Summer Attractions Read online

  Jemma wiggled out of her jeans and just managed to throw them to the floor before he was back, crouching on top of her, a hand reaching under and cradling her head as he looked into her eyes, like he was searching for something. Only later would she remember and realize he’d been searching for coherency, for permission, for certainty that she wasn’t doing anything she didn’t want to do.

  But in the heat of the moment, Jemma didn’t know and she didn’t care, she only wanted to kiss him more. So she did, pressing her lips to his insistently and as persuasively as she knew how.

  His hands were rough but gentle on her skin, and even though they’d never met before that day, it didn’t feel like the first time. It felt like the first time after a long time apart, like he wasn’t discovering what she liked for the first time, but merely reacquainting himself.

  His fingers slid lower and found her wet and desperate for him. She let out a high pitched whine as he teased her with the tips of his fingers. It seemed obvious, but she couldn’t help but shudder a little as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, mouthing into the damp skin about how much he wanted her. She could feel it too, the hard ridge of him against her thigh, and suddenly it felt like they’d waited long enough. The whole evening had, at points, felt like one long bout of foreplay and she was just about done with waiting.

  She wrapped her legs insistently around his waist and urged him, her fingers reaching down to stroke him once, then twice, until he was moaning into her skin. She felt him reach down beside the bed and come up with a packet. She raised herself to watch him put the condom on. His movements were fascinatingly abrupt, quick and methodical, and she was suddenly not just desperate for sex with him, but desperate to know him better. And maybe that would have scared her, but she was still so relaxed from the rum, and then he was holding her knees and nudging at her entrance with his cock and all thought disappeared as he slid home.

  He was big and it had been so long for her, she was grateful for the alcohol because it meant she didn’t tense. But even then, he groaned at how tight she was, and Jemma held him still with the back of her leg, letting him know she needed a minute.

  Gabe swore, something low and filthy in Portuguese as she shifted around, adjusting to his length inside of her.

  He’d been at points both rough and gentle with her, even the former tinged with a ghost of the latter, but Jemma had a feeling he too had been pushed to the brink of his self-control and when she let him go, she was going to need to be ready for whatever that wild look in his eyes foretold. She finally urged him forward with her calf, and he fell into her, caging her with his body as he fucked her in long, unrelenting strokes that sent heat sizzling through her veins. She could only grip the firm muscles of his shoulders and hold on as he carried her away, reminding her of everything she’d been missing.

  He flipped her over, wrapping an arm around her waist, the other sliding down to rub her clit as he pounded into her. Jemma moaned, trying to dampen her cries with the cotton sheet, as she finally exploded, clenching around him and sending him into his own orgasm.

  They lay there a long moment, sweat cooling on their skin, and for the first time since she’d stepped off the plane, Jemma felt suddenly very unsure. Everything had seemed right and she’d been in control, and then all of a sudden, she wasn’t. She’d toppled over into another plane of existence where nothing made sense and she was flying blind.

  He got off the bed and went in the bathroom. She heard the sink turn on and then off. She rolled over and saw him walk back into the bedroom, his muscled body half-shadowed in the moonlight streaming in from the window. He pressed the washcloth into her hands and she cleaned up as he sat, silent, on the edge of the bed.

  She knew she should ask him if he was going to stay, or ask him to stay, but a wave of fatigue and remnants of the rum hit her then, and she was only vaguely aware of handing him back the washcloth and her head hitting the pillow.

  And then there was nothing.

  For one painful moment when the alarm went off the next morning, Jemma couldn’t remember where she was or why she’d set it so early. A headache pounded away happily at her temples, and she might’ve groaned, but then she realized, much slower than if she hadn’t ingested multiple caipirinhas, that she wasn’t alone.

  The other side of the bed was occupied by a large figure, a brown, muscular calf poking out of the sheet when she dared to glance over in the body’s direction.

  The events of the evening inexorably came back to Jemma in one messy package: flirting at dinner, the caipirinhas, the dancing, even more caipirinhas, and then the kiss followed by an embarrassing seduction attempt that had actually, shockingly, worked.

