by Cindi Myers
She started to sit at the end of the table, but Dylan motioned to his side. “I saved you a seat next to me,” he said.
“I suppose I ought to sit where I can keep an eye on you.” She slid into the chair at his side, aware of his thigh almost touching hers.
“Did the two of you know each other in high school?” Patrice asked.
Taylor looked at the girl, surprised. Had the rumors followed her all the way to the classroom? “How did you know that?”
Patrice shrugged. “I know you both went to school here and you’re about the same age, aren’t you?”
“Taylor and I were in the same class.” Dylan helped himself to a second slice of pepperoni pizza.
“Dylan recently moved back to town after living in Los Angeles.” Taylor wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “His family has lived in Cedar Creek for, what is it—three generations?”
“I’m sure these kids aren’t interested in me or my family,” he said.
“But we are,” Patrice said. “Because of our class project.”
“Class project?” Dylan sent Taylor a questioning look.
Her stomach fluttered as if she’d swallowed a half dozen moths. “Berk, why don’t you tell Dylan a little bit about what we want to do.”
Berk wiped his hands on his jeans, then reached under his chair and pulled a book from his backpack. “We wanted to study this and do some kind of project related to it.”
Dylan took the book and stared down at the pale blue dust jacket with its pencil drawing of the Bee County Courthouse and the simple lettering, A Ranger Remembers, by Samuel D. Gates.
“That’s a signed, first edition,” Berk said. “I don’t think our library realizes how valuable it is.”
Taylor studied Dylan’s face, searching for some clue as to how he felt about all this. His downcast eyes hid his expression from her as he ran his fingers across the dust jacket like a blind man reading Braille. Only the tight line of his mouth betrayed any agitation.
Should she have asked him first before agreeing to her students’ idea? Did he see this as some attempt to manipulate him? To use him? She clenched her hands into fists and scrambled for some explanation to placate him. She was still searching for words when he raised his eyes to meet hers. “This was your idea?”
“It was our idea,” Jessica said. She glanced at the others and they all nodded. “All of us.”
“I suggested it,” Berk said. “I found the book at the library and thought it looked interesting.”
Dylan laid the book down in the middle of the table. It looked oddly formal, nestled among the pizza boxes. “I thought the book was removed from the school library in 1995.” He frowned. “I was in college and my dad sent me the article from the local paper.”
“Somebody must have put it back in,” Berk said. “Or maybe they overlooked this copy.”
“Why would they remove it?” Patrice asked. She touched the cover. “It says inside here that it won a bunch of awards and stuff.”
“Some people thought it made the town look bad by bringing up things that had happened in the past.”
Patrice frowned. “But if those things really happened, isn’t it important to remember them?”
He nodded. “My father would have agreed with you.”
“There isn’t only bad stuff in the book, though,” Berk said. “I looked through it and it talks about good stuff, too, like the first black students here at Cedar Creek High and the first Juneteenth Parade.”
“That’s right,” Taylor said. “One of the things critics talked about was the balanced approach Mr. Gates took to the issue.”
“Not everyone saw it that way.” Dylan’s gaze was on the book, but his eyes seemed to look beyond it, to another time.
Taylor touched his arm, the way one would touch a sleepwalker, to avoid startling him. “The students and I think it’s important for people to remember your father’s work,” she said. “Is that all right with you?”
He straightened and glanced around the table. “Why wouldn’t it be all right? My father would be flattered.”
“I know you’re thinking of running for school board,” she said. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to bring up the past.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s the perfect time. Who knows? Reminding people of who my father was and what he stood for could be a real asset. Besides, we can’t let the past influence the future, can we?”
The knowing look he sent her made her breath catch in her throat. She glanced away, smoothing her hands across her thighs. “We still have to get approval for this from the English department,” she said. “But after that, I wonder if you might come back to class and speak to us about your father. Maybe you could bring pictures and other mementos.”
“I’d like that.” He shoved back from the table. “My father was an interesting man. He’d get a kick out of you all choosing his book for your project.”
“What should the project be?” Patrice asked. She glanced at Dylan. “We can’t just study the book—we have to make some kind of presentation to the community.”
“Like a play,” Jessica said.
“Last year’s senior class wrote a rock opera based on Dracula,” Dale said. “It was totally cool.”
“Maybe we could do a photography exhibit,” Berk said.
“Or a play,” Jessica offered.
“Not a play—a movie!” Dale grinned. “We could film some of the places mentioned in the book and then film pictures of how they were back then.”
Patrice jumped up. “And we could interview people who were alive back then who are still here now.”
“And maybe we could interview you about your dad,” Berk said.
Dylan nodded. “I’d be honored.”
Taylor stood and began gathering up plates. “These are all great ideas. We’ll meet again after I talk to Mr. Murphy. In the meantime, I want each of you to write a five-paragraph essay on what you hope to show with this project.”
