Page 18 of Ghost on the Shore

“Makes me see that world through a different lens.”

“It’s all about sacrifice and aiming for perfection, but yeah, that world can be pretty cruel.” She gives me a gentle poke in the chest. “What about you? I saw that movie,Jarhead, and I could barely get through it.”

“Agreed.” I laugh thinking back on it, but harsh doesn’t even scratch the surface when it comes to recruit training. “I guess there are similarities…Basic training can be a psychologically damaging experience for some people.”

“I wouldn’t last a day,” she says absently, her hands moving from my shoulders to rest on my pecs. “I know I still view myself with an overly critical eye, but I’m over it for the most part.”

“The thought of someone criticizing your shape, or anything about you, is just insane. I mean it, Grace, you’re gorgeous.”

She blushes and turns her head. “Just kiss me again, will you? Compliments make me twitchy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And it’s hard to put the brakes on again once this kiss gets started. She’s pressed up close, every tender and needy spot on my body lining up with hers, and then she’s moving her hips in a way that has me going mad with wanting her.

She breaks the kiss. “Let’s go to my room.”

“Are you sure?”

Grace nods her head and breathes out when she says yes. She’s had two drinks—no, three when I count that beer. She doesn’t seem buzzed but I’m still not sure about this.

Once we’re in her room and she starts shimmying out of her dress, I have a moment of clarity. I don’t want to rush this thing between us.

“Grace.”

She looks back up as she’s easing one foot out of her sandal. “This is awkward, but do you have anything? It’s been a while. And when I say a while, I mean it’s been alongwhile. I haven’t had sex since I was fifteen.”

What?

I don’t even know what to do with that comment, and my silence makes it worse. She looks up at me shame-faced. “I…I don’t have a lot of experience.”

I pat the spot on the bed next to me. “Come here.” When she sits, I take her hand. “I really like you. And I’m not looking to push you or rush into something you’re not ready for.” I hand her the silk robe that’s draped over her desk chair and she puts it on. “Believe me when I say that I want you, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

She nods, biting her lip with her head cast down.

“Who was it?” She looks to me, confused. “When you were fifteen…Who was it?”

“Just some boy.” She takes a deep breath. “My dance instructor’s son.”

“Miss—”

“Abramov...Yeah. He wasn’t around all the time but he’d help his mother out at the studio sometimes.”

“How old was he?”

“Peter was a junior in high school, so I guess he was seventeen?”

“And you were a freshman?”

She nods. “Talk about easy pickings. My father had just moved out a few months before, and on those rare occasions when my motherwashome, she was swilling red wine. On top of that, Miss Abramov was making my life a living hell.” She lets out a cheerless laugh. “All he had to do was tell me I was pretty.”

“Is that why compliments make you twitchy?”

“I don’t know.” She turns my way and then backs up, tucking one leg up underneath her to get more comfortable sitting on the bed. “He happened to be at the studio on one of the more particularly brutal days. His mother was ripping into everyone. And when she got to me she looked at my chest, disgusted,” Grace shakes her head at the memory, “and then told me I was no longer dancing the lead that I’d been promised. She told me I was better suited forthat jazz studio over by the mall. That’s like the ultimate insult to a classically trained dancer…Same as telling me to go work the pole in a strip club.”

“What a bitch.”

“Well, no one would describe her as warm and fuzzy.” She scoots back again, creating some distance as she settles in and rests against the headboard. “Peter caught me as I was walking to the bus stop. He called his mother the c-word, which made me laugh, and told me not to listen to a word she said. He told me I was the best dancer in the troupe, the only one he couldn’t take his eyes off of.” She smiles but it’s one that’s laced with hurt. “He was smooth.”

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