Captured Read online

  She’s never come right out and asked me to eat with them, so I don’t. It would be weird, sitting at that round table with Hank, Ida, Reagan, and Tommy, like some kind of faux-family unit. I haven’t sat down to a real dinner at a real table in years. Growing up in Des Moines, we weren’t a sit-down dinner family. My dad worked construction and was never home for dinner. My mom was a teacher, and she wasn’t home much after school. Hannah and I would usually just make PB-and-J, grilled cheese, or Kraft Macaroni, and eat it in front of the TV, watching Nick at Nite. There were holidays, of course, but those were fucked-up formal affairs. Nana and Pop would come in from D.C., Pop and Dad would drink too much Johnny and get in an argument. Nana and Mom would sit in icy silence, while Hannah and I pretended not to notice, pretended to like Mom’s shitty pumpkin pie. We’d usually end up escaping the house, Hannah going to her friend Marybeth’s, me to Hunter’s. That only worked until Hunter’s folks died when we were in high school, but at that point we had our crew of football buddies, and we’d steal forties from the Seven-Eleven and play pickup football in the empty lot.

  So, yeah, I don’t do sit-down dinners. I sometimes sit in the open door of the haymow, feet dangling out over space. I can just barely see through the front window straight through to the kitchen table. Reagan sits on the left side of the table, Tommy beside her closest to the den. Ida beside him, and Hank opposite Reagan. They’re not blood relations, but they’re a family. Ida spends her day here, watching Tommy while Reagan works. Hank’s farm is a good bit smaller and more manageable, so he gets his chores done and then helps Reagan, although since I’ve been here, we haven’t needed his help as much. I’ve actually ended up at his place a few times, helping him. We don’t talk much, Hank and I. Don’t need to. He’s an old soldier; he gets it.

  Although, one evening Hank and I are spreading hay in his barn, and he rests on his pitchfork, glances at me. “You got a plan, Derek?”

  I hate that question. I ask it of myself every day. I shrug. “Not really.”

  “Probably will need one, eventually.” He nods his head in the direction of Reagan’s farm. “That situation yonder. Ain’t gonna last forever.”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “Reagan is a strong woman, but she’s been through a lot.” He goes back to pitching hay. “She ain’t got much more she can give.”

  I blow out a breath. “I hear you, Hank.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nods. “Just so we understand each other.”

  He wasn’t warning me off. There’s nothing to warn against. I’m just helping out until I sort my shit out. But I do need a plan. Somewhere to go. Something to do. It’s obvious I can’t stay here forever. It’s not my place. Not my family.

  But….

  I don’t want to go.

  I like it here.

  I wave off Hank’s offer of a ride back to the barn, choosing to walk through the gray-blue of twilight. In this part of Texas, half a mile away is considered a close neighbor, so it’s a decent walk, but a peaceful one. Crickets sing, swallows dart, and bats swoop. An owl hoots somewhere. Churned soil and bits of root and stalk from the hay harvest are underfoot. The soil gives off a pungent smell, still warm from the day’s heat. I walk and watch the stars prick the sky, twinkling to life one by one, until suddenly there’s a hundred and then a thousand and then too many millions to count.

  The stars were one thing I could count on when I was a prisoner. Afghanistan is a wild, rugged, rough, unforgiving land. Huge skies, vast lifeless plains, high bare mountains, and sharp rock peaks. The stars are bright and numberless. If I could see them, they gave me hope. Cracks in the door, high windows, distantly seen from deep within a cave. I would try not to breathe too loudly and watch the stars come out, watch them brighten and move and fade.

  Now the Texas stars are something I can latch onto, some kind of continuity in my life. There were bright stars growing up in Des Moines. Impossible millions in the desert of Iraq. Countless billions in Afghanistan. Now here are those same stars, equally bright and innumerable. Something to anchor me while I struggle to find my way in this confusing post-war, post-captivity life.

  Watching the stars instead of where I’m going, I end up off-track. Instead of the barn, I find myself angling past the house, walking behind it. The grass is a dark swath before me, separated from the harvested fields by a fence, which I duck under. There’s a pond back here somewhere. There, behind the trees. Oak, cottonwood, a few willows. A short dock, just barely visible through the branches of the trees, is barely a ten-foot length of aged wood. I can see it from my vantage point on this side of the pond.

