Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (27 page)

I tangled my fingers with his.

Later that evening, Samuel and I reclined together on the patio’s chaise longue, he with his Moleskine notebook and me with the sunset. A yellow pool of porch light circled us, growing stronger as the day dimmed. He leaned against me, shirtless back pressing into my stomach despite the cool mountain breeze. His long, jean-clad legs were bent so he could write against them. My arm rested across his sternum, claiming him. Every now and then, I’d run my hand over the soft hair of his chest and feel him tense as he wrote. He’d turn his face and kiss the crook of my elbow, then go back to his script writing.

“Why is it that serious writers use Moleskine notebooks?” I asked. “Is it a status thing? Or do you all want to be Bruce Chatwin and journal about chasing mammoth mummies in Patagonia?”

“Every serious writer must use a Moleskine, Kaye. Don’t you know that?” Samuel bantered. “Really, I just like them because the elastic band keeps loose notes from flying away when I’m outside. See?” He snapped the band.

“That’s not very romantic.”

“It’s practical.”

“May I read it?”

He thoughtfully scratched one of his longish sideburns (Samuel needed a haircut), then handed me the notebook. I scanned his streams of thoughts and to my relief, they were completely sane. Flipping through the notebook, I settled on a passage:

I should tell you, eager hijo,
says Miss America,
I slept and kicked you off the bed.
I didn’t mean to.
Even then I saw you flail
at seventeen, playing
grown up with a green heart.
Unlike me, you meant to.

Samuel peered over my hands to see what I read, and chuckled in embarrassment. “A little bad poetry to soothe the flagellant’s soul.”

“Hmmm. No, there’s wisdom in it. Sofia said something similar—that we shouldn’t get caught up in the American Dream, two-point-five kids and a minivan, because what works for some doesn’t work for others. Now I understand what she meant. You and me—we make each other happy, don’t we? As long as we don’t fall for the world’s version of happiness.”

Samuel’s entire body stiffened, and I realized I’d struck a nerve. He sat up. “Kaye, there’s something else you should know.” He tugged his hair, and I knew whatever came out of his mouth would be bad. “I…well…can’t have children. Before we continue down this path, I want you to really mull over what this means to you.”

“Oh.” Talk about a smack upside the head. I sputtered for several seconds before finding my tongue. “When—and
how
—did you find out?”

“I, um…” Splotches of red climbed his neck. “It was a personal decision, not long after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. With my family history and reckless behavior, I had a…you know.”

“The family jewels snipped? So I guess that means I can go off the pill. Sweet.”

Samuel’s mouth fell open. “Kaye, be serious.”

“Sorry.” My fingers danced across his chest. “Those are reversible, right?”

“It’s not an option. I’m sorry.”

“Down the road, if things go well for us, would you ever consider other options, like adoption?”

“Truthfully, I think I would be a horrible father. Imagine what Mommy tells the kids when Daddy buys them Bentleys on a whim.” He ducked his head. “Ah, that’s presumptuous of me, isn’t it?”

My heart did a back handspring. “It’s honest. You know I don’t want anyone but you. If it comes down to being with you or marrying a baby-daddy, I’ll choose you.”

A world of tension slipped from his shoulders and he relaxed into my body. “My father said you’d miss out on life if you gave up children for me.”

“While I appreciate Alonso’s concern, I’m not him.”

“You should at least think about this, Kaye. You say this now, but a few years down the road, when your friends are pregnant and planning baby showers, you might feel differently.”

“Then we can talk options two years down the road, together. Because right now, I still have to survive this publicity tour of yours until your movie release.”

“That’s my other concern.” His face turned to the mountains and he sighed. “Having a public life versus a private life. People will ask you questions, take your picture, and tell malicious lies about you, at least until I stop publishing and step out of the public eye.”

“They do that now.” I kissed his protests. “Samuel, I want you. If it means dealing with tons of baggage, so be it. I’m not naïve—I know there will be rough times. But I’ve lived with the consequences of throwing in the towel, and losing you is too agonizing.” I pressed my hand over his heart, as if I were stemming my own pain. “So, any more secrets I should know?”

“Yes. When I left for college the first time, I stole a pair of your panties.”

“Is that it?”

I felt him smile against my arm. “After seeing those whitewater rafting photos in Paddler’s, I have this fantasy where I peel that snug wet suit from your body and then ravage you in an inflatable duckie.”

I choked on air. “Frickin’ A, Cabral!”

“What?” He glanced up and winked at my wide-eyed lemur face.

As the last of Samuel’s secrets fell away (even the perverted ones), I thought, perhaps, our window had returned. It wasn’t startling, or nerve-racking…it was peaceful. I also surmised that I wouldn’t freeze up should he take me to bed. There was a new level of trust between us that hadn’t existed before. While we weren’t gurus, we’d
never
been this honest with each other, and it was glorious.

Ten minutes later, Samuel’s hand stilled against his notebook and his breath grew slow and even. Puffs of air caressed my elbow—he’d fallen asleep. The evening wind rustled and flipped pages of his notebook. I slid it from beneath his hand, slipped the elastic band around the cover, and let it drop to the floor. The wind teased his messy mop of hair, tickling my face. I smoothed it down and kissed the curve of his ear. Strong feelings of protectiveness surged in my chest, thrumming for me to say words I’d spoken since I was a child, yet hadn’t spoken in years.

I breathed into his hair, “
Samuel Cabral es mi mejor amigo
,” because I was too timorous to tell him I loved him, even when he slept.

His slow breathing hitched.

