by Morgan Young
“Hi,” I say as he trots in past us, and goes over to drop dramatically on the couch. He didn’t even have to step up. He’s nearly as tall as I am.
“He’ll warm up,” Ryerson says, closing the door to lock it. He pulls down a metal screen in front of the dog door too.
Ryerson comes over, and slides his hands along my waist. He leans in and kisses the top of my nose, super sweet, and then presses himself against me, and backs me into the laundry machine. I’m suddenly, and highly, aroused, especially when I feel him already hard again.
“You look so fucking adorable,” he says, kissing my lips. “You should wear this all the time.” He slides his hand under the t-shirt and over my ass. I hum out a soft sound between his lips.
“Sure,” I say. “I bet the mechanics would like it at Miller’s.”
Ryerson pulls back, scrunching up his nose. “I get a little jealous,” he admits. “Could be that it’s your ex-husband, but—” He shrugs like he doesn’t entirely care, but I think he does. I mean, I’m a little jealous that he has an ex-girlfriend in Seattle, and she doesn’t live anywhere near here.
“Fine,” I say, pushing him this time until he hits the wall and laughs. “I’ll wear pants.”
“And a bra,” he adds, reaching out to run his fingertip around my nipple through the shirt.
“Maybe underwear,” I add, my eyelids already fluttering.
“Come here,” Ryerson says, and backs me into the washing machine again. He picks me up, and then he’s standing between my legs, cock out, mouth on my breast.
And we end up fucking right there on the washing machine.
***
I wake up in the morning to the smell of coffee. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, and sit up—the sunlight filtering in the window is bright with mid-morning glow.
I stretch my arms over my head, and realize pretty immediately that I’m… a little sore. The side table has all three wrappers, opened, and the extent of my evening plays itself across my mind. I smile, and get up to walk into the master bathroom.
Again, the room is nice—good fixtures. Nice counters. But there is no color, no life. I grab a towel that’s been laid out, and step into the glass shower.
The water is hot on my skin, and I pick through Ryerson’s soaps, knowing not to use any of them on my hair or it’ll be a frizz-nightmare. I smell the body wash and then dump it over my chest and start rubbing it in.
As I slide my hand down my leg, I replay some of last night’s greatest hits. It all seems like a dream to me. My favorite might have been on the washing machine, which is downright weird. But it was exciting, and fun. We laughed, but holy shit did we fuck. We were half out of our minds. A bit reckless, sure—but we were careful all the other times.
I finish washing up and turn off the shower. When I’m dressed in a pair of his boxers and a fresh T-shirt, I walk out into the kitchen, and find him sitting in the breakfast nook wearing dark rimmed glasses, scanning his phone likes he’s reading the newspaper.
And I’ve never really been a glasses kind of girl until I see Ryerson wearing them. Wow. He smiles when he sees me, taking a bite of his toast, and holds out his hand in my direction.
I like how he’s always reaching for me, wanting me next to him. When Frankie and I were together, I had a strict no PDA policy. I hate watching other couples make out in public. Zoey’s the same way. Or at least she used to be until she met Officer Hotstuff.
I think I’m starting to understand her change of heart, though. I slide my palm into Ryerson’s, and he pulls me onto this lap, taking another bite of toast, and continuing to read over my shoulder.
“Good morning,” I say, and lean in and kiss his lips. They’re salty from butter, and I peck them again, before getting up.
“I made you coffee,” he offers, motioning vaguely toward the counter, still reading. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, glancing over at me as he sets down his phone.
“Uh… yes,” I say, and turn to him and laugh. “Yes, I slept very well. You?”
“Not well at all,” he says wryly. “I just wanted to keep fucking you all night.”
I feel heat creep up onto my cheeks, and find the coffee maker and cup set out for me. “You did pretty well,” I tell him.
“Pretty well?” he asks. “Are you saying I was… adequate?”
I smile, pouring a cup of coffee. “You were gifted,” I say, turning to him and leaning my back on the counter. “Amazing,” I add. “In fact,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “I’d dare say you are the best lover in all of Kansas. Possibly the Mid-West.”