  I duck beneath a low-hanging oak branch and push through the still strands of a willow. I strip my boots and socks off, roll my pant legs up and sit, dangling my feet in the lukewarm water. I watch the waxing half moon reflect on the gently rippling water, soaking in the silence and the peace.

  I close my eyes and drowse, for how long I don’t know.

  My senses prickle, and I open my eyes. Reagan stands on the dock, limned in silver starlight. I’m obscured by the willow strands, and I watch as Reagan sits on the dock, slips off her shoes and socks. The pond is barely a hundred feet across, so I can see her clearly, bare feet, toes wiggling. She stands up, turns to glance at the house, watching, listening. A pair of headlights backs away, turns, and vanishes; Ida and Hank are going home.

  Reagan is motionless, watching the house. Listening to make sure Tommy is asleep, I assume.

  After a few moments, she seems satisfied.

  My heart seizes and my mouth goes dry and my hands curl into the grass at the pond’s edge; she unbuttons her khaki shorts, unzips them. Lets them fall to the dock.

  I should go. I should look away. Alert her to my presence.

  Asshole that I am, I do none of those things.

  I watch as she grabs the hem of her shirt, arms crossed, and peels it off. White bra, red underwear. Long, strong legs. Taut stomach, muscular arms, slim shoulders.

  God, so beautiful. I can’t look away; I’m caught up, hypnotized.

  She just stands there in her bra and underwear for a few minutes, breathing, staring up at the sky. Counting the stars, maybe.

  Eventually, she pushes her underwear down past her hips and steps out of them. She reaches behind her back and unhooks her bra, shrugs out of it, sets it on top of her clothes. She’s naked, stunning, breathtaking. Her breasts are full, round, pale in the starlight. I can just make out the peak of one of her nipples in silhouette. She presses her palms to her stomach, smooths her hands upward, lifts her tits and rubs the undersides before letting them fall with a beautiful bounce.

  A toe lifts and scratches at her calf; she tugs her hair out of the ponytail and shakes it out, running her hands through it. Another moment of hesitation, then, stretching her arms high above her head, her buttocks tensed, her boobs swaying, she spears forward in a nearly horizontal dive.

  When she’s under the water and out of sight, I let out a harsh breath, scrub my face. “You’re an asshole, Derek West,” I tell myself out loud.

  But, my status as a grade-A dick established, I don’t get up, I don’t leave. I know I should, but I’m greedy for another glimpse of Reagan’s nude beauty. Even the guilt burning in my soul can’t make me move.

  The water ripples, and her head pokes up above the water on the far side of the pond, hair slicked back, shoulders peeking and flashing as she swims. The pond is clearly more of a swimming hole, deep by the looks of it. She reaches the far bank and holds onto the grass with one hand, running her other palm over her scalp and down her face.

  And then she ducks under the water again and is out of sight once more.

  * * *

  REAGAN

  Skinny-dipping late at night after Tommy’s asleep is another of my dirty little secrets. It’s relaxing, freeing. Exhilarating. Refreshing after a hard day’s work.

  Today, a swim is especially welcome. The day was
hot, the work endless. My skin itched from dried sweat, and I’d been looking forward to a quick dip from the moment I woke up. Ida left, Tommy went to bed and fell asleep. Derek was nowhere to be found after helping Hank with his barn chores for the evening, so I assumed he was in my barn, doing whatever he does in there.

  Except, when I broke the surface just beneath my favorite part of the pond, near the willow tree, there he was. Bare feet dangling in the water. His eyes wide as I came up for air.

  I gasped, ducked back down, and held onto the bank. “Derek. What—what are you doing?”

  “I—um. I ended up here. Thought I’d sit by the water for a minute.” He stared down at the grass. “Then you—and I couldn’t—I’m a dick. I’m sorry, Reagan. I’m just an asshole.”

