When The Rain Falls

8. Wet Dream On Rollerblades

8 WET DREAM ON ROLLERBLADES

FINN

"I thought your uncle Bert was going to start dry humping what was left of the cake." I tighten my grip around Laurel's hand and sway our arms back and forth as we walk. The walls and the ceiling are both the same pristine, creamy color. The light fixtures on the walls blend in, making it look like the bulbs are floating in the air. The only color in the hallway is the intricate, dark green pattern woven into the carpet beneath our feet. The pattern reminds me of an optical illusion. Like we're walking through a portal to our future. And in a way, we are.

"Did I forget to warn you about how much Uncle Bert loves cake?" she asks. I pull out the key card in the pocket of my suit and find the number written on the paper sleeve. 803.

"He kept telling everyone how moist and supple it was." I shiver. "I'll never be able to eat cake again." I laugh. The hallway stops at a fork. I read the plaque on the wall and steer Laurel left. As we round the corner, we stand face to face with a large door.

"803," I announce. "This is it."

"Where are our bags?"

"I had everything brought up earlier."

"Look at you, thinking of everything." She gives me a playful push.

She's wearing a tulle and satin off-the-shoulder A-line dress with a lacey chapel train. At least that's what Laurel called it. A year ago, I didn't know what any of those words meant. I still only have a vague idea. I'm not one to pay attention to wedding dresses. I told Laurel I'd be happy if she showed up in a paper bag. As long as she showed up. But she's stunning. As close to a real life princess as I'll ever get. But better. Because she's my princess.

She pulls my head down and locks her lips with mine. When we pull back from each other, she takes the red rose from my tuxedo and puts it in her teeth.

"I'm ready." She sighs dramatically, putting an arm over her forehead. "Take my maidenhood."

" Are you ready?" I ask with a mischievous smile. "Because my plans for you are going to take all night."

"They better not. I'm tired and my feet are killing me."

"Babe, you won't be standing. Wait a second." I pause to think. The wheels in my mind turn over a scene from a porno I once watched. "Scratch that. We're going to try something." Laurel leans up against me and chuckles.

"Finn, just open the door."

"Yes, Your Majesty." I grin at her. I swipe the key card and a red light on the door turns green. Laurel reaches for the handle.

"Woah, woah." I grab her hand. "Hold it right there." I swoop her up into my arms and she wraps her hands around my neck. "Fuck, how much does this dress weigh?" I grunt under the weight of Laurel and her layers and layers of what must be steel clad satin. I secure her in my arms, but it takes a second.

"Ok." Now we're ready. I push my weight against the door as I turn the handle. The door doesn't open and I slam Laurel against it.

"Ow!" she exclaims. But she's laughing.

"You know. We could just get started right here." I plant a kiss on her neck.

“Oh no! We paid a fortune for the suite. You open the door right now, I want my jacuzzi." I laugh into her neck as I fumble for the key card again. I swipe, turn the handle, and the door opens into a giant living room. There's a jacuzzi in the center and a king sized bed in a separate nook. The windows start at the floor and end at the ceiling. The Seattle skyline sweeps across the room.

I'm so awestruck by the room that I trip making my way towards the bed. As I go down, I launch Laurel onto the mattress. My arms catch my fall, but I just give up and lay face-down, right on the carpet. I groan. That's not how this was supposed to go in my head. I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. Laurel's head hangs over the bed.

"Smooth, Finn." She laughs at me. "You ok?"

"Yeah. I just need your hand for a second." She gives me her hand and I use it to pull her off the bed. The silkiness of her dress helps her to slide right off, like an otter slipping into the water. She lands on top of me.

"You scoundrel." She props her elbows onto my chest. "You tricked me."

"Oh, I'm just getting started." I reach an arm around her back and fumble for the zipper. She kisses me just as I find the pull. It makes a delicious sound as it slides down her back. I roll Laurel onto the floor beside me and straddle her thighs. I undo my buckle as I stare down at her.

"Fuck." I want to say something more eloquent, but there aren't enough words to tell Laurel how stunning she is. "I can't believe you're mine," I say, pulling my belt from my belt loops.

"Why? Why can't you believe it?"

