Far Edge of Anywhere

Something Real

"Tell me something real."

Tom looked at her over the rim of his glass. The candle on the table caught the blue in her eyes, sending shadows up through her eyelashes, making them look unnaturally long. Deliberately, he sipped his water, swallowing as he considered what she meant.

"Tom?" She ran a finger along the stem of her unused wine glass. It was busy in the restaurant, and the server - a chipper guy with the incongruous name of 'Blaze' - hadn't yet gotten around to clearing them away, even though their dinner was practically over.

Lowering his drink, Tom hesitated before answering. "What do you want to know?"

"Something true." She gave a little half-shrug. "Something about you that's real."

"But you said - "

"I know what I said." Sasha straightened the napkin on her lap, then turned her attention to adjusting the placement of her empty dish. "I know what we agreed to. I just want - I need - to know something real about you."

"You already know my name."

"I know." She smiled down at the remains of her meal. "I know. I just need to know something more."

"Like what?" Tom sat back in his chair, watching as she seemed to fight herself. He'd picked her up at a hotel near the art gallery she'd come out of on that first day. She had met him in the lobby, standing near the front desk wearing a dress that had reminded him of something out of one of those Audrey Hepburn movies his mother loved. Sleek and simple, it hugged Sasha's lithe form from knee to her neck, except where it scooped wide to reveal the elegant curves of her collarbones and shoulders. His mouth had gone dry when she'd handed him her coat, and he had to ignore his traitorous imagination as he'd settled it upon her.

He'd nearly dragged her up to her room, instead. Complications be damned.

Now, she sat across from him at their table, her skin nearly pearlescent in the glow of the candles, the flickering light capturing odd auburn glints in her hair, and he couldn't fathom why he'd agreed to keep things casual in the first place. "I'm male. I can tell you that without giving too much else away."

"Of that, I am powerfully aware." She fiddled with the dainty salt and pepper shakers that had ended up on her side of the table, passing him a look up from under her lashes. "Come on, Tom. Throw me a bone."

Blaze paused at their table, refilling their water glasses, and Tom waited for him to leave before continuing. "What kind of bone?"

"Something simple."

"Like what?"

"Tell me your birthday."

"Tell me yours, first."

"March." She crossed her arms on the table, leaning forward. "March 28th."

Tom raised a brow. "What year?"

With a rueful smile, she flickered a glance towards the still-empty wine glass. "Don't worry. I'm legal."

"I figured you were." He stretched his legs out under the table, wincing a little in pain. "At least, I'd hoped you were."

"Is that why you didn't order wine with dinner?" One dark brow rose into a perfect arch. "You thought I wasn't old enough to drink?"

He threw her a knowing sort of look. "We met in a bar, remember?"

"I do." Sasha went back to rearranging things, this time adjusting the placement of her dinner fork in the center of her plate. "I was there."

"Then obviously, I figured you were of age." Tom watched as she turned her attention to the positioning of her knife. "I wouldn't have played that stupid game if I had thought you were underage."

"So, age is important to you?"

"Yeah. Kind of." Tom nodded. "I'm not really into in dating jailbait."

"Jailbait, huh?"

Tilting his head to one side, he leaned into the table, resting his weight on his forearms. "I'm a grown man, Sasha. I'm truly uninterested in spending my time with little girls. When I approached you at that bar, I fully intended to accomplish the mission I'd been given and then throw your number away."

"So, you knew that I was old enough to be in the bar, but didn't think that I was going to be old enough to what - be interesting?"

"How was I to know what you were like?" He reached out and switched the salt and pepper shakers - just for something to do. "My friends had picked you as the target. All I saw was tight jeans and curves in all the right places. I had no idea that you'd be - "

She studied him, waiting for him to complete his sentence. When she'd lost her patience, she offered a prompt. "That I'd be what? An 'obstinate, headstrong girl'?"

His fingers stilled. "Obstinate and headstrong, huh?"

"I freely admit to both of those attributes." Her lips curved into a rueful smile. "Why else do you think that I relate so much to Lizzie Bennet?"

