Fly (Wild Love Book 2)

by Red L. Jameson

  But I can’t have mush for brains now.

  I have a baby.

  Only, even without having sex, I feel like I’m turning into jello while watching Jay. The look in his eyes, like he wants what I have, like he wants a future with a capital F, is so sexy. So fucking sexy.

  But I’m distracted by how loud H is getting. Jay is too, because he’s marching toward H and the two hotel clerks behind a tall counter who are smiling at him but look fatigued to the bone.

  Getting closer, I hear one of the clerks say, “I’m sorry, sir. That’s all we have available.”

  “What’s all they have available?” I ask, placing a hand on H’s shoulder.

  H turns to me. “One room. And it has only one bed.”

  My heart stops. Only to start thundering in my chest again like it’s a juggernaut, determined to break free from its rib confinement.

  “We’ll share,” I blurt, wondering if I might be having a heart attack and hoping I’m not looking like it while I open my purse to find my wallet.

  A large hand is over both of mine. I look up into H’s dark gaze.

  “Your money’s no good here.”

  I swallow. God, he’s so beautiful like that—all bossy. I should yell at him for…for telling me I can’t pay, but I can’t let out a peep. I can’t do anything. I’m paralyzed by him. He’s melting all my reserves.

  He reaches to back for his wallet, and I’m fairly certain I’m doing a Victorian-swooning thing.

  I’ve never been romanced before. Women of my age either buy into a hundred-year-old vampire who would watch us while we slept or laugh at romance altogether, laugh especially at eighteenth and nineteenth-century chivalry. I’m a laugher. Women like me know we’re cynical and love our cynicism. Maybe because it protects us from swooning and needing to go to an emergency room to get stitches. Or more than likely, it protects us from falling in love. We’re too scared and too grown up for that kind of silly nonsense. Which isn’t nonsense at all.

  Cash is exchanged after H and Jay both pay for the room, card keys are handed out, and I’d like nothing more than to stop time and savor this moment. I’d like to remove myself from my body and actually see me in this event. I wonder if my aching heart is noticeable. Do I have a sappy grin on my face?

  “You like beef stew?” H asks me, trying to take my backpack of gear and clothes from my shoulder.

  I nod, but dodge his attempt at taking my stuff.

  He frowns.

  I smile. “You can’t carry everything.”

  My backpack, though, is taken from my arms. I pivot quickly and face Jay, who’s grinning and strapping it on.

  “Sure, we can,” he says with a wide smile. “Remember?” He points at his chest then H’s. “Two against one.”

  I laugh and shake my head as H grabs my hand and pulls me after him.

  “Does the baby like beef stew, Dee?” H asks again, only this time including my child. God, could my heart beat any louder?

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “That’s what they’re serving in the dining room.”

  “Yeah?” I turn and notice Jay a little too far behind us, so I catch his hand.

  We’re walking down a creamy hallway with crimson carpet—a labyrinth of a hallway, I might add—to our room, all holding hands. I’m so turned on, romanticized, and hungry I might explode at any second. I like holding both their hands. I like it so much.

  Jay smiles. He catches up and grazes his arm against mine. “What do you call the baby?” He glances down at my stomach.

  Okay, I love thinking and talking about my child to-be. God, I love it. However, I don’t have a lot of people to talk to. And because H and Jay are suddenly very much aware there’s another presence here, it’s just about bursting my heart into tiny sparkling confetti of happiness. Yes, I might truly explode soon.

  I shrug and try not to cry as I say, “I haven’t thought of a name so far.”

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” H asks, looking over his shoulder at me then Jay.

  I shrug again. “I haven’t had an ultrasound yet. So don’t know.”

  “Would you want to know?” Jay asks.

  I shake my head, smiling. “I don’t. I want it to be a surprise. I don’t know why, but I—”

  H tugs on my hand. “I want it to be a surprise too. We should call it—” he reaches down my stomach, settling low, under my bellybutton, “—Baby, in the meantime. You want to call it Baby?”

