Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  “I’m in love with your ass, Ms. Logan.”

  “Just my ass?” I tease.

  “Your pussy and mouth, too. And your tits.”

  I run my hands up his back under his T-shirt, marveling at the hardness of his muscles. “Want to come back to bed?”

  “Yes, but you need to recover, and I need to get to work.”

  “What time are you off?”

  “Not until six. I’m working a double shift.”

  “Where is this building site where you’re working?”

  “At the State Theater. It’s the new extension.”

  “Can I pack you lunch? I can fix something quickly.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll grab a pie from the snack stand. I’m already running late.”

  Reluctantly, I let him go. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Later, princess.”

  The door closes, and I’m shut in silence, alone. The happiness I felt since last night leaves the house with him. I’m back to being me, a divorcee and single mom. If my belly wasn’t so full with oatmeal, I would’ve thought last night was nothing but a fragment of my imagination.

  I give Abby a quick call on her mobile phone to see how she’s doing, and then I stretch out on a deckchair by the pool with my laptop, working on my new Freddy Fish proposal. For once, it’s flowing. I’m in the middle of a paragraph when Loretta calls.

  “Hi,” she says, “I just wanted to check on you. Was I too hard on you last night?”

  “Your honesty is one of the things I love most about you.”

  “Good. Then you’ll say yes to morning tea at the shop.”

  “It’s eleven, already.”

  “Better get your butt over here, then. I want you to try on that suit I told you about.”

  “Maybe another day.”

  “Janie.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer. If you’re not coming over, I’m coming to you.”

  “Okay, fine.” I shut my laptop with a sigh. “I’m not dressed for boutique shopping, though.”

  “Just come as you are.”

  Thirty minutes later, I walk into Loretta’s store in the same T-shirt and shorts I pulled on that morning. At least I’ve added a long-sleeve summer shirt, underwear, and flip-flops.

  Loretta’s shop assistant gives me an once-over. “She’s at the back.”

  I know my way to the office where Loretta makes deals with designers and secretly smokes. The air freshener and breath mints don’t mask the odor of the cigarettes.

  “There you are.” Loretta waves me in and sticks her head around the door, calling to her assistant, “Bring us two Red Bulls and Vodka.”

  “Just tea for me,” I say. “I’m driving.”

  She waves my comment away. “You can hang around until the alcohol’s worn out of your system.”

  It won’t help to argue, even if I have no intention of drinking hard liquor at this hour of the day.

  “Here.” She takes a suit from a portable clothes rail. “This was made for you.” She removes the plastic cover and holds it up against my body. “White really becomes you. Go ahead. Try it on.”

  I’m about to turn back to the shop when she grabs my arm.

  “The changing booth is occupied. You can change here.”

  We’ve been roommates. We’ve seen each other naked enough times, but I can’t strip down to my underwear, not with Brian’s handprints still on my skin.

  I take the suit from her. “I’ll try it on at home.”

  “I might have to make adjustments.”

  “It’s my size. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  The assistant enters with a tray, which she places on the desk.

  “Don’t be silly.” Loretta undoes the single button on the jacket and slips it from the hanger. She holds it open. “Let’s see how this looks.”

  “Anything else?” the assistant asks sourly. “Maybe some crackers and cheese to go with your drinks?”

  Loretta ignores her sarcasm. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  With a stiff smile, the young woman leaves.

  “Come on.” Loretta gives the jacket a shake. “My arms are getting tired of holding this up.”

  With a sigh, I concede, pushing my arms into the fabric. She grips my shoulders and turns me to face her. Her gaze runs critically over the fit.

  “Mm.” She buttons it up and takes a step back. “We’ll have to take the arms in a bit.”

  “I haven’t decided if I’m taking it.”

  “Of course you are.” She grabs my hand and folds back the fabric. “You’ve got the perfect figure to pull off the tailored waist and–”

  Her eyes are fixed on the sleeve. When I look down to see what caused her to cut her words off mid-sentence, I freeze. The red bruise around my wrist stands out like a flashing neon sign.

