Scorching to the Touch, page 8
Calmer, knowing that we have a plan, it feels like I can finally breathe.
I beat Andreas and Everett to the trailhead, bolt out of my car, and start on the trail at a slight jog that quickly turns into a brisk walk.
It’s not a difficult grade by any means, but I regret the dress shoes within five minutes. I trip often, and I know it’s slowing me down. Damn it. Why didn’t I at least grab my sneakers on my way out?
I’m sweating through my shirt, so I take off my suit jacket, ditch it on a branch, and roll up my sleeves. Twenty minutes into my hike and two ankle rolls later, I arrive at the last spot I saw Erica before she started going off trail and stopped.
There’s no sign of her. “Erica!” I yell into the woods around me to no answer. “Fuck. Erica!”
I minimize the tracking app to dial Everett’s number and let him know I’m at her last position and she’s not here—but there’s no service. “Fuck!” I growl. “Fuck. Fuck! Erica!”
Nothing but the chirp of birds in the early morning.
This is her last known location, but it’s where she lost service too. It’s been nearly an hour. She could have gone in any direction from here. At random, I pick a path, clawing at the spiderwebs between trees as I make my way farther and farther from the trail.
16
ERICA
“I’ll be as dirty as I please, and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty!”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
When I find my second spotting of chanterelles, I pull out my pocketknife and unlatch my basket backpack. After I cut the bright yellow mushrooms, I brush some of the dirt off and place them in the backpack, then sling it over my shoulder once more.
My obsession with hiking and mushroom hunting sprang from a vacation to the Pacific Northwest with my father when I was little. When I’d found the alien-looking things, he explained that they were houses for fairies, so we shouldn’t disturb them—likely his way of keeping me safe from potentially poisonous mushrooms. I’d daydream about the fairies in the forest, and he’d buy fairy tale books to expand my imagination further.
That’s also when I started acting—pretending I was one of the fairies and painting mushroom murals on my bedroom walls to dive deep into my imaginary world.
Ever since, outside has been my favorite place to be. One day, when I’m retired from acting, I plan to get myself a little cottage deep in nature and far from as many humans as possible. At least for the summer and fall seasons to escape the calamity of my life.
Nowadays, I’m more interested in mushroom hunting because they’re delicious. My mouth is already watering at the thought of sautéing them in garlic and butter.
I grab my trekking poles again and keep to my off-trail hike. It’s easy enough terrain that I don’t need the assistance, but the sticks have been helpful in dealing with the spider webs ahead of me so early in the morning. I smile at the sun filtering through the tree leaves and take a deep breath of fresh air.
Eyes still closed, I listen for the birds and the water in the distance—wind rustling through leaves. Nothing is more calming than this. Usually. Today, the ethereal nature sounds are disrupted by—
“Erica!” By Fritz?
My eyes fly open, and I scan the woods around me, the sound coming closer. “Erica!” I hear him call out again. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Fritz?” I yell back, and the sound stops for a minute.
“Erica! Where are you?”
I keep calling him and click a trekking pole on a nearby rock for him to follow the sound. Eventually, I hear the sound of his steps, followed shortly by him coming into view.
“Fritz? What are you doing here?”
“Erica?” he says, flailing at a spiderweb that flies straight into his face as he walks toward me.
“Fuck!” he growls, spitting as he pulls spiderweb threads from his mouth. When his face is clear, his eyes inspect every inch of me. “Erica. You’re okay.” He rushes to me and takes me into his arms. “Mi reina, I was so scared. You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says over and over between harsh, exhausted breaths. He says all this, I think, more to himself than to me.
He’s squeezing me so tight, I can hardly breathe, and I feel all the spiderwebs he accumulated on his shirt between us. “Fritz?” I say, muffled by his hard chest.
“What is it?”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, sorry.” He lets go of me and studies me once more.
I know he’s seeing me in my workout leggings, high socks, and hiking boots paired with a long-sleeved plaid shirt to protect my arms from the sun—all topped off with a baseball cap.
“What on earth are you wearing?”
“Fritz,” I say calmly. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought—we thought you . . .” He swallows hard and bends over to rest his hands on his knees as he catches his breath.
I pull my water bottle from my backpack and hand it to him. I eye him warily as he chugs the water after thanking me. He’s in black slacks and black lace-up loafers that are near shreds. “You hiked all the way here in those?” I ask him.
“I thought you had been taken.”
My nose scrunches up. “Taken?”
“You stopped moving so far off-trail we thought . . .”
“I stopped moving?”
His eyes narrow, and he’s wiping sweat from his brow. “Oh, like you don’t track my phone too.”
I look away from him. He has me there. We’ve both breached that trust, though I’m sure we only suspected the other of doing the same until this very second.
“Yeah, I lost cell service about a mile ago.”
“How can you be so reckless?” he asks, now completely annoyed at me.
“Reckless?”
“Yes, reckless.”
“Fritz, I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’m perfectly fine—”
“What are you doing here, Erica?” he says, his voice a dangerous don’t-fuck-with-me tone.