“But not the world?” he asks disappointed, and we both laugh.
There’s a loud sigh from the living room, and I nearly drop my coffee. I’m suddenly afraid there’s someone here, but I see Rufus on the couch, his face resting on the arm as he stares at me. He looks positively miserable.
“Quiet,” Ryerson sings out, probably wanting to hear more about his amazing technique.
“Dogs normally love me as much as I love them,” I say, a bit of hurt creeping into my tone.
“It’s only the first night,” Ryerson says, picking up a glass of orange juice and taking a sip. “It takes longer than that to fall in love.”
I stand there, and silence fills the kitchen. Ryerson pauses mid-sip, but then finishes his glass and gets up.
“I’m going to take a shower. You want to hang out?” he asks.
I watch him, realizing suddenly how stupid I’ve been. “Uh… probably not,” I say politely. “I have work and all that.”
“Okay, cool,” he responds casually, coming over to put his dish in the sink behind me. He pauses in front of me, and looks me over. His dark eyes are completely unreadable.
“I’ll call you,” he says, and even he must hear what a shitty phrase it is to utter. He narrows his eyes slightly, and takes a step back, reaching to take my hand and squeeze it before letting it fall to my side. “And you were amazing last night,” he adds. “Thank you.”
Um… thank you. Holy shit. Did I just get thank you’d out of his house?
He stands there, suddenly awkward as if he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing either, and then he flashes me a quick smile, and heads off toward his room.
When he’s gone, there is another loud sigh from couch. I look over at Rufus, my heart sinking pretty quickly, and I match the depth and sorrow of his doggie sigh.
“Tell me about it,” I say, and grab my shoes and walk out the door.
Chapter Nine
“Zoey, call me,” I say, leaving her a message. I mean, I’m leaving an actual voice message, she has to know this is an emergency.
I’m driving home in boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and heels—my entire body still humming and sore from a night of passionate sex. And then… and then… thank you? Like, what the fuck, right?
I press on the accelerator, and speed, letting up on the gas when I get to my neighborhood. The last thing I need is to get pulled over dressed like this. Oh, God. Knowing my luck, Porter would find out. And then I’d have to explain to him why I was wearing his brother’s underclothes.
Luckily, I don’t get pulled over, and I’m able to sneak through my boring apartment complex before any of my neighbors can see or judge me. I spend the rest of the morning lounging around, drinking coffee, and having regrets. Regretting that I’m basically a total romantic, and the absolute worst hook-up material ever. I totally misjudged the situation. I blame the sex—it was too good. Who wouldn’t fall in love after that?
“It’s not love,” I say out loud to my empty apartment. It wasn’t. It was more like… lust? Infatuation? I look around. Maybe a bit of loneliness?
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up and check the message. It’s Zoey.
Sorry, girl. Super busy at the garden. Are you in jail? If not, can I call you tonight?
I laugh. Bail out pact still stands. I’m okay. Talk later.
She sends a GIF of a Real Housewife blowing kisses, and I set the phone
aside. I’m late for work, so I get dressed and head to the garage.
***
Rayanna is in today, and she hangs out behind the counter when I walk in. I say hello, and stand next to her, counting the register cash. It’s a little awkward, although not for the obvious reasons.
I’ve known Ray for over a year now—in fact, I was the one who hired her. She and Frankie hit if off immediately, and I actually encouraged them both to go for it. I did not anticipate them getting serious. I did not anticipate her moving in and marrying him.
Now, I’m not really sure how to act. Luckily, she’s a great girl, so I don’t have to break them up. Zoey and I agreed on that when I first introduced them.
“How’s the place?” I ask, closing the register and turning to her.
Ray is very tiny with long, straight black hair. Blue eyes like Frankie’s. She’s cute—like, put-her-in-your-pocket cute. She’s very different than me, and I think that helps the situation overall. I wouldn’t have been able to take a literal replacement Cheyenne.