"Because you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

"What about the sunset in Cabo?"

"Nope. You're more beautiful than that."

"What about the rainbow canyons in Utah?"

"More beautiful."

"What about watching the M's win a playoff game?"

"Ok, now don't push it," I say as I brush a strand of hair off her face. She laughs as I pin her arms on the floor beside her head.

"I can't believe you're mine because you're beautiful. And smart. And kind."

"Go on. Tell me more," she jokes.

"I like how your little jaw moves when you chew. And how when you steal the covers, you wrap yourself into a burrito. And how you can be having the absolute worst day, but you'll still have a smile for me."

"Knowing I'll see you is the only thing that gets me through those days." Her voice is soft. Tears threaten to fill my eyes.

I lean down and kiss her, fumbling with the layers of her dress. I'm trying to find the hem so I can lift it up, but the fabric never seems to end. It's a giant tangle of lace, and tulle, and satin. I pull back in frustration and dig through the fabric.

"Babe, how am I going to put my babies in you if I can't get this fucking dress off?”

Laurel’s laugh fills the room. It's like a warm, vibrant brook flowing around me.

Suds run down my face and body as I rinse the shampoo out of my hair. I stand under the shower head and let the hot water pelt against my skin. It's Sunday morning and I'm in the middle of my Sunday morning ritual. Wake up, shower, jerk off, coffee. And, when I feel like shaking things up, I’ll even have coffee before my shower.

Is it pathetic that I have a jerk-off schedule? At this point, it’s basically just routine maintenance. Unclogging the pipes. Turning over the engine to make sure the battery doesn’t die. Might as well place one of those stickers on my head telling me how many miles to go before I need to check the oil.

Is it pathetic that jerking off has become another chore? That every time I take my dick in my hand, I have the tiniest fear that it won’t work?

I don’t know why things went so wrong with Nicole three years ago. I don’t know why I couldn’t stay hard enough to finish the job. Maybe because I keep talking about sex like it’s a job? It was never that way with Laurel. And I guess part of me doesn’t want to create new memories with someone else. I’m sure it’s anxiety. Anxiety over the fact that no matter who I touch, it won’t be her .

Must be anxiety. It works just fine for me. So far. The problem only rears up when I’m with someone. Technically, the problem only reared up with Nicole. And if it is anxiety, the fact that she left me over it sure doesn’t help. When Nicole walked away from me, she took whatever confidence I had left. Which wasn’t a lot to begin with.

And this is why I built a wall. A wall around my heart. A wall around myself. A wall to keep my broken pieces in and to keep women out.

And then Aimee. That frustrating menace who lives across the street. She and her perky tits are probably prancing about the neighborhood as we speak. Seducing men like Medusa and turning them to stone. Or just biting them on the fucking mouth.

Goddamn.

I’m not going to let her tear down everything I worked so hard to build. Not the temptress of a neighbor next door. Who even knows how old the fuck she is? Nope. Nothing good can come from that.

I sigh as I run my hands through my hair to make sure I got all the lather out. I’m supposed to be jerking off, not having an existential crisis in the goddamn shower. What the fuck is wrong with me?

When I rub my eyes, they immediately sting from shampoo. I tilt my head back and open my eyes to the streams of water pouring from the shower head. Get it together, Finn. It's been nine years. You can't keep having a mental breakdown every year on her birthday.

Just fucking jerk off already.

There’s something soothing in the rushing sound of water as it hits the window of a vehicle. There’s also something satisfying in watching soapy bubbles cascade down the side of my van in thick sheets. Washing my van is downright meditative. It’s the highlight of my weekend. God. I’m fucking pathetic.

And I might drive a piece of shit, but it's a clean piece of shit.

"Hey." A cheerful voice slices into my meditative state like a knife through flesh. Much the same way the image of two peaked nipples slices into my brain.

Goddammit.

I don't need to look. I already know who it is. The obnoxious glee in her voice gives it away. Another dead giveaway is the way my mind automatically associates her voice with nipples. God, here I go. Thinking about nipples again. I’m going to need to find a way to live next to this person without turning into a high school horn dog.