Wait. Was he awake? He shifted, careful not to crush me as he turned under my arm. Oh crap, he was awake. His eyes lifted to mine, followed by the rest of his body. And oh, every inch of him was both burning and covered in gooseflesh.

“
Mi vida
.” His mouth brushed mine, blue eyes blurring in my vision.

I smiled against his lips. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“Mmm, no, just enjoying this. You make a comfortable pillow. Now come here.” He opened his mouth and pulled me into him. His hands slid over my arms and circled me. Long, sensual kisses claimed our minutes, but when desire began to consume us, we broke away.

“Rocky Mountain Folks?” he panted into my neck.

“Folks,” I agreed, and reluctantly slipped from his embrace.

That night, I slept solitary and ached for morning.

After eleven hours of blurred yellow lines, we rolled into Lyons late in the afternoon and stumbled into my mother’s silent farmhouse. It was no Hollywood Roosevelt, but it was clean and comfortable with its paisley bedspreads and worn enamel bathroom.

Never failed, Mom’s heirloom tomato competition in Pueblo was always the weekend of Rocky Mountain Folks, leaving two teenagers to do naughty things in an empty house. A nervous tremor ran through my body as I stared at my old bedroom. I could almost see my youthful Samuel, naked and sweat-slicked and shuddering after we’d made love for the first time in this room, when we’d sneaked away from the festival.

Another image flashed across my eyes…Samuel, hunched over the brunette, a line of cocaine fluttering across her skin. I squinted, banishing it. Thirty-year-old Samuel skimmed a warm hand over my neck, followed by even warmer lips.

“Should we go?” He placed a light sweater over my shoulders, and I knew his memories were with mine.

I shivered and took his hand. It was Rocky Mountain Folks time.

I don’t know if it’s possible to explain how fanatical Samuel and I were about Planet Bluegrass. We came of age under the shadow of Lyons’ folk rock scene. We embraced its guitars like old friends. And as old friends, we paid homage beneath Steamboat Mountain, swaying to music, shimmying and shouting lyrics.

Our plan typically went like this:

~Grab a schedule

~Find chicken curry

~Spread blanket, eat curry, talk bands on schedule

~Get tipsy

~Sneak away and make out or have sex, depending on our relationship time line

~Wake up the next morning, grumble about hangovers

~Hit Planet Bluegrass again for Day Two of music, curry, and sex (or almost sex)

This year, we had a couple of revisions. Obviously we wouldn’t be getting plowed, which also knocked off hangover grumbling. The sex forecast was promising. And we weren’t just highlighting bands for our listening pleasure—we scouted them for the mental health fund-raiser I wanted to plan.

As it turned out, celebrity can be awesomely persuasive. All Samuel had to do was shake a hand and introduce himself as the author of the
Water Sirens
series, and he had the musicians’ attention (“I
knew
you looked familiar, dude”). But keeping their attention, once he mentioned “mental health benefit”? Sadly, he’d called it (“Yeah…yeah…that’s
amazing
. Give us a call in a few years and we’ll chat. Love the book!”). Now, over chicken curry and the Tripping Marys (our boys had returned to the stage, well into their fifties and still rockin’), we compared notes.

“Are you positive you don’t want to talk to Folsom and Frantz? Because that’s just inspired.”

“I’d love to, but Folsom and Frantz are recording next spring,” Samuel pointed out, peering at me over the rim of his reading glasses. “Hobogen’s local and more likely to play a benefit concert. They’re also quite open about depression in their lyrics.”

I sighed in defeat, then highlighted the Hobogens. “Okay, so our Sunday schedule is five p.m.—Dada Economics. Six forty-five—
Hobogens
. Eight ten—VeeVeeVee Quartet…”

For three hours I was in bluegrass heaven. I reclined on our blanket and stared at the night sky…the stage lights flashing red and blue against contoured clouds…the feel of Samuel’s abs beneath my skull as he too stared at the sky and soaked up strings and accordions. I had my man, my music, and my memories. The tumultuous revelations of the past few days were now little more than a dream. I could almost forget how badly I wanted to rip Alonso and Sofia new ones.

Almost.

My phone rang, breaking the spell. I looked at the caller ID—Alonso and Sofia. I didn’t want to talk to them, so I handed Samuel my cell.

“Your parents.”

He gave me a long look, then took the phone and answered. While he happily chatted about how we’d had a safe trip, yes, Rocky Mountain Folks was great this year and no, he wasn’t still sick, I stewed. And stewed. And
stewed
.

Samuel tapped my shoulder. “
Mamá
wants to say hello. I’m going to buy a couple bottles of water, okay?”

I nodded and took the phone.

“
Hola
, Kaye. Lucia told me all about Samuel’s food poisoning.”

“Mm-hm. Food poisoning.”

“You’re okay, though?”

“Yep. Stayed away from that cream cheese.” I waited until Samuel was a good distance away before launching in. “Hey, Sofia. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,
mi corazón
.”

I kept my voice quiet, too low for eavesdroppers. “Is there something difficult about saying, ‘our son left you because he has bipolar disorder’? Because it didn’t seem too hard to articulate just now.”

Silence. Then Sofia gasped. “He told you? He finally told you? Alonso!” she called in the background, slipping into Spanish, “Samuel told Kaye…
Si
…No, use the receiver in the library.”

There was scrambling, and I stared at my phone in utter disbelief. Did these people not understand how bowled-over offended I was? The rage I’d struggled to suppress fought its way to the surface. Alonso picked up the other phone.

“Kaye, he told you?”

I couldn’t contain my anger. “No, he didn’t
tell
me.
No one
told me! I figured it out on my own.”