by Dyan Brown
“Okay, what is in this?”
“You like it?” He smiles, and I nod, smiling back. “Cool. Okay, it’s an ahi tower. It’s rice, avocado, crab, ahi tuna, and caviar,” he says, listing them on his fingers.
My hand pops to my mouth to keep anything from coming out, and I can feel the air cold against the whites of my eyes as they open wide. “I just ate fish eggs?”
He laughs at me, “Did you like them?”
I feel like I’m smiling and frowning at the same time. “Yes, sorry!” I swallow and clear my throat. “Yes, I liked it. You just surprised me.”
We sit for a time just enjoying the different flavors. One of the rolls was way too spicy for me, but I liked everything else. As we eat, my thoughts drift back in the conversation to what he said about wanting to travel. “Why don’t you go to Korea if you want to go so badly?”
Grayson inhales sharply at the question, then slowly releases the breath in thought. “I won’t have time. Not between keeping track of April and my dad wanting me to start with his company straight after I graduate.” He takes a bite, chews with a contemplative look on his face, and then adds, “If he doesn’t insist on graduate school, that is.”
I try biting my lip, but my stupid mouth opens anyway. “Why do you let him dictate your life so much? Seriously? You can’t even take a vacation because it may interfere with his plans for your life?”
He frowns, looking away from me, mouth agape, and his embarrassment is shadowed by what seems like guilt. My own guilt is immediate
“Grayson. I’m sorry. I—My big mouth…”
Closing his own, he presses his lips into a thin line; it’s the closest thing to actual anger I’ve seen on him.
Taking a sip of water, I try for a slightly different approach. “What would you do if you didn’t have to go to work with your dad?” I look at him until he meets my eyes and relaxes. I knew better than to ask what I did—we’re just not that deep into our relationship yet. As close as I feel to him, I have to remind myself that it’s only been a month.
He takes a drink, holding the cold water in his mouth for a moment before I see a defined bob of his Adam’s apple. Grayson’s voice is low and nearing a wistful tone. “Teach,” he says simply and firmly.
Smiling, I load three more pieces from a roll onto my plate. “I can see you doing that. You’d be a wonderful teacher.” I dip a corner of the spicy tuna roll into my soy sauce and hold it over my plate to let the excess drip for a moment. “Like you do on Saturdays?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders drop back into their relaxed position. “Sorry.” He shakes his head a fraction to rid himself of his sour mood. “Yeah, I’d love to open a studio of my own. Maybe teach the next US gold medalist.” He sounds wistful and almost regretful.
I eat quietly, giving him time to continue. He does.
“I saw this dojo on a website once. It’d be something like that. It was out in the woods, surrounded by huge pines for what looked like miles. There were three stories to the building. Everything was white or stone gray, and one entire side of the building was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest. It was amazing.”
“It sounds beautiful,” I say honestly. “If you find the site again, I’d love to see the pictures.”
He gives a slight nod and smiles gently. “I know it sounds hard to believe, but my dad was really supportive of my fighting. He’s really the reason I started. It was something we did together—the training, you know? He’s one of the highest belts I know.”
“That’s amazing. I never would have guessed the way you and April talk about him.”
Kourtney comes back to clear a few of the plates. “Would you like to try anything else or some dessert?”
My eyes widen at the question, and Grayson laughs at me. “I think we’re good. Thank you.”
“All right, I’ll be right back with your check,” she says, heading toward the kitchen.
I brush my hand lightly over my full stomach. “How is it possible to be so stuffed from just a few rolls?”
“It’s all the rice.”
When Kourtney returns and lays the leather receipt case on the table, Grayson puts a credit card on top of the case without opening it, and she takes it away.
“You ready for the movie?”
“Yes!” I say excitedly. “What are we going to go see?”
“It’s not so much what we’re going to see as where we’re going to go to see it. So, you’re going to have to change your clothes.”