I decide not to respond. If I ignore her, she might go away and find a more interesting victim to pick on. The chances are slim. But they exist.

The sound of tiny, little wheels rolling on pavement is what piques my interest next. It sounds like it’s getting closer. It's a familiar sound, but I can't place it.

Don't look. It's a trap.

The rolling sound stops suddenly. Maybe it's a suitcase? Maybe she's leaving? I send another spray of water against the van. The suds are gathering in the driveway now, waves of water and bubbles collecting into a stream and flowing towards the storm drain. I'm using environmentally friendly car wash soap, as required in our HOA rules.

"I said, hey ." The voice is louder now. Fuck. Can’t she tell I’m trying to ignore her? Without turning my head, I cast a glance in her direction. She's wearing tiny, cut off jean shorts that perfectly showcase her long, muscular legs, and fuck . That damn tattoo, wrapping around her upper thigh. I wonder how many of my hands it would take to do the same? Two and a half maybe? Three?

Zero. Because I won’t be touching her.

She’s wearing a tiny, white t-shirt. Someone really needs to take this girl shopping for clothes that fit. And you'd think that would be the centerstage of her outfit. The way the smooth cotton fabric of her shirt stretches taught across her chest. Showcasing the small, but full swell of her breasts. But nope. The centerstage of this entire ensemble is the pair of goddamn rollerblades strapped to her feet. What kind of adult strolls around the neighborhood on rollerblades? She's not even wearing knee pads. Or a helmet. What a fucking delicious morsel. I mean, moron. A fucking moron.

Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, the heel of one pair of rollerblades digging into the ground to keep her from rolling away.

"What do you want?" I growl, casting the hose from side to side across the van.

Her mouth curves into her signature shit-eating grin.

"Nothing," she says in a voice that communicates the exact opposite. She rolls forward on one leg, her quad muscles tightening. I try not to, but I can’t help it. I watch her roll closer. Until she approaches the lip of my driveway. Goddammit. I need to stop this.

"See that line?" I nod to the lip of my driveway before she can get any closer.

"Yes," she says, looking down.

"That's my property line," I tell her.

"Cool?" she says sarcastically. Her tone tells me she doesn’t care and thinks this line of discussion is a complete waste of time.

"Don’t cross it," I say flatly. "You cross that line and you cross me. Got it?" Yeah, Finn. This seems like a great idea. Draw a literal line on the ground and tell the contrary, stubborn woman not to cross it. It’s like I don’t even have children.

She tips her head back in a laugh, nearly losing her balance. “I didn’t know trolls were territorial.”

Why does she keep calling me a troll? I’m not a fucking troll. Would a troll wash a minivan?

“I know,” she says, scrutinizing my face and popping out her hip. “You have a bunch of kidnapped women locked up in your dungeon and you don’t want to be discovered.”

"I don’t need to kidnap women,” I retort, swirling the long end of the hose around in front of my body. And shit. It looks like I’m making a filthy gesture about the size of my dick. Oh fuck. Aimee’s eyebrows raise telling me that she noticed it, too. Fuck. “I have enough bullshit to deal with today. I don't need any of yours," I mutter, turning away from her.

But I can’t help but glance back at her when she drops her arms and lets out a howl. Why does she find that funny? I was being serious.

"So, do you rollerblade?" she asks. She asks like it’s a completely normal question to ask a forty-two year old man with graying hair around his temples and frown lines as severe as the cracks in his driveway.

"Do I look like I rollerblade?" I clench my teeth. I clench my teeth to bite back an involuntary chuckle.

"Never judge a book by its cover," she answers smartly. Her eyes widen, if that's even possible, as her whole body starts rolling forward. Her front wheel eventually stops on the lip of my driveway. She tries to back up, but this only causes her to lose her balance. Her arms flail wildly in all directions as her blades threaten to roll out from under her. Aimee crouches down and sets her palm on the pavement to steady herself.

"No," I tell her. "I don't rollerblade." Aimee tries to stand, but her blades send her rolling forward again. This time she plows right into my mailbox. "And apparently, neither do you."

Aimee doesn't respond. She's too busy concentrating on gripping the mailbox and regaining her footage. When she finally stands, she gives me an amused smile. Goddamn, why is everything so amusing to her?