The shirt on his torso, which I’m sure was a crisp white earlier this morning, is drenched in sweat and matted to him. Dirty and sweaty. God, even like this, the man is mouthwatering.
“Eri, focus. What are you doing here?”
Bringing my hands to my hips, I say, “Having tea with the queen.”
His brows draw together. “Smartass. Now tell me.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m hiking.”
“You went nearly two miles off trail. That is so dangerous, Erica. You put yourself at risk. No one knew where you were or what you were doing. I thought someone was here—” his voice cracks. “Burying your body.”
“What?” I say, startled, and he takes me into his arms again for a tight hug that I think is comforting him more than he is comforting me.
The hug is tight and clingy, and I let him latch on to me like he wants to absorb my body into his for protection. For long seconds we stay like that, and I start to wiggle to loosen his grip.
“I’m fine, Fritz. And not that it’s any of your business, but I did email my location to Lily.”
“Lily didn’t pick up the phone!” Fritz roars.
“It’s her day off, which is why I emailed her instead of calling her. She’s probably busy and didn’t hear the call.”
“I thought you were in danger.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So you can fuck off and be on your merry way—”
“I’m not leaving here without you. You’re coming with me.” He grabs my hand and tugs.
It’s my turn to roar—this time with laughter. “Like hell I am!” I hold my stance firmly to the ground.
“If I have to carry you back to the trailhead, you’re coming with me.”
I double over with laughter, then. It takes me a few minutes before I can stop long enough to catch my breath and straighten again. “You’re going to carry me? Three miles. In those shoes?”
We both glance at the battered loafers that I’m sure started the day obnoxiously polished and are now trash-bound. Fritz’s eyes narrow in warning, but he doesn’t say anything, so I turn away from him and keep hiking. I hear his footfalls behind me and his curses as he continues to trip and battle the spiderwebs.
I roll my eyes. “Walk behind me,” I call out.
“What?”
“Behind me, Federico. I’m clearing the spiderwebs. If you stay in my path, it’ll be clear for you.”
I hear him hurry behind me and feel as he pulls on my elbow to stop me. “Erica, we’re leaving. Now,” he scolds.
“I’m not done,” I tell the stubborn man.
“Not done with what?”
I swing the basket backpack toward my front and unclasp it to reveal its contents. Fritz leans in carefully to peek inside the basket like he’s afraid I’m carrying tarantulas or something.
“What the hell is that?” He asks, recoiling from the dirt-full contents.
I shrug. “Chanterelles, mostly.”
“What?” he asks, a puzzling twist to his mouth.
“Mushrooms, Fritz. I’m hunting for mushrooms. That’s why I need to go off trail.”
“Mushroom hunting?” he asks like I just told him I was going to the moon.
I roll my eyes again.
I’m annoyed he is ruining my day off. My last day of rest and relaxation before I go to LA and start filming with an ambitious schedule that will give me no time to myself to explore the nature of California. This is my alone time. My time to recharge my batteries and think about . . . absolutely nothing. “Fritz, go home. As you can see, I’m perfectly fine—”
“It’s not safe,” he insists.
I keep on hiking, and he keeps on following. “I’ve been hunting for mushrooms for years, Fritz. I’ve been fine the entire time.”
“No, you haven’t,” he argues like he has any clue.
“Yes, I have. I love walking. I love hiking. I love being outside. And I love hunting for mushrooms.”
“No,” he says, and I can picture him shaking his head behind me as he follows. “You hate the outdoors. You’re a city girl. You don’t wear . . . uh, what are you wearing?”
I flip around to face him again. With a click, my trekking poles fall to the ground on either side of me, and I let my backpack down slowly, so I don’t bruise the mushrooms.
My upper lip curls as I resist a snarl. “Fritz, look at me.”
He’s standing in front of me now, distracted as he tries to wipe off the layer of webs accumulated over his torso.
“Look at me,” I say again, doing my best to stay calm. When he stops fidgeting and his eyes finally lock on mine, they widen, finding my ire. “You don’t know me—”
He scoffs. “Of course, I know you.”
“I need you to listen. Once and for all. Please. This once, will you listen to me?”
Sensing the warning in my voice, he nods.
“You don’t know me. You think you know me, but you don’t. You know the version of Erica you see on the screen. The one my fans see. It’s a caricature you believe in. But you. Don’t. Know. Me.” I pause for a breath, and he remains quiet. Good. “I like hiking. I like mushroom hunting. I love the beach—anything in nature, I love. I dare to hike off-trail because I’m good at getting back on the trail. Really good, actually. I’m safe about it. Lily has my location. If I don’t check in with her tomorrow, she will do something about it.”
“You need security—” he stops his thought when he sees me pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Fritz, I don’t need security because I’m extremely safe. The minute my career started getting traction, I took self-defense classes. I’ve never needed to use those skills, but I keep them up just in case.”
“What the hell, Eri? This isn’t you.”
