Sex in the Sticks Page 13

  I put my finger to my lips and give the dog a "Shhh."

  Not really quite sure how to wake up Valentine and not shock the shit out of her, I decide to go with a careful prod. She's on her side facing me, one hand tucked under her pillow and the blankets pulled up over her shoulders. She's got a sleeping mask on her face that's pink and looks to be made of satin with the word PRINCESS stitched in cursive across the front. I squat down beside her bed, put my hand to her shoulder, and give it a gentle shake as I say her name, "Valentine...honey...wake up."

  She comes awake with a jerk backward as her hand tears the mask off her face. Her eyes are unfocused as she takes in my hulking figure squatted by her bed. Valentine releases a bloodcurdling scream and her hand--the one not curled under her pillow--shoots out and catches me on the side of my jaw with a resounding crack.

  "Fuck," I mutter as I fall back on my ass, rubbing at my face.

  "Jesus Christ," she yells at me as she sits straight up in the bed, shaking her hand out. "What the hell are you doing skulking in my room?"

  "Everything all right up there?" Sarah yells up the stairs.

  "Just fine," I call back as I come to my feet and with a pointed look at Valentine. Rubbing my jaw, I tell her, "I wasn't skulking. I was gently trying to wake you up."

  "Why?" she snarls as she shoots a glare at Sassy for perhaps not barking to give her warning.

  "Get up and get dressed," I tell her, not at all happy with the way this has started out. "We're spending the day together so we can talk."

  "We most certainly aren't spending the day together," she snaps at me as she starts to stand up from the bed. "I've got a fishing excursion planned with April."

  I place my palm on the center of her chest and give her a slight push so she sits back down on the bed. "Yeah...about that. I canceled your participation. It's just April and Jorgen going, and frankly, you'd be a third wheel anyway."

  "You...you..." she stammers.

  "Canceled your presence in the boat that April and Jorgen will be in today," I say with a sly grin. "You're coming with me."

  "I am not," she says stubbornly.

  I'm a big man, no doubt, but I can move fucking fast. Before she can blink, I've got her flat on her back and I'm kneeling over her with my palms on the mattress near her head. Valentine bucks her hips up hard to try to dislodge me but I don't budge an inch. Sassy gives a playful yap, spins around on the mattress three times, and then flops to her stomach to watch it play out.

  Valentine's eyes go frostily aloof with mostly stubborn refusal to let me back in.

  "I'm taking you out to explore today. We're going over to the Misty Fiords so you can get to see some of the real beauty of Alaska, and hopefully some wildlife too. We're going to talk. You're going to let me apologize again for the other day and not giving you the benefit of the doubt. I hope you're going to truly accept my apology and give me the benefit of the doubt that I learned a valuable lesson where you're concerned. Valentine...you're going to listen to me ask you for another chance to be with you for however long you're going to be in Alaska, and I'm going to ask for exclusivity while you're here. And finally, at the end of a very good day where all of this transpires, you're going to come back to my house and I'm going to make you feel very, very good in about a dozen different ways."

  I notice that Valentine's chest is rising and falling in short bursts, and her eyes took on a heated look when I mentioned going to my house tonight. Still stubborn, she says, "What makes you think I'd want to do any of that with you?"

  I shrug and give her a mischievous grin. "Well, I can't say that you want any of that, but your nipples are hard as rocks right now, so I'm thinking that last part about going home with me sort of appeals to you."

  Valentine gasps and immediately denies it, even as she looks down at her traitorous breasts. "They are not."

  Oh, God they so are...clear as day through her heavy thermal T-shirt. I prove my point by tweaking one with my forefinger and thumb, and Valentine's eyes close with a soft moan.

  In this moment, I could strip her naked and have her, but that's not the order of how things are going to go today. So I move off the bed and pull her up by her wrists so she's standing. Her eyes flutter open and she looks at me confused.

  "Get a shower," I tell her. "No makeup. Outdoor clothes."

  "But Sassy--" she starts.