"But Lizzie wasn't a girl. She was a woman." Tom leaned back again. Blaze had reappeared, and was clearing away the empty dishes, including the unused wine glasses. Once he'd left, Tom continued. "And just for the record, you could have ordered yourself a glass of wine, or whatever, if you'd wanted a drink."

"You're not a wine buff?"

"Not really." He shook his head. "I'm not big on alcohol. I'll have a beer every once in a while, but I don't like it much."

"What about it don't you like?"

"The taste, for one." Again, he stretched his stiff leg out under the table, careful not to accidentally kick Sasha. The main reason he wasn't drinking was the damned leg and its apparent revulsion to his mad dash after the kid at the park earlier. He hadn't yet had to resort to taking the pill he'd shoved into his pocket, but alcohol would have taken away that option. He wasn't going to admit that to Sasha, however. The mere presence of the capsule felt like weakness.

"Yet, you'll drink beer."

"I'm not against alcohol. I do my share of social drinking with friends." He glanced towards the restaurant bar, where a few guys had gathered around whatever game was playing on the wall-mounted TV. "And when it's appropriate. I'm not completely against it. Its just not something that I choose as a default activity."

"So, for you, it's totally social, rather than an escape." She contemplated that. "I haven't met many guys in our generation who have thought that way - except for the odd Mormon or Southern Baptist."

He thought about that for a minute. "I guess when you watch people struggle with the effects of it, you are more aware of its pitfalls."

"Ah." Nodding, she threw a look over to the group of men he'd indicated before. "So this is a thoughtful choice based on your observations."

"And my experiences." Tom scratched a little at a spot under his chin. "I've watched as people have allowed a substance to completely change who they are."

"So, it's not just the taste."

"Not just the taste."

"Have you ever gotten good and plastered?"

"Once." He brushed an errant crumb off the table cloth in front of him. "When I was young and stupid. I didn't like the feeling."

"I got into my parents' liquor cabinet when I was around fifteen." Sasha frowned at the memory. "We were in Seoul for a few years, and my mom had really become enamored by soju - it's this rice wine stuff that's usually fruity and sweet. I was a brat, really, and mad at her pretty much all the time for one reason or another, so one night, while they were out at some formal function, I invited some other ex-pat kids over and we had a party."

Tom had actually experienced soju. He'd had a day's liberty in Seoul during one of his first times at sea, and a pretty local girl had convinced him to try it. Figuring that experience would count as 'too personal', Tom chose not to share it. "I take it that things didn't end well?"

"Explosively. Everyone got sick. They all ended up hunched over whatever receptacle they could find, emptying their guts out. I managed to hold things together, but when Mom and Dad came home, they made me call all of the kids' parents and then I had to clean it all up."

Tom couldn't help it but grimace at the thought of that. "That sounds revolting."

"You have no idea."

He'd been to both college and boot camp, however - and had seen similar displays. However, that was probably just more information that was sure to violate their agreement. "Oh, I think I do."

"So, I can drink. I hold my own." She raised her water glass in a mock toast. "I just usually choose not to."

Tom watched as she sipped and then returned the cup, allowing himself the indulgence of a slow, leisurely appreciation of the ambiance, of the intimate moment, and of the woman sitting across from him. He suddenly realized that he was still hungry - but the sensation had nothing to do with the meagerness of the hoity-toity restaurant's entrees.

Sasha must have noticed the change in his expression. "What are you looking at?"

There really wasn't any point in denying it. "You."

"Why?" She tossed him a coy look that might have been flirtatious, but was probably just genuine curiosity.

He only hesitated for a heartbeat. Something real. She'd asked to hear something honest, so he told her. "Because you're intelligent. And you intrigue me. And I would rather be anywhere but here, doing anything other than making small talk over this table."

Her eyes deepened a little, her lashes dipping low. "Why?"

"Because you're all the way over there." Tom's gaze swept over her again, and he didn't bother trying to hide the pleasure he took in what he saw. Nor did he bite back the slow, easy smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Exhaling slowly, he captured her eyes. "And the table is in the way."

Her lips quivered before she gave up and dimpled into a wide grin. She took her time straightening the napkin again, re-situating herself on her chair, tucking her hair behind her ear. Finally, she seemed to trust herself to look at him across the single flame dancing on the candle. "Well, then. Maybe it's a good thing that we didn't get any wine."