  I nod. God, now my heart is buoyant and golden from this man who wants to call my baby Baby.

  Jay’s smiling. “I like Baby.” He’s looking down at my stomach, where H’s fingertips linger, with a look I can only assume is adoration.

  They’re both so beautiful, making me feel…god, what is this?

  Precious.

  Then we’re there, outside our room with one bed. We’re silent as we look at the room number. None of us move, and I can only swallow as I stare at the cream-colored door, wondering what’s going to happen…tonight.

  18

  Somehow we’re inside the room, giggling like we’re thirteen, looking at each other as if this might be the craziest thing we’ve ever done. Although, no one is talking about what that thing is.

  It’s just sleeping in the same room. That’s all.

  Yes, last night we somehow all kissed.

  But today has been chaste.

  Kind of.

  Then a flash of panic freezes me. My mask. My makeup mask. No matter what kind of product I put on, I like to take it off at night. If I don’t, my complexion, even if it is under foundation, is dull. Further, I’m liable to breakout if I don’t take it off. And nothing makes a girl feel sexier than when she’s got a few zits.

  But there’s no way I can wash my face and show them. There’s just no way. I’d be humiliated. And way too naked. I’d rather take off my clothes, not that I have a particular fondness for my body, or think it’s all that much of a turn on, but, yeah, I’d rather be bodily naked than take off my makeup in front of these guys.

  “You can have the bed, Dee,” Jay says, reminding me that to the men they’re probably only worried about where to sleep.

  He surprises me by kissing my cheek. Lingering slightly, he finally pulls away and I notice his bright blue eyes are darker than usual. His pupils are huge.

  “I’ll go get you that stew,” H says, kind of on the loud side.

  He’s staring at Jay with animosity clearly flashing through his dark gaze.

  Jay’s jawline kicks. He tilts his head forward, his dark brows furrowing. “I’ll go with you.” His voice is low and gravelly.

  H narrows his eyes. “Great. That’d be great.”

  Okay, I’m not the best at reading people. But I’d have to be an alien from a different solar system to not know that there’s tension between H and Jay. Only, I’m not sure why. Could H be jealous of Jay? Or vice versa? Or am I trying too hard to put myself into every situation?

  I swallow, again, not sure what’s going on. Before I know it, they’re both out of the door quicker than I can say, “But I’m not sure I’m hungry anymore.”

  Then a big problem presents itself. I can hear them.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” That’s H. And he’s yelling.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  There’s a pause. I can actually hear them breathing. Or maybe that’s just H.

  “Why’d you kiss her like that?” H’s voice is a tad softer now.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you want her, asshole.”

  “And you don’t?”

  H is quiet.

  “Look, man.” Jay’s voice cracks. “We both want her. And we know she likes both of us.”

  “That doesn’t mean—fuck.”

  “That doesn’t mean what?”

  “I’m not going to make any moves on her. She’s a good girl and doesn’t deserve to be treated like—like—She’s good.”

  I place my hand
over my heart. H thinks I’m a good girl. God, what did I do to make him to think that? I’ve been nothing but myself around him. I haven’t done the bimbo act. I’ve just been me, and he thinks…my heart is crushing itself. I don’t know if I’m happy or just confused. Seriously, how could he think that of me?

  I mean, he knows now that I’m pregnant because of a one-night stand. Doesn’t he? Did I make that clear? He’s got to know from being single and pregnant that I’m…what? My heart does crush itself as I try my best not to finish the thought. I wonder then, just who is the most prejudice against this pregnancy? My mother? Or me?

  “I’m not either,” Jay says, his voice sounding deflated. “I just—it’s hard not to touch her.”

  “I know.”

  “And everywhere we turn, it’s like someone is there trying to tell me, us, to just go ahead and… I mean, shit, those German tourists—”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “And they kept saying how good—”

  “I fucking know.” H is seriously grouchy.

  Jay sighs. “And she’s got a sister-in-law who’s into plural relationships. Or whatever they’re called.”