  "--is being handled by Sarah for the entire day and night," I assure her.

  That seems to snap her out of her daze and her eyes narrow. "I'll go with you today and we'll talk, but there's no guarantee about tonight."

  "I'll bring you back here to Sarah's anytime you want me to," I assure her. Then I give her a light slap on her ass and say, "Now hurry up and get ready."

  --

  "When you said you were going to show me Alaska, I had no clue you were talking about from the air," Valentine says through the headset she's wearing. Despite the slight crackle, I can hear the wonder and awe in her voice as we fly over Misty Fiords National Monument, which at 2.1 million acres is really a designated part of Tongass National Forest. I've been here seven years, been coming to visit longer than that, and I never fail to have my breath taken away by the beauty: lakes formed by glacial runoff so clear you can see the bottom, snowcapped mountain peaks, green forests, and misty waterfalls. I haven't traveled much in my life--a tour in Afghanistan while in the marines, not really my ideal vacation getaway--but I can't imagine anywhere prettier than this.

  "By plane is the best way to see this area," I tell her through the headset as I pilot the Cessna turbo amphibian floatplane. The plane seats four but it's just Valentine and me today.

  "You didn't tell me you were a pilot," she says. We haven't had a chance to "talk," and we've kept it light and impersonal, since I practically dragged her grumbling body out of Sarah's house this morning. She'd at least ceased complaining when I ran into The Wounded Caribou and came out with sausage biscuits and coffee. She went totally silent for a moment when she saw the plane as we walked down the docks to it except for that tiny gasp of surprised delight I know she didn't want me to hear but I did.

  "Never came up," I tell her as I head toward Behm Canal, which is the major waterway that goes straight through the heart of Misty Fiords. "I actually own this plane with four other guys. We're all recreational pilots and just do this because we enjoy it. We'll take it out to go camping in some remote areas, or fishing and hiking. That sort of stuff. But none of us alone can afford one of these, so we all went in on it together."

  "How often do you fly?" she asks as she turns in the passenger seat to look at me.

  "Once every few years," I say with a shrug. "I'm a little rusty right now but it's coming back to me."

  Valentine's hands fly up and seize her shoulder harness, but realizing there's nothing she can do that will help things, she squeaks, "You're joking, right?"

  "Totally joking," I tell her with a chuckle, and I figure maybe laughter--or extreme fear--will get her to loosen up more with me. I then point to the east and tell her, "That's Behm Canal below us. I'm going to set her down."

  "Why?" she asks, sounding slightly panicked.

  "There's a shore we can ground on and I brought a picnic," I tell her. "We might be able to see some orcas if we're lucky; definitely some sea lions."

  "What about bears?" she asks, a little panicked still, but also highly curious now.

  "Not where I'm putting down, but we'll fly back over an area where we'll see some," I promise her. The abundance of wildlife is extreme and she won't be disappointed.

  I land the plane on the water with no issues, as it's fairly calm out today, and maneuver it over to a shore that's only accessible if you have a floatplane or boat without a motor to ground it. The Cessna has floats with polycarbonate protection that enables beaching, so I pull it right up onto the rocky shore. Normally, I'd go on a long hike from here, but not today. I'm sure the last thing Valentine wants is to head into the woods again, but at least we can hav
e a nice lunch on the shore and maybe spot some whales while we're at it.

  Mostly, though, I want to talk, and now that I've got her out here in the wilderness with no way to escape, she's going to have to listen to what I say.

  Chapter 15

  Valentine

  Well, if there is one glaring, fundamental difference I've found between Logan and all the other men I've dated, is that he's very clear in what his intentions are. There are no vague promises that can be reneged on or overinflated proclamations that make you doubt his goals.

  Logan tells it like it is, looking you directly in the eye, or perhaps while tweaking your nipple to make a point, but when he pulled me out of Sarah's house I was not left with one single question about his intentions.