I see that the front of her rollerblade has crossed the line. Aimee's gaze follows mine. She looks back up at me and grins wickedly, like she's daring me to do something about it. Well, she's messed with the wrong person. I don’t believe in empty threats. Follow through is the only way to establish dominance. I point my hose at the offending rollerblade and a cascade of water falls across her entire foot.

"Hey!" She laughs. But instead of pulling her foot back. She dangles her second blade in the air over the line, taunting me.

"Don't test me," I command as I send the spray of water higher up her leg. She laughs hysterically as she sets the second blade down, right onto my driveway. I don't hesitate for a moment. I instantly shoot a volley of water across her entire front. And fuck. That's when I remember she's wearing a white t-shirt. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Idiot. This was probably all part of her scheme. Her shirt clings to her front in all the best ways. I try not to stare. In fact, I peel my eyes off her and the hint of the black bra peering through the now partially sheer fabric. Who wears a black bra under a white t-shirt, anyway?

"You're trespassing," I tell her as I redirect the hose and my gaze back to the van. I don't want to risk any accidental, lingering glances.

"And you're rinsing a van that's perfectly rinsed," she snaps back at me. I study the van more closely and realize she's right. There's not a single sud anywhere. Now I feel like the moron.

Aimee stumbles on the bumpy surface of my driveway, throws her arms out for balance, and then corrects herself once again. Does she even know how rollerblades work?

"Can you please fall somewhere else?" I ask her. "I'm trying to do my chores in peace. You might get blood on my driveway."

Aimee opens her mouth to say something, when the sound of an approaching truck steals our attention. It's a dark blue pick-up truck that lurches to a stop right in front of Alicia's house.

"Expecting someone?" I ask.

"Kinda," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and spinning on her rollerblades towards the truck. The truck door opens and a man steps out. His hair is long and tied back in a ponytail. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt that says, What about second breakfast? in scrawly script.

"I think you're here for me," Aimee says as she rollerblades towards him. Again. She’s a grown ass woman. On rollerblades. That’s not the way you greet people. Jesus.

I realize that I’ve absentmindedly followed her to the street. Garden hose long forgotten in the driveway.

"Are you Aimee?" he asks as his eyes travel down to her shirt and stay there for three beats too long. I suddenly want to pop the guy in the jaw. I mean, sure, it’s technically my fault, but I had the decency to hide my gawking. I stand protectively behind Aimee, just to make sure this guy doesn’t get any wrong ideas. "Yeah," she chirps, apparently oblivious to the fact that her front is basically every man's wet dream right now. "That's me."

"I'm Eric," he says. "Alex sent me over with the rest of your stuff." Alex? Who is Alex? And why would he send this Eric guy to deliver her stuff?

Aimee loses her balance and grabs my arm. I steady her by placing a hand at the small of her back and guiding her forward. She turns to smile at me over her shoulder. And this is a soft smile. Not full of mischief or hysterics. Just a simple, kind smile. It’s so genuine and so pure that it nearly knocks me over. Stuns me in place. Aimee, completely unphased by the havoc she is wrecking on the walls around my heart, follows Eric to the tailgate of the truck. When Eric puts the tailgate down, I see five, maybe six moving boxes in the bed.

"Well, here you go." He waves to the boxes. "I told Alex I'd bring your shit, but I'm not going to unload it for you. I hurt my back two weeks ago and I'm still recovering."

"I got it," Aimee says.

"I'll do it." I glare at the excuse of a man in front of me and walk to the tailgate, reaching for two boxes stacked on top of each other. I slide them onto my thigh, get a good grip, and begin to walk them to Alicia's porch.

"Nu-uh," Aimee says, rolling in front of me, arms outstretched. "I can carry my own shit."

"Nice try," I tell her. "But you can barely walk in those. And as much fun as it might be to see you fall on your face, I, unfortunately, have a conscience." I easily move around her and keep walking down Alicia's driveway.

“I assume you’re in the guest room,” I call back to her as I prop the boxes on my thigh and open the front door.

“You can’t just waltz into my room.” When I turn back around, Aimee is in the grass, muttering under her breath, trying to pull the rollerblades off her feet.

