by Scott, S. L.
Again, I could say something about how he chooses to use making love versus fucking, but it’s just another way for him to show me how he feels. I don’t want to ruin anything by pointing it out. I’ll just enjoy it instead.
When he starts driving, I pull my lipstick from my purse and flip down the visor to use the mirror. I gasp from the sight of me.
“What?” he asks.
“I look like a horror show or a whore show. Either is fitting.”
“What are you talking about?”
My surprise heads his way. “What do you mean, what I am talking about? I look like a raccoon from my mascara running down my face. It’s obviously not waterproof. My concealer and foundation are completely gone. Look at the little rosacea spots on my cheeks and these freckles.”
“I have been. I like them. I don’t know why you hide behind all that gunk. You don’t need it.”
Pointing under my eyes, I ask, “And the raccoon eyes? How is this sexy?”
He shrugs. “It is to me. Not that it’s running under your eyes, but that anytime I get to look at you is good. You’re just naturally pretty. You don’t even have to try.”
My hand is pressed to my chest from feeling sappy inside. “I’m never prepared when you hit me with your best lines.”
His grin softens, and he says, “They’re not lines, babe. You act like I’m the biggest player out there.” Leaning back, he controls the steering wheel with one hand while the other reaches over to rest on my thigh. “I’ve slept around, but everyone does. It was always safe sex if that worries you.”
Everyone does . . . not technically, but that’s neither here nor there now. “I trust you.”
“Since I have your trust, I have a confession to make.” I brace myself from the turn this conversation just took. He says, “Your bra and panties are see-through when they’re wet. I didn’t tell you because you looked fucking amazing. So I’m blaming your body for ignoring any signs of raccoon eyes.”
“As my boyfriend . . .” I try for serious but can’t keep a straight face. “You owe me the truth about that and my makeup. What if someone saw me?”
“Someone did. The only person who matters, Pepper.”
“Let me guess,” I reply sarcastically, and then punch him in the arm. “You?” Since he’s too busy laughing to say anything right away, I roll my eyes.
“Yes, me,” he finally replies. “I promise to let you know next time. Boyfriend’s honor.”
“Saying such sweet sentiments will get you laid every time.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it, though.” He squeezes my leg gently.
I love it . . . and you. “I do.” I play it off with laughter.
Just as we reach downtown, he asks, “About that date tonight . . . ?”
21
Dare
I kick the fridge door shut and dump the sandwich makings on the counter. Pulling bread from the bag, I slap it down on a paper plate.
English comes around the corner and opens the fridge again, scratching his chest and letting the cold air out. “I’m not going to say I’m jealous, mate, but I’m fucking jealous. She is bangin’.”
“Get some fucking manners,” I snap.
“I thought getting laid on the regular was supposed to relax you,” he laughs through his words. “Maybe you’re doing it wrong.”
English may be the shit stirrer of the four of us, but I’d be hard-core teasing him if the roles were reversed. “You’re not fucking funny, so drop it.” I was already over the conversation before it started. I have no intention of keeping my relationship with Weatherly on the down low, but I’m not in a mood to talk about her with them today. I’ll never hear the end of it even though I might not this way either.
The silence causes me to turn around. His mouth is hanging open with an unopened beer in his hand. “What?”
“What do you mean what?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being annoying.”
“Me?” He shakes his head. “Must have been good pussy.”
“Fuck off.”
“Damn, dude. Got your girly feelings in a twist?”
I need to rein it in, whatever it is—feelings, impatience, stuff I don’t want to think about right now. “Get off my dick. I’m tired.”
The spritz of the can opening sounds as he walks past me. He elbows me in the back but is smart enough not to say anything. His laughter is still annoying as fuck. I toss the deli meat bag at his back, landing it solidly against his neck. I find that funnier than it should be and start laughing.
He’s quick enough to catch it before it hits the ground, stealing it. “Turkey. My favorite.”
“Fucker.” My pride has me slapping lettuce on the bread between two slices of American cheese before dousing the other piece with mustard. “I don’t need turkey anyway,” I mumble.
Lennox comes in and sets his mug in the sink. “What’s going on? Where have you been all day?”
“Everyone wants to ride my jock today. You guys really need to get a new pastime.”
“Talking isn’t the same thing as riding your jock, man. You don’t want to talk, fine with me.” He grabs bread from the bag and drops them into a toaster. “Why are you so defensive?”
Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk.
He’d never betray our friendship or the family creed our mothers ingrained in us—you’re never alone, and we’re brothers till the end. His opinion matters, so I need his acceptance of Weatherly no matter what side of Austin she comes from.
So he’s right. I am defensive. Protective. The whole fucking range when your heart is on the line. This is new for me, but I get the feeling it’s new for her despite having an ex. “She’s not like the others.”
Lennox has a wild side he lets loose sometimes, but he’s also the peacemaker of the group. “That’s a good thing if you didn’t know. So why are you in a bad mood?”