  Now there's nothing wrong with a little mystery, but I have to say, this take-control attitude he has appeals to me, and being honest just with myself for now, I was ready to walk out of Sarah's door with him to watch him follow through on everything he told me would happen today.

  I'll admit, the plane was a surprise and I liked that as well. Logan still has some mystery about him.

  When he brings the plane to a stop, the bottoms of the floats scraping loudly along the rocks that line the shore, he cuts the engine, and removes his headset. I do the same.

  With efficiency and even grace for someone so large, Logan disembarks and helps me out onto the shore, and then proceeds to set up a homey camp for our lunch. He pulls two folding canvas chairs out of the back of the plane, a decent-sized cooler that holds our food and then doubles as a table, and another bag with plates and utensils.

  "Sit," Logan says as he sets up our picnic lunch. It's totally high-handed, but it's also done in a gentlemanly tone to denote that he'll get everything ready.

  So I watch him as he pulls out a green salad with grilled chicken, fruit salad, and cookies. Then he pours diet cola into red plastic cups, makes me a plate and hands it to me, and I settle back while he dishes up his own food.

  We're quiet as we eat, and I take my time to study the surroundings. I've never seen such raw, natural beauty in my life. I'm wealthy and have the means to travel, and I do quite a bit. But never to a place like this. Never even thought to travel somewhere as wild and remote as this until Jeremy suggested it. I've been to Paris, Vienna, Rome, and Zurich, basking in European culture and history. I've taken charming trips to Vermont to ski in the winter, and I've been snorkeling in Jamaica. On a whim I've flown to Chicago because there's a store that had a coat I really wanted, and I've been to LA to see movie premieres due to my family's connections.

  But not one single thing about all of the amazing places I've been could ever compare to what is laid out all around me right now. Just miles and miles of rich green forest and mountains tipped in glistening snow that sparkles like diamonds. The water is a blue unlike anything I've seen before. It's not that greenish blue of the tropics, but almost a sapphire blue that actually doesn't look real it's so beautiful.

  And as I'm chewing on a piece of chicken, I almost choke as I watch a large bird swoop down from above, its claws hitting the water hard and fast, before its massive wings are stroking against the air violently to lift back up again. In its talons is a massive thrashing fish--a salmon I assume, since that's what most people come here to fish for.

  "Whoa," I say softly as I watch it fly away. When my face lowers, I find Logan watching me with a satisfied smile on his face. This should irritate me but it doesn't. "What?"

  "I'm just glad you're getting to see things that you wouldn't ordinarily get to see where you're from."

  "I once saw a mugger swoop down on an older lady and grab her purse," I offer, to show that I'm not without experience.

  Logan chuckles. "You got me there. That's not something I've seen, even working the Seattle streets."

  "It is so beautiful here," I say on a contented sigh as I continue to look around while we finish our lunches. "Thank you for bringing me."

  Logan nods, eats more of his salad, although I notice he tends to eat more chicken than lettuce. When he puts his plate down on the cooler that serves as our table, he settles back into his canvas chair and stretches his long legs out in front of him. Lacing his fingers together and settling his hands on his flat belly he asks, "So what's your story, Valentine? I know you're from New York and you came here not to appreciate the Alaskan wilderness but to appreciate the abundance of men."

  "That's true," I tell him, not sugarcoating my original intentions at all. I've told him that from the start it was my intention to date. Granted, I'd changed that intention after I was intimate with Logan, but then he went and ruined that, so now I'm not sure what in the hell my goals are during my remaining time here.

  "What is your life like back in New York?" he asks, and I'm extremely confused, because I thought this would be about the time he started to grovel as he'd promised he'd do this morning.

  "Logan...does it really matter what my life is like back there?" I ask him softly. "I mean, I appreciate you bringing me out here and stuff, but is there really any reason for us to try to get to know each other better?"

  Pushing up from his relaxed pose in his seat, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, I want to know more about you. I think you're beyond intriguing. You say you came here to sample all the men, but I don't think that's really you."

  "You know nothing about me," I say with irritation.

  "Which is why I just asked you about your life back in New York," he points out calmly.