“Actually, Fritz, this is exactly me. I like staying active. I like feeling strong and flexible. I hike. I do yoga. I take karate and jiujitsu. And while we’re at it, here’s more: I work with a dialect coach to eliminate my Spanish accent in English. I continue to work with an acting coach to perfect my craft. And Fritz, darling, you’ve been in my life because I’ve wanted you there.”
His eyes narrow. “Wanted? Past tense?” He asks.
I throw my hands up in frustration. That’s the only part that got through that thick skull of his. At the same time, I’m staring at him, all sweaty and out of breath from his measly attempt to rescue me.
I didn’t need any rescuing, but the fact that he found me and thought that’s what he was doing is kind of hot.
And because there is no reasoning with him, and I’m frustrated at my body getting turned on by the sight of a sweaty Fritz, unprepared as he was for this hike, I nearly bulldoze him over when I cut his next thought off with my mouth.
I bite his upper lip until he kisses me back, and before I know it, he’s peeling down my leggings.
“We have to be quick. Everett will find us soon.”
And fuck if the thought of public exposure doesn’t make my thighs clench together to ease some of the pressure at my center. “Okay,” I breathe out and unbutton his dress shirt to draw my hands down his sweaty muscles.
He unbuckles his belt, and I help him with his zipper so he can free himself.
I yelp when he lifts me in his arms and rests my back against the trunk of a hackberry tree. This man’s mechanical strength has always baffled me. He’s always been able to carry my whole weight while he fucks me. It used to scare the living daylights out of me when I thought he’d drop me, but after enough times, he’s proved he definitely won’t.
“You scared me today,” he says. “I thought I’d lost you.” His tip parts my lips, and he thrusts deep into me. My thighs clench around his torso, and he starts pumping, my back scraping against the bark of the tree. Hopefully, the shirt will resist and save my skin.
He holds me up in one arm while the other comes between us so his thumb can circle my clit, but I see the strain in his neck. It must be the heat and the hike paired with dehydration.
“I got it,” I tell him, shoving his hand away. He holds on to me with both arms again, and I take up his task of rubbing my clit.
“That’s it, baby,” he says between panting, “touch yourself for me. I need you to come for me. Can you do that? Can you come before Everett gets here and finds us like this?”
At the thought of being caught, I spasm around him, tightening my legs’ death grip around his middle, and he thrusts faster and faster, my back in so much pain from rubbing against the tree I cry out, but I don’t want him to stop. I need to feel him come in me one last time.
And he does. His body becomes rigid with his release and then relaxes. When his forehead drops to mine, I unravel my legs from him and stand so I can pull up my tights again.
Fritz is barely done buckling his belt again when we hear a third set of steps crunching toward us.
“There you are,” Everett says. Then he squints in my direction. “Erica? Is that you?”
I’m not going through this again.
“Take him home, Everett,” I say.
“You’re coming with us,” Fritz starts to argue, but I cut him off.
“I know you created this narrative in your stupid little heads that I, for some reason, need saving. I don’t. I’m simply participating in one of my favorite hobbies, which until today was also one of my most relaxing. I’m not in danger. I never was, and I won’t be if I continue my hike for one more mile before I head back to the trailhead, jump in my rental car, and go home to cook my mushrooms.”
Everett blinks. “Mushrooms . . .?”
“Oh, my god,” I say, exasperated. “Go home. Take Fritz with you. He’s going to need a shower and a foot massage, I’d wager.”
This time they don’t follow me, and I hear their steps start to go in the opposite direction. I pause, thinking better of it, and turn around one last time before the woods swallow me from their view. “Federico?” I call out, and he turns to face me again. “Goodbye,” I tell him, this time with a sad smile.
He swallows, then nods. “Goodbye, Eri.”
17
FRITZ
4 MONTHS LATER
Paul is infuriatingly quiet as he stares at me through the screen on my laptop. He’s been my therapist for the last seven years or so. When I finally gave up and admitted I needed help with my problem, he was the best therapist money could buy.
Seven years later, and at least six figures, he has yet to fix the problem. And he blames me.
“Say something,” I say.
“What do you want me to say? You went on a date. Good for you.”
“I haven’t dated anyone publicly the entire time you’ve been working for me, and I tell you I met an amazing woman—that I’ve been seeing her for months, we went our first public date, and it went great, and . . . nothing? You don’t think this is progress?”
“Do you think it’s progress?” he asks with maddening calm.
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“Did you break things off with Erica first? Did you warn Esme about what to expect, and if you didn’t and took the date further, were there any issues?”
I avert my eyes from the screen.
I was prepared to tell him about the fantastic date with the phenomenal woman. How we clicked on an intellectual level that left me more hopeful than I’ve been in a long time.
But of course, Paul is right.
I never broke things off with Erica. She left for LA without a word after I found her on the hiking trail. We’re still in that limbo space between walking away and staying stuck. And I can’t tell Esme how unemotionally unavailable I truly am until I take that last step with Erica.
The porch light was off when I kissed Esme goodnight by her door last night. Cloaked in the darkness, the kiss got heated. I pressed her to her front door, grabbing both her slender wrists in one hand and pinning them above her head against the door.
