EIGHTEEN
I’m worried about Samson, obviously. But the longer I sit here and wait for him, I wonder if that worry should be mixed in with anger.
It wasn’t fair of him to ask me to leave that situation, but the look in his eye made it seem like throwing Rake’s remains into the ocean was way more important to him than reporting it was to me.
I’ve seen some disturbing shit in my life. A few bones being moved from a dune and into the ocean is surprisingly not that jarring to me. I don’t know what that says about me. Or Samson, for that matter.
Even though I’m not angry at him, I am concerned. My stomach is in knots. It’s been almost four hours since I got home. I tried to pass the time by showering, eating dinner and having mindless conversation with my father and Alana. But my mind is still back with Samson on the other side of that dune.
I’m sitting out by the bonfire now, staring at Samson’s dark house. Waiting.
“Where is Samson?” Sara asks.
Great question. “Helping someone. He’ll be back soon.” I take a drink of water, washing the lies out of my mouth. Part of me wants to tell Sara the truth, but I know better. How would I even come out and say, Hey, Sara, there are human remains down the beach and Samson is digging them up and throwing all the bones into the ocean.
Yeah, she wouldn’t be able to handle something of that magnitude.
“So? What was the kiss like?” Sara asks.
I look at her and she’s staring at me with hope in her eyes.
I get the feeling she’d probably prefer a stepsister who will gossip with her at night while they brush each other’s hair. I’m sad she didn’t get that. Instead, she got me. No-fun Beyah.
“The kiss was actually kind of depressing.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m not saying it was bad. He’s a great kisser. He’s just…he’s so serious all the time. So am I. It’s difficult to share a fun, sexy kiss when there’s nothing fun about either of us.” I sigh and rest my head against the chair. “Sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”
Sara laughs. “If you were more like me, Samson wouldn’t look at you the way he does.”
That makes me smile. Maybe she’s right. Some people just fit together. I wouldn’t fit with Marcos and she wouldn’t fit with Samson.
I just wish our fall and winter fit as well as our summer.
Sara holds both hands up in the air when the song on the Bluetooth changes to a new song I’ve never heard. “I love this song!” She jumps up and starts dancing. Marcos gets up and dances with her. It’s not a slow song, so they’re stomping and spinning around like their lives weigh nothing.
I watch them dance until the song is over and Sara falls back into her chair, out of breath. She reaches down for a bottle of liquor stuck in the sand. “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “Alcohol makes everyone fun.”
I bring it to my mouth and pretend to take a drink. I’d rather be boring than become my mother, so I have no desire to actually swallow it. But I pretend to for Sara’s sake. I’ve already been enough of a downer tonight, I don’t want to deny the alcohol and make her feel guilty for drinking. I hand the bottle back to her, just as something behind her catches my eye.
Finally. It’s been four hours.
Samson will have to walk past us to get to his house. He’s covered in sand. He looks tired. He even looks a little bit guilty when we make eye contact. He looks away quickly, but then spins as he walks past us. He lifts his eyes again while he walks backward. He nudges his head toward his house and then spins around and disappears into the darkness.
“You’re being summoned,” Sara says.
I remain seated for a moment, not wanting to appear too eager to follow him. “I’m not a dog.”
“Are you two fighting?”
“No.”
“Then go. I like it when Marcos summons me. It always means good things.” She looks at Marcos and says, “Hey, Marcos. Summon me.”
Marcos nods his head once, and Sara jumps out of her chair and walks over to him, falling dramatically into his lap. The chair falls over and spills them out onto the sand. Marcos is still holding his beer up in the air. He didn’t even spill a single drop.
I leave them alone and start walking toward Samson’s house. I can hear the outdoor shower running when I get close. I walk onto the concrete foundation of the stilt level of his house. I haven’t spent any time down here, but it’s nice. Aside from the shower, there’s a bar and a couple of tables. I don’t know why we never spend time here instead of at the beach every night. Samson has the kind of house that would be good for parties, but he doesn’t seem like the type who would want to host one.
I don’t see Samson’s shorts as I approach the shower, which means he’s still dressed. There isn’t a door to the shower. The walls are made of wood and there’s an opening and a left turn I have to make before I see him.
His back is to me. His palms are pressed against the wood and the shower spray is falling over the back of his neck. His head is hanging between his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He turns and pushes the wet hair off his forehead.
“For what?”
“For putting you in this position. For expecting you to keep secrets when I don’t tell you any of mine.”
“You never asked me not to tell anyone. You just asked me not to call the police.”