“It’s a little messy right now,” Ray says in her high-pitched voice. “Boxes everywhere. Frankie promised to unpack them for me though.” She lowers her eyes when she says his name.
I put my hand on her arm. “He will,” I say. “He’s good like that.”
She glances up at me, and smiles. She feels a bit like a little sister, and I feel bad for giving Frankie a hard time for getting married before I do. I like Ray. I like her a lot, actually.
There’s the sound of an engine, and I have to do a double-take when I see Ryerson’s truck pull into the driveway. Rufus is the back of the truck, tongue out and tail wagging. I smile when I see him, even if he doesn’t love me yet. I’m talking about the dog.
“Who’s that?” Ray asks, furrowing her brow as she watches Ryerson get out of his truck, and approach the garage stall.
I don’t answer, not sure how to answer, and start toward the garage. “I’ve got it,” I say, and walk out.
Frankie looks up from where his head is under the hood of a Beamer, and he wipes his hands on a rag and tucks it into the back pocket of his jumpsuit. He smiles at me, and then heads toward Ryerson.
“Hey, bud,” he calls to him. “How are you?”
Ryerson nods to him, and they shake hands hello.
“Problem with the truck?” Frankie asks, looking behind him.
Ryerson glances over at me, and then back to Frankie. “Uh… no, the truck is good. Thank you for that. I’m actually here to, uh… talk to Cheyenne.”
He looks so embarrassed and sweet when he says it that I almost smile. But I try to keep up my cool act, and put one hand on my hip. “That so?” I ask.
Frankie turns to look at me, and his expression holds a bit of concern. “You know him, Chey?” he asks.
“Porter Banks is my brother,” Ryerson says as if that explains it. Somehow, it seems to because Frankie laughs.
“Oh, Zoey’s guy? Yeah, I like him. Cool.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit, standing there for an awkward moment, and then he looks toward the office where Ray is watching us.
“Well, good seeing you again,” Frankie says, and Ryerson says the same.
Once Frankie is gone, Ryerson comes closer to me, avoiding my eyes as he takes in the garage.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He bites his lip, and then looks at me apologetically. “Wasn’t too proud of myself when I came out the shower and found you gone,” he says. “The dog was pretty pissed, too.” He smiles at me, but doesn’t reach for me in anyway, although it feels like there is a pull between us.
“Your dog missed me?” I ask.
“I missed you,” he corrects. “And I realize that’s my fault, so I came here to see if I could take you to lunch. Maybe a walk in the park with the dog.”
“Your dog doesn’t like me,” I say, looking past him to where the dog is staring intently at our entire exchange over the roof of the truck.
“Like I said, he’ll warm up.” Ryerson holds out his hand to me, waiting to see if I’ll take it. I’m still a little pissed about the “thank you,” but I also think it’s adorable that he’s here. That he has to ask me out in front of my ex-husband with his dog in his truck. I smile.
“Okay,” I tell him, taking his hand. “Yeah, sounds great. Let me just tell Frankie.”
Ryerson swallows hard and nods, letting his palm slide through mine. “I’ll wait for you in the truck,” he says, flashing me a soft smile.
***
There’s a cute, pet-friendly outdoor café close to the library that has the best BLTs, and Ryerson and I grab a sunny spot and order iced teas. It’s sort of strange to not have a hard drink, but I guess that’s the real test. See how we like each other sober, and in the light.
Rufus is on the ground beside us, lapping up gulps of water and splashing it everywhere, occasionally sighing, and putting his face on my foot. At one point, he might have licked my ankle, but I wasn’t sure if that was on purpose or just slobber.
We’re waiting for our food, and Ryerson glances across the table at me. He hasn’t shaven today, and I like the rough look on him. He smiles.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he says casually. “I can’t stop looking at you.”
I feel a blush rise on my cheeks. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “Especially without clothes,” I murmur into my glass, making him laugh.
“I’m sorry if I was insensitive this morning,” he says, his voice taking on a serious tone. “It wasn’t my intention. I’m just… I’m a little guarded.”
“And I’m not guarded enough,” I say, setting down my drink. “Bad combination?”
He shakes his head. “More like the right one. I like you, Cheyenne. I want to get to know you. I want… I want you to know me. No one ever really has. But…” He smiles again. “You’re so goddamn sweet. And so sexy,” he says in a lower voice. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the barbecue.”
“It was a pretty great barbecue,” I say, and grin at him.
The server delivers our food, and we fall into easy conversation. We talk about his job building houses, how he has his own business and it’s been growing faster than he can keep up with. He talks about his brothers—one of them a photographer who’ll be moving to town soon, and his little sister who is apparently a mess.
His mom passed away a few years ago, and I see a shine in his eyes when he mentions her. I notice he doesn’t once mention his father, and I can relate.
“Enough about me,” Ryerson says, shaking the ice cubes around in his tea. “Mind if I ask—I’m terribly curious: when the hell did you get married and divorced? You can’t be older than twenty-three.”
“Twenty-four,” I say. “But thanks for that extra year.” He nods that I’m welcome, but I fidget.
If he were anyone else, I would change the subject or blow it off. I don’t talk about this kind of stuff. I don’t like to. And somehow, Ryerson senses this, and leans into the table.
“If you want to,” he adds quietly.
“I was seventeen,” I tell him. “Frankie was eighteen and graduated. We’d been together for a few years at that point.”
“Young love?” Ryerson asks, his voice a little tight.
“I guess, but that’s not why we got married,” I say, picking at my fries, but not hungry anymore. I look up at Ryerson, and his eyes soften.
“My parents were… not good people,” I say. “My, um… my dad would have these… fits. Throw things. Smash things. Mostly stuff that belonged to me. If I didn’t do the dishes just like he wanted, or dinner wasn’t exactly how he wanted, he would throw them at me. My mother would yell at me, falling into a pattern that lasted until Frankie told me he’d never let anyone yell at me again. He promised he could take me away, and he did. He took care of me.”
I blink quickly, and take a sip from my drink. “I haven’t seen my parents since the day I got married,” I sa
y. “I don’t plan to. I was lucky that I had both Frankie and Zoey in my life. They helped me through it. They understand.”
“Sounds like Frankie was your knight in shining armor,” Ryerson says with a hint of sadness.
“In a way,” I admit. “But he’s my friend—one of my oldest friends. And that’s all there is. I’m just… grateful. I don’t know what would have happened to me otherwise.”
Ryerson presses his lips into a smile. “Well, then I’m grateful to him, too,” he says, outstretching his hand to me. I take it, and he interlaces our fingers.
Rufus sighs, his head under the table.
“And what about you, Ryerson?” I ask, sitting back in the chair. He takes his hand back, and starts to eat again. “Can I ask you something incredibly personal?”
He blows out a steadying breath like he’s bracing himself. “Go for it.”
“When I met you, Zoey mentioned something. I was wondering… she said you were arrested—”
He shifts uncomfortably.
“Why were you arrested?” I ask. “And did you go to prison?”
His eyes lift to mine, and he slowly shakes his head. “No, I didn’t go to prison. But, yes, Cheyenne—I was arrested. Twice, actually.”
This surprises me, but before I start to run through possible scenarios, Ryerson takes a deep breath.
“I was nineteen,” he says. “Six, seven years ago, I found my stepfather hitting my mother. She didn’t tell any of us what was happening—she was embarrassed. I… I put him in the hospital,” Ryerson says, not sounding proud. “And when he got out and tried it again, I put him right back in.”
“Oh…” I say, not sure what else I can add. He understands my family then, probably better than I do.
“My oldest brother is a lawyer, and I was his first client,” Ryerson continues. “He got me out of it with probation the first time. Second time wasn’t so easy. Ended up six months in local detention center, and Emerson and Porter were pretty pissed at me. We… we lost touch a bit after that.”
Ryerson and Porter are so close now. It’s hard to picture them not talking to each other.
