Page 30 of Win You Over

Holden

S itting crossed legged on the floor, we finish our pizza slices and beer.

A gentle breeze pushes through the open balcony doors, but it does little to cool the humid summer air.

My skin is sticky from seawater and sun cream, and when I run my hand through my hair, tiny grains of sand stick to my fingertips.

“Did you think he was hot?” Remington asks, catching me completely off guard. I raise an eyebrow, my lips pursed.

“Chad,” he adds. “Did you think Chad was hot?”

I shrug and then nod because, yeah, Chad was very good looking.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m the first guy you’ve been with,” he states matter-of-factly.

I nod.

“So I guess I was curious if you were attracted to other guys or just to me.”

I look at the ceiling, mulling over his question. Did I think he was hot? Yes. Did I think Daniel, who steered the yacht today, was sexy? Also yes. Can I picture myself with either of them? No.

Because the more I’m understanding myself, the more I’m coming to realise it’s the emotional connection I need to make the physical connection work.

It’s not that Remington’s a guy – sure, I very much appreciate how gorgeous he is – but it’s more that he’s him.

He’s passionate and funny, and caring and considerate.

He knows his worth, and he values his family.

When we’re together, I feel wanted and adored. But mostly I feel safe and happy.

“I’m not sure it’s that simple,” I say, going with a vague answer instead of opening up a full discussion on my sexuality and feelings for him.

Remington’s forehead furrows. “Well, he’s a jackass,” he points out.

“Just like you then?”

He laughs, kicking his legs out and leaning back on his hands.

I clear my throat before asking, “Did you fuck him?”

Remington’s eyes darken, a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth.

“Would it bother you if I did?”

I shake my head, pushing the long brown locks off my forehead before sweeping them into a bun and tying them out of my face.

“So did you?” I press.

“Yes. A few times.”

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, the wicked taste of jealousy burning on my tongue.

“Did you ask him to hurt you?” I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. The self-destruction is a potent mix of good and bad.

Remington changes position so that he’s on his knees. He moves the plate and our beer bottles to the side.

“Would it bother you if I did?” he asks, repeating his earlier question.

I shake my head again.

Remington leans forward, his hands on either side of me as he invades my space, bringing his lips dangerously close to mine.

“No. I don’t share that particular taste with many people,” he admits.

“Who else?” I ask, edging myself forward until the heat of his body seeps through my sun-dried tee.

“Finn and now you.”

“Because you fuck Finn?”

“Pretty boy, jealousy is a fucking sexy look on you.” He grins wickedly, his tongue darting out to lick a line across my lips.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, because I trust Finn and I fuck Finn.” Remington shakes his head. “No, that’s not right. I fucked Finn. Past tense.”

Fireworks pop and crackle in my stomach, a slow hum of electricity vibrating in my blood when Remington whispers his lips over mine.

“Know why they’re in the past?”

I move my head from side to side, our lips brushing with the action.

“Because I only want you. All of you. And only you .”

Remington closes the space between us, his lips crashing into mine as his heavy body pushes me backwards.

I adjust myself so my legs are open and he settles between them, kissing me hungrily.

I wrap my arms around his back, feeling the expanse of his thick torso and the plains and grooves where the muscles move and bunch as he runs his hands up my sides.

“I like you jealous,” he breathes.

“Not jealous,” I retort. Two words, one very big lie.

His kiss deepens, his hands roaming every inch of my body he can reach. My own hands find purchase in his hair, tugging on the strands and making Remington moan. A hungry growl emanating from deep within him.

At some point, my hands fall to the sides of my head and Remington slides his warm palms up my forearms. I’m so lost in his kiss and his taste and the sinful noises falling from his lips that it takes me a second longer than it should to realise he has his hands lightly wrapped around my wrists.

He bucks his hips, his erection rutting against mine and while the pleasure is there, it’s overridden by an immense, ice cold bucket of fear.

The hands on my wrists are no longer his.

No longer the hands of a man who wants to kiss me.

Now they’re the hands that tormented me all those years ago.

My body stiffens, my breath coming out strained as panic sets in, and Remington pulls up, his eyes scan my face, wide with concern. Much like that night I lost the bet, he doesn’t know my history but he’s worked out enough to know that something is wrong.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He shoots off me, his hands raised to show he’s not a threat. My body knows that’s the case, but my body and mind can’t agree.

I scoot up, pull my knees to my chest and bury my head between them, gasping in air in an attempt to calm my racing nerves. I try to recall the techniques the therapist once gave me for handling a panic attack, but it was so long ago that I revert to doing what I always do in these situations.