He growled a little, deep in his throat.

Sasha seemed to take it as a question. "We've talked about not complicating this any further. I think that loosening our inhibitions would probably have led to those complications."

"Maybe." He tilted a speculative look at her. "Or maybe I'm just cheap. Wine is pricey."

She waved that off with a shake of her head. "You know what I really think? I think that you don't like losing control."

Tom had to admit that she had him there. Nodding, he made a little show of tapping his finger on the table. "True."

"So, you must do something in your real life that allows you to have control over your environment, and the people with whom you work."

He raised a brow in response. "I could say the same thing about you. You're not a person to just sit back and let other people walk all over you."

"I'm not, actually." Her bare shoulder lifted in a nonchalant little shrug."But sometimes, it's necessary to cede autonomy in the short term in order to get what you want in the long game."

Which was true, really. In the military, he'd had to give up a certain amount of control over his own existence. He couldn't choose where he went, or with whom. He couldn't select the mission, or the outcome. In return, however, he'd gain training, experience, and rank. And, eventually, he'd have his own command, and the status that went with it. "True. It takes time to work your way to the top."

"So, you're the kind of guy who always needs to be on top?" Her expression had gone from matter-of-fact to sassy in the space of a single heartbeat.

Tom couldn't quell the slow, meaningful grin that teased at his lips, nor keep himself from indulging in another leisurely examination of her, of her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, of her eyes - impossibly profound - of the fine line of her collarbone and the pulse that beat just above it. Running his fingertips across the fabric of the tablecloth, he canted his head to one side, focusing on her mouth - at how her lips had parted in what - Invitation? Hesitation? - at how her breathing had become a little less even. When he answered, his voice was low. "I know how to play well with others."

"That sounds like a promise, Tom Chandler."

"Maybe it is, ma'am."

Complicated.

Tom felt a movement near his elbow, and he looked up to see Blaze, standing expectantly, holding two small, leather-bound folders. Raising up the larger of the two, the server glanced between Tom and Sasha. "I have the dessert menu here if you two are interested."

Tom shook his head. "None for me. Sasha?"

"No." She brought her napkin up to rest on the plate. "Thank you, though."

"All right then." Shoving the first little book into the front pocket of his apron, Blaze set the other folder near Tom's elbow. "I'll take care of that whenever you're ready, sir."

-OOOOOOO-

"So, you never told me."

"Told you what?"

"Your birthday."

Tom had paid the bill, shoving cash into the leather folder before escorting Sasha towards the coat check stand. They'd meandered down from the restaurant towards the sea, making their way down the longest of the piers and towards the landing.

It was cold, and the moon hung high in the cloudless sky, limning the tips of the waves with an ethereal greenish glow. Tom leaned back against the railing, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. He hadn't bothered buttoning it. The cold air was helping to keep other - more complex - sensations at bay, and he welcomed the help.

Grudgingly, he had to admit that the conversation helped, too. "So, we're back to that."

Sasha tugged her coat more tightly around her, turning the collar up against the breeze. "I didn't think it was too much to ask."

"It's not."

"So?"

Tom shifted on his feet, tilting his head over his shoulder to look out over the rocky shoal and easy waves of the bay. When he looked back at Sasha, she'd moved closer to him.

"December ninth."

For whatever reason, that seemed to satisfy her. She walked over to stand next to him at the railing, surveying the ocean like a queen. "Thank you."

She hadn't faced him, and Tom didn't force the issue, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she seemed to contemplate the intricacies of the sea. For a long, long time, she simply stood there, gazing out over the bay, the breeze teasing at the hair she'd tucked loosely under her scarf.

Tom reached out and looped the scarf around again, securing the dark mass under the heavy knitted length. "You know, if you're going to keep hanging out by the ocean, you might want to invest in some bobby pins."

"I've always hated having my hair pulled back." She wriggled a little against the hold the scarf had on her hair. "Even as a kid."

"Then you could cut it."

