Chik~Lit for Foxy Hens

by Ervin, Sharon

  Why on earth had I told him my name was Rose? That ridiculous lie lowered my self-esteem a notch as the recurring, debilitating depression again sapped what was left of my energy.

  As I sacked my purchases, I decided Fisk Reed was right. Rabbit food, meat deprivation, might be undermining my morale. The Burger Shack was just across the parking lot. I might really splurge and have more than a B.L.T. I could cut over to the drive-thru and take something big and juicy home for supper. I could afford it. Just this once. It was silly, but the mere thought of such extravagance boosted my flagging spirits.

  Loading the lone sack of groceries into my aged Taurus, enjoying the smells wafting from the Burger Shack and anticipating, I started when a shadowy form loomed beside me.

  “All that grocery shoppin’ made me hungry,” a man’s voice rumbled. “How about you?”

  I turned and found myself staring directly into Fisk Reed’s chest. His size was daunting, as usual, but his broad grin countered it.

  I smiled back. “I decided you might be right. I may have overdone veggies lately. I’m going next door for a serious dose of beef.”

  “How about if you let me buy?” He stepped back, removing the threat of his immediate proximity. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Lock ’er up. We’ll walk over.”

  I’d already decided to take the night off and, certainly, I felt safe enough with this fellow who seemed to have signed on as my own personal guardian angel. Better still, he offered to buy.

  The waitress poured Fisk a cup of coffee as we walked through the door. She set it on the table in front of him even before we sat down. They exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

  “Is she a friend of yours?” I asked as we waited for her to bring us some ice water.

  “I’m sort of a regular.”

  “Are you usually with someone?”

  “Nah. That’s probably what’s got her grinnin’. I’m usually pretty much alone.”

  The silence hovered ominously as the chemistry between Fisk and me bubbled. I tried to think of an innocuous conversational salvo to ease the tension of star-crossed strangers sitting face to face. “So, what do you do for a living, Fisk Reed?”

  “I run a few cattle.”

  “Oh.” I searched my brain for a subject more familiar to me. I usually hung out with academic, domesticated men who discussed art and tooth whiteners and golf. “Does your wife usually do the grocery shopping?”

  He barked a boisterous laugh. He didn’t wear a ring, but then neither did I. The waitress glanced up. When she saw it was him, she flashed another of her selective smiles. But he didn’t see her. His attention was riveted on me.

  “I’m not married, Rose. How about yourself?”

  My conscience flinched at the alias. “Well, theoretically, I’m not... exactly.” I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  He looked skeptical. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m officially divorced; that is, for all intents and purposes.”

  He paused as if waiting for more explanation.

  “What I mean is, I am divorced. Essentially. But...” It was too complicated to explain and I still felt conscience-stricken. I wished to heaven I hadn’t told him my name was Rose.

  “If it bothers you, why’d you come?” he asked.

  There was no need to spread the gloom I lived with, so I tried to lighten up. “I wanted a hamburger and you offered. Surely you recall our conversation in the parking lot.”

  Mischief twinkled in his eyes as he responded to my brighter tone. “So, you’re using me. Is that it?”

  I laughed lightly. “No, but I can see how someone like you might feel threatened by someone like me.” Tall for a woman, I was a shrimp compared to Fisk, who probably wouldn’t feel threatened by a charging elephant.

  “Maybe you’ve got designs on my body.” His tone was serious but his eyes teased. “Or maybe you’re a con artist runnin’ some scam on me?”

  The idea was so ridiculous, I laughed out loud. “You invited me. Remember?”

  “Maybe you’re stalkin’ me. Settin’ me up.”

  I laughed again, but two could play this game. “You flatter yourself. Do you think I picked you out of a whole city full of marks because... because you look so rich?”

  He scowled down at his overalls. “Or maybe so stupid.”

  “No, not stupid.” I tried to sound sincere, but one look at his face and I dissolved into effervescing giggles, like some goofy teenager. I really liked this guy.

