Forbidden Fruit Vol 2

by Millstead, Kasey

  Tyson. The shadow freezes, locked into place. My vision adjusts to the low light of the kitchen, and we make eye contact, holding for a beat. I don’t know how long I would have waited there if Tom hadn’t pulled my shirt over my head. I allow him, even arching my back. The cool air feels good against my skin. It’s wrong—so wrong, I think, I should stop, but when I look again, Tyson’s gone, making me wonder if I’d imagined him in the first place.

  No. I don’t think so.

  I’m not positive, but I’m convinced he’s lingering in the dark hallway, listening to the two of us. The idea makes me hotter. Hornier. I fumble with Tom’s zipper, needing relief. To my shock, he pushes my hands aside and removes my panties before dropping to his knees.

  I moan in pleasure when his warm breath meets my body. He spreads me apart and laps against my flesh, kissing my sensitive clit. I lean back on the table, exposed and aroused, fighting the shiver creeping up my spine.

  Through it all, I don’t forget about Tyson. I close my eyes and recall his face. The stubble across his jaw, and his brilliant eyes. The delicious smirk he wears when he’s teasing me. The way his hand felt on my hips when we were in the lake. His fingers are slim and attentive. For the second time that day, I imagine him between my legs, making my body follow his commands. A deep breath from Tom jars me to my senses, but I’m already coming as I pant and grip the edge of the counter. I bite my tongue, afraid the wrong name will roll out of me.

  I open my eyes and immediately look to the shadowy, dark spot. I wonder again if I imagined it. Let my fantasies get the best of me. “Wow,” I say, convinced for real now that I made the whole thing up. It was just my imagination running wild.

  I kiss Tom on the lips and taste myself. We help each other stand. He winces, and I look down to see his erect cock straining against his half-buttoned pants and up to his belly.

  “Go,” I say and push him toward the bedroom. He goes without argument, a hungry grin on his face. I pick up my clothes, and as I stop to take a final sip of wine, I hear the soft click of the backdoor as it shuts.

  ~*~*~*~

  Tom takes off around midnight. A prearranged booty call for certain, but neither of us want an awkward moment with Tyson in the morning. Well, he doesn’t. I’m going to have one regardless, and it’s all I can think about as Tom dresses and ties his shoe laces. Tyson spied on me and Tom in such an intimate moment. And I liked it. There is no doubt about that.

  “Sure you don’t want to go to the beach with me?” he asks one last time before he leaves.

  I smile, feeling warm and post coital. “I can’t. You know that.”

  He purses his lips but keeps his thoughts to himself. We’ve had this conversation a million times. He wants more. I’m not sure I’m capable . It’s the same standoff we’ve had for twenty years.

  “The invitation stands,” he says and gives me a kiss on the forehead.

  I pass out after that and only wake because of the incessant buzzing of my phone. There’s just one person who calls repeatedly and doesn’t leave a message. Bev.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I ask, trying to disguise my sleepy voice.

  “Are you just waking up? It’s almost ten!”

  I get out of bed and pull a hoodie over my tank top and pajama shorts. Coffee. I need coffee. “Late night.” I peek out the window and see Tyson’s towel hanging from the line. He’s already taken his morning swim, and from the sound of hammering off the nearby trees, he must be at work. “The good news is your son is way more responsible than I am.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. He’s probably been up for hours. I hear him working up there right now.” I hold the phone out the porch door. “You hear that?”

  “You’re kidding. At home, I can barely get him out of bed by noon, much less do any chores.”

  “I told you this would work,” I say as I pour myself a cup of coffee. A clean cereal dish sits by the edge of the sink. “Wow, he even did his own dishes this morning.”

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  “No!” I laugh. She’s so pissed. “We’ve got a good routine going on here. He’s learning. You know how people always want their kids to act better at other people’s houses? Well, you’ve done good, girl. He’s great.”

  “Are you locking the doors at night? Because he’s probably found some mountain girl to let him in his window.”

  I laugh nervously. “No sneaking out. I promise.”

  “Well, what else is going on?”

  “Tom came over last night.”

  That perks her up. “He did? Did you…you know?”

  Bev and I have been talking about my relationship with Tom for years. In some weird way, they are the only two constants in my life. “Yeah, he brought his “A” game.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Really?”

  “You have to let me live vicariously. I have boring married sex.”

  “Tom and I have been together off and on for a long time, Bev. It’s almost like married sex.”

  “Almost but not the same. Mike and I’ve been having sex since we were Tyson’s age,” she says, before muttering, “Look how that turned out. And if I don’t watch out, history will repeat itself, and I’ll be a grandma at forty-two, which, no. Just no.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Crap. Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  “Wait, so that’s what this is all about?” I ask. “Honey, Tyson isn’t going to knock some girl up and have to get married. That’s not going to happen. He may like girls, but he’s responsible. I’ve seen it firsthand.” I stare at him through the window as he carries a pile of garbage down the cottage steps. He’s throwing all the trash into the back of my dad’s old truck. It’s dump day.

  “It’s different when hormones come in play.”

