by Lauren Rowe
“My pleasure.”
“This last time, though, she sounded especially angry. I’m certainly not gonna buy a vacuum cleaner from anyone who curses me out like that.”
“What’d she say?”
I twist my mouth like I’m thinking. “Never mind. You’re right. I’ll just leave it alone. Just, please, keep an eye on Kurtis for me—make sure he’s safe. This lady, whoever she is, she’s got an axe to grind with Kurtis, and I’m worried about him.”
Johnny laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect Kurtis from some angry little girl, whoever she is.”
I suppress a smirk. “Thanks, Johnny. I’m sure you will. Well, are you gonna keep me company for the rest of the day? Because I’ll tell you what other thrilling activities I’ve got on tap: another acting class, this one about how to most effectively use props, and then I’m gonna buy myself a pretty dress at a new boutique I heard about on Melrose, and I just might stop and get my nails painted a sassy, bright red. Kurtis always likes it when I’m sassy.” I wink.
“Gosh, I hate to miss all that. But it sounds like you’ve got the rest of your day well in hand without me.” He tips his imaginary hat to me and waltzes out of the theater.
I poke my head out the front door and watch Johnny the Egg-Sucking Dog walk down the sidewalk ’til he’s a tiny speck. The instant Johnny disappears from sight, I sprint into the nearby phone booth and place my call with shaking fingers.
“Sunset Motel,” the voice on the other end of the line says.
“Wesley Miller, please.”
“He left his key, so he must be out. Do you want to leave a message?”
“If he comes back in the next twenty minutes, tell him