  “I heard what you said out at the walking track the other evenin’.” He arched his animated brows. “You’ve got the hots for me, right?” His eyes twinkled, but I sobered.

  “I didn’t make that little observation about your... your physique.”

  “Okay, blame your friend, but you were checking me out pretty good, and you liked what you saw, didn’t you? Just like you did when you drove by me downtown Wednesday.”

  A bawdy, unladylike whoop erupted. I wasn’t sure he had realized that was me.

  His grin wilted. “I am pretty well put together.” His eyes narrowed. “But that’s not what interests you, is it?”

  I covered my mouth with one hand to muffle my laughter and shook my head, no.

  “You think I’m some harmless hayseed, right?”

  I tried to look serious but I couldn’t quite pull it off, so I just nodded. “Pretty much.”

  Apparently offended, he suddenly shot a hard look at our waitress. “Mary, get over here and take our order or we’re going some place where they want our business.”

  She looked surprised then turned an accusing glare on me as she hurried over, banged two water glasses on the table and snatched the order pad from her pocket. “What’ll you have, sir?”

  “She’ll have a chili cheese burger and fries. I’ll have two of the same. Bring us a couple of Cokes, and hurry it up.”

  I felt responsible for his gruffness and wanted to try to smooth things over a little. “Ignore him, Mary. He’s a bear when he’s hungry.”

  Fisk glared at me but Mary pursed her mouth, nodded, wrote and left.

  “Why’d you tell her that?” he asked in an accusing growl.

  I felt my eyebrows arch, which is a sure warning to the wise, although Fisk didn’t know that, of course. “Because you embarrassed me.”

  He looked like he was going to sulk, so I lowered my voice to a threatening tone. “You straighten up, Fisk Reed, or I’ll put a head lock on you and it won’t be pretty.”

  In a heartbeat, a grin spread from his eyes and claimed his big, handsome face. The man had a smile that could light up a ball field. “I’d like to see that.” He swallowed a rolling chuckle.

  Mary glanced up and smiled at us.

  Fisk stiffened. “She’s gonna think we had a lovers’ spat and made up.”

  “So? Are you interested in Mary?”

  “No.” His grin vanished as quickly as it had come. “I’m interested in you. Will you go home with me?”

  I was taking a night off from despair, but not that far off. “No.”

  “You do like me, though, don’t you?”

  Behind a trilling laugh that escaped before I could stop it, I confessed. “Yes, I do.”

  “Why is that?” He looked serious.

  “Heck if I know.”

  “You are divorced then. Is that right?”

  My joy vanished. “Well, mostly.” When was I going to stop hedging about it?

  “How old are you?” The man had no tact.

  “Forty-six. How old are you?”

  “Forty. Or close to it.”

  “Are you married?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Have you been married?” I could be just as nosy as he could.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  He acted offended. “That’s personal.”

  I couldn’t believe he had said that.

  After a moment, he said, “Truth is, I’m not married because I hadn’t met y
ou yet.”

  “What?”

  “I’m gonna marry you.”

  Well, by then I was pretty well convinced he was a nut case but, Lord help me, I liked him—the way his longish hair curled behind his ears; his huge, capable-looking hands; the mischievous sparkle; his unexpected humor; his voice, deep; his manner, gruff.

  I also liked his bold assumptions and my giddy responses.

  We kept up an easy patter, both of us avoiding any further mention of marriage.

  We both liked football and the professional teams were into their exhibition seasons. Our favorite Dallas Cowboys had let us down the last couple of years, but we both planned to stick, at least for one more season.

  We rattled on about mundane things—the weather, the benefits of living in the country versus living in town, pets we had had, siblings, friends, books, TV shows and movies.

  Our mutual attraction, Fisk’s and mine, was absurd, yet his deep, earnest gaze frequently caught and held mine. While the conversation was innocent enough, those looks sizzled with possibilities.

  I had never had a chili cheeseburger and wouldn’t have ordered one then, if Fisk had given me a choice, but I couldn’t fault his taste. It was the best, messiest burger I had ever eaten. I had to eat most of it with a fork.