  I glance at the sleek lines of Tyson’s back, the way the muscles tense when he works. “Hormones do make you stupid,” I agree. “But we’ve talked about it some, and I think he’s a good kid.”

  “Enough about my almost-bastard child. Tell me more about Tom and when you two are going to just make this happen.”

  I sit down on the rocking chair with my coffee and look over the lake before continuing the conversation we’ve had a thousand times. That’s what best friends are for.

  ~*~*~*~

  There comes a point when I can no longer avoid Tyson. What’s done is done, and I suspect the result will be some of the best spank-bank material he’ll never tire of. Your mom’s best friend? It’s like a teenage boy’d daydream.

  I meet him outside once the truck bed is full. “Let’s hit the dump,” I say before I slam the tailgate shut. He jumps in surprise.

  “Hey, you’re up,” he says and takes off his work gloves then stashes them in the back pocket of his jeans. “You driving?”

  “Yep.” I slide into the driver’s seat and inhale the oily scent, tinged with tobacco. “This was my dad’s truck. He bought it used years ago. The smell always reminds me of him.” I crank the engine and say, “The air doesn’t work. You’ll have to roll down your window.”

  We bump along the country road, leaving the lake behind us. The dump is on the other side of the small town bordering the lake. After a quiet ride, we approach the chain-link fence, and the operator waves us through. The dump is divided into sections, and I drive slowly to look for the right place for us.

  “I used to love coming here as a kid,” I say, trying to keep the conversation casual. “I was convinced I’d find some sort of amazing treasure among the piles of junk.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. But it could still happen, don’t you think?”

  “I think you could make almost anything happen,” he replies and brushes his hair back out of his eyes.

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugs and looks out the window. “You’re very confident.”

  “Says the pot to the kettle,” I mumble.
/>   When I find the right spot, I park, and we take turns tossing stuff from the back of the truck. Tyson’s removed part of the carpet and a rotten cabinet from the bathroom. I throw in several battered deck chairs that should have been trashed years before.

  We’re down to the final items. I pick up part of a metal bed rail and slide it down to Tyson, who’s on the ground. “Can you take this?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  I trip over a block of wood, and the metal slips. It makes a gash in my arm. I gasp in pain.

  “Avery! Shit! Are you okay?”

  “Ummm.” It’s obvious I’m not, because blood pours from my arm, hot and slippery. “I don’t know. I think I need to sit down.”

  He carries me to the cab and places me in the passenger seat. “I should stop the bleeding, right? Like with a cloth or something,” he says, mostly to himself. He searches the cab but comes up empty-handed. I’ve already pressed my arm against my shirt.

  “Help me take this off,” I say and gesture to my tank. He helps me lift it over my head. Then he wraps it around my arm. To his credit, not once did he ogle my blue bra. Or maybe he did, and I’m just too lightheaded to notice. The metallic scent makes me nauseated, and I look away from the smear of blood across my stomach. “Okay, now we go to the hospital. It’s not far.”

  Tyson gets out and slams the tailgate on the way to the driver’s seat. “Can you drive a stick?” I ask, afraid we’ll stall, and I’ll bleed out on the way.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it,” he says. He looks anything but good. His cheeks have lost their tanned, rosy glow and have turned greenish instead.

  The trip to the hospital is short, and Tyson rambles beside me the entire time. I’m barely lucid, the mixture of blood, sweat, and pain making me ill. He stops the truck at the emergency entrance and half carries me inside while sticking close by my side until the doctors take me back to get stitched up.

  ~*~*~*~

  He emerges from behind the room divider a short time later, and I give him what can only be a drugged smile. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “You’re welcome. The doctor says you’re going to be okay. We just need to keep an eye out for infection and make sure it stays clean.”

  We, he says. The words feel loopy in my brain. I reach for his hand. “Warm,” I say as I bring it to my nose. “Soapy.”

  “God, you’re wrecked.”

  He lets me hold his hand anyway, and I say, “Don’t tell your mom, okay?”

  “About the cut?”

  I shake my head, slow and lazy. It’s not working right. “That I let you see me in my bra.”

  He laughs. “I won’t.”

  “Don’t tell her,” I mumble. “That I let you see…you know.”

  Tyson’s hand tenses, and he licks his bottom lip. “I won’t,” he says quietly. Even through the drugs, I feel the heat rise between us. “Close your eyes,” he instructs and I do. The drugs and exhaustion lull me to sleep.

  ~*~*~*~

  I vaguely recall the car ride home and Tyson putting me to bed. When I wake up, I can see through my window it’s dark outside. I’m wearing clean pajamas, and my arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow. It aches.

  “Hey.”

  I turn to the side and see the shadowy outline of Tyson leaning forward in the chair by the bed. “Hi.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like shit. My head throbs and my arm hurts and I’m really, really thirsty. Can you get me a glass of water?”

  “Sure.” He leaves the room and comes back with a glass and hands me some pills. “Antibiotics and pain meds.”

  I swallow the pills and drain the glass. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, I think I’m okay. Just a little groggy.”

  “They had to dope you up, because you were fighting them so much while they stitched you up.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, I had to help hold you down.”