15
Grayson signs the receipt and leads me back to the truck. Going over to my side of the vehicle, he reaches into the bed of the truck, pulling the black bag out that April had given to him. “Here, you’ll be more comfortable if you change in the restaurant.”
“Okay…” I take the plastic bag without hesitation, wondering what April picked out for me to wear. “Whatever you wish.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Whatever I wish?” The smile on his lips widens.
Pretty much, my naughty mind agrees, but outwardly, I just roll my eyes.
Grayson chuckles low in his throat, reaching out for my hand and pulling my body close to his. The rumble of his laugh fades as he presses his mouth to mine, softly at first, but growing more urgent as the kiss warms between us.
Just as my body leans into his, he ends the kiss more softly than how it began. He touches his forehead to mine, his hand still hot on my waist through my silk shirt. Even though he ended the kiss, he groans slightly from the disconnect. “Go,” he whispers. “Get changed. We need to go, or we’ll be late for the show.”
A small whine escapes me as he sweetly kisses the tip of my nose. I turn to walk back up the curb and get a tiny sting on the apple of my right butt cheek. I yelp and hear a muffled laugh behind me.
“Hey!” I feign insult at him for pinching my ass. “All right, all right,” I repeat. “I’ll be right back.”
To my surprise, there are new clothes in the bag. Thankfully, they’re fairly simple, comfortable ones—until I get to the flip-flops. They must be what I heard thump the side of the truck. In the largest stall, I hang the bag on the purse hook, take off my olive-green silk top, and put on a black V-neck tee. Next, I exchange my black capris for dark blue cutoffs that are frayed at the ends, slightly tickling the outsides of my thighs as I adapt to the feel of them.
I leave my ballet flats on and peek back into the bag. Letting out a long and low, exasperated sigh, I roll my eyes toward God in a prayer, though whether for April or myself, I’m not sure. Perhaps both if I decide to kill her for this later. More for Grayson than anyone, I take out the hot pink wedge flip-flops that have been blinged within an inch of their life and slip them on, shoving my other clothes unceremoniously into the plastic bag.
As I come through the scrolled double doors into the warm evening air, I’m surprised to see Grayson has changed into a crimson OU T-shirt, which he tucked into his dark-washed jeans. Even more surprising is the fact that he’s talking with a well-dressed, older couple in front of his truck. I pause, unsure if this is part of his plan or not. Is this some weird, Midwestern double-date thing? Hook up mid-evening with your elder relatives to insure nothing sexual happens? Whatever he might be, he definitely isn’t Mormon. I asked April, who promptly laughed so hard I thought I’d have to call 911.
Taking a slow, unsure step farther out the door, I meet Grayson’s gaze and he gives me a low wave forward. I take a breath and walk to his side, grasping his hand as I stop. He smiles down at me, lacing our fingers together before speaking.
“Mrs. Rendell, Professor Rendell, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Samantha.”
There’s a fluttering in my chest. It’s the first time he’s called me his girlfriend. I’m officially his girlfriend. Go me!
“Oh!” Mrs. Rendell gestures behind her to a couple coming up the sidewalk. “Edwin, they’re here.” An equally elegant woman to Mrs. Rendell waves enthusiastically back. Turning back to us, she smiles at me. “Lovely
to meet you, Samantha.” Nodding to Grayson, she adds, “Grayson, as always,” then sweeps away to embrace her friend.
If I could be so graceful when I’m older. The thought nearly makes me sigh, but I’m brought back by a nudge to my hand—Grayson drawing my attention back to the professor in front of me.
“Samantha, eh?” Professor Rendell is giving Grayson an ‘atta boy’ look. With a cocked eyebrow, the older man reaches for my free hand. Grayson stiffens beside me.
“Nice to meet you, Professor,” I say with, hopefully, my best manners displayed on my face as I internally cringe at his lingering, clammy handshake. He has the audacity to rub his thumb over the inside of my wrist before I politely try to tug my hand back. I give Grayson an awkward look from the corner of my eye, hoping he can see the what-the-fuck expression on my face.