A chorus of groans greeted this assignment, along with some good-natured grumbling. Jessica swept a stack of paper plates into the trash and glanced at her watch. “Oh, my gosh, I have to go,” she said. “It’s almost time for my TV show!”
This prompted a rush of gathering up backpacks and exchanging goodbyes. “See you tomorrow, Ms. Reed.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Gates.”
“Later, everybody.”
Dylan helped clean up the rest of the plates and boxes and straighten the chairs. Now that they were alone, the room seemed smaller, the atmosphere charged with an awareness that had been absent before. She reached for an empty cup and his hand brushed against hers, sending a shiver of sensation up her arm. He bent toward her and the scent of his cologne tickled her nose, instantly kindling memories of their bodies coming together in the cab of his truck.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks for inviting me here tonight,” he said. “It was great meeting your students.”
“They were excited to meet you. It’s not every day they get to meet a living connection to something we’re studying.” She crumpled a napkin and tossed it in the trash. “Do you really think your dad would have been pleased?”
He nodded. “He always said someday people would understand what he’d tried to accomplish.”
The regret she heard in his voice made her heart ache. “Was it very bad, when they shunned him?” she asked.
“It was pretty bad.” He shoved a chair underneath the table. “It’s the reason I had to get away right after the funeral. I couldn’t deal with all these people pretending to mourn my father when they’d turned a cold shoulder to him only the year before.”
“But you came back.”
He sat on the edge of the table. “I came back.” He shrugged. “This is my home.”
She sat next to him. She wanted to reach for his hand, but held back. He would have to make the first move here. “They hurt you and you came back.”
He turned to look at her. “Maybe I tho
ught I had something to prove.”
“I guess I can understand that.”
She leaned toward him, lips parted in silent invitation. He brought his hand up to cradle the side of her face, and pulled her closer, their lips meeting in a tentative kiss.
Is this what you want? The kiss asked. Is this the right time?
“Yes,” she whispered, and slid closer to him. This was all she wanted, all she had wanted since the moment he’d walked into the room.
His arms encircled her, warm and strong, supporting her and claiming her. He trailed kisses along her jaw, the heat of his mouth burning a path down her neck. “Did you have anything in mind for tonight?” His voice vibrated through her, echoing the humming of her blood in her veins.
“Something…in particular?” He trailed his tongue along her collarbone, making it difficult to form coherent thought.
“A rumor.” He tugged down the neckline of her shirt and planted kisses along the tops of her breasts. “From your diary?”
“I—I can’t remember.” Her head fell back and a long sigh rose up from deep within her. Who could think when he was doing such incredible things to her body?
“Wasn’t there something about us making out beneath the bleachers?” He tugged the shirt down lower and ran his tongue under the edge of her bra. “At the football game.”
“Uh-uh.” She arched into him, pressing her breasts against his chest.
“Why not?” He slid his hand up her stomach, cradling her breast.
“Spiders.” She shifted to allow him easier access. “Creepy.”
“I guess you’re right.” He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending shock waves of arousal through her. “I never could figure out how that was supposed to have happened anyway, since I would have been on the field during any game.”
“Uh-huh.” She nipped at the back of his neck. As soon as she could find the strength to move, maybe they could go somewhere more private….
“Wasn’t there something about a shower?”
He raised his head to look at her, allowing her senses to clear. She tried to think. “A shower? Oh, yeah. The story was, we took a shower together in the boys’ dressing room. As if anyone could really get away with something like that.”
“I don’t know….” He glanced at the clock on the wall behind them. “It’s almost seven. Practice is over. The coaches will have gone home to supper. The janitors don’t show up until what—after nine?”
She stared at him. “You can’t be serious!”
He grinned. “Why not?” He slid off the table and tugged her toward the door.
She held back. “Dylan, that’s crazy!”
“Who said sanity was any fun?” He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her toward the door. “You said you wanted to make those old rumors come true. Here’s your chance to add this one to the list.”
“It’s too risky.”
“That’s what makes it exciting, isn’t it? The risk?” He traced his finger along her jaw, his eyes staring into hers. She got lost in that gaze, mesmerized by his voice. “The idea that at any moment, you might be caught. You might be right on the edge, about to come, and someone would walk in.” He pulled her tight against him, his thigh thrust between her legs, rubbing her sensitive center. “But by then, it would be too late. All you could do would be to stand there and let your climax take you, while they watched.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to this image of herself, powerless against the force of her desire. “Didn’t you say you always regretted not doing things?” His voice was a whisper, a cooling breeze across her fevered senses. “Don’t regret not doing this.”
She nodded. “Yes,” and allowed him to lead her out of the room and down the deserted hallway.
Their footsteps squeaked against the gym floor, the sound quickly swallowed up in the high-ceilinged room. They kept to the shadows along the wall, skirting the bleachers, moving around stacks of mats and a bin of basketballs, toward the door on the far side marked Boys.
The door creaked loudly as Dylan pulled it open and she stifled a squeal. As he reached for the light, she grabbed his hand away. “No! Someone might see,” she hissed.