  They’re both silent for a long beat.

  “Have you ever done that before?” H’s voice is very quiet, but by tiptoeing to the door, I can hear him. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, I know. I just—they’re talking about me, so maybe I could have a little latitude about that rule?

  “You mean, fuck a girl with another guy?” Jay asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “No.” Jay’s tone is flat. “You?”

  “No. I don’t know if I can.”

  “Yeah.”

  And I’m done listening. Or eavesdropping. Semantics.

  I don’t know why, but I’m disappointed to hear that neither H nor Jay thinks they can have sex with me at the same time. Actually, it’s my hormones that are disappointed. Okay, maybe I am too.

  I softly walk to my backpack, hiking it over a shoulder and thinking I’ll take over the bathroom. I’ll take a long bath, maybe give myself a facial, clean every inch of me, so I don’t feel so dirty. I hate how disappointed I am. I mean, sure, they both kissed me last night. But they haven’t specified that that means anything. It was me who thought it did.

  One of my first sexual fantasies was with two boys. I was sixteen and in boarding school, but, sometimes, we’d get to go into town and check out the local public high school. We felt very Dead Poets’ Society when we’d do that—falling madly in love with the townies, watching their football games, trying to socialize in a completely dorky way.

  I remember going to the late-night football games. My nose would turn a brutal red from the cold, but I had the time of my life watching the quarterback and his receiver, who appeared to be best friends. I thought of them, in their sweaty locker room, hiking up my plaid skirt. I fantasized about the two boys—well, I think they might have been eighteen—kissing me, fondling me, and driving me to multiple orgasms, although I hadn’t experienced an orgasm at that time, but I’d read about them and longed to have one.

  I’ve always hated my sexuality. I hate that I like sex so much, that I’ve experimented with a lot of men, that a lot of men have had me because I almost never say no. I always want to have sex. Okay, that’s not quite true. But if I’m attracted to a man, I’ll go to bed with him. It’s as simple as that. The thing is, as much as there’s been a sexual revolution, as much as we all say how we’re equal and it’s okay to sleep around, I never feel okay. I’m ashamed of my body, my wants, my desires.

  As I absentmindedly wash away my makeup mask, I tell myself not to think about H and Jay. They’re strangers anyway. Strangers who will leave. Eventually.

  I’m not a good girl as H calls me. But I’m a responsible one now. I need to think of what’s best for me and my baby. So no more feeling ashamed of myself. Which means I’ll turn into a nun. And that’s fine by me. I never got anything from a man anyway, other than heartache.

  And now a baby, I realize as I look down at my stomach.

  I run a bath, fuming and talking aloud about my backbone and my resolve. I was going to kick the men out. Now look at me. I’m in a one-bed hotel room with them. I will be steadfast, damn it. I hate how wishy-washy I am right now just because I’m attracted to two men. At once. How ridiculous!

  After deciding I need to hear some woman-power music, I find my phone at the bottom of my pack. Wow, there are forty-seven messages and fifty-two texts. I check the texts first. They’re from my mother. Well, most of them. For twenty-seven years she’s never mothered me, not in any traditional sense. Now, she’s leaving me messages about how to take vitamins. How to get enough sleep. How to reduce stress.

  What the hell?

  And I’m even madder.

  First, I hate that I want to have sex with H and Jay. I hate how much that appeals to me. I hate that I’m such a dirty girl who isn’t a good girl at all. Then I decide to hate men, because men suck. They get your hopes up then dash everything. So, yeah, I’m going to hate men. All of them. Now, my mother, who the only kind of mothering she ever did was to tell me I was eating too much and weighed too much for my height, is now telling me to reduce my fucking stress?

  I can’t even breathe. I’m so angry at the world.

  I wish I could exercise my anger out. I wish I liked working out, but I don’t. I do like hiking. But it’s dark outside. And snowing.

  Oh, fuck it. Fuck the whole fucking world. Fuckity.

  As I turn off the water for the bath, I remind myself I’m a Wyoming girl who isn’t scared of a little snow. I’m going on a hike.