  He lumbers to his feet, turning away. Now that I’m over my shock at seeing him, the rest of my emotions are hard to decipher. Irritated at his gall, yes. But also…not as mad as I should be. Not as offended or indignant as I should be. More intrigued than I should be. A lot more unwilling to let him walk away than I should be.

  “Wait.” I put both arms on the bank.

  The pond is actually a manmade swimming hole. Just a big hole in the ground, a good twenty feet deep with no real slope to it.

  Derek stops, one hand on the trunk of the willow, but he doesn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

  “You watched me?”

  He hangs his head. “Yeah.” He turns slightly, glances at me over his shoulder. “You have every right to hate me.”

  “But I don’t.”

  He lifts his head in surprise, turns a little more. “You don’t?”

  I shake my head. “No.” My throat catches, but I force myself to keep going. “I actually have a confession to make. That first time you took a shower in my bathroom? I brought you the clothes—I should have told you, the door doesn’t latch, and it kind of swings open a little. I accidentally saw you showering.”

  “Accidents happen,” he says. “I kept watching, even though I knew you didn’t know I was here. I just watched, like a pervert.”

  I’m blushing furiously, heart hammering. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly look away right away, either.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” I look at him, and our eyes finally meet for the first time. “So…I’m sorry, too. Guess this makes us even.”

  I don’t know how to interpret the look in his eyes. Curious? Nervous? There’s desire, too. His eyes touch mine, and he doesn’t look away. I wonder what he sees in my gaze? My emotions are rampant, confused. Curiosity and nerves, surely. The same veiled, pushed-down hint of desire, like banked coals beneath a thick layer of ash.

  He abruptly turns away again, takes two fast steps toward the house. “I’ll go. Let you finish your swim.”

  My tongue betrays me. “Don’t—maybe you don’t have to go.”

  I’m lonely. Tired. My heart is heavy from long-carried grief. Weighted by sorrow. Thick with loneliness. Coated in a tough hide of self-reliance.

  It’s late, and my ability to resist the things boiling within me in regard to Derek—things I’ve been ignoring for weeks—is weak. The knowledge that Derek is not someone I should get involved with fades to black. It’s still there, of course. It never goes away. He’s my husband’s best friend. My dead husband’s best friend. He was there when Tom died. He’s a soldier, a damaged, unstable combat veteran with a complex case of PTSD. I’m in no position to help him, or to take on his issues. My own life is hard, with no relief in sight. I’m saddled with a farm I never wanted, raising a child alone, left to handle my grief as best I can, left to cope the best I can.

  And in the middle of all that is Derek, handsome and troubled. Yet he’s taken a huge load off my shoulders simply by assuming work I’ve never had the time to get to, doing the things that are simply too hard for Hank or me. And…his presence reassures me somehow. He’s an enigma, often silent, going off on his own. I never know how he’ll react to some things. Never know what will send him into himself, memories raging in his eyes. But despite all that, I’m drawn to him. Drawn to his silences, drawn to the ghosts in his gaze, drawn to the stillness in him. There are times, when the troubles in his soul are more distant, that he can be totally still, entirely present in the moment in a way that pulls me to him with the inexorable tug of gravity.

  Like now — he’s not looking at me, but I can feel his awareness of me. The air between us is fraught and alive with tension and chemical combustion, sparking like a live wire. He saw me naked. Watched me strip.

  I’m inviting trouble, and I’m fully aware of it. But I allow the words from my lips anyway: “Swim with me.”

  Slowly, he pivots in place, and this time his eyes go to my shoulders, the hint of heel and calf and thigh as I kick to float horizontally on the water. “Swim with you?”

  I nod.

  He swallows hard. “I shouldn’t.”

  I don’t answer, just meet his gaze and watch him decide.

  My heart thuds in my chest, and my nipples tighten as he stares down at me, then grasps the hem of his shirt and peels it off. He’s put on a good bit of muscle over the last two weeks. A lot, actually. I think he’s working out in the barn. He has to be to have built that much definition in his arms and abs. There’s that “V” of muscle, making it clear he’s not wearing anything beneath the jeans.

  The moment becomes a tableau, a challenge almost. Will I look away? Will he turn away? This moment feels definitive, delineating the path before us.