  I just blink at him for the circular way he just brought me around, and it pisses me off that he led me there without any real effort. It's almost as if I wanted to be led around by him.

  Shaking my head, I say, "Listen...you're a nice guy--"

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says as he holds his hands up, palms out to stop me. "Don't even fucking go with the 'nice guy' brush-off. Clearly I'm not a nice guy, as I hurt your feelings to the point I can't seem to make it up to you."

  "You don't have to make up anything--"

  "You see, I don't think I'm really all that great with women," Logan interrupts, and that statement is so surprising I snap my mouth shut. Despite him standing me up, it's been my impression he's pretty damn awesome with women. "I told you I only had one really serious relationship, and it wasn't all that serious because we didn't have any qualms about parting ways. And since then...well, I just don't have a lot of experience."

  I cock my eyebrow at him in pure disbelief. What we did in his bed indicates he has a lot of experience.

  Logan chuckles and clarifies, "I'm talking about the dating part. The getting to know someone part. The caring for someone part."

  "Because you are really damn good in bed," I mutter, so at least I'm being truthful about his good qualities.

  "I've been told that a time or two," he says.

  I do not like the way a surge of jealousy flows through me over that, which is utterly ridiculous. Who Logan fucks or when he fucks them or how often or how many orgasms or--

  "Valentine," Logan says softly, cutting into my thoughts. Still leaning forward in his chair and looking at me intently with those blue eyes. "I fucked up the other day. You told me you were here to date the locals. You and I were intimate and it was beyond amazing. You had not been intimate with the others. I therefore assumed that when you agreed to go out with me again, that there would be no other dates. It was a clear lack of communication on my part, particularly when I started listening to the gossip. I should have asked you straight up. Should have asked you what your intentions were with me and the others around here. I didn't and I acted like an asshole by blowing you off, and for that I am really, really sorry. It was a stupid mistake I will not make again. It's my hope you'll forgive me and at the least we can be friends again."

  He stops and looks at me expectantly, clearly wanting to know if his words made an impact. And they most certainly have. As sad as it is to admit it, in my entire dating life, I've never had a man apologi
ze to me with such genuine sincerity. I've never had a man shoulder 100 percent of the burden of fault. Usually the men I've been with want to pass off at least some culpability in a classic move of deflection.

  But not Logan.

  He just laid it all out with complete transparency and made it clear that I was the one wronged and he was sorry for it. How can I not forgive that? How can I not be impressed by that? How can I not give him a second chance?

  "I come from money," I tell him, and he blinks in surprise that these are my next words to him after his massive apology. But his eyes immediately brighten with interest to learn something about me, so he grabs his cup of cola and settles back down into his chair. "And when I say money, I mean a lot of money."

  "Where's the money from?" he asks conversationally.

  "Capital investments," I say with a shrug. "I've had access to my trust fund since I was twenty-one, right after I graduated from Columbia."

  "What was your degree?"

  "Arts and humanities," I tell him with a sheepish smile.

  "What is that?"

  I shrug. "It's about the easiest degree I could get. Not even sure what I can do with it."

  "You're no dummy," he points out. "You graduated from Columbia. So I doubt the degree is useless."

  "Needed a college degree to get access to my trust fund," I tell him without ducking my head shamefully. Because I am a little ashamed I've done nothing with my life other than live off my family's money and write blog articles.

  Logan cocks his head at me. "While you clearly have money and were a bit out of place when you arrived, I don't see you as being snotty upper crust."

  "Oh, I come from a snotty upper-crust family," I assure him. "I just chose to march to the beat of a different drum."

  "The rich socialite that dances on tabletops," he says with an incline of his head.

  For the moment, Logan knows my backstory, but he hasn't pressed me on whether or not I work. I'd rather not get into my blog articles because he'd want to read them, and that would not go over well at all. Besides, I have no idea where this whole social experiment I'm performing is going for the long term. In fact, I'd have to say there's not even a social experiment anymore.