"I tried that, once." Her teeth flashed in the moonlight. "My mother was enamored with Lady Diana, and she was tired of me complaining about having to brush it. She marched me down to her hairdresser, and I ended up looking like a boy."

Tom scowled, taking the opportunity to study her features again. "I fail to see any possible way that you could look like a boy."

"I was a singularly homely child."

"Impossible."

"Seriously. I had an overbite, and I was always sunburned, with bruises and scraped knees. Freja tried to keep me presentable, but - " Sasha stopped, her eyes widening with the memory. "There was really no hope for me."

"Freja the nanny."

"Right."

"So, I'm assuming you had braces."

"Lots of orthodontia. Retainers and everything." She flashed the perfect result, just for effect. "And then, after the drunken party incident, my parents decided that I needed even more stability, so they sent me to Switzerland to finish high school."

"Boarding school?"

"Two, actually." Pivoting, she leaned back against the rail, mimicking his pose. "I got kicked out of the first one. The nuns didn't like me teaching the other girls how to play strip poker."

"And the second one?"

"It suited me more." Her tone indicated that she'd said everything she was going to say about it. "How about you?"

"My life was much more boring than yours." He caught a glimpse of a sailboat out past the buoys, taking a late-night jaunt. "Normal high school, normal family life. My dad traveled a lot, so he wasn't home much. My mom stayed at home with us, but substituted at the middle school when she could. Money was always tight, so we didn't do a lot of traveling."

"I'll bet you played sports."

"You'd bet right." He watched as the sailboat made its way past the pier and further out to sea. "Football and baseball."

"And I know that you have a sister."

"And a little brother." Tom thrummed his fingers on the rail. "He's an accountant. My little sister teaches special education students in the same town where we all graduated. She's married with two kids."

"The closest thing I'll ever have to children is Freja's kids."

"You kept in touch with the nanny?"

"Of course." She shivered - totally involuntarily. The breeze had kicked up a bit. "She was closer to me than my parents were, in all honesty. She was with us until I was around twelve. She fell in love with a businessman she met while we were living in Tokyo. They eloped, and soon after that, my parents were assigned elsewhere. Freja stayed with her husband. She has the cutest little passel of Swedish - Japanese children you've ever seen."

Tom had absolutely no idea what to say to that, but she was shivering again, so he reached out and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close. Her entire body was trembling, her face frigid where she burrowed against his neck. He pulled at the sides of his overcoat, wrapping them around her to provide her with an added layer.

"Why didn't you tell me you were so cold?"

"Obstinate and headstrong, remember?" Her breath was warm against his chest, her hands like ice even through his jacket and dress shirt.

"Do you want to head back to your hotel?"

She sighed, her hand flattening on his chest. She'd already started warming her other hand on his side, spread against his ribs. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Too complicated?"

"Too complicated."

"Want to go back to my car and make out?"

He felt, rather than heard her giggle.

"Well, it's a truck, actually, as you know." Tom tried not to notice the slow, easy moves of her fingers on his side, nor the way her hair smelled, nor how her body had practically melted against his. "But it's got a heater, so - "

"Also complicated." Her body had quieted a little, enough so that she turned her face to rest her cheek against his chest. "I wasn't expecting it to be so chilly. It's been so nice out for the past few weeks."

"True." He closed his eyes as her other hand made its way into his coat, resting just over his heart. "But this is Newport. And it's nearly November."

"What about that global warming I keep hearing about?"

"Ah, well." Tom pressed his face into her hair, inhaling deeply. "Obviously, it's a crock."

This time, he heard her laugh, as well as felt it. When she fell silent, he pulled her a little tighter, ridiculously satisfied that he - that his body - had provided her the warmth she'd craved. Not that he'd ever say so out loud- she'd probably roundhouse him with those heels of hers. And however much her hotel room, or his truck, or hell - even a park bench - sounded like a damned fine idea, he discovered that he was also content merely to stand here, on this pier, holding her.

It took a long time for her to speak again, and when she did, she didn't look up at him. "I might not be able to see you tomorrow.."

He frowned a little. "Oh?"

"I've got a - thing - to do." She rubbed her index finger against his tie. "Real life stuff. In the evening. I'll only be available in the daytime."

