Page 46 of Rockland

Entwining my very soul to his.

Then he left.

7

Tess

I can do this.

I can do this.

Maybe if I repeat this mantra enough times, I’ll finally believe it.

I, Tess Bachman, can and will brave the wilderness to find the man that I love. Is it love? I think so. But maybe I’m a fool to think it’s love. That light heady sensation I get whenever I think about him… it could be lust… infatuation… a schoolgirl crush.

All I know for sure is that ever since he left, all I’ve done is miss him.

I miss the way he smells. The way his voice sounds, how it carries through my home. The way he slinks around, never ever wearing a shirt over that tattooed muscled chest of his. The way his jeans hang around his hips. The way he has a clever retort to match every insult I swing his way. That half-cocked smile spreading across his smug face.

The way I feel when he says good girl.

The cooking, the cuddling, the forehead kisses.

The way he rocks my body, making me lose my mind, turning me into nothing but the very sensation of pleasure.

Just the way he is.

I miss him.

Terribly.

And so, I must go to him. What I will say, what I will do, I have no idea.

First, I have to pack.

A deep sigh shudders from my chest as I look over the shopping bags that cover my bed.

I’ve bought everything I could possibly need out there. Mosquito netting (West Nile virus, anyone?), bug spray (the good kind with the poisonous chemicals in it), sunscreen (SPF 70 for us fair-skinned redheads, no golden brown tan for me), moisturizer, deep moisturizer, hair conditioner, hair protectant (in case I should brave those shark-infested waters), hiking boots (snakes, scorpions, and who knows what else!), hats, sunglasses, cargo shorts (hideous but necessary), khaki upon khaki upon khaki (the guy at the store assured me that the clothing, albeit ugly, was weatherproof, waterproof, and wrinkle resistant). And if all else fails, I’ve got plenty of the good stuff—my savior in any pinch—cold hard cash to exchange for shells or whatever form of money they use out there.

So I may not be looking fabulous on my trek, but at least I’m doing my best to ensure I survive the wilds.

I can do this.

My plane leaves in two hours. I’m trying to bypass the family gossip game of telephone, so I won’t be able to take the private jet. I’ll be flying commercial.

And I’ll be doing this all on my own. No help from anyone. I’ve made my travel arrangements and I’ll be my own travel guide for this trip. It has to be from me or my arrival, my efforts, my showing up there means nothing.

He has to see that I did this all on my own. For him.

I scurry to the bathroom to take what is sure to be my last shower for a very, very long time. Scrub my hair with my strawberry shampoo. Lather every inch of my skin with my lavender goat’s milk soap. Shave every single trace of hair from my body.

I emerge a hairless, squeaky clean, heavenly scented being. But I’m running out of time. I twist my hair into a braid. Run to the room to put on the cotton bra and panties I’ve deemed durable. Pull on the khaki shorts—gah! Not only do they do nothing for my fair complexion, the hem of them ends at my kneecaps! I pull on the safari style shirt I’ve purchased, buttoning it up to my neck and flattening the collar.

I take one glance in the mirror and burst out into laughter. I look like a ten-year-old playing dress up. One who thinks she’s going to make it big hosting her own real-life crocodile wrestling show.

I look ridiculous.

But it doesn’t even matter. Right now, I’d do just about anything for love… or lust… or like whatever state of being I’ve been in since the day Rockland picked me up in that damn monster truck.