  8

  Jane

  “Janie!” Loretta’s gaze shoots to mine. “What’s this?”

  I free my arm, smoothing the fabric back in place. “It’s nothing.”

  For the life of me, I can’t think of an excuse. I pretend to look at the clothes on the rail to hide the flush I feel creeping into my cheeks. A trickle of sweat runs between my shoulder blades. It feels ten degrees hotter inside than outside where the sun is scorching. The clink-clink of the hangers as I flip through them is deafening in the silence that follows. Loretta’s shock and judgment carries on the air like the smell of stale smoke and forbidden cigarettes. I pull out a red dress, holding it up to the light.

  “How about this one?” I ask with my back to her.

  “That’s way too young for you.”

  My spine goes stiff. What makes me rebel? The fact that I truly love the dress, or that she implies I’m old? Or is it something totally different, something about the fact that I’m fucking a guy twenty-two years younger than me?

  “I’ll take it.” I scramble out of the jacket and fold it over the rail. Only then do I trust my coloration to face her. “Since when are we too old to wear what we love? Where are those two university girls who didn’t care about the opinions of others?”

  “It’s not the same, Janie. Those were the opinions of idealists. Reality is very different.”

  “I disagree.” I have an inexplicable urge to turn back the clock, to take us to a time when we were carefree and the air wasn’t stained with judgment and silence. “We don’t have to conform to the norm because society says so. Why can’t we wear backless red dresses and grow our hair long when we’re eighty? It should come from here.” I place a palm over my heart. “What we truly love and want. Not what they say we should be and wear.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “I’m in the fashion business. Rules are what make us successful. Rules are what match cuts with body shapes and styles with ages. Rules make us look respectable. Presentable. Looks are everything. It might not be fair, but that’s how the world turns.”

  Since when has my friend become so cynical, and why am I only noticing now? Is it because I’ve lost my way so truly by playing fair and following the rules that I’d forgotten about the person I used to be? The person I should be. It’s as if Brian hasn’t only woken my dragon, but also the parts of me I’ve locked away. If life were a fairy tale, he’d be my wakening kiss in Sleeping Beauty.

  She closes the distance and grabs my hand in both of hers. “I’m the one who said you should get laid, but I’m worried about you.” Her whole face transforms into a frown. “I’m not a fool. Whoever screwed you tied you up. Why do you do this to yourself? You’ve always been drawn to the wrong type of guys.”

  “Wrong?” I pull my hand away. “Just because it’s wrong in your eyes doesn’t mean it’s not right for me.”

  “Look at Evan, Janie,” she exclaims. “Look what happened with Benjamin.”

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  “Fine. We’re not talking about the night Evan died. Let’s talk about the things he did to you.”


  I never should’ve told her. “He didn’t tie me up.”

  “No, but he abused you.”

  “Never!”

  “Christ, Janie. He hit you.”

  “He spanked me. It’s not the same.”

  “It’s violence.”

  “Spanking is not about violence. It’s the exact opposite. It’s about self-control and trust. Evan practiced a tremendous amount of self-control when he spanked me. He knew my limits, and he never went beyond them. That’s why I trusted him.”

  “Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like it’s something good. How can pain be good?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. I’m not criticizing your vanilla sex life. Why are you concerned about my kink?”

  “It’s not normal to let a man tie you up or give you a hiding. I’m worried that you’re going down that same, self-destructive road from seventeen years ago.”

  “Maybe, for once, I’m following my heart instead of my mind.”

  “Let me tell you something. Stick to your mind. It’s the wiser choice.”

  We’re talking in circles, like last night. “I can’t stay. I have a lot of work to catch up with.” I wiggle the red dress. “Will you put this on my account?” I give her a quick hug. “Thanks, Lottie. I’ll call you.”