I take deep lungfuls of air and drop my hand to my pocket, seeking the comfort of dad’s knife.

It’s not there. And suddenly I’m twelve again and the monsters are surrounding me and I’m weak and alone and my dad is dead and no one can help me and….

The feel of Remington pulling my arm and latching our hands together has my thoughts stilling. I close my hand around his, squeezing tightly. The warmth and softness of his palm in mine, grounding me to the here and now.

I’m not back there, I remind myself. I’m safe. Remington is safe.

“Baby?” His free hand touches my shoulder lightly and when I don’t flinch or move away, he increases the pressure, rubbing his hand up and down my arm.

“Come,” he whispers in a gentle voice. He tugs, encouraging me to my feet and leads me to the bed, where he sits, his back to the headboard, and pulls me to straddle his lap.

I press my hands to his chest, the steady beat of his heart moving beneath my palm. He’s so real, not like the monsters from my nightmares.

Remington’s eyes meet mine, his hand toying with the hem of my t-shirt. I steady my breathing and nod and wordlessly, he lifts the fabric. When the fabric reaches my neck, I close my eyes and lift my hands, letting Remington strip me of my armour.

Closing my eyes, I breathe in, one, two, three times, counting each breath in my head, before starting over again. My eyes burn behind my lids and my throat works thickly to swallow. I don’t want to see myself or see his reaction, so I keep my eyes scrunched tightly.

The tiniest flutters, like the whisper of long grass, tickles over my stomach, working up towards my chest. He’s tracing my scars with feather light touches.

“Holden,” Remington says. “What happened to you?”

When I finally let my eyes drift open, it’s to see Remington’s gaze following the path of his fingers as he maps my damaged skin.

The wall is there again, holding back my words. Emotion clogging up my throat when I try.

With one hand on me, Remington reaches blindly towards the side table, fumbling around.

“Here,” he says, when he finds what he’s looking for, handing me a square note block of green paper and a blue marker.

My eyes sting. The only reason this paper is even here is because he is so considerate of me.

Who does that for someone they hardly know?

Despite the burning knowledge that I’m about to let Remington in on my secrets, the prevailing thought in my mind at this moment is, I hope he’s still this guy when we get home .

Remington’s fingers draw patterns over my skin as I begin to write out my story.

His touch is delicate, skating over burn scars that have left me with little sensation where the scarring has thickened the skin, and then up towards my scarred nipple that is constantly numb, thanks to extensive nerve damage.

I hand him the first note, my writing a dark messy scrawl.

When I was twelve, my best friend betrayed me.

It took me months to heal from the physical effects of the attack. It took me years to heal from the betrayal. Knowing Lucas pretended to be my friend just so he and his gang could hurt me was harder to fathom than the brutality of what they did.

At twelve years old, in a new village, having lost my dad only two years before, I wanted someone to call my friend.

I wanted it so badly I ignored all the warning signs.

I ignored the looks that other kids gave Lucas when he hung out with me, but worst of all, I ignored the voice in my head that screamed, why would the most popular kid in school want to be your friend, loser?

I drop the pen to the bed, and turn my attention to Remington, studying the look on his face.

The way he’s chewing his bottom lip, the furrow of his brow and the steady rise and fall of his chest. I look at him long and hard and I try to see if those red flags are there again.

If this is yet another trap I’ve walked into.

I don’t see it. I don’t see an ounce of maliciousness in him and I hope, more than I have ever hoped before, that I am not wrong about him.

“Your friend did this to you?” he asks, his nostrils flaring.

I thought he was my friend. He made me believe he was. I write. Then I write down the sordid details of the attack and hand him each piece of paper, like a puzzle he can put together to get a clearer picture of me.

His breath catches and his eyes dart up to meet mine before he continues reading. Each green square falling to the bed next to him.

“Baby,” he says in a whisper. “Is this why you can’t talk around some people?”

I shake my head.

The day we learned about my dad’s suicide was the first day I lost my voice.

I hand him the paper, then continue on another square.

That day in the forest, those kids said they would stop if I begged. They held my wrists down and told me to beg, but I couldn’t. I wanted to.

My eyes sting, tears welling at the edges before falling down my cheeks and smudging the ink on the paper in my hands.

I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I was too weak to fight them and I couldn’t get the words out. Beg, they said. And I wanted to, so fucking bad.

I wanted to.

I wanted to.

I wanted to.

I write the words over and over and over, square upon square of green paper flying around the two of us as I pour all my anger into those three words.