I don’t know if Grayson saw my expression, but his ever-pristine etiquette suddenly changes into hard lines. With his breath slow and deliberate, he speaks in a low, even, controlled tone of voice. “Samantha Clark. Professor Clark’s niece.” The last word sounds like a clipped warning.
At the mention of my last name, Professor Rendell’s expression changes abruptly to evident shock and then palpable anger. The anger makes his nose flair, as though someone’s just stolen his toy out of his hands.
The idea that I was the hypothetical toy in question made my teeth clench in confused anger. Why in the hell would he become angry at the mention of my uncle? Trying to defuse the sudden and awkward situation, which I will be asking Grayson about as soon as we’re alone, I clear my throat and change the subject from my family.
“You teach history, correct? I believe I’m taking your course on European Medieval History next semester.”
“Correct,” he says, his tone as clipped as Grayson’s had been a moment before. “Very good. You may also elect to take my other course on Genocides in Modern History, if I may suggest,” he says tersely.
Thoughts of my training and my new mission fly through my mind but, hopefully, not across my face. I can’t help having to swallow before replying. “That sounds very interesting,” I say in a tone that doesn’t convince any of us. “What time is the movie, Grayson?”
He momentarily looks confused, and then I can see my question register. “The movie. Oh, we should go.” He glances at his watch. “Excuse us, Professor. Enjoy your dinner.”
Grayson lets go of my hand to place it at the base of my spine, guiding—no, pushing—me to my door, not waiting for a reply from Professor Creeper. I see the professor walking toward his wife, straitening his jacket and trying to regain composure as Grayson all but lifts me into the truck and closes the door behind me. I have a moment of frozen, stunned silence as my eyes follow him around the hood of the truck, mouth agape, and then I rush to get my seatbelt on as he hops in, starting the engine and buckling up at the same time.
“What. The. Hell. Is up with him?” I say, pronouncing each of the first three words solidly to make my confusion obvious. “Is he that creepy to all the girls?”
“Yeah, just not normally in front of anyone else. I’ve only heard rumors. It took everything in me not to punch him for groping your hand like that.”
“You and me both.”
He glances my way, and his expression changes from irritation to sympathy. “Jesus. I’m sorry, Samantha.” Reaching a hand out, he pats my bare knee. Rubbing it gently in a comforting manner, I’m suddenly grateful I shaved my upper legs and not just my calves. “Shit.” He curses softly to himself, but I reply anyway.
“What—did you forget something?”
“No,” he says shortly. “It’s just… I…” The signs of a frown re-appear between his brows. “Goddamn it! I’ll train you.”
I’ve never heard him cuss this much. Squelching my excitement, I’m slightly insulted by his irritation. “Well, don’t get too excited about it,” I say sarcastically.
“That’s not why I’m upset. I just wish… God, it sounds stupid.”
I stay silent, leaving room for him to talk, but inhale audibly, waiting.
“It pisses me off that I can’t protect you from assholes like that or… or others who could… It’s just frustrating. I can’t explain it.”
We let the silence linger between us for a while as we get onto the highway and start to drive. My thoughts are pinging around in my head, wanting to shoot out my mouth, but I stay quiet. I’m not Grayson’s responsibility, for one thing. For another, I’m not sure if this is sweet or weird. Do all men do this? Surely not. Maybe it’s a fighter’s deal? Some need to protect the old, the young, and the virgins? Whatever. He’s going to teach me. That’s the only thing that matters.
Before long, we’ve exited the highway. Two turns later, I see a large, neon cowboy standing next to a Drive-In Theater’ sign, waving with one hand, long rifle in the other. My sour mood dissolves, and a slow smile creeps up my mouth as we get into a small line of cars waiting to pay at the ticket booth. I quickly look at Grayson, but he’s already watching me. One elbow is on the door with a finger laying across his bottom lip, waiting for my reaction.
I widen my smile. “Really? A drive-in? That is so cool!”
“Yeah?” His grin grows so his dimple shows.