  Fisk chewed with his mouth closed, didn’t slurp either his coffee or his Coke and used his napkin. I had experienced his attentive door-opening skills and I have always admired nice manners in men.

  “Do you want dessert?” he asked as we finished. “They make a great apple pie.”

  “No, thanks. I really need to get going.”

  He watched rather pensively as I fitted my purse strap over my shoulder. Before I slid out of the booth, I was caught by his lingering look. “What’s wrong?”

  He spoke quietly. “I want to kiss you.”

  Chills ricocheted all over me. I hadn’t kissed anyone but Charlie in years. I dropped a quick look on Fisk’s mouth and my heart lurched. I wanted to kiss him too.

  No, no. Don’t go there, Jan... Rose.

  Still, this was my night off. In spite of our recent history of running into each other, I could manage things so we would not meet again. I would change my routine, use a different walking track, avoid Billings Avenue, even sacrifice literary meetings at the bookstore, and never, ever return to this grocery store or the Burger Shack. And the stupid little lie which vexed me would help. He wouldn’t be able to find me. He didn’t even know my name.

  While I worked my way through these mental gymnastics, a slow smile etched Fisk’s rugged face, giving him a very sexy, very sensuous look. He seemed to be aware I was willing.

  “Come on,” he said, “we’ll go sit in my truck.”

  He paid us out and bought breath mints at the counter.

  As we walked to a one-ton flatbed truck in the grocery store parking lot, a bevy of butterflies broke loose in my stomach. I glanced sidewise at Fisk and was impressed all over again. He ignited a nearly overwhelming desire in me to touch him and kiss him, and to have him touch and kiss me. I had not been that excited in years, all giddy and breathless, feeling daring and... silly.

  Fisk opened the passenger door and offered me a hand up. As we touched, flesh on flesh, current arced between us. He must have felt it too, because he grinned before he closed my door. He walked around the truck, climbed inside, slid to the middle of the bench seat and, without a word, clamped a warm hand on the back of my neck.

  There was a clean, seductive fragrance about him: fresh air, aftershave, and male. With one hand, he turned my face while the other pulled my shoulder to square my body with his.

  Our first kiss was tentative. In spite of his size, Fisk handled me gently. When he tugged to release the tail of my shirt, I squirmed, resisting a little before he whispered, “You’re all right.” And I was. I threw my arms around his neck. His hands were calloused but warm as he pressed me closer and deepened the kiss.

  He kissed me thoroughly and well and it wasn’t long before I relaxed into the thrum of our body rhythms pounding in sync, pumping a beat of mutual pleasure. Each time I might have objected, he murmured a quiet, “Please,” or “Everything’s okay,” and I yielded.

  His hands produced pleasure relentlessly, like waves washing upon a beach, coming one endless sweep after another. I was happy, though I would have enjoyed some sweet, murmured words. Caught up, however, I forgot to think, to speak, almost to breathe. When I was burning with desire, he pulled me across his lap, putting us chest to breast, allowing my pleasure to set the pace. Totally preoccupied with his mouth, I let his hands roam as they willed. My pulse raced. My heart pumped. Each time I could have signaled a halt, I scrambled instead toward the next plateau. And he devoured me, taking everything I gave and even pushing for more.

  Alarmed by my own behavior—feeling like a child who strips off her clothes to run daring and free in her own yard—I grew terribly angry with myself. And, yes, eventually, with Fisk. Yet, I was not willing to stop. It was as if I had left my troubles, my heartaches and my awful responsibilities at the door to our peculiar haven; had abandoned them to confound someone else for a while.

  In that sanctuary, we necked like a couple of teenagers sitting in her parents’ driveway on a summer evening. For the first time in weeks or months or maybe years, I felt desirable.

  Shoppers shot us dark looks when they noticed us as they came and went in the parking lot. Okay, so we were mature enough to come up with a better place to neck, but this location suited me fine. I figured things couldn’t go too far in such a public place.