He nodded, and led her into the room.
The parking lot security lights cast a yellow glow through a row of narrow windows near the ceiling, illuminating the tiers of basket lockers and double ranks of benches. Taylor stepped over a discarded pair of basketball shoes and looked around. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she whispered.
He laughed. “What did you think?”
She shrugged. “You know—gross.” She wrinkled her nose. “I thought it would smell more.”
He coughed. “It probably does when it’s occupied.”
As it was, it smelled of bleach and liniment. Not wonderful, but not unpleasant. She made a mental note to thank the janitor next time she saw him.
“Is it that much different from the girls’ lockers?” he asked, following her farther into the room.
“It’s messier.” She kicked aside a single dirty sock someone had left behind. “The girls tend to have more beauty products sitting around.” She stopped to examine a jar of hair gel someone had left by the sink.
He opened a closet and pulled out a stack of the thin white towels familiar from years of gym classes. “Not up to Ritz-Carlton standards, but they’ll have to do.”
Her stomach quivered. Were they really going to do this? She’d told herself she wanted to risk more, but was this going too far? She looked toward the showers. “You don’t think there are any spiders, do you?”
He came to stand behind her and put his arms around her. “No spiders. Nothing to be afraid of.” He pulled her close, leaving no doubt as to his own state of arousal. “Unless you’re afraid of me.”
She swiveled her hips, grinding against him, forcing a bravado she didn’t quite feel. “Maybe you should be afraid of me.”
He tugged at her shirt, but she slipped out of his grasp, ducking behind a laundry bin. “I’ll undress over here.”
“Oh no you don’t.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the middle of the room. “No. I want to see you.” He grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it up over her bra. Reluctantly, she raised her arms and allowed him to pull the shirt off.
“Stand there like that,” he said, holding her arms up. He reached around and unsnapped her bra, freeing her breasts. Cool air rushed over her, puckering her nipples, a corresponding tightness building between her thighs. He shaped his hands to her breasts, supporting her, abrading the nipples with a tantalizing friction against his palms. She squeezed her thighs together and swayed, every nerve throbbing with need.
One hand continuing to tease her breast, he reached down and unfastened her belt. She arched against him. “Hurry.”
“Oh, I’m enjoying this too much to hurry.” He slid the belt slowly from her waist, then flicked open the top button of her jeans. He looked at her a moment, as if contemplating his next move. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and to pull him to her, but she forced herself to hold still, arms in the air, waiting.
He bent to suckle first one nipple, then the other, his mouth hot against her skin, his tongue caressing, teasing, dragging out her desire in a delicious agony. She felt suspended here in the shadows, poised against his mouth, held up by his hand at her waist.
He pulled down her zipper and parted the fabric, his hand sliding down to cover her mound, squeezing her through the thin layer of silk.
She bit back a moan. “Why am I the only one getting undressed?” she whispered.
“My turn is coming.” He grabbed the waistband of her jeans and shoved them down over her hips, dragging her panties down as well. Then he helped her kick off her shoes and step out of her jeans.
As soon as they straightened, her hands were on him, tugging at his shirt, loosening his belt. He pulled his shirt over his head and sent it sailing, followed quickly by the rest of his clothes. They e
mbraced, heated skin to heated skin, hard muscle to soft curve, smooth complimenting rough in a design that would never be improved upon.
He smiled down on her, his face softened by shadow. “Let’s take a shower,” he said, and led her into the stall.
8
TAYLOR HAD NEVER BEFORE thought of sex as being a particularly graceful act, but as she and Dylan moved into the shower, she was reminded of dancing. Hands on her hips, he guided her under the shower head, holding her steady on the slippery tile floor, communicating without words. Warm water cascaded over them in a soft spray, the droplets glittering like jewels on their bodies in the silvery light.
He turned her until her back was to him and pulled her close, one arm clasped around her waist, the other reaching for the soap. Working up a lather in his hands, he soaped her breasts, moving from one to the other, stroking her nipples, sliding his hands along the undersides, cupping her in his palms. The velvety soapsuds and warm water caressed every nerve, soothing the ache building within her, even as his constantly moving fingers coaxed her to a fever pitch.
He pulled her tightly to him, until she could feel his erection hot against her back. She ground into him, shimmying, their soapy skin sliding together. He smoothed his palm down her torso to her stomach and then to her thighs, lathering her skin, squeezing, forcing her legs farther apart. A stream of warm water ran over her clit, heightening her arousal, until she was biting back a moan.
She whirled to face him then, plastering her body to his, her mouth claiming his in a devouring kiss. The water pounded over them, steam rising around them. She’d never been more aware of her body—of the shape of her muscles and the sheen of her skin, of the way her hips flared and her buttocks jiggled when she moved, of the flexing of her calves when she brought one foot up to rub along his leg.
He slid his hands down her back to cup her bottom. “You’re beautiful,” he said, the reverence in his voice raising a sudden lump in her throat. Had anyone ever said that to her with so much meaning?