“Yes! Definitely a new one.”
He nods at his own accomplishment. “Everyone should do this at least once. I think you’ll like it. That’s why I had you change; it can get a little muggy.”
“Won’t we be in the truck?”
Just as we pull forward, he simply says, “Nope.”
He surprises me by pulling out cash instead of a credit card to pay for our admission until I see the cash only sign in red on the window. The man inside the security-looking booth is polite but brief, and we drive into an open parking lot set before a white screen.
Grayson pulls up to a yellow post and mimics the other vehicles in the lot by backing into the spot. Fairly centered with the screen, it’ll be a great view. As soon as I see the other people, I understand what he meant about us not being inside the cab.
I follow his lead by getting out of the cab and going to the back of the truck. He opens the latch with a loud and recognizable pop. Laying down the tailgate, I’m finally able to see inside the bed. I’m normally too short to see into it with the tailgate closed. Inside is a cooler set close to the front of the bed, and toward the back where we can sit against the cab are three sleeping bags.
“Sleeping bags?” I ask as he hops into the bed of the truck.
“Yeah, hang on. You’ll see.” He proceeds to unroll the largest of the sleeping bags and spreads it out. Coming over to help me up, he instructs me to put one foot on the tailgate, and then takes both my hands and lifts me the rest of the way with ease. My flipflops on stilts make my part awkward as hell, but Grayson just smiles at me.
Stepping back over to the back of the bed, he props the other two bags up for us to lean on. Sweeping a hand to the side, he offers me a seat. I smile, kick my glittery nightmares toward the base of the unrolled bag, and take a seat.
“This is great!” A smile is still plastered on my face in excitement.
“Not done yet, hang on one more time.” He pulls out a small radio I hadn’t noticed before and sets it on the wheelbase. Opening the small cooler, he turns back to me. “Water or pop?”
“Do you have Dr. Pepper?”
Without reply, he reaches in and pulls out a rusty-red can with white and silver writing on it, along with a coke. Handing me my drink as he sits beside me, he pops the top on his can. Grayson slurps slightly on his first sip, and I chuckle under my breath at him. “Come here much?”
“I’ve been here a few times, yeah.” He sets the can beside the radio and leans back. “Enough to know your butt will go numb if you don’t have something to cushion it with.”
I nod in agreement. I could see this getting uncomfortable after a few hours. “When will the show start?” I look around at the place, and it’s full.
“They’ll wait
till the sun is down just a little more.” He looks casually at his watch. “Maybe another five minutes or so. Do you want anything from the concession before?”
“Popcorn?” The smell is what made me say the word. I can still feel the weight of the large dinner in my stomach, but it’ll give my hands something to do. Idle hands and all that. I’m trying to be as respectful as I can about his wish for abstinence, no matter what I think about it.
“All right, your wish is my command,” he jokes and moves to the front of the bed. “Be right back.”
I pull out my phone and put it on silent, wondering if it even matters in a drive-in. No harm in doing it, I guess. I reposition the sleeping roll behind me, trying to get it more comfortable. Pulling up a game on my phone to occupy myself, I cross my legs and lean back. After two solitaire games, I’m already stretching my back and moving to adjust the bag again.
“Can’t get comfortable?”
“No,” I say to the familiar voice behind me. “Sorry.” My voice is low and sheepish. He’d tried to make it comfortable, and I’m squirming. The truck bounces in response to the added weight as he climbs up, the smell of fresh-popped corn coming with him. I look up, guiltily.
“Plan B,” he says, closing the tailgate behind him.
“B?”
He nods. “Come this way a little,” he says, indicating the middle of the bed, and I scoot accordingly. He sits, putting both sleeping bags behind him. With his legs out in front of him, he opens them to a wide V and indicates for me to sit.
He does not have to ask me twice.
I sit, leaning back into his soft, firm torso. Yeah, this will help keep my mind off his body and what I cannot do to it. Awesome. I pull my hair over to one side so it isn’t fluffed out in his face.