  I’m gone before she can say more.

  It’s only in the solitude of my car that I notice my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking. I’m upset. I’m angry with Loretta. I’m not angry about her judgment and lack of understanding. I’m angry about her lack of acceptance and support. Mostly, I’m angry with myself for not having achieved any of the things on my List. I didn’t get a degree in BSc Food Science. I didn’t open a restaurant. I didn’t move to the countryside. I didn’t learn to speak Italian, and I’ve never been to Rome. When I learned I was pregnant, I married Francois and dropped out of university. I stayed home while he finished his degree. I tried to complete my BSc part-time, but we were always short of cash after Abby was born, so I did temp work to keep us afloat. When Francois finally finished his nine year-degree, he earned enough for me to stay at home and take care of Abby. We decided it would be best for her to have one parent’s full-time attention, as the first few years of Francois’ career was hectic. He was hardly home. As she grew and became less dependent on me, I became bored. It was Francois’ idea to take up a degree in communication, specializing in advertising. That’s where the big money is, these days. My dreams and bucket list fell to the wayside. It’s easy to see where all those plans I had for my future derailed, but I don’t have an excuse for becoming just another sheep that follows the flock. I can’t blame circumstances for forgetting how to live.

  On impulse, I drive to a nearby deli. After stocking up with gourmet salads, iced coffee, mineral water, and carrot cake topped with cream cheese icing, I find the building site at the theater. I park in the dirt lot and carry my purchases to where men with yellow hardhats are scurrying around in the heat of the day. I spot Brian from a distance. He’s a head taller than everyone. I stop in my tracks. He’s got a bag of cement thrown over his shoulder, carrying it as if it’s a bag of tennis balls. That bag must weigh at least a hundred kilos. His gait is swift, but at closer inspection I see the strain his back is taking from the way his muscles flex and bunch under his sweat-drenched T-shirt. He dumps the bag on a mountain of similar bags against a half-finished wall and returns for another on the back of a truck. Backward and forward he goes, his wet T-shirt clinging to his torso and sweat dripping from his temples. It’s as if a stapler pierces two neat little holes into my heart. Seeing him like this does something to me. He’s literally breaking his back to pay for his studies. When I was a student, I never knew need. My parents had enough money to pay for my studies, accommodation, food, car, entertainment, and trendy clothes.

  A man wearing a white hardhat and safety vest approaches me. “Sorry, ma’am. This is a restricted site.”

  “I’m here to see Brian Michaels.”

  “Michaels?” He scratches his jaw, looking me up and down. “You know him?”

  I hold up the paper bag. “Lunch.”

  A smile tugs at his lips, but his confused frown remains as he turns toward the men, puts a forefinger and thumb in his mouth, and whistles.

  As one, the men drop what they’re doing and turn their heads our way. Their gazes run over me, most with curiosity and some with interest. My eyes find purchase on Brian. Surprise registers on his features. He drops the bag he’s carrying, shooting up a small cloud of dust. Crap, was it wise to come here? All I seem to be doing around him is making impulsive decisions. It’s not like me. For all I know, his work buddies may think I’m his mother dropping off his lunch.

  The curve of his smile is slow to grow, but then his dimple appears. With long strides, he makes his way to us, his heavy work boots kicking up dirt and his powerful thigh muscles knotting under the fabric of his jeans, the same torn ones he wore when he tied me up. Heat grows in my belly at the untimely thought.

  The man in the safety vest holds out a hand. “I’m Mike Joubert, by the way.” His grin is friendly. “I run the show around here.”

  “Jane Logan,” I say, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I drop his hand just as Brian stops short of us. The other workers are still staring.

  “Take an early lunch break,” Mike says to Brian, already walking back to the site.

