by Zoe Dawson
“She was right.”
“Hey, don’t tell me I’m wrong. I know what I know.”
“You can believe what you want, but it’s the truth, huckleberry.”
“What did you just call me?”
She snorted.
“That’s reserved for me and my brothers. You’re going to have to pay the toll for using that on me.”
“Oh, no. I’m not paying no damn huckleberry toll…huckleberry.”
Chapter Nine
Aubree
I didn’t know how he kept doing it, but he’d soothed me. I had been right on the edge of panic.
He smiled wickedly, looking so sinfully sexy with the stubble coating his jaw, his blue eyes bright on me with challenge. He dug his fingers into my sides and I screeched. He laughed. “Oh, boy, the girl is ticklish.”
“That’s right. No.” I grabbed his hand, but Booker was strong. That hard curve of biceps muscle wasn’t just for show.
I tried to twist away from him, but he buried his face in my neck and blew a raspberry against my skin, which only made me laugh harder.
I arched and pressed my breasts against the hard wall of his chest.
And things got serious again real fast.
He stilled. He didn’t say anything, but somehow got closer in his stillness. He bent his head down to mine and his other hand cupped my breast. I groaned into his mouth. Oh, god, he knew how to kiss. He played with my mouth, stealing every ounce of pleasure. I opened my mouth on his and just breathed him in, tongues sliding, lips pressing. With everything about him so hard, the inside of his mouth was like the softest velvet…moist. He was as addictive as dark chocolate, something rich, dark…sensually intense.
His hand was hot on me, taking me past “Oh, god, is this happening?” to “Please, god, don’t ever let him stop.”
I wanted him, desperately. I wanted everything he had, what he could give me, and I was willing to expose my heart to get it.
And that’s exactly what I had on the line. Nothing less. I knew him, knew myself with him. No meeting him half-way. I had to be all in. I would end up giving him everything, and he would take it all and then some, and when it was over, what would I be left with—nothing? How could that be? Where would all this wonderful go?
Between our bodies, I felt him unbuckle his belt, and a whole new level of thrill went through me, along with a dose of anxiety. I couldn’t regret that he was going to be the first man I’d ever been with. I couldn’t. I just suspected he was going to spoil me young. I’d want all men to be like him. And I suspected I was going to be sorely disappointed later.
I now wished when he had asked me that I’d had the courage to tell him what he wanted to know about why I trusted him in high school, that I’d had the courage to take a stand. Something I didn’t seem to have. Guilt filtered through me along with his soft touch. They seemed to mingle and coalesce into something totally forbidden, decadent.
I felt him slide his zipper open, and I dragged my mouth from his. Our eyes met in the dark. His gaze was edgy. His hand slipped down to my bare leg and he took his time traveling the length of it. His hand slid up between my legs, and all I could do was watch his face—so beautiful, his hair shaggy silk, his eyes so deep-set, so thickly lashed, so intensely focused on me. How…how had I missed this in high school? How had I not known?
I gasped when he reached my underwear.
“Mmmmm, pretty lace. You are so wet for me and I’m so hard for you, Aubree. So freaking hard. Open for me.”
After the bleacher incident, there hadn’t been a day that went by that I hadn’t fantasized about him like this. All bare and muscled. That irresistible power right there for my hands to touch and explore, to have and to hold.
What I saw that day had touched me to the deepest part of my being. I was never the same.
He pushed aside my panties, and I was powerless to control my legs as they widened. He touched me then, his fingers so sure, so unerring, and pure, sweet pleasure poured into me. With a soft gasp, I brought my mouth back to his, moving against him, my pelvis pressing into his hand.
He circled me with his thumb, and pleasure exploded in a throbbing pulse so intense I lost my reason.
“Booker…” I sighed, loving what he was doing to me, loving being close to him, pressed beneath him in this exquisite place.
I tunneled my fingers up through his hair, reveling in the sheer pleasure of being free to finally, finally touch him like I’ve wanted to do for so long. I held him for my kiss, for a hundred kisses, and then I reached down and grasped the edge of the pretty blouse Verity had given me.
My phone rang and I recognized it immediately. I stilled against him, disappointment and worry crashing through me. I scrambled out from under him and reached for my purse. “That’s the hospital ring. I’ve got to get it.”
He flipped over and lay back, his jeans unzipped, revealing all his glory. He covered his face, his chest heaving, his muscles in stark relief. I could see the bulge straining against his underwear.
Oh, God, Aunt Lottie. Please, God.
“Hello.”
“Miss Walker?”
“Dr. Prichard. My aunt!”
“Yes, but not to worry. She’s awake.”
“What? She is?” I closed my eyes, tears pricking the backs of them. Relief ran through me in a concussive wave and I sagged against the cushions. Booker got on his hands and knees and scooted over to me.
“Tell him you’ll be right there,” he whispered in my ear, sending goose bumps over my skin and puckering my aching nipples even further.
“We’ll be right there. Thank you so much!”
I hung up and turned to him. “She’s awake.”
“That is the best news.”
“Yes. I’m sorry about…”
He took my mouth in a soft, tender kiss, that brushing and sliding that I loved so much. “Hush, sugar. It’ll happen in its own time.”
“Well, just for the record, I’m really disappointed.”
He nodded. “Do you want me to drive you?”
My self-control was shot. “Yes, please.”
“We can take your car. I won’t have a problem getting back home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Then you’ll have it if you need it.”
#
When we rushed through her hospital room door, there she was, sitting up! It was like that day back when I’d been so scared as I heard people coming into the house, scared that someone was coming to take me away. But instead of stern, cold authorities, this beautiful, red-haired lady had stepped through and taken control of the situation. Afterwards, she’d told me I was going home with her.
With a cry of joy, I ran to the bed, remembering at the last instant to be careful not to jostle her, and wrapped my arms around her. Her grip was tight for someone who’d been unconscious for three days.
“There’s my Aubree. It’s so good to see you. Well worth a bump on the head.”
“You got much more than a bump on the head,” I said, in a scolding tone. But she just smiled at me and shifted her focus to Booker.
“Booker. How nice to see you.”
He walked over and, without any warning, gave my aunt just as tight a hug as I’d given her. “Welcome back, Lottie.”
The hospital was kind enough to bend the rules and allow me to stay with her. Booker, not being immediate family, had to leave. I worried about him getting a ride home, but when his mother came through the door, greeted my aunt, and they chatted for a few moments, I stopped worrying.
They allowed me to take her home the next day, and three more days passed while we had several visits from the sheriff. Anyone with eyes could see he was sweet on her. It was also clear to me that my aunt felt the same way.
It was mid-morning on the fourth day and we were very low on supplies. I was trying to figure out how to get to the market when there was a knock on the front door.
When I opened it, there stood Booker and Boone.
That was quite the double whammy first thing in the morning.
“I’m here so you can take a breather,” Boone said with a grin.
“This is such perfect timing. I have to go to the market.”
“I can stay with your aunt. I hear she likes The Fellowship of the Ring.” He held up the big boxed set of movies.
“Thanks, Boone, for helping out.”
“Hey, this is totally selfish. I’m hoping to get meatloaf points. Your aunt knows how to make some bangin’ meatloaf. Um…don’t tell Brax.”
“Boone. You’re a meatloaf.” Booker said, shoving his brother’s shoulder.
“Ha, you won’t be sayin’ that when I’m stuffin’ my gob with it.”
As soon as the door closed, I found myself up against the house, Booker’s mouth on mine. Warm, delicious and just a tad desperate. I liked that. Did that make me a bad person?
He broke the kiss. “Hello, Aubree.”
It took me a moment to get enough air to speak. “Hello, Booker.” I cupped my palm against his face, and he smiled.
“The market, huh?”
“Why? Did you have something else in mind?”
“Who, me?” he asked, looking about as innocent as the cat who’d just scarfed down that poor canary.
“I have a recovering aunt who needs sustenance.”
He gave me a wry look. “That’s right. Play the guilt card.”
“With you, I need an ace up my sleeve.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “You’re getting good at sparring with me. I like it.”
As he backed the car out of my driveway, Booker asked, “How is she doing?”
“Really well for someone who had a severe concussion. I’m so thankful.”
“Does she remember anything?”
“No. She doesn’t even remember the fall, and there doesn’t seem to be any lingering problems except for headaches and dizziness, which Dr. Prichard said was normal. But I already knew that.”
“Right. From the time that you worked for old Doc Rust.”
“Yeah. He was a very good country doctor. Kept up with the journals, which he was happy to let me read.”
He glanced at me. “You like reading medical journals?”
“Love them. Devour them.”
“Then, why the statistics? Why not medicine?”
I shrugged. “Mrs. Daily said that if I wanted to live up to my potential, statistics was the way to go.”
“We’ve already talked about this in the diner, remember? You said stats was easy for you and I wondered how that could challenge you.”
“Yes, I remember that day. I was so…irritated.”
“I can have that effect on people.”
“No, I was more mad at myself for acting like a complete idiot in the rain and then being rude to you after you were so kind.”
“I like ‘em feisty.” He grinned, then sobered. “It couldn’t have been easy to come back here after…”
“No. It wasn’t.”
A fresh spring of anger about what had happened on Wild Magnolia Road welled up inside me, and I recognized that a large part of it was because everything about that day was hidden, buried. Had justice been served? Some people would say yes, but my rigid sense of right and wrong said no. If only I had been smarter, more vigilant, more aware. Some of the blame had to be mine, and the guilt for that felt terrible.
If only I had found the courage to tell my aunt. But I hadn’t. I had shut her out and shouldered the burden alone. Sometimes I think I had deliberately chosen that as my penance. I had never said anything, only suffered in silence, just like I had with my mother. Now, sitting here, my loyalty to my aunt for having taken me in pressed down on me. I would do anything for her. But I wasn’t sure she knew that. It was probably fear on my part, fear of rejection, fear of not being worthy, fear of not…measuring up.
“I think my aunt knew something was wrong,” I said quietly.
His silent presence bolstered me.
“She made a point of calling me once a week, whether I answered or not. She’d leave messages about what was going on with her and in the community, a slice of home. Then she would always end by telling me that she was there for me. Always.”
My throat tightened again. “But I shut her out. Every time. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. These are my problems.”
“I’m the only person who knows. The only one you can talk to about it. And that gives us a connection, a bond. And I care. You know that, Aubree.”
I nodded. He was right. We did have a connection, and it was being strengthened every minute I spent with him.
“I shut you out, too, Booker. For that I’m terribly sorry.”
“You already apologized to me for that and I was traumatized…remember?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. The kissing/crying/kissing session. It was imprinted on my brain. “I’m not likely to forget that the first time I kissed you, I cried.”
“Yeah, the therapy’s been brutal.”
I pushed at his shoulder. “Aren’t you ever serious?”
“You need to lighten up, sugar. I was seriously missing you. Three days of torture.”
“Whatever did you do to get through it?”
“I wrote. Expression is my profession.”
“It’s a gift, just like your musical ability.”
He shrugged. “The trick with writing isn’t really the writing part. Shit, I got A’s in all my English classes. I’m not saying it isn’t satisfying. But the hard part is the fear of success, the fear of failure. And, for a guy like me who values other people and adventure, it’s a solitary process. Sometimes it’s fucking terrifying to be alone with your own mind.”
“Amen to that.” My own was filled with land mines. I often wished I had a detector so I could defuse those little bombs that go off in my head. Explosions of the mind only seemed to cause chaos instead of clarity.
“What did you write about?”
“A fallen angel wracked with guilt from a terrible miscalculation that put the woman he was trying to protect into the hands of a ruthless demon.”
“And the woman was the key to everything?”
“Of course. This is fiction, after all.”
“Is it?”
He gave me a wicked, sidelong glance that was much too full of much too much meaning.
“That was more fun than thinking about me?”
He smiled. “Nothing is more fun than thinking about you. But, I don’t believe your aunt would appreciate me showing up at your house and ravishing you. It was an…effective distraction.”
“You never know. My aunt’s a romantic. I’d love to read some of it.”
“Next time you’re at my place, it’ll be the second thing we do.”
“What will be the first…oh,” I said a little breathlessly.
“You’re going to have to cut me some slack. I’m a man, and we have that shit on the brain 24/7.”
“Okay, just a little. Knowing you, I cut you much slack, and you’ll use that to your advantage, sweet talker.”
“Oh, so now I’m a huckleberry and a sweet talker.”
“Are you trying to get me to say huckleberry again so you can collect a toll?”
“Maybe.” He pulled up at the market. “And you just said it.”
“But that’s no fair. You tricked me.”
“Still have to pay the toll.”
“Ha!” I said. “You’ve got to catch me first.” I zipped out of the car and made a beeline for the front door of the market. He caught me in just a few strides, then swung me off my feet and in a dizzy circle. I felt that way with him, dizzy, euphoric, swept off my feet with no solid ground beneath me. This man made me feel as if I could fly.
When he set me down, I saw the lady from the post office. Her frown was so deep she was creating rifts in her face.
“Hello, Mrs. Leone. Beautiful summer day to you,” Booker said cheerfully.
“Hmpf,” she said.
She glared at
me as she passed and said under her breath, “For shame.”
“Yeah,” Booker whispered to me. “It’s a shame she’s such a grump.”
I burst out laughing and she turned to look at us sharply. Booker did a little wave with just his fingers.
She hmpfed louder this time, and just like that kangaroo in Horton Hears a Who, she slid her nose in the air and marched inside the market.
We followed her in and grabbed a cart. “I suppose you have a list?”
I pulled it out of my bag and showed it to him. “Of course. How would I know what I needed if I didn’t make a list? Don’t you?”
“Nope. A list is too rigid. What if I want like Doritos and they’re not on the list?”
“Booker, you can still get them.”
“God, no. Not if they’re not on the list!”
I laughed as we walked over to the produce section so I could select the various fruits and vegetables my aunt wanted.
“Could you pick out some apples?”
He walked over there and grabbed a few. On his last choice, I said, “That one has a flaw.”
“What’s wrong with flaws? They make you real. I like flaws.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You’re not open to possibilities?”
“In a flawed apple?”
“There’s plenty of possibility in this apple.” He twirled it by the stem.
“Like what?”
“Well, the word flaw, for instance.”
“‘Flaw’ has possibilities, too?” I shook my head. “I thought it just meant imperfection.”
“Aw, that’s where you’d be wrong. It also means a squall of wind or a short storm.”
“And the apple?”
He thought for a moment, his face animated. “So many possibilities…for instance let’s talk about it as a fruit. You can cut it up and slather it with peanut butter. Slice it into a pie, yum. Or you can press it into cider.”
“Don’t stop now, word-master. I know you got something else for me.”
“If we take it as a symbol, it was what delivered the poison to Snow White. Which reaffirms the apple as an allegory for evil, and reminds us that man’s downfall and introduction to sin occurred when Eve bit into it, the forbidden fruit. Or, in Snow’s case, it also means a living death.”