  * * *

  Walking briskly through the snow, the black sky above me, only a few streetlights illuminating the way, I’m feeling lucky the sidewalks around the hotel are clear of ice. But the white stuff is building up fast. I know I can’t hike much longer. However, I’m angry and was feeling so trapped in that room.

  The fact is, I don’t blame H for saying he doesn’t know if he can fuck me with Jay doing it too. I’m kind of a weird very heterosexual woman. I did try, once, in college to kiss a girl. But her boobs touched my own and it felt so…well, I didn’t feel turned on at all. I love men’s flat and hard chests. Heck, I like chubby guy’s chests too. I love men’s stomachs—both the muscles and the paunchy. And I love penises. In college there was this weird questionnaire that asked if I’d rather see a roomful of naked men or women. Hands down, I’ll always pick the men. I love everything about them.

  And I hate that I do.

  For my baby, though, I’ll change. I won’t like men. I can do that. In the book, The Scarlet Letter, the protagonist, Hester Prynne, is stoic and strong. That will be me. Is it crazy that my only role model I’m thinking of is a puritan who was scaffolded with her illegitimate daughter?

  Someone yanks on my arm. Hard.

  I’m turned so fast I stumble. Right into the arms of H.

  “Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.” He’s yelling. Again.

  I push hard into his chest, my anger now roaring like a locomotive through my ears.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” I rub my shoulder. “And you fucking hurt me.” I’m about to call him an asshole, because at that second I’m not thinking at all, when he clutches onto me, holding me against his panting body.

  “I’m so sorry.” His tone completely changed, he keeps whispering those words, holding me, caressing up and down my back. “Please don’t leave without a note. I—I worried. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, Dee.”

  He’s pinning my arms down with his hold on me, but I manage a shrug. “I guess, I’m not hurt all that bad.”

  “God, it kills me that I hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

  “Well, don’t pull my arm so fucking hard.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Okay,” I mumble against his chest. He’s not wearing a coat, but he feels warm all the same. Still, I worry about him and wrap my arms around his
waist. “You need my coat?”

  He quietly chuckles again. “Fuck, I like you so much.”

  I wasn’t expecting him to say that, and when I try to look up at him, he holds me closer, his jaw on the top of my head.

  “I worried you’d left.”

  I try to shrug again. “Why would I leave? You have my keys anyway, big guy.”

  He snorts a laugh. “I—I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I just got back to the room, saw your stuff all over the bathroom, and you weren’t there, and—and I went a little nuts.”

  “Why? Think I was taken and you’d have to call Liam Neeson for his very particular set of skills?”

  He laughs even louder at my horrible Liam Neeson impression, holding me closer. But then he takes a heavy sigh. “I probably have a similar set of skills. And because of that I figure I’m nowhere good enough for you. I like Jay a lot, but I doubt even he’s good enough for you. And I worried you’d figured that out and left.”

  Two things race through my mind: one, that I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup, which makes my stomach bottom out. And, two, that H is incredibly sweet and adorably silly to think I’m too good for him.

  I squeeze my face against his chest, hoping he’ll never look down, and manage to ask, “Why would I be prejudice against your particular set of skills? That’s—you are—you need to stop beating yourself up.”

  He sighs. “That’s what my mom says. You’d like her. She’d love you.”

  He’s said that before. It’s hard to believe. A mom, liking me. Oh, sure, I’ve met my friends’ moms, and they seemed nice and they were nice to me. But, god, there’s something about nice women, isn’t there? I never know what’s under all those manners. I never know if there’s a human who likes me for me. Or someone who’s just putting up with me.

  I’m lost in my thoughts about H’s mom, a woman who I think I would like because she gave her son a name J. K. Rowling would be envious of. So I don’t have time to flinch away when H tips my chin up to look at him.

  “You’re so beautiful.” His voice is raw, ragged.

  I blink, not sure I heard him right. I’m completely naked with him, and he thinks I’m beautiful?