Breathe the Sky

by Michelle Hazen

  “They got better whiskey here, if you like that. Saw it online.” He flipped to the next section. “Here it is. Back page. I’m driving, have what you want.”

  She hesitated, and he looked at her squarely for the first time since he’d picked her up.

  “Wanted to take you someplace nice.”

  Mari hoped this dress was tight enough to contain her, because she was definitely melting, starting with her heart and spreading to every other part of her.

  “Okay,” she whispered, and Jack’s gaze dropped to her lips. It kept doing that. There must still be a lot of pink left from the lipstick she’d wiped off.

  “Here.” He took her menu and pulled the parchment page of entrées out of the leather holder, then ripped it all the way down the edge.

  Mari squeaked, her hands flying to her mouth. “Jack! What are you doing?”

  He wadded up the line of ripped-off prices and stuck it in his jeans pocket, then passed her menu back. “Get what you’d like. Rest of it doesn’t matter.”

  Mari took it with a wobbling smile that threatened to burst into something embarrassingly large. Instead, she cleared her throat and made a concerted effort not to spend the whole date beaming at Jack.

  “So, Kipp seems like he’s really gotten his act together this week. I think you finally scared him into working more than he talked.”

  “We don’t have to talk about work stuff,” he said. “We can talk about, uh . . .” He glanced around. “Whatever.”

  She reached across the table and laid a hand over his. It gave her a double thrill: the touch of his skin and the rush of her own boldness, made even more intoxicating by the fact that she was pretty sure he didn’t mind.

  “Jack. All of this is lovely, but you don’t have to be a different person just because we’re on a date. It’s enough that you wanted to come here with me, that you wanted to make this . . . something.” She hesitated, but nothing could feel like a risk right now, with this man. Not when she had his seat cover price tag hidden in her purse. “It already feels special. It makes me feel like something special.”

  His head was ducked, stealing glances at her with his fingers tense against the table as if he expected her to lift her hand to smack his any second. But he didn’t hesitate at all to say, “You are.” Then the tiniest of pauses, just enough to let her know he thought twice before he said, “Especially in that dress. Look beautiful. Are beautiful. Even not in the dress.” His eyes flew wide. “Not like . . . not in the dress. Just, like, in anything. Is what I meant.”

  “Um, thanks,” was all she said, utterly losing the battle against beaming.

  The waiter chose that moment to come back, and Mari gave Jack’s hand a quick squeeze before she took hers back.

  “Oh no, what happened to your menu? I am so sorry, ma’am, just let me run over and get you a fresh copy.”

  “I’d rather stick with this one, if it’s okay,” she said, laying a protective hand over her torn, price-less menu. “I like this one better.”

  20

  A Ride

  Mari had discovered something. The more she smiled, the more Jack talked.

  So, by the end of dinner, her face was fantastically sore, her ears hummed with the sound of his gravelly southern drawl, and she’d barely remembered to eat a bite of her delicious citrus-infused chicken.

  “. . . And I was so sure I was gonna impress my big brother by bagging a deer before hunting season ever started. Instead, I ended up mowing lawns all summer to pay the vet bills on the neighbor’s Jersey cow.”

  She burst into giggles, covering her mouth in chagrin. “Oh, I shouldn’t laugh, I shouldn’t! That poor cow.”

  Jack grunted, taking a slug of his soda. “My aim was a whole lot sorrier than that cow was. Barely managed to wing her.”

  “Was that why you switched from hunting with a gun to a compound bow?”

  “Nah. Just shot one at the range once and it fit my hands.” He paused, his eyes flicking up to hers. “Felt right.”

  She was disappointed when the waiter interrupted—again. She’d never been so frustrated by good service. He picked up the already paid bill and told them to take their time, but Jack shifted in his seat like he felt bad occupying a table when they were already done. It was the same probably baseless guilt that always nagged at her in restaurants, so she smiled and said, “You ready to go?”

  “Uh, sure,” he agreed, but somehow she got the feeling he meant just the opposite. No matter how much she told herself it made her a petty, egotistical person, she liked that very much.

  * * *

  —

  Jack kept his eyes on the road as he drove them home. The waiter had looked at him a little oddly when she ordered wine and he insisted on a Coke, but Leroy had wrapped two trucks and a borrowed Honda Civic around assorted trees in Alabama. He swore he drove better when he had a little drink on, but Jack had never seen him wreck a car sober. Then again, Jack had rarely seen him sober.

  Either way, he wasn’t taking the slightest of risks with Mari in his truck. He only let himself glance over when he stopped at a light. She was messing with the radio, her shoes kicked off and legs curled up underneath herself. That dress of hers was about the best thing he’d ever seen: red as tulips and nipped in at her tiny waist, flared out so it danced around her knees. A neckline that swung round and came down to a little point, showing the slightest shadow of cleavage that was driving him to distraction.

  He loved the dress, how it made her look like a pinup with her long, elegant neck and upswept hair. But he loved even more how she always curled into his truck seats as if she were home on the couch. It made him especially glad he’d covered the duct-taped rip in his seats before she rode in his truck. The whole drive over, he’d been stiff with worry that she’d move the wrong way and hear the duct tape crinkle. It was still under there, still trashy as shit but veiled for the moment.