“It feels weird to talk about her. Fuck me. Maybe I am full of girly feelings.” I shake my head at myself. “I don’t want talk about her that—”
“That disrespects her?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“We don’t normally. Groupies are groupies. They want the attention. They get it sometimes. Girlfriends are off-limits. We know the rules.” He stops and turns to look at me. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Yes.” I don’t need Lennox’s approval. I don’t need anyone’s, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it for some dumb reason. These guys aren’t just like brothers to me. They are my brothers. We’ve been to hell and back together and survived. They can read me like no other. Beyond reading me like a book, it must be a vibe I’m putting out that tipped them off. Though I’m pretty sure it might be this stupid grin I can’t wipe from my face.
“Cool.” Biting into his dry toast, he walks out as if it’s no big deal that I have a girlfriend. Is it?
Glancing at the time, I have an hour before I need to leave, and the doorbell rings just in time. We may have fucked, made love, and everything else in between, but I still want everything to be perfect tonight.
“Hello?” Helen calls as she walks through the front door.
“Mom?” Lennox leaves the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
I walk out to greet her and to free her hands, but she smacks mine instead. “I could have brought the stuff in.”
She waves me off as she hugs her son. “Peesh. It’s not heavy.” Looking at Lennox, she asks, “How are you doing?”
“Good. In the neighborhood?”
“I’m here for Robert, but it’s always good to see my son.”
Since my mom died, he’s never once complained about seeing his mom or her talking to him like he’s a baby. As annoying as that can be, I’ll never have that again. It makes me miss my mom even more, but I’m lucky to have Helen.
When she spots the toast in his hand, she adds, “Let me make you something to eat. I brought lasagna over for you
boys. It’s your night off, right?”
Lennox takes the cooler bag into the kitchen. Helen hugs me. “Len, that’s Rob’s bag. You can just leave it on the counter for him.” She leans back and smiles at me. “She must be special.”
“She is.”
Helen takes my face in her hands and then pinches my cheeks. “Such wonderful news.”
She says stuff like that all the time, stuff my mom would have said. They were best friends, so it makes sense, but it also makes my heart clench. “Thanks.” I nod toward the bag. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“You know I’m happy to anytime I can. Anyway, you made it easy by having the menu planned out. I just put it together. You want to impress her, huh?”
I smile, and now I feel fucking stupid, but just thinking about Weatherly gives me the grins. “The best I can.”
“Be you, and that’s good enough.” I follow her to the kitchen, and she unzips the top of the bag. We peek inside, and she explains what’s in each dish. “Bring the dishes and bag back when you have a chance.” Over her shoulder, she says, “Lennox, fetch the lasagna from the back. That thing weighs a ton.”
English comes in. “Good to see you, Mum.”
“You too. You hungry?”
He rubs his stomach. “Always.”
“Good. I’m going to heat up a homemade lasagna.”
“You’re too good to us,” he says.
“I have a feeling it’s the only real meal you’ll have this week.”
“Taco Bell makes a mighty fine taco.”
I start laughing, but he gets a glare in return for that. Helen turns back to me and lowers her voice. “How are you, Robert?”
“I’m good. This weekend is on my mind.”
She zips the bag closed and leans against the counter. “I’ve been thinking about Sunday.”
“Me too.”
“Are we sticking to tradition? Visit her and then go back to mine for an early dinner.”
I nod and feel my chest grow heavy. “Sounds good.”
“If you have a show—”
“We don’t. I kept the schedule clear, so I’ll be there.”
Lennox sets the humongous dish down on the counter. “This will feed us for a week.”
“Good,” she replies. English comes in with a grocery bag and places it on the counter. “I brought salad and dressing. Can you help me make the garlic bread?” she asks.
English is on it. “Yeah. I can do it.”
Lennox comes around, catching a glimpse of me and seeing more than I wanted to reveal. “What are we talking about?”
Might as well let him in on it. “Sunday,” I reply. “You coming?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Clapping his back, I say, “Hitting the shower.” I hug Helen. “I sent the money to your account. Thanks again for doing this.”
“My pleasure. Have fun tonight.”
“I will.”
“I hope to meet her. Maybe on Sunday?”
I stop just as I reach the living room. What Weatherly and I have and are to each other is still new. We may be jumping ahead in some ways, but I worry about laying too much at her feet. What if I’m in deeper than she is? “I’ll think about it.”
As I walk down the hall, I hear her tell Lennox, “He’s got a girlfriend. Have you met anyone?”
She makes me smile, but Lennox makes me laugh when he replies, “No one you’d approve of.”
“Try me.”
“All right. She’s in my bed.”
“What?” Helen’s voice pitches.
He chuckles. “I’m kidding, Mom.”
“Peesh. You boys are going to give me a heart attack.”
I start the shower, thinking it will be quick, but my dick has other plans. Apparently so does my mind as memories of her in that tub come back.
Delicate. She’s even delicate when she masturbates—little circles, quick fingers with pauses built in to enjoy the sensation. A vision I’ve added to my sexual arsenal file already.