"Okay." His jaw tightened as disappointment flooded through him. "Well, I've got meetings all morning and afternoon."

"All day?" Pulling back, Sasha looked up at him. "Seriously?"

"The whole damned day." Tom shook his head. "I definitely can't get out of it."

"I can't get out of my obligation, either." Sasha glared at the button on the tip of his collar. "So, I guess that we'll have to plan on the next day."

"The next day." He exhaled heavily. "That kind of sucks."

"I'm going to miss you, too."

A sharp pang pierced through him as he realized that he would miss her. That in three days - three days - she had become a necessary part of his life. And he only had one day left. One day before she went her way and he tried to go his. No matter how hard he tried to keep things nonchalant, he could feel a thread of desperation making its way up his spine. "I can see you after your real life thing. I'll wait up. Meet you somewhere."

"I can't ask that of you. I have no idea when I'll be done."

"Sasha - "

"Tom." Her fingers twizzled his tie again. "I would really like to stop talking now."

"Okay." He breathed out, nodding. "Well, pretty much everything's closed by now, but I'm sure we could find something to do."

"Oh?" She couldn't seem to help it when her gaze slid from his eyes downward, to rest on his mouth. "Well, then. Suggest something."

"Well, yesterday, you said something about Frisbee - "

She was laughing as she kissed him, her lips teasing the side of his neck just above his collar.

"Or dominos. We could play dominos."

Another touch, sliding up to a spot just under his jaw. Warm, slow, she lingered, brushing her mouth from side to side against the roughness of the stubble there. She'd moved her hand, sliding up his side, up his chest, to curl around the back of his neck.

It took effort to control his voice. "Horseshoes?"

"Shut up, Tom Chandler." Sasha smiled against his skin, the tip of her nose cool against his cheek.

"Or what?"

"Just shut up." She ran her other hand up his chest, smiling when he flinched at her touch. "You're cold, too."

"Among other things." He tilted his face and met her mouth - teasing her lips apart and delving deep. She tasted of spice - and the mint she'd purloined from the hostess stand on their way out of the restaurant. Cool and warm and sweet and perfect. His senses were wild - heightened - with the breeze still nipping at him, and brazen want coursing through him.

She was tight against him, but still too far away. He wanted more - closer - now. Tom found his way through the layers of coat and scarf to run his hands over her body - the sleek softness of her dress poorly mimicking the velvet of her skin. His hands molded themselves to her curves, sliding over her hips and around to splay against her back, kneading slightly, bringing her closer to his own heat even as his mouth learned her rhythms, her sweetness, her feel.

And then deeper, longer, slower. Her fingers made their way to his cheek, gripping at him as if she were trying to control the intense spiral of sensation clutching them. She moaned as his hands explored, learning her form, discovering the incredible smoothness of her shoulders, of her nape, her hair as it lay captured by the heavy softness of her scarf.

She trembled as his hands bracketed her ribs, firm, and bold, lifting her up against him. His breath heated her cheek, her jawline, her ear, as he nipped his way down her throat, unwinding the scarf to warm her shoulder with his breath and lips.

He couldn't think anymore, he just wanted. Aching - everywhere - needing more than was genteel, or even possible at midnight in the cold on a pier. She'd wrapped her arms around his shoulders, the tips of her toes dangling against the wood of the landing, her entire weight borne by his frame. He welcomed it - even as his leg remonstrated its disapproval. Ignoring the pain, he scraped his cheek along her neck, making his way back to her center, meeting her kiss for kiss - wild and audacious and raw. And her body - her core - proved willing - morphing from shivering in the frigid night to throbbing with heat.

Where was that damned park bench?

"Tom." It was nearly a plea. Her face was pressed into his neck, her breath hot on his ear, her voice muffled by the wind, and the collar of his coat, and by the moment.

Against his chest, her heart beat furiously - on pace with his own - and he knew that she was teetering on the same precarious edge as he. Cursing himself, damning his own lack of self-control, he lowered his arms, allowing her to stand again, bracing her with his hands on her sides until she'd found her balance. He couldn't stop touching her - needed to know her more than he'd required anything in his life. At this moment, she was life, and he was desperate to hold onto her.