  Several times we came up for air, looked at each other and started all over again.

  Our little session went on too long, I suppose. My hair and clothes were a rumpled mess, but I didn’t want it to end. As I started to say something sensible, he pushed my chin up and feasted on my throat, nibbling from one ear lobe to the other, tickling and teasing before raining hot, heavy kisses over the tops of my breasts beneath my gaping shirt.

  I was yielding again when he spoke, his voice husky with want.

  “Sweet Rose, come go home with me.”

  The alias jolted me out of our fantasy and thrust me back into the reality of the truck cab, the stranger and the life I had, for a few minutes, forsaken.

  “I can’t.” My voice croaked revealing desperation and desire of my own.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “I want to.” It was all I could manage before my throat began to burn and tears blistered behind my eyelids. I grappled behind me for the door handle. I needed to get out of there before I lost what little self control I had left.

  He grabbed my wrist, took a pen from one of his many pockets and wrote a phone number on the underside. I didn’t resist or object. Just sat there like a zombie.

  “Call me,” he said. “Sunday’d be a good day to get married.”

  We had known each other a couple of hours, not counting our bizarre series of chance encounters. The man obviously was demented. Fortunately, my little deception would save us both. We would not meet again. I would make sure of it. Give him time to recover from his little infatuation.

  Okay, time would heal him. What about me?

  I cried all the way home, sobbed for the way things were: for a past I couldn’t reclaim and for a future that could never be.

  All my adult life, I have taken a bath before going to bed. That night, I didn’t. I could have quit thinking about Fisk if I had tried. Instead, I basked in the scent of him, smells which permeated my clothes and lingered in my hair and on my skin. I hugged myself, remembering. I didn’t want to wash away all the newly resurrected passion, feelings that had lain dormant for all those months. I clung to the... the stimulation of the whole, marvelous evening.

  The biggest reason I didn’t bathe, however, was the hope that if I slept enveloped in Fisk’s fragrance, I might dream. Dream of him holding me and kissing me and much, much more.

  Chapter Four

  Saturday morn
ing, I got up and took a thoroughly cleansing shower—scrubbing dreams and Fisk’s scent from my body and my hair, along with the smell of my own disloyalty. The guilt was harder to remove.

  I drove straight to the convalescent center, stopping once to pick up a box of candy for the staff, another act of contrition. They were good to Charlie who was still attractive, in spite of the disease destroying him.

  I avoided the overly kind nurse who consoled me with platitudes like, “At least you don’t have children.”

  Hadn’t I been strong? Hadn’t I sacrificed? Given up worldly goods with scarcely a whimper—cars, home, all but a few cherished reminders of our perfect life? Why did my options keep nose-diving, ever deteriorating from bad to worse?

  “Hi.” Tinker, the male nurse who worked nights and weekends, greeted me cheerfully as I slipped into Charlie’s room. “I missed you last night, but Charlie blinked ‘Yes’ when I asked him if you’d been by.”

  I pretended we were talking about Thursday night, refusing to admit, even to myself, that I had bailed early Friday, had taken the night off.

  “I slipped in late,” I said. “I thought he was sleeping.”

  “He probably was, but he always knows when you’ve been here.”

  Guilt nudged. “Actually, that was Thursday, after my discussion group.” The deceptions of the night before battered my conscience and I suddenly needed to be brutally honest.

  “Oh, yeah?” Tinker paid little attention to my confession.

  “You know I’m here every night and weekend.” I was still assuaging my conscience.

  Tinker looked surprised. “I know that, Mrs. Hartley. You’re the most attentive family member we’ve got.”

  I tried to smile. “Thanks.” Guilt can be sneaky and debilitating.

  Stepping around Tinker, I set up Marlene’s loaner laptop, the one I brought with me and used to do extra work when I sat with Charlie. We needed every dime I could make, of course.

  As Tinker finished getting Charlie dressed and tying the T-towel to secure him in the wheelchair, I put some energy into a fresh smile.