  But what had followed hadn’t been embarrassing in the slightest. It had been incendiary and freeing. Now all that remained was for Jemma to look Gabe in the eye again after what they’d done together.

  She lay perfectly still on her back, the lazy swish of the fan the only noise in the room, and counted to ten. She told herself when she finished, she would rise from the bed, create lots of noise heading to the bathroom, try to make herself presentable, and then confront the elephant in the room.

  Jemma reached ten. She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten again.

  Really, the issue was she was horribly out of practice with the morning after. She hadn’t had a one night stand since her freshman year of college, since before she’d become friends with Colin. It had been a long time and along the way, she’d turned careful and safe and into an absolute chicken shit.

  Jemma acknowledged this about herself as she crept into the bathroom silently, dressed silently, grabbed her purse and room key silently, and finally, and most importantly, escaped the room silently.

  As it turned out, while she’d been able to seduce Gabe—with the help of a not-insignificant amount of bootleg Brazilian liquor—she wasn’t quite able to face the consequences of that decision without a stomach-curdling amount of awkwardness.

  There was an elegant little café on the veranda of the hotel, and Jemma could see tiny gold tea stands stacked with pastries on the tables. She hesitated at the entrance, but ultimately stopped by the quick to-go coffee counter instead. She didn’t want to be dawdling downstairs when Gabe eventually discovered that she’d disappeared.

  Coffee in hand and beginning to feel a bit more human, Jemma stopped at the concierge desk and asked for the best method to reach the destination she’d spontaneously decided on while in the elevator. Even better, Jemma discovered that for the duration of the Games, the hotel was offering a special tram up to the mountain.

  Five minutes later, Jemma tossed her coffee cup into the trash as she headed outside to cram herself onto the shuttle.

  The shuttle ride was long and steep, and by the time it reached the top, Jemma was sure she was a tad green. Maybe not the best idea with a hangover, she thought, but then she stepped out of the van and the fresh breeze up high was so refreshing, she felt better almost instantly.

  In front of her, the statue of Christ the Redeemer spread its arms, majestic and awe-inspiring. Jemma felt her breath catch at how huge it seemed up close, veritably towering over the entire valley.

  She walked closer, trying not to jostle anyone or let herself be jostled in return. Like the concierge at the hotel had warned, there were many, many tourists in town for the Games, and Christ the Redeemer seemed to be a popular destination for all of them.

  Positioning herself in front, she tried to get the right angle for a selfie, but there were too many people, and at one point, Jemma decided to give up. Glancing around, she saw a thin, tall girl approach where Jemma was standing. Like Jemma, she too was clearly alone.

  “Hi, could you take a picture of me in front of the statue?” she asked. The girl flinched as if she was completely shocked anyone would speak to her, and Jemma only caught a brief glance of her face, almost completely hidden by the hood of her sweatshirt. She was wearing sunglasses too, but Jemma thought she somehow looked ve
ry familiar, even though she couldn’t place the face.

  “Sure,” the girl said, her voice low and almost muffled.

  Jemma handed her phone over and the girl took the picture quickly, handing the phone back so fast that Jemma’s interest was piqued.

  “I could take one for you too, if you like?” Jemma asked gently, not wanting to spook the girl any more than she already had.

  Jemma could see her hesitate, a hand flying to her hood and then freezing right before she drew it down.

  “It’s okay,” Jemma reassured. “It’ll be quick. But you wouldn’t want to come all the way up here and not get a picture.”

  “You’re right,” she said, but her tone still sounded unconvinced. Her hand wavered near her hood.

  “My name’s Jemma, and I won’t bite. Promise.”

  The girl finally, slowly, lowered her hood, but kept her sunglasses on as she passed her phone to Jemma.

  She posed and Jemma snapped a series of pictures, hoping that she’d managed to grab a good one.

