that says I love you like this and you’re perfect and you don’t need to hide because I love what I see.

My knees dig into one of the throw pillows he bought for me and I’m off balance.

I slap a hand against the wall. He wraps a big hand around my thigh, the other anchoring my hip. This is not—

This is something—

“Yes?”

“It’s a definite maybe,” I whisper back. I think so. Oh my God. Yes.

He licks my pussy, his tongue parting me.

I consent enthusiastically, embarrassingly loudly.

There are noises coming from my mouth, the wet sounds from down lower that testify to just how much I like this idea.

Yes, do that. Like THAT . Please don’t stop, don’t stop please.

I have my fingers in his hair, and his mouth plays with my flesh, tasting, learning.

His thumb finds my clit and circles. My body goes supernova.

The heat in me explodes, lighting me on fire.

I grip his head, riding his mouth as I come. I chant his name.

He groans something filthy against my spasming pussy and eases me lower. He presses his face against my stomach, breathing me in.

“Your turn.” I scoot down, reaching for his dick. My heart’s pounding, my breathing is marathon-worthy. This is already the best sex of my life.

Someone pounds on the door.

“Stop sacrificing yourself for the sake of verisimilitude,” Roz bellows. “Also, I’m coming in. Cover up anything you don’t want plastered all over the internet.”

I toss the crumpled sheet over Ozzy’s head. He’s mine for a few more seconds.

The morning sunlight bounces off the ocean as we drive. I ignore it because nothing can compete with Ozzy.

He drives, I think, like he surfs, with a sure confidence, an utter belief in his body and his ability to make it do what he needs it to do.

Berta is just another surfboard, the road another wave.

His arm on the windowsill is relaxed, his hair still tousled from my fingers earlier.

Today’s T-shirt announces Bodysurfing You All Night Long. I pretend I haven’t read it.

Mostly, however, I pretend that nothing has changed. I am such a liar.

I sit beside him, rocked by the rhythm of the van.

Out the window I spot cactus, cactus, endless ocean.

The warmth is hypnotic. Ozzy puts on a playlist from his phone.

He sings along under his breath, his hands beating out a percussive rhythm on the wheel as we fly past beach towns with names promising magical adventures that we have no time to take.

Punta Estrella. Star Point . Playa Hermosa.

Beautiful Beach . Puertecitos. Little Doors.

An idea tickles at the back of my head, and I get out the laptop.

He huffs a breath. “Really?”

I shrug. “I have an idea I need to work out.”

Truth is, I think best with my hands on the keyboard. I am not a visual thinker. Or an out-loud thinker. I am at my best when I let the words flow. I write sentence after sentence. If this…then maybe that. Yes that.

I can’t let go of the feeling that something isn’t right in my algorithm.

What if there’s a bug and I’m not Ozzy’s perfect match?

Will I have lured him here under false pretenses, then?

If the algorithm comes up with the perfect trip for two perfect people, in what universe would I enjoy camping and heatstroke?

That’s not algorithmic bliss—it’s the code for death.

Ozzy’s hand drawing patterns on the back of my neck tugs me back into the present.

I swim up from a haze of code. My laptop is overheating. My upper thighs are striped with red burn marks.

“What?”

“I wrote you a message.” His fingers trace lines, swirls, entire letters on my neck.

I arch my eyebrow and save my work. “In invisible ink? Was there paper involved? Actual ink?”

“Luddite.” He says this cheerfully. “It’s an invitation. Please RSVP.”

“Is it better than a Mexican road trip?”

He grins. “This is pretty awesome, isn’t it?”

“No. Ozzy, we’re playing the high-tech version of the Hunger Games . It’s life-or-death, winner take all. We’re battling it out in front of an audience.”

“Wasn’t there a compromise in that one?”

I frown. “I thought it was a mutual suicide pact.”

“Huh.” Signs flash past us. We’re headed to the next stop on our itinerary where, according to the algorithm, we’ll have a blast checking out the two-hundred-year-old shipwreck and getting our pirate on. We might even run around the sand dunes. Grab a fish taco. None of it appeals.

“Let’s go that way.” He slows the van down, pointing out the window toward the salt flats that stretch away toward the horizon. The salt flats look like the bluest lagoon with crusty white caps.

He’s asking, not telling, but his fingers stroke my neck again. Let’s do it my way. Go off script. Thing is, I’m not sure he realizes that he’s asking me to choose him, his way, over my algorithm.

“The algorithm said Playa El Pescador.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “We could do that. I forgot how much you like to stick to your plan.” Everything is all mixed up in my head now, the Pro column has jumped the Con column and the cells have merged.

It’s an orgy and nothing makes sense anymore.

The one thing I know for sure, however, is that if Ozzy wins, he’ll be my boss.

He’ll be in charge of the people on my team.

He’ll call the shots. I can’t even remember now why I wanted it so badly, but I can’t quite let go of the possibility.

He eases off the gas. “Salt flats—or town?”

The salt flats would be amazing. Maybe. I imagine Ozzy and me hiking through the desert. Parts of it look like a moonscape, littered with huge chunks of salty crystals.

Roz presses her horn. She gestures for us to keep moving.

Ozzy scowls. “She’s not the boss of us.”

“We should keep going,” I say.