He wipes his hand over his face and leans back into the stream of water. “Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I’d rather it stay between us,” he says.
I silently agree. It’s not that hard for me to keep secrets. I’m a pro at it.
I kind of like that Samson is a closed book. You can’t really dislike a book you haven’t read yet. But I think I’m able to be patient with him because he told me he’d eventually tell me all his truths. Otherwise, I might not find him worth the effort.
“I feel like there’s more to the story with Rake,” I say. “Will you explain it with all the other answers you owe me on August second?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’ll tell you then.”
“I’m going to start keeping a list of all the questions I want answers to.”
His lip twitches, like I amuse him. “And I’ll answer them all on August second.”
I take a step toward him. “You promise?”
“I swear.”
I lift one of his hands. He’s got dirt beneath all his fingernails. “Did you dig up all of it?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure it was Rake?”
“Positive.”
He looks and sounds exhausted. Maybe even sad. I really do think Rake was a bigger part of his life than he’s letting on. I glance at his necklace, then look back at his face. He’s staring down at me, the small streams of water sliding down his face.
My clothes are starting to get wet from the spray, so I take off my shirt and toss it over the wall of the shower. I leave on my shorts and bikini top and help Samson clean his fingernails. He stands patiently as I get all the dirt out from beneath each nail and then wash his hands with soap.
When I’m finished, Samson pulls on my hand and tugs me until I’m standing under the water with him. He kisses me, and I move with him as he backs himself against the wall, pulling me out of the stream of water.
It’s a lazy kiss. His hands are resting on my hips while he leans against the wall of the shower and lets me direct the moment.
I lean against him, pressing my breasts against his bare chest, wrapping my left hand around the back of his neck. I shouldn’t have told Sara it was a depressing kiss. That’s such a terrible description of what this is.
Durable is a better word.
All of our kisses feel important, like they’ll stay with me forever. They aren’t small displays of affection that happen in passing. There’s something bigger behind them than attraction. Right now that bigger thing is sadness, and I want to take that away from him, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
I drag my right hand down his chest until my fingers meet the elastic band of his shorts. I dip my hand inside, and right when I do, Samson inhales sharply. We stop kissing while I touch him for the first time. His eyes are focused hard on mine, like he’s silently saying I don’t have to do this, but also begging me not to stop.
I wrap my hand firmly around him and his head falls back with a sigh. “Beyah,” he whispers.
I kiss his neck and slowly begin to move my hand up and down the length of him. There’s more to him than there was to Dakota. It doesn’t surprise me. There’s more to Samson in almost every aspect compared to anyone else I know.
I use my left hand to lower his shorts enough so that he’s not confined inside them. We stand in this position for a couple of minutes, at least. Me touching him. Samson breathing heavier and deeper, gripping my hips tighter with every stroke. I watch his face the whole time, unable to look away. Sometimes he looks at me and other times he squeezes his eyes shut like it’s all too much.
When he begins to clench all the muscles in his body, he suddenly brings a hand up to my hair and pulls gently, tilting my head back so that his mouth can fit against mine. He takes two quick steps, pushing me against the opposite shower wall while he kisses me with more strength than every other kiss that came before this one.
My hand is still gripping him, and it’s like he can’t even breathe and kiss me at the same time because he breaks apart and presses the side of his head to the side of mine. His mouth is over my ear when he breathes out a guttural, “Fuck.”
Chills roll down my body as he begins to shudder beneath my touch. I continue to stroke him until I feel the sticky warmth of him on the palm of my hand, and he eventually sighs, burying his face against my neck.
He takes a moment to catch his breath, and then he reaches for the showerhead. He pulls it between us, washing himself and my hand, and then he lets it fall to the floor before kissing me again.
He’s breathing like he just ran a marathon. At this point, I might be breathing like that, too.
When he finally pulls away and looks down at me, some of the weight has lifted from behind his eyes. That’s all I wanted. For him to feel better about whatever happened to him out there tonight.
I kiss him tenderly on the corner of his mouth, preparing to say good night, but he runs his fingers through my wet hair and whispers, “When are you going to let me hold you?”
His eyes are pleading, like he needs a hug more than he needed what I just gave him.
I’d probably let him hug me right now if I wasn’t so afraid it would make me cry. It’s like he can see the war in my eyes, so he just nods and kisses the side of my head.
“Good night,” I whisper.
“Good night, Beyah.” He turns off the shower and I grab my shirt, pull it back on and walk away from his house.