  “There should be at least one you shouldn’t be ashamed of,” Jemma said, handing the phone back. The girl already had her hood back up and she accepted her phone back with a quick, grateful smile.

  “Thanks,” she said softly.

  They both glanced up at the same time, ready to part ways, when the crowd surged toward them, all wearing US Olympic Team insignia, accompanied by security and other personnel who would all, Jemma was almost certain, be able to identify the girl standing in front of her—just as Jemma eventually had. The girl’s face caught and froze. Jemma only had a split second to do anything, and it was all instinctual.

  She slid an arm around her shoulders and turned them, abruptly, quickly, away from the oncoming group, dodging some other tourists, until they were in the far shadow of the statue and nobody was likely to guess who she was with.

  “There,” Jemma said kindly. “You’re good now.”

  She looked up at her, eyes still full of fear. “I’m good,” she parroted back. “Yes,” she repeated after a moment, “I’m good.” And then she turned to leave.

  Jemma watched, a pang of regret that she hadn’t been able to get the fearful girl to say more than a few words.

  The girl’s words stopped her in her tracks. She turned back, contrition obvious from her expression. “I’m sorry. God, I don’t mean to be rude.”

  Jemma smiled. “You weren’t rude. You don’t know me . . . we don’t have to be friends. I just wanted to make sure you got a picture. Coming here is special, I think.”

  The girl’s face crumpled, and Jemma instantly regretted saying anything. “No, it’s okay, I promise,” she continued. “Here, there’s a café over there.” She gestured to a number of umbrellas shading a corner of the mountaintop. “Let’s go have a cup of coffee.”

  The girl hesitated, and Jemma had begun to wonder if she was truly all right. There was so much misery etched on the parts of her that Jemma could see: the hunch of her shoulders; the way she shoved her hands into the front pocket of her sweatshirt; how she kept trying to make herself smaller and less significant.

  “I’m crazy hungover,” Jemma confessed. “And if I don’t get some more coffee in me, I may actually fall down. You probably don’t want to be responsible for that sort of public meltdown.”

  Finally, the girl nodded her head and followed as Jemma led their way to the little café. It was overrun, but they managed to grab a table in the back. The girl insisted on sitting with her back to the rest of the occupants, and Jemma could only shrug her agreement. She seemed terrified of being seen, and Jemma was pretty certain she knew why.

  “I’ll go grab some coffees,” Jemma said and went to go stand in the line. While she was waiting in line, she hooked onto the wifi and googled to confirm her earlier suspicion. She wasn’t sure how she felt when the pictures loaded and she turned out to be right.

  Having her hunch confirmed, Jemma didn’t even argue when the girl kept her hood up and her sunglasses on when she returned to the table with the two cups.

  Sliding one to the girl, Jemma shot her a frank look. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  The girl’s lip trembled as she took a sip of coffee. “Not really,” she admitted softly.

  “I think you should. It was dangerous to come here alone and I think you know it, but you came here for a reason, didn’t you?”

  The girl lowered her sunglasses, hazel eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “You recognized me!”

  Jemma rolled her eyes. “I’m a sports blogger. I could probably identify every member of the US Olympic Team with my eyes closed.”

  Panic bloomed on the girl’s face. Not just a girl, Jemma corrected herself, Kimber Holloway.

  “You won’t write about this, will you?”

  “About how you snuck off without your handlers or any security whatsoever to see Christ the Redeemer? Of course not.” Jemma opened her coffee cup and blew on the hot surface. “I’m not heartless. Frankly, I could care less what you choose to do with your free time. I’m only worried because you don’t seem okay.”

  Kimber buried her head in her hands. “You’re right,” she mumbled between her fingers, “I’m not okay.”

  “Tell me about it,” Jemma said as kindly as she could. “You can tell me and I swear to you I won’t write a word about it.”

  Raising her head, Kimber gave Jemma a dubious look. “Why wouldn’t you? This is such a great story,” she said a little bitterly.

  “Because I’m promising you I won’t? Because I’m not a shitty person? If I wanted to draw attention to you, I would have let the rest of the US team recognize you.”