  I return my eyes to his, staring up at him, making my choice. He hesitates with his hands on the button of his jeans. Unsnaps them. Puts finger and thumb to the zipper, his eyes so dark green in the night as to look black, not wavering from mine. Lowers the zipper. I blink and keep my focus on his gaze.

  He pushes the denim down, steps out, standing naked in front of me.

  I have to look.

  Holy fuck.

  I blush scarlet and wonder if he can see the flaming redness of my cheeks, if he can hear the pounding hammer of my heart. He’s a very…blessed man. The glimpse I caught of him in the shower hinted at his size, but the huge, hard reality is something else entirely. It’s been so, so long since I’ve seen a man’s erect cock, and I’m powerless to look away.

  He dives into the water, slicing in past me, splashing me. I kick off the bank and dive under the surface, kicking and pulling at the water. I dive down deep, until the water gets cold and my eardrums tighten, and then I kick to the surface. I emerge less than a foot from where Derek is treading water, waiting for me. His eyes go to my chest, then up to my eyes.

  There’s nothing to say.

  He swims away, and I pace him. We go back and forth a few times, side by side. I stop in the middle of the pond, turn to my back and float. I can feel Derek’s eyes on me, on my breasts and stomach and thighs.

  Moments pass in silence, Derek floating somewhere to one side, each of us lost in our thoughts, lost in the myriad stars above, lost in wondering exactly what’s going on between us. The only sounds are the frogs and crickets and the occasional splash of a hand or foot as we float.

  I roll over, tread water, and find myself inches from Derek, at his right side. He’s floating on his back still, eyes closed. I can see the dusting of hair on his chest and stomach, the bullet scars on his shoulder. Hipbones, a small thin white line of a scar across his right hip, high, near the stomach. The thick thatch of curly pubic hair, his cock, now at rest and floating and swaying with the swish of the water. He kicks gently with one foot, waves at the water with both hands. His right hand brushes my thigh. The brief, accidental touch sends a bolt of lightning through me; I blink, inhale, and there’s a splash, and Derek is there, eyes hot and darkest green and searching mine. I’m sucking in deep breaths, my chest swelling, breasts rising and falling, floating in the water.

  Our legs kicking to keep us afloat, he reaches out through the water, and his palm finds my waist. I inhale sharply at the l
ong-forgotten sensation of male touch on my skin. His fingers curl into my flesh, and the barest pressure is enough to tug me toward him. The tips of my boobs touch his chest; he’s leaning back, and I’m leaning toward him, he’s swimming backward, and I’m swimming forward. There’s no chance of resisting. I find myself on top of him, my arm around his neck somehow, my legs kicking between his.

  This is such a huge mistake. I’m crossing a line, falling over some edge from which there is no return.

  I feel the thick soft presence of his dick at my belly, hardening and lengthening.

  Oh, god, why am I allowing this to happen? We shouldn’t be doing this.

  But his hand is low across my back, just above my butt, and my eyes and his are locked, and I’m so completely unable to look away, pull away, swim away, or do anything except feel his body beneath me, hard and strong and intoxicatingly male. The bank approaches, and in a move I don’t understand and can’t quite follow, Derek is twisting in the water, his hands going to my waist, legs kicking powerfully, and he’s lifting me out of the water. I land in the soft cool grass beneath the willow tree, the long dangling strands undulating in a warm breeze with a quiet susurrus.

  My legs wrap around his torso, holding him to me. My arms snake around his neck; he’s supporting himself partially out of the water with the strength of his arms alone.

  His face is level with mine, his mouth slanting, closing in. “Stop me,” he whispers.

  I exhale, my palm touching his jaw, and I close the distance between my lips and his.

  God, god, god.

  Lips alone, at first. Meeting, moving, melding. Then his tongue and mine venture out in the same moment, touch and tangle. Things jangle in the back of my head. Warning flags flap and klaxons blare, but they’re stilled and silenced by the taste of his mouth, by the solidity of his waist between my legs, his stomach pressing teasingly against my damp aching core, that long-ignored part of me.