by Strong, Mimi
I nodded along with the music. “Great song.”
He stared at me, his face having the look of someone figuring out a puzzle. Self-conscious, I looked down at my lap and rotated my chair around, so I was partly facing the band and could watch them without craning my neck.
The band took a break, with half of them going outside to smoke and half of them joining us at our table. Every bar in the city was smoking-free, because it was a law for the whole province. Some places had covered patios outside just for smoking, with huge signs imploring the patrons to not yell too much, please.
The guys from the band who joined us at our table were really cool, neither ignoring me completely, nor being too interested and inquisitive. They kept calling the guitarist a word I'd never heard of before.
Finally, curiosity got the better of me and I asked, “What's a keener?”
The stringy-haired lead singer explained, “One who is keen. A real go-getter.”
Sawyer said, “Same as a brown-noser.”
“No,” the singer said, shaking his head. “Words are specific. They have specific meaning and are not interchangeable. The meaning is slightly different. A keener might brown-nose their superiors, but they get ahead in life on their own merits. On their own hard work.”
The other guys laughed. To me, Sawyer said, “Beware a lyricist. They really care about words.”
The singer turned to me. “We're trying to encourage Tommy here to be less cool. To care more about art, without apology.”
“Tommy?”
“They call me Tom Sawyer. Tommy. It's not my name, though. I mean, come on, do I look like a Tommy?”
“Why are you named Sawyer?”
“Why are you named Aubrey?”
The singer waved his hand between us to interrupt. “May I write a song about you, beautiful, mysterious Aubrey?”
Sawyer shook his head, playfully mouthing the word no.
“Sure,” I said.
“You won't be sorry,” the singer said, giving me a double eyebrow raise.
And then they were off, back up on the stage.
We watched them play for a while, and I tried to remember the last time I'd been out to see a band with friends. It was something most girls my age took for granted—being able to have fun, thinking only of themselves. I pretended to be watching the band, but I was mostly looking at the other young women in the bar. One group in particular was hard to ignore.
Over the sound of the girls squealing and downing tequila shots the next table over, I said to Sawyer, “Is that a normal bachelorette party around here?”
The girl at the center of the action wore an oversized white T-shirt that had multi-colored hard candies stuck all over it. Crudely written in felt marker on the front, back, and sleeves, was BUCK A SUCK. I watched as a few guys gamely offered her a dollar or two, then sucked the candies off her shirt as everyone watched and squealed. The girl wore a tiara with a small veil, which was the main thing tipping me off that she was the bride-to-be.
“You mean the stagette,” he said. “That's what we call it. Most of us. My mother's from New Zealand, and she'd call it a hen party.”
“But is this typical? With the costumes?”
“Didn't you do this when you got married?”
I shook my head, no.
He looked pointedly at my stomach, and I knew what he was thinking—that I'd been a knocked-up bride.
One of the entourage came by our table, teetering on her high heel boots. She wore a tight bodysuit and cat ears, like several of the other girls. “Only a buck,” she squealed.
Sawyer answered politely, “Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back on my sugar.”
The girl glared at me, as though I was the one holding an invisible leash, keeping him from fondling her best friend.
“What's the money for?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and walked away.
I leaned in and said to Sawyer, “Was I rude to ask that? It's just that with a kissing booth or something, it's usually for charity. That takes away some of the… you know.”
He gave her another look, then turned back to me, his eyebrows high with excitement. “She could make a hundred bucks if she sells all the candies on her shirt for a buck each. And I'm sure she's got more that she could re-load with.” He nodded down at my purse, on my lap. “Hey, let's make some cash. Get out some of those suckers I know you have in your purse, then we'll dip them in water to stick on your shirt.”
“Very funny.”
“You say that now, but it could be very lucrative.” He laughed harder and harder. “And tax-free, too.”
The girls pushed past us and formed a circle on the dance floor. The atmosphere and the booze in my system was making me introspective. Part of me wished I had a group of friends my age to do that stuff with—I'd already missed out on so much, and who knew what the future held for me. Time was slipping away.
The band started to play a familiar-sounding song I couldn't quite pin down. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, focusing on the lyrics.
When I opened my eyes again, Sawyer looked sad, like he wished the bass player wasn't there that night, and he could be up on the little stage instead.
When he caught me staring, he flashed me a grin, revealing those perfect teeth of his. Now that my tooth didn't hurt, I wasn't thinking about teeth as much, but his were really nice.
“You're having fun,” he said.
“I am?”
“Always leave 'em wanting more.” He pushed back in his chair, stood, and nodded for us to go.
Outside in the cool night air, as I was fastening the chin strap of my helmet, he said, “Wanna learn to ride?” He held out the keys, his face lit only by passing headlights and red taillights.
“Don't I need a permit or something?”
“Spoilsport,” he teased.
An elderly man with a hunched-up back approached us, mumbling something incomprehensible.
“Sorry, man,” Sawyer said, but I was already reaching into my pocket for some change.
The man's expression turned hopeful and he trained his watery, pale blue eyes on me, shuffling closer. I could see by the angle of his jaw he had no teeth, and his gaunt cheeks told me he was thin under his clothes. His top layer was a woman's ski jacket—pink—and it might have appeared funny to people who had never been truly poor.
I handed him all the change from my pocket, which included some two-dollar coins.
He muttered a blessing that was far too generous for the small amount I'd given him, and shuffled off into the dark night.
Sawyer said, “Now I feel like a dick. Wait. Hang on.” He handed me his helmet and loped off after the guy.
I watched, my arms getting goosebumps from the cold night air, as he talked to the guy for a few minutes and emptied out his pockets into the man's hands.
When Sawyer came back, he had his head down, and he took back the helmet quietly.
We got on the motorcycle, and I looped my arms around his waist without hesitation. I hung on tight, and because he couldn't see my face, I allowed myself to cry.
I cried because the world was beautiful.
When we pulled up in front of my building, the little wannabe-gangsters were in full force around the front door. The kids were in their early teens, and one or two of them lived in the building. They were more annoying than actually scary, but I tried to avoid them.
As soon as Sawyer turned off the engine, I heard their strident voices, calling out and demanding we go buy them alcohol. When I didn't respond, a few started calling me a stuck-up bitch.
I saw something flash in Sawyer's eyes—a look that scared me. “Which one of them lives here?” he asked me.
“I've seen the stupid-looking one around a lot. Red jacket. He's harmless, though. Don't worry about him.”
Sawyer had his helmet off, his wavy brown hair still flattened down and plastered to his forehead. We were in the dark, at the edge of the light shed by the security lights at
the front of the apartment building.
“He's not harmless,” he said, growling and looking like a big dog who just saw a pack of mutts step into his yard.
“Calm down, they're all talk.”
“He just pulled out a knife and flashed it at that other kid.”
I squinted their way. Sawyer could see that amount of detail from where we were?
Holding onto his arm, I said, “Don't worry about it. I'll just go around to the side entrance.”
He shrugged his arm from my hands and strode across the front lawn, then straight into the middle of them.
I stayed where I was, my feet frozen to the pavement.
They seemed to talk for a minute, the five teens—all shorter than Sawyer, but not by much—circling around like wily pack animals. One of the guys—not the one who lived in the building—acted like he was walking away, then turned quickly and snuck up behind Sawyer.
Before I could yell out a warning, the kid punched Sawyer in the back of the head. Big mistake. Sawyer whipped around, all fists and fury. The kid was knocked flat to the ground, and when the next one came at Sawyer, he was sent flying back, and I heard the slam as he hit the glass building door behind him.
Oh, fuck.
Chapter Twelve
I started running toward them, but my shoes weren't made for running and one of them started pulling off my foot, tripping me. By the time I got to my feet again, the skirmish was over. The visiting kids ran off, and the one who lived there had his head bowed, using his key to open the door. He'd been the one tossed back into the glass.
I tore open the door, praying the kid wasn't hurt.
Inside the lobby, I heard Sawyer was saying, “If you'll apologize to Aubrey, I think she'll forgive you and not tell your mother what just happened.”
The kid turned to me, his chocolate-brown eyes pleading and large. He was breathing rapidly, shaken, but not broken. Now that I could see he wasn't hurt, I could be properly pissed at him.
The kid cried out, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything! I was joking.”
“That's fine,” I said. “Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours.”
Sawyer released his grip on the boy's jacket, and he darted away, down the hallway.
I didn't know whether to give Sawyer holy hell or thank him, so I just pulled open the door to the stairwell and started up the stairs.
Sawyer stood in the doorway and called up after me, “I probably shouldn't walk you to your door. Your husband might grab me by my jacket collar and give me a talking-to, right?”
I stopped and turned my head to the side. “There is no husband.”
Then I closed my eyes and held my breath.
I heard his foots on the carpeted stairs behind me, and then I heard his breathing.
We walked up to the third floor in silence, and I opened the apartment door without looking his way. I winced at the familiar sight of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. At least the place smelled decent, thanks to a peach-scented air freshener I had plugged into the outlet on the stove.
“Sorry,” I muttered as I flicked on the light switches. “My place is a disaster.”
“Dude, you've seen my place.” He stopped and kicked off his shoes in the tight entrance, then followed me into the kitchen and stopped at the fridge, admiring the artwork by Bell that surrounded his drawing of the frog.
I pulled off my shoes and tossed them back to the doorway. “You Canadians,” I said. “Always taking your shoes off in the house and making me feel like I have no manners.”
Without taking his eyes off the drawings, he said, “You did mention you were raised by wolves.”
Did I? Was that to him? I couldn't keep track of my stories anymore, and now I'd just admitted there was no husband, whatever that meant. Should I say there is one, but he lives in America? Or that we're recently separated?
“I've never been married,” I said.
He nodded, still looking at Bell's drawings.
“I've never even had a real boyfriend.”
“That's hard to believe.” He glanced over at me, looking sexy and dangerous. “Wait, no. It's easy to believe. You push people away.”
“People suck.”
“That they do,” Sawyer said, running his finger over the lines of the frog drawing. “I hated myself for chasing a married woman, and I got used to that disgust, and now I find out you're not married, and I don't know what to feel.”
“Did I suddenly get less interesting?”
He turned to me, his green eyes dark and serious. “You didn't get less beautiful.”
Embarrassed, I started rummaging in the kitchen cupboards, looking for something to offer him. I had a bottle of red wine Bruce had given me as a housewarming, so I pulled it out and ransacked the junk drawer for a corkscrew, though I was fairly certain I didn't own one.
Sawyer caught my hand and pulled it toward his mouth. Slowly, tenderly, he kissed my knuckles. He caught me in his gaze and turned my hand over, then kissed my wrist.
My heart fluttered and my head buzzed. This was happening. Right now.
His voice husky, he murmured, “Your daughter's away for the night?”
I nodded, yes.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Not yet.”
He tugged my hand, looping first one of my arms and then the other over his shoulders. I gazed up at him. His wavy dark hair was still flattened from the helmet, so I ruffled my heads through it, amazed at how soft his hair felt. After all this time, I was touching him, touching his hair, the back of his neck.
“Aubrey, you confuse and confound me. I love not knowing how I'm going to feel from one moment to the next whenever you're around.”
I leaned forward on my tiptoes, moving my mouth closer to his.
“Aubrey, I ...”
Green eyes sparkled down at me, burning the moment into my mind.
His dark eyelashes lowered, and he shifted down, his lips touching mine with what felt like a spark. We were still in my little galley-shaped kitchen, next to dirty dishes, but the whole world disappeared as his lips touched down and explored mine.
At the same time as my lips parted, his tongue wetting the edges of our lips, his hands landed on my waist, pulling me to him and then moving around to the small of my back.
Our tongues touched, and now I was eager for him, burying one hand in his hair while the other rested on the back of his broad shoulder, steadying me as I moved higher on my toes to reach him. My whole body yearned for contact.
His hands, hot and heavy, moved across my back and up between my shoulders. He pulled his mouth from mine with a sigh, and kissed my neck, sucking at the sensitive skin below my ear and jaw, making me aware of the strong, steady pulse thrumming there.
He pulled gently at my skin with his mouth, licking and sucking down the side of my neck, up my throat, and around the other side.
“C'mere,” he grunted, and he moved me with his hands on my hips, over to the kitchen table. He scooped me up and sat me on the surface as if I weighed nothing. Now he was leaning forward, pushing me back, pushing me back with the force of his lips until I was on my back.
He grabbed my legs and tugged me toward him, and I felt his hardness against me, through both of our jeans. Leaning forward, his elbows on the table on either side of me, he kissed my hungry lips, then my throat, and the skin at the top of my shirt.
I'd sworn to myself I wouldn't do this, and now I was. I'd never been as excited for anything as I was for Sawyer. My hands explored his body, cupping the muscles on his back, feeling the raw power of him. So fucking hot.
He pulled back from my grasp, grabbed onto the hem of his T-shirt, and pulled it off over his head in one smooth, slow motion. As he moved, back-lit by the lights in the kitchen and hallway behind him, I admired the way his muscles and masculine form revealed itself to me. He leaned forward again, over me, the muscles across his neck and shoulders like taut knots of power.
I cross my arms and reached d
own to do the same with my shirt, but his hands were already there, tugging my shirt up and over my head. I shivered as the air touched my warm skin.
When he leaned over me again, my back still flat against the wood kitchen table, our upper bodies touched, heart to heart, skin to skin. I sighed into his lips as he kissed me again, like a fever.
My knees were up, my feet against the edge of the table, and I used my leverage to rock my hips up, pressing them against his body with an urgency that terrified me. His hardness pressed against my inseam as he thrust against me, all while kissing my lips and then my neck. I wanted to tear through our clothes and merge with his body.
As he sucked on my earlobe, I pulled his hand to my mouth and sucked on his thumb. He moaned into my ear as I sucked harder on his thumb in my mouth, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist.
I wanted him so bad, and I didn't care about tomorrow, or any other day.
My hands went to his waistband, unfastening his button.
He grunted and pulled me back down the table, my sweat-dampened back sticky on the wood surface. As he thrust against me, he pulled down the band of my bra, shaking out one of my breasts.
I stopped moving and went completely limp as he moved down over my breast with his mouth, licking and blowing air on my nipple. He mouthed my breast, then sucked the nipple firmly, sending an electric jolt through my body. I arched my back, rolled my head back, and moaned. He sucked harder on my sensitive nipple and squeezed the other breast with his hand.
I thought I might die from the pleasure of Sawyer's weight against me, and his skin. The smell of him was in my nostrils, and I sucked at whatever part of him I could reach. I licked and kissed the tender-skinned inside edge of his forearm as he focused on one breast, and then I dug my fingers into the muscles of his back when he moved over to the other.
Having my jeans on was almost unbearable.
Then he was moving down, kissing along my stomach and around my navel. I closed my eyes and let myself be in my skin, in this moment, with Sawyer unfastening the button of my jeans. He reached under my buttocks and tugged my jeans off, but not my panties.
He kissed his way back up my torso, to my lips, as he caressed me through my underwear. When his fingers pressed over that hot, sensitive area, I moaned with pleasure.