  Kimber’s eyes were weary and Jemma couldn’t help but notice the white etched lines underneath them. She looked exhausted and stressed. Hardly the United States’ greatest hope for a haul of gold medals in swimming.

  “If you know who I am, you know who my mother is.”

  “Julia Holloway? Of course. She’s a legend.”

  “Exactly.” The bitterness in Kimber’s voice was growing more and more pronounced. “Not very easy being the daughter of a legend.”

  “I can only imagine,” Jemma said sympathetically. “It must be really tough on you, all this pressure.”

  “I think I could deal with the gold medal pressure and all those expectations,” Kimber explained, twisting the lid of her cup round and round again, “even the media writing stories about it. But living with it. . .it’s every single day. Unrelenting.”

  “So it’s her, then,” Jemma observed.

  “Oh it’s definitely her.” Kimber’s voice reached a new level of bitter. “It’s always her.”

  Jemma’s heart ached with sympathy. God knew, she had her own problems with her mother—and what daughter didn’t? But she’d never been pushed or prodded by her. Her mom, good and bad, had always supported Jemma’s own dreams. She’d never considered herself particularly lucky before, but looking at Kimber’s drawn and weary face, Jemma realized just how blessed she’d been.

  She opened her mouth to apologize, to comfort, to find whatever words she could to tell Kimber she was appreciated and loved by so many people around the world without a single gold medal, but Kimber kept going.

  “It’s just . . . I want to experience college, not just go to college so I can swim. She makes every decision, watches every move I make. I’m in a cage, and it never gets better. If I win races here, it’ll get worse because she’ll want me to do more, and if I don’t win, it’ll be worse because I didn’t do what she expected and I’ll need to work harder.” Kimber glanced up, and the pain and desperation in her eyes pinned Jemma to her chair.

  “You probably think I’m horrible,” Kimber continued, the edge of misery in her voice obvious. “Hating my own mother this way.”

  “I don’t think you hate her, I think you hate the way she treats you,” Jemma inserted quietly. “And anybody would hate those things. You’re not a thing. You’re a person. You deserve to be able to make
some decisions for yourself. You’re more than just a talented swimmer, Kimber.”

  “I know I am, but it’s hard to believe it when she doesn’t treat me that way.”

  “Have you ever talked to her about it?” Jemma asked.

  Kimber nodded. “Usually she’ll bring up the Games as an excuse. Like if I want to succeed here, I need to follow what she tells me. That she knows best.”

  “Maybe after the Olympics are over, it’s worth bringing up again,” Jemma suggested. “Tell her what you want; lay it all out unemotionally. Appeal to her rational side.”

  “You think she might listen to me?” Kimber’s lips twisted into a cynical smile. “I just want her to let me go to school. Even a college where I’m on the swim team might be better than no college at all.”

  From what Jemma had seen, Julia Holloway was unapologetically tough, and no doubt the person she was the toughest on was her daughter.

  “I think it’s worth a try,” Jemma said. “And if she doesn’t, then at least you knew you tried and can decide what to do from there.”

  A smile peeked out from the corner of Kimber’s lips. She was such a pretty girl, clearly in over her head, and Jemma’s heart ached for her.

  “Is that why you came here today by yourself?” Jemma asked.

  “I snuck out,” Kimber admitted with a rather satisfied smirk. “I bet she’s gonna lose her mind when she sees I’m not in the room or at the practice pool.”

  A feeling that Jemma could sympathize with. She was not particularly looking forward to the moment she saw Gabriel again.

  “I’m playing hooky today too,” Jemma said, finishing her coffee and setting the empty cup on the table.

  “You’re a reporter; how could you be playing hooky?”

  “Being an adult isn’t exactly unlimited freedom, you know,” Jemma confided. “There’s a lot of adult things that suck.”

  Kimber raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay,” Jemma revised, “there’s some great bits too. But a lot of it sucks. Bills and responsibilities and being nice to people you don’t like.”