“Look at that. Pretty sure that I can,” I say as I ignore her and walk into the house. I don’t know why I'm insisting on doing this. But something inside me doesn’t want her to win this one. She’s winning all the battles being waged in my head. I want this little victory. I walk up the stairs finding the guest bedroom easily, considering our houses have an identical floor plan, and plop the box on her bed.

When I arrive back outside, Aimee frowns at me as she struggles to pull off the second rollerblade. I walk up to the open tailgate and pull another box onto my thigh.

"Careful. I think that one's books. Alex could barely lift it," Eric warns. And that propels me to act like an even bigger idiot than I already am.

"What, this?" I say casually, hoisting the box into my arms. It's fucking heavy. But I don't let it show. "It's not that heavy," I say, barely masking the strain in my voice.

I walk past Aimee just as she kicks off her last roller blade and shoots up in front of me.

"I'll take that, thank you very much," she says. She puts her arms out, palms up. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But that smug look on her face talks me out of doing the right thing.

"If you insist," I say. I drop the box onto her hands. She grunts and buckles at the knees as she nearly doubles over. Her eyes look like they'll pop right off her face. I instantly feel bad. So I reach down and pick up the box again.

"I'll get the next one," she groans as she regains her composure. She doesn't just have a wild and independent streak . No, she's pure independence. And I kind of love that she has no choice but to let me do this for her.

Soon, I’ve got the last box in my hand. I wave Eric away as I walk back into the house and up the stairs. I walk into Aimee’s room, or the guest room, and set the last box on her dresser. Aimee’s rifling through the heavy boxy, her white shirt still clinging across her front. I bite my lip and look down at my hands.

“Thanks,” she says begrudgingly, pulling out some books and setting them on the dresser.

“No problem,” I say, garnering the courage to lift my eyes from my own hands back to her face.

Aimee pokes around in the box again. She lifts a pile of books, removes a small stack of what looks like thick paper of some kind, and lets out a sigh.

"Oh, phew. The asshole didn't damage my stuff."

"What asshole? Alex? Is he an ex?" I ask, trying not to sound too curious. I'm not trying to figure out if she's single. I'm just making polite conversation.

"Ex-roommate," she clarifies, giving away precisely zero information about her relationship status. Which is completely fine with me. Right?

"What's that?” I point to the stack of posters in her hand.

"Oh. Just some projects I'm working on." She clutches the paper to her chest.

"Let's see." I give the come here hand gesture.

She tilts her head and considers my command. Then she loosens her grip against her chest and hands me the stack. I take them and flip through them. They are three 8x10 posters that feature digital designs of landscapes with lettering at the top. I realize they are travel posters for local destinations. There's one that says Mt. Rainier National Park with a graphic of the infamous peak with some wildflowers in the foreground. A second one says Long Beach, Washington and features a sandy beach littered with seagulls and bright, colorful kites in the sky. There's one of Seattle, with the space needle along the skyline and a ferry boat in the foreground with two female figures walking along the boardwalk.

“Did you make these?”

"Yeah.” She waves me off dismissively, but there’s something somber on her face.

“They’re good,” I tell her as I hand them back. And I mean it. They’re something you might find for sale on one of those handmade goods websites.

“Thank you. I'm a graphic designer," she says again, dismissively. She blows out a breath and crosses her arms. "Well, I'm trying to be. I work for a large agency that just has me doing plug and chug templates. So I do this for fun on the side. When I need to create something."

“I take it that one is you,” I say, pointing to one of the two female figures that has the same wild and wavy brown hair.

“Yeah,” she says. “And my best friend, Tate.” She runs a finger over the figure. “Well, for now at least.”

“For now?” I ask, not missing the sigh in her voice.

“Never mind.” She waves me off. She takes a moment, then drops the posters on her dresser. She collects herself, plasters on a playful smile, and meets my eyes again. I can sense there’s something on her mind that she’d rather forget, so I move on.

“And what about all those?" I ask, nodding towards the books that are still in the moving box.

"Oh. Those.” She broadens her smile as she picks one from the box. She holds it in front of my face. "These are called books," she says. "You read them." I bite my bottom lip to flatten the smile threatening to creep across my face.