I step under the hot water and let it pour over me. It feels so good on my shoulders, loosening the tension I’ve been feeling since I left her earlier. I run the soap over my body and then give my cock a little extra attention—a firm grip and slow start, moving to find the rhythm that will help me to chase down an orgasm.
Her face—mouth open, eyes closed, head pushed back displaying that delectable neck.
Her moan—wanton, tensed, lower as if she’ll be overheard.
Her body—perky tits glistening from the water covering them, bubbles clinging to her knees.
The memory of her is perfection and gives me all the material I need to get off. My hand slams against the wall, and my head drops lower. I succumb to the darkness, sinking until reality resurfaces.
Exhaling all the excess energy, I push off the wall, ready to see her again. This time I hope to get through the meal without wanting to attack her. She deserves romance, and I’m the guy who’s going to give it to her.
* * *
Arriving early, I pass the time by working on a song I started the other night. But the cab of this truck isn’t big enough for me to play my guitar properly, so I get out and release the tailgate. Sitting on the end, I strum and try to remember the beginning.
My fingers find their way, and the melody starts coming together. The right place. The right time. My creativity has been flowing lately, and I give Weatherly all the credit.
“Hey, hero, what are you doing out here?”
Seeing Weatherly takes my breath away. Her hair flows free, a pair of jeans hugs her hips, and her voice matches the melody I just sang. She’s become my muse. Maybe she’s the one I’ve always been singing to.
She stands between my legs, pressed to the guitar, and kisses me as though she’s missed me. The way she moves, her lips pressing to mine, her hands on me. She’s sex on fire. When she lands back on her heels, I say, “You keep kissing me like that, and I’m not sure we’ll make it out of this parking spot.”
Her happiness beams through her smile. “That threat sounds more like an invitation since I don’t think I’d have a problem with that.”
I hop down, shaking my head. “Death of me. This girl,” I mumble, putting my guitar back in the case. I shove it behind the bench in the cab and come around to help her in. “I was going to come to your door.”
“Stan, the doorman, called to tell me that I might be interested to know there’s a man playing a guitar in the parking garage.”
I laugh. “Oh, yeah? What did you say?”
“Nope, no interest here. Not one bit. Then I grabbed my purse and got here as fast as I could.”
“Gotta be careful these days about those rogue guitar players.”
“For sure. I hear they’re making women weak in the knees everywhere they go.”
“Like a hit and run.”
She leans against the side of the truck, staring up at me. “With swoons and great music. They’ve been known to kiss well too.”
“Really?” She licks the corner of my mouth, practically panting.
“Mm-hmm.”
Resting my hand on the top edge of the truck, I lean down so I’m closer to eye level with her. “Sounds dangerous.”
“For my body,” she says, very convincingly. Grabbing my shirt, she pulls me closer. “You should protect me.”
“I’m the bad guy, remember?” I whisper.
“Then why do you feel so good?”
“Bad things always feel better than they should. But you know what?”
Her breaths come heavy. “What?”
“Bad things taste even better than they feel.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s so.” I kiss her.
My hair is tugged before her hands slide down and wrap around my biceps. Kisses become frenzied, but then she breaks for a breath. “You’re right. You taste incredible, like sherbet in the middle of the night.” She pokes my stomach.
Chuckling, she has a point. “I
’ll give you sherbet because I know how much you like it. So if that’s what I taste like to you, I’ll take it, babe. You ready to start this date?”
“I sure am.”
I pop the door open and help her in. “You look pretty.”
Looking down at her lap, she plucks the top. “It’s just a shirt and jeans. No big deal.”
“Big deal or not, you still look pretty to me.”
Her cheeks pink as she sits. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m about to shut the door, but I kiss her again instead. She’s my girlfriend, and like a bolt of lightning strikes, I realize how amazing that is. Since she’s still waiting on me, I hurry around to the driver’s side and get in.
We leave downtown, and I cut across Bee Caves Road to 360 and go south. It’s a great night to be out. She’s still high on finishing law school and can’t seem to keep her hands off me. “I want to celebrate.”
“That’s what I’ve planned.” With the wind blowing through the cab of the truck and my girl by my side. Life is good. Very good.
I park. When we get out, I pull my guitar and a blanket from behind my seat, and then reach into the back to grab the padded cooler bag.
“What’s all this?” she asks.
“I thought I’d treat you to the third best view in town.”
Excitement flashes in her eyes. “The 360 Bridge and water. It’s beautiful here.” We walk across the large flat grassy land. “Iconic Austin.”
While we spread the blanket out on the ground, she asks, “If the bridge is the third best view. What are the first two?”
“Your apartment’s view of the city is second.”
“And the first?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I pause, taking in all of her. “You.”
22
Dare
“The cicadas are singing with you,” Weatherly says, lying on her back. With her hand on her stomach, she stares up at the stars. I continue strumming an instrumental version of one of The Heroes’ more popular songs. I’m just messing around, but she smiles. “I like that.” She peers back at me. “What is it?”
“Don’t fuck around when I’m out of town.” I start laughing, setting my guitar down. “It’s a line from a song that English wrote after his girlfriend cheated on him.”