  I open my mouth, about to apologize for a very bad idea, when Brian’s arms come around me. Pulling me tight against his chest, he lowers his head and kisses me before I have time to contemplate the move. The kiss catches me off guard. It throws me off balance. He parts my lips with his tongue, delving inside and kissing me with long, tender strokes. His mouth is skillful, his lips molding mine with soft precision. The intensity I’ve come to know with Brian infuses his kiss. He kisses me as if no one else matters, as if we’re alone, and for a moment I forget we’re not. The act takes up all of his attention and focus.

  Instead of suffusing me with the gentleness he practices, the softness of his touch has the opposite effect. A fire combusts in my body, flames leaking down my lower region. I feel it so profoundly and instantaneously, my clit swells and throbs with a need for attention. I’m helpless to his touch. It goes beyond the lust and perverse fucking of last night, promising something I equally crave. I can’t help but surrender, getting carried away. I can’t help but let him shape my lips, will, and desire. It’s all give and no take. This is for my benefit, whether he meant it to be gentle warmth or scorching heat. It doesn’t matter, because it’s both, and more.

  When he brings the tangle of our tongues to a slow halt, sucking my bottom lip softly into his mouth, I open my eyes. His are closed in concentration. He’s fully emerged in the act. It’s both beautiful and scary. Like him.

  As he sets me free, I come back to earth, remembering we have an audience. On cue, wolf whistles permeate the air. The men are clapping and cheering as he takes my hand and leads me to the shade of a tree, but he pays them no heed.

  He dusts a pile of bricks and pulls me down next to him before taking off his hardhat.

  A twinkle sparks in his eyes. “Missed me already?”

  I put the bag between us. “I thought you’d be hungry. I’m not the only one who needs to fuel up after last night.”

  Even as I say it, my cheeks heat. What happened to the self-confident, forty-something year-old woman I used to be? I’m a blushing teenager around him.

  He peers inside the bag and takes out the salads. Wiping his palms on his thighs, he opens one, pulls out the fork sealed in the lid, and hands it to me.

  I study him from under my lashes, trying to read his expression. “I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.”

  “Believe me, you’re the kind of trouble I enjoy.”

  “Seriously, Brian. I didn’t want to get you into shit with your boss.”

  “Eat.” He motions at my salad before taking a big forkful of his
own.

  While we eat, I mind my chewing, and he tells me about the building project. Through the chatter, he takes charge, pulling the wrapper off my straw and unscrewing the cap of my iced coffee. I drink and eat on his prompt, our exchange flowing naturally. It’s the kind of bossiness I don’t mind, the kind that is done with consideration for my wellbeing. We function like a unit, seamless and effortlessly. It’s different to the push and pull, hide and seek I’m used to with Francois. It’s liberating.

  By the time he stands and pulls me into a hug, I’ve lost track of time.

  He kisses me lightly on the lips. “I have to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

  “Here.” I hand him a bottle of mineral water. “Don’t dehydrate. It’s too hot for manual labor.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  He meant it as a joke, but it stings. The earlier amiability vanishes. Determined not to spoil the moment, I shake it off, keeping busy with gathering our wrappers and empty cups.

  “Bye, princess.”

  Smack.

  I fling around. He did not just whack my ass in front of everyone. A grin splits his face as he shoots me a dimpled look from over his shoulder. His expression is both playful and possessive. There’s no doubt about the message in his eyes. Hands off. She’s mine.

  Brian

  As agreed, Clive waits for me when I pull into our yard, a tie hanger in his hand.

  “Fucking hell.” I shut the truck door and take the hanger from him. “How many ties do you have?” There must be thirty or more, not that I’ve ever seen him wearing one.

  He shrugs. “Birthday and Christmas gifts. You know how it goes.”

  I actually feel sorry for the bugger. Clive has a huge family with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. On any given birthday, a crowd of forty people are crammed in on Clive’s lawn around a bring-your-own-meat-and-drinks barbeque. The elements that make up the day are invariable. You can count on it like sunrise. There’s always a cake, someone who has one too many, and the inevitable insult and fight that follow. And the gift tie.