“I'm generally familiar with the concept," I say dryly. This causes Aimee to cover her mouth and giggle. I love the way her pretty mouth curves upward. And I love even more the fact that I’m the cause of it.

"What kind of stuff do you read?" I frown at her as I pick through the box and study the titles. The Backpackers Guide to The Pacific Crest Trail. Trail Running: The Guide. Washington Trails. Beginner’s Guide to Scuba Diving.

"Actually, I should probably get rid of these.” She takes a handful of the books and places them neatly in an empty box. “I tend to start a lot of hobbies that I never finish,” she explains. She suddenly looks a little wistful. A little regretful, even.

I pick up the book at the top of the donation pile. It’s a book titled Rock Climbing for Dummies . “What about this one? What’s wrong with rock climbing? That sounds fun.” I have no idea what I’m talking about. I know nothing about rock climbing. I just find myself enjoying this moment and wanting an excuse to linger. Linger. In the young neighbor’s bedroom. Great, Finn. That’s not creepy at all, man.

“It is fun. But you have to learn how to tie all these knots. It got complicated. And then you have to get a belay certificate if you want to climb with someone. And,” she pauses, “you also need someone to climb with.” Aimee blinks her eyes a couple times before she continues.

“And then the backpacking thing. I wanted to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. But it takes so much planning and it can take months.” Aimee pauses again. She turns away from me for a second. “Tate and I decided we’d probably murder each other on the trails.” She laughs. But it’s not her usual hysterical laughter. She turns back to me, that smile back on her face.

“Now, I’m getting into ultrarunning,” she says. “I hear about these people who run a marathon or half marathon in every state. So maybe I’ll do something like that.”

"How many have you done so far?" I ask, leaning up against the dresser next to her. Both our hands are resting at our sides and our elbows bump.

She takes her other hand, holds it up until the air proudly, and makes the shape of a zero.

"Wow. That many? Impressive," I say dryly. Aimee laughs. "Better slow down there, slick," I tease, crossing one leg over the other.

"Did you call me slick ?" Aimee wrinkles her nose at me. The lines around her eyes crinkling in humor. Her cheeks forming perfect, round globes.

"Yeah. What? You prefer slugger?"

"Oh God. That's the most Dad thing I've ever heard you say." Aimee laughs. “Well, other than when you asked if I knew CPR.”

"Yeah, well. I'm a dad." I shrug. A dad with a lot of baggage who has absolutely no business chatting up the young next door neighbor. A dad who should be staying far, far away from this live wire of a woman.

"It's so weird," Aimee says. "How you, like, made a kid. And kept it alive."

"More than one," I remind her.

"I kept a snake plant alive once," Aimee says proudly.

"Once?"

"Yeah. I kept it alive for six months."

I nod. “That's practically the same thing as having kids," I say dryly. “How did you kill a snake plant in six months? Those are supposed to be hard to kill.”

"Plants are harder to keep alive than children. They can't talk. They don't cry or scream when they need something. They just silently die. It's pretty rude, actually," she explains. It takes everything in me to keep my lips pressed in a straight line.

"Sure. Weird way to justify plant murder, but ok." Aimee gives me another one of her giant grins. And there's something in that grin that's a bit contagious. I find myself, once again, pressing my lips together to stop a smile. There's a silence between us now and I can't think of any way to fill it.

“So,” I say awkwardly, pushing off from the dresser. At this angle, there’s a ray of sun hitting the side of her face from the nearby window. It travels across the side of her leg and down the floor, making her look half-dipped in gold. “Sorry about your shirt,” I say. “I didn’t really think about it, until…and then…anyway, sorry about that.”

“I’m not sorry,” she says as her eyes land on mine. “I don’t mind getting wet.”

I study her, trying to figure out if she means it the way I heard it. But I don’t discover anything on her face, other than how long her lashes are. And how provocative her lips are.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she asks.

“I'm not being nice to you.”

“Yes you are.” She gives me a pointed smile.

“Shut up," I say quickly.

Aimee throws her head back and laughs. And it's as warm as that beam hitting her face.