"Tom." Calmer, she'd cradled his face in her palm, now. Still, her lips rested against his skin, as did his against the dark luxury that was her hair. "Darts."

Opening his eyes, he stared through the darkness into the bay, at the way the moon sparkled on the tips of the waves. Darts. Darts?

"I'm sorry - "

"Maybe we should have gone to play darts." She raised her head from his shoulder, peering at him with eyes that were still unfocused.

Ah. He pulled himself together enough to come up with what he hoped was a witty response. "Am I that bad a kisser?"

She shook her head, her mouth curving into a sad little smile.

"Because it's been a while for me." He settled his hands on her hips, again. It felt like he'd come home. Like the most natural thing in the world to be standing, melded with this woman, sharing heat and passion and time. "I could probably use a refresher course."

"Shut up, Tom."

He frowned down at her. "The last time you told me that, things nearly got biblical."

But she merely studied his face, touching him here or there - as if she couldn't quite stop herself - as if she needed to make sure that he was real, and that she had been part of the fire they'd created. Apparently satisfied, she moved her fingers off his face and down to his shoulder, to his tie, and then away. When she moved a half-step back, allowing a rush of cold air to whoosh between them, Tom felt a little lost.

"That wasn't wise." Her whisper was nearly whisked away by the wind. "We shouldn't allow that."

"Probably not." Tom shook his head. His hands felt empty - his body bereft. Just for something to do, he pulled her coat tight against the cold, adjusting the scarf, careful not touch anything but fabric. When he was done, he shuffled backwards, until he'd hit the railing with his back. "But you have to admit that there's something there."

"There can't be anything there, Tom." She tucked her hands deep into her coat's pockets. "This will be over day after tomorrow."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Yes." Nodding, Sasha took two - three - steps away from the water. Away from him. "It has to be."

"Why?"

"I already told you." She'd moved even further, up the pier and back towards where the restaurant they'd vacated sat on the bluff. "The time isn't right. I'm committed elsewhere."

"To someone else?" He couldn't control the panic that edged into his tone. "Is that what this is all about? Another guy?"

"Geez. No." Whirling, she strode up the pier towards the road. "Why do men always think that?"

She'd spoken more to herself than to him. Bewildered, Tom cursed into the wind, shaking his head. What the hell had just happened? Tamping down the anger itching at his backbone, he jogged up the boardwalk until he'd fallen into step beside her. "Sasha."

"What, Tom?" Too controlled. Her voice, her carriage, her response. Her jaw was tight, her arms stiff. Even through the heavy fabric of her coat, he could see the bulges of her fists in the pockets.

"Talk to me."

"Why? So you can accuse me more ridiculous crap?"

"Sasha!" He stopped, his shout biting through the night. "Damn it, Sasha."

"What?" She turned to face him, her eyes bright. "What do you want from me?"

And for that, he honestly had no answer. Because he didn't want anything that she could give. Or anything that he could accept right then - or even anything that was fair to ask. What he wanted was simply - more. More time. More moments. More heat.

More her.

Again, he wondered how it had happened. He'd been the guy to glide through his entire adult life, lazing his way into and out of relationships that had been fulfilling and pleasant and boring. He'd dated, he'd flirted, he'd fallen in and out of like with women when he'd had the inclination, and then forgotten their names as easily as he'd learned them. But Sasha - this woman, this stubborn, bold, smart, fascinating woman. She'd taken three days of his life and made him want lifetimes.

What did he want from her? Everything. Everything.

Still, he schooled his expression into one of polite calm. Taking a few steps towards her, he simply stood, watching as she fought her way through her own emotions. When he could trust himself, he exhaled slowly. And he lied. "Nothing. I don't want anything from you."

Her jaw worked a little before she responded. "Then why are we here?"

"Tell me something real." She'd asked.

But what was real was also impossible.

Tom shrugged. "I don't know."

"What the hell are we doing?" It wasn't possible to know whether she was talking to him, herself, or God. But her eyes raked over him again, as if she were committing him to memory.

"It's late, Sasha." He held out his hand, a gesture redolent with benignity. "Come on. Let's get you home."