  Now . . . she looked so comfortable he somehow doubted she’d recoil even if she did hear the tape crinkle. They’d had a whole conversation about that once, about how they both liked old trucks better than new ones.

  “It’s green,” she said.

  He frowned, wondering how she’d known he was thinking about his truck.

  A horn blasted behind him, and he came back to the moment with a jolt, hitting the gas. So much for attentive driving.

  The motel came up too damn soon, its dusty facade looming like his father’s scowling face, announcing the end of any fun being had.

  Jack took as much time parking as he could get away with, then busted ass to get around the truck so he could open her door this time before she did. She waited, and accepted his hand to hop down. She made the jump lithely, but wobbled the landing in her red high heels. He touched his other hand to her waist because their joined grip didn’t seem like it was going to be enough to keep her from rolling her ankle.

  She looked up, but she didn’t move away. Jack had been debating for the whole date if it would be okay to kiss her when they got back. Mostly, he’d decided it was safer not to try. But now . . . now he wanted to so damn bad.

  He leaned in. So slowly it could have been awkward, just so she had every chance to push him away or even change expression to indicate this wasn’t something she wanted.

  She held perfectly still. Her eyes were so warm and soft, with this light to them that looked a little like hope.

  At some point he lost track of the caution of leaning in and kind of melted in around her, his hand cuddling farther around her back as their lips came together. Her mouth was just as forgiving as her gaze, welcoming him until he never wanted to be anywhere else.

  Somewhere, dimly, he knew he ought to keep it short. It was just their first date. But he kept coming back for just a tiny bit more, one last touch. And then her tongue teased at his and he wanted to feel exactly what she was doing there so he leaned in
more. His hand that had been clasping hers found her neck instead and the line of her jaw was terribly small and warm. He brushed it with his thumb while she kissed him, stroking her like he could soak up that much more of being with her.

  The curve of her breasts thrilling his chest was his first clue that he’d pushed her back against the truck, and he hurried to step away. “Shit, sorry. I washed the truck, but your dress . . .”

  Her eyes were a little hazy, but they focused at his words. “Oh no, did I stain it?” She twisted to try to look behind her. “Can you see?”

  He tried not to look at the curve of her lower back sweeping into her rounded little bottom, his gaze scouring the fabric instead.

  “I borrowed it from Ivy, and I don’t want her to be mad at me,” Mari fretted.

  “It’s all right. Ain’t stained.” He brushed a little dust off the hem. “You ought to keep it, though. Ain’t no way it looks better on her.”

  She snorted. “Have you seen Ivy? She’s about twenty-five with green eyes like a mascara model.”

  “She the drill sergeanty one? One always going on about every bird for miles?”

  “Ivy has an avian specialty, yes.”

  He humphed. “Didn’t think she’d have a reason to own a dress like that, much time as she spends with those bird books.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t judge. She’s very good with birds, but I hear she’s a heck of a dancer, too.” Mari looked amused. She glanced at her motel room door.

  There was no logical reason for them to do anything other than go back to their rooms, but he did not want to do that. He just stood, refusing to even introduce the topic.

  “You know, it’s early yet,” Mari ventured.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Sure is.” Jack had no notion of what time it was, and he could not possibly have cared less. “Wanna go someplace?”

  The notion of “someplace” was pretty vague in his head, but he figured there were a whole lot of places all bundled up on this planet, and if pressed, he could find one to take her to. Especially when the alternative was going back to his dingy little room alone. Always trying to remember that he wasn’t back in Alabama, and Leroy wasn’t going to stagger in with his pupils blown wide and start stacking the furniture against the doors.

  Mari was looking at his bike, her gaze running longingly over it in a way that made him shift his weight and fidget.

  “You know, I could change into pants,” she said. “If you wanted to take me for a ride.”

  The blood revved in Jack’s veins. He was not in favor of her changing out of that dress, but he was very much in favor of taking her out on the bike.

  “Yup,” he said. “You go change and I’ll get you a helmet. Back in five minutes, maybe less.”

  She raised her eyebrows but didn’t ask. He liked that she trusted him, even if it was just something small, like being able to find her a motorcycle helmet on short notice.

  “See you in a minute.” Her fingers brushed over his arm in farewell as she turned toward her room. He grabbed his helmet out of the truck toolbox, jumped on his bike.

  He didn’t have a spare helmet. No reason to, when no one had ever ridden on the seat on the back. But Ron, the project supervisor, was even more into bikes than Jack. Ron had three or four different helmets in the construction office a few blocks away. Never could decide which one made him look “cool” enough, a trait Jack had always scoffed at before, but now was grateful for.

  Mari was waiting outside when he got back. He handed her his helmet, because he knew it was clean and had never taken a serious impact, and he didn’t know much about Ron’s helmets. She already wore jeans and cowboy boots, but he wrapped her up in his lightest leather jacket. “Safer,” he said. “Know it’s hot, but it’ll be all right once we get going and there’s a breeze.”

  “I feel like an astronaut,” she said, her voice muffled until he flipped up the face shield of the helmet. Inside, she was grinning hugely.

  “You look real tough,” he promised.

  She mimed flexing her biceps under the oversized jacket, and he snorted out a laugh.

  “Easy there, killer.” He pulled on Ron’s fancy helmet and straddled the bike. His heart pumped like he’d been pushing the triple digits on the speedometer, and he hadn’t even hit first gear yet.

  It was too soon for him to even think about going home with her. He never would have asked; he felt guilty and worried every time he ever even thought it. But when she swung on behind him, her thighs coming up tight beneath his, his muscles flexed all in a rush like he was ready to thrust. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, hide her under him. Strip off every bit of fabric she was wearing so he could kiss the precious skin beneath.

  Basically, he was losing his mind.

  “Hold on,” was all he said as he booted the kickstand up and started the bike.

  She took him at his word, holding on not just at his sides but wrapped all the way around to where his abs flexed under the leather jacket he’d thrown on in a nod to safety—mostly in case he got distracted enough by her touch to lay the bike over.

  He wanted to roar out of the parking lot, his fist eager to crank the throttle. Instead, he made himself take the acceleration slow and smooth, letting her get used to the open air and balance of the bike. Her fingers clung tightly to him for the first few starts and stops, but once they got out on the desert highways, she warmed up right along with the engine. Melting over his whole back and resting into him, letting him lean into the curves, and mirroring his movement like they’d been riding together for decades.

  He revved the engine and finally let it roar. She pressed against him, seemingly eager for the speed. He wondered if the growl of the bike massaged all the way down to her bones the way it did for his.

  It was heat and speed and the thrill of promise for something exciting. Just out of reach but undeniably there.

  The light around them deepened until the sky was a midnight blue, the first few stars sparkling at the edges. Jack flicked on the headlight and checked the gas gauge, but when the turn came up for the motel, he veered the other way and took the long way back.

  If sex had ever been as effortless as this ride, thrilling and warm all at once, he might have been crazy enough to ask her if she wanted to come back to his room. But it wasn’t, at least not for him. Even if he had gotten so lucky that this incredible woman actually liked being on the back of his bike, it was all going to come crashing down if she started hinting toward wanting more.

  Jack hit the next gear and let the engine howl, but it couldn’t drown out the sound of tomorrow bearing down on them.

  21

  Losing Your Head

  It always started out innocent.

  They’d share dinner in the driveway, she’d pack her stove and cooking supplies back into her truck while he washed the dishes, and then they’d settle into Jack’s room in time for their favorite home renovation show. She always sat on his bed, so he did, too.

  Some nights he held off for an hour, sometimes only five minutes. But eventually he’d crack, edging his hand closer to hers so his knuckles nudged her own. Or maybe leaning over to press a quick kiss to her cheek. And that was all the invitation she needed.

  He’d have been happy if all he got was any one of those small touches. If the back of his hand could simply rest against the heat of hers until they fell asleep against the wall, he’d probably have dreamed about nothing else all night. The idea that he could lean over and kiss her smooth cheek and she let him? Well, he wasn’t anywhere near used to that.

  But Mari . . . she was fierce. The hand holding, the times when he put his arm around her, it seemed like a heated energy would swarm up in her as soon as he got close, and she wasn’t able to sit still anymore without her lips finding his. Her knee slipping up onto his thigh. Her breasts nudging closer, pressing more deeply into his chest with each bre
ath she gasped. It didn’t take him too many days to consider that maybe she was just waiting on his first touch, to tell her it was okay to do what she really wanted to be doing.

  So he started reaching for her sooner.

  He was most comfortable starting with a kiss, and he loved her lips. They touched him nicer than anything he could remember. It was so perfect he would almost get disappointed when she moved on from there . . . but then as soon as her tongue found his, he’d forget all about those innocent little closed-mouth touches and growl into her. His hair would end up as thrashed as hers, even though it was shorter now. His shirt would ride up as they’d slip lower on the bed. The sheets always got bunched and clammy with heat, the bedspread shoving annoyingly at their ankles.

  Their legs . . .

  Somehow they’d always get tangled up, couldn’t seem to lie side by side without his knee pushing between hers. As soon as he became aware of that, of the demand he didn’t mean to be making on her, he’d pull it back. But then she’d end up kneeling half over him, her inner thigh rubbing his until his cock would do its best to bend his zipper teeth out of shape.

  For hours, she’d come back to his mouth. Even when her favorite show about rehabbing farmhouses came on. Even when she was out of breath. Even when he hadn’t shaved and her face grew red and chapped from his five-o’clock shadow. It seemed like there was a spark in her that kept getting bigger the more they tried to rub it away.

  Jack decided maybe her ex hadn’t been too good at kissing.

  Not that he figured he was. Hadn’t had much practice. Kissing was just what you did to keep from having to look at each other when you were getting ready to hook up.

  Of course, he hadn’t done a whole hell of a lot of that, either. He wasn’t great at spending time with women. Didn’t know what to say, or what really he was supposed to do with them. He took them out, sure, any idiot could do that, but they didn’t seem to have much fun just staring at him across a table or a bar.