  I slap my forehead. “God, really? Well, that’s…unfortunate.”

  “There was a lot of blood, Avery. I think you were going into shock.”

  “Well, thank you for all that you did. I’m glad you were there to help me—or, you know, hold me down because I was acting like a jackass.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. I can tell he thinks I’m amusing, and it’s flattering. “So nothing else? No food?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  He moves to leave, but I stop him. I don’t want him to. “Um, would you mind hanging out with me down here? I don’t feel like being alone.”

  “Sure,” he says. “I’d be happy too.”

  “Want to watch a movie?” I say as I sit up a little more. “We can watch in the living room. I’ve got a whole stash of DVDs.”

  He assists me, even though I argue that I’m fine. I don’t argue, though, when I feel his hands on my back or when his fingers graze my hips or when he helps me on the couch, even though I should. I don’t fight when he situates himself on the opposite end and, my toes are pressed against his thighs. All I do is snuggle into the soft gray blanket he laid over me while he queues up the movie and presses play.

  ~*~*~*~

  “So tell me something,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “You’ve been incredibly gracious this whole time. You’ve done everything I’ve asked. No arguments. You’ve worked hard and you’ve helped me personally since I got hurt. You’re obviously a responsible, nice, young man. Why were you acting like a douche last year to your parents?”

  Tyson is stretched out on the dock, eyes closed and board shorts precariously low. From my spot in a lounge chair I keep my gaze fixed on the scattering of hair just below his navel, and I wonder, not for the first time, what it would feel like between my fingers. Or even worse, what his skin tastes like. I bring up this situation out of curiosity and to bring a sense of reality back to this moment. Something I’m slowly losing control over.

  He keeps his eyes shut and says, “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Come on,” I say.

  He shrugs and I marvel over his skin and how brown and tanned it’s become over the last few weeks.

  “When Lacy and I were dating, it was really nice. I liked having a girlfriend. It was easy, and she was fun.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She dumped me.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Then suddenly this line of girls appeared, and they were more than willing to go out with me, no strings attached.”

  “Okay, gross.”

  He smiles and sits up. “I hadn’t experienced that before. When Lacy and I started dating, I was a scrawny fifteen-year-old. I changed during that time, and I guess it went to my head.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, one of your heads at least.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why didn’t you ever talk to your mom or dad about this?”

  “I was having fun. I knew they would make me stop.”

  I shake my head. “You’ve been really great here. No sneaking around. No flirting with Monica, which really, kudos on staying away from that.”

  “Thanks. Monica’s pretty, I guess, but I don’t know. Staying with you is different from being at home.”

  “How so? I mean, I know I’m not your mother but…”

  “That’s for damn sure,” he says, eyes hard and fixed just below my neck. Goosebumps rise across my arms.

  “What I mean,” I say, trying to ignore the comment, which is the kind that seems to happen more and more between us, “is that you should treat your mother and all women better. Like goddesses. Always. We’re not here to be abused or used.”

  He rolls over and opens his eyes then squints in the sunlight. I stare back, but I’m wearing dark shades, so he probably can’t tell. I don’t want him to. He’ll see the desire lurking beneath the surface. And the conflict. Things have grown increasingly complicated since I cut my arm
. We had to get too close to one another. Intimate. It’s hard to turn it off.

  “You demand respect from me, so I give it. Not everyone is like that.”

  I consider that this. Bev has always babied him a little. She talked about him like he was a child, unable to do anything on his own. I’ve seen only the opposite. A strong, responsible man.

  “Well, think about being nicer,” I tell him, with a grin. I sit up. “Even if it’s only to please me.”

  He blinks and seems to look up and down my body. The bikini I’m wearing has apparently distracted him. It’s a small triangles of blue fabric held together by a thin piece of string. I’ve done it on purpose, I tell myself, so he understands a woman can be attractive and shouldn’t be treated like meat. That I can wear this bikini and still have self-respect. He adjusts himself, and I realize all I’ve managed to accomplish is turning him on.

  The boardwalk creaks, breaking the moment, and we both turn. Monica strides toward us in a halter top and workout shorts. Tyson waves but hops up and dives into the water. He’s halfway across the lake by the time she reaches the dock.

  “Hey girl,” she says and comes to sit in the seat next to mine.

  “Hi, Monica. How are you?”

  “Great. I just came over to see how you’re feeling. Your hurt arm is the talk of the lake!”

  I hold up my plastic-wrapped, water-safe arm. “It’s okay. Slowly getting off the pain pills. The worst part is the itching.”

  Monica is hardly paying me any attention, as her focus is glued on Tyson across the lake. He’s climbed out on the other side, where he roams the small beach. “Good thing you’ve got help, right?”

  “He has been really helpful. Thank God he was with me that day or I would have bled out in the junkyard.”

  She nods then frowns. “You know, since we’re friends, I feel like I should tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “Well, there’s some talk in town about Tyson being up here with you. Alone.”

  “What?” I ask, now even more acutely aware of my inappropriate bathing suit. “There’s nothing going on here except a lot of hard work. We’ve made huge progress on the guest house. And anyway, he’s my best friend’s son. What would happen?”