Waylaid (True North #8) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,28

to get her naked, while she’s been trying to keep her life from running off the rails. “The best thing you can do for yourself is to try to relax,” I whisper.

“Mmm,” she sighs against me.

“Put him out of your head.” I’m quiet for a moment. “You know what’s really relaxing? Orgasms.”

I expect her to complain that my joke is ill-timed. But she doesn’t. And when I glance at her to find out why, I realize she’s fallen asleep on my chest. Figures.

But she’s so cute when she’s sleepy. Her face has softened, her long eyelashes practically touching her cheeks.

I don’t mind being Daphne’s pillow. Don’t get me wrong—I would rather tire her out with sex than trauma. But I can’t deny that this is nice, too.

Doesn’t that just figure? I’ve been trying to get her into bed for a couple of weeks now. But not like this. And what’s more, I won’t be able to sleep with her here. Ever since my accident, I need solitude and a locked door to fall asleep.

Still, I don’t have any urge to wake her, or to get up. I relax against the bed and watch the moon rise out the window. Daphne breathes slow, even breaths that I can feel against my bare skin.

It’s peaceful. And maybe I’m still frustrated by all the difficult things that have happened to me these past few years. But at least I’m on an upswing.

And there are worse places to be than on a bed in Vermont, under the moon, beside a sleeping beauty who needed me tonight.

Nine

Almost Three Years Ago

“Now you make a right at this stop sign. And a mile from here you’ll see a sign for the highway again.”

“Got it,” Rickie says. It’s kind of weird that this highway exit has no matching entrance. But whatever. He’s happy to take directions from Daphne.

He’s back in his uniform shirt, pointing the car southbound this time. Seventy-two hours passed very quickly, and now it’s time to drive back to Connecticut, and go back to the Academy.

Rickie fights off the dread in his gut. He knows that the upperclassmen are making his life hell on purpose. Plebes are mistreated so that they can learn to bear up under pressure. In a year or two it will be his turn to make the plebes’ lives hell.

It’s not that appealing, honestly. And the worst of the bullying is getting on his last nerve.

The bullying is not directed at Rickie. He’s too smart to attract their attention. But still, it’s hard to watch. The way they target his roommate is just evil.

Christmas break will be here soon, though. There are only a few weeks to survive before exams. Then he will have completed Gauntlet Term, as it’s called. Six long months of both military training and classes, July through December. All plebes endure it together. It’s supposed to build character, as well as muscle.

“How was your weekend?” Daphne asks.

“Pretty great.” He gives her a quick glance. She’s not wearing makeup today. Not that it matters. She’s the prettiest girl he’s ever met, and he’s met plenty.

She’s a first year, too. That’s lucky. There will be more of these car trips, so long as the ancient Volvo doesn’t die before they both graduate.

He makes a mental note to have the oil changed.

“Pretty great?” she repeats with a throaty chuckle. “Where’s the detail? We’ve got three hours, here. Or wait—maybe you can’t tell me. Too scandalous?”

Daphne Shipley is teasing him. And he likes it. A lot.

“Well, I can’t talk about the sex and the drugs. But I also went to the shooting range with my dad, like real men do.”

“Real men who call themselves Rickie.”

He grins. “This again? I told you—my father is Richard. So I’m Richard junior. And Richard is a boring-ass name.”

“It’s the name of kings,” she points out. “Richard the Lionhearted is a badass name. Rickie is a little punk with a slingshot.”

“Sure, babe. Walking around referring to yourself as Richard the Lionhearted wouldn’t be weird at all.”

Now they both laugh.

“First I became Rick, so we didn’t get confused about who Mom was calling. And since I’m not a very serious person most of the time, my friends started calling me Rickie. And I just went with it. At the Academy I’m Richard all the time, which I don’t particularly like. So if friends want to call me Rickie for twenty more years, I don’t really have a problem with that.”

“Makes sense,” she admits somewhat grudgingly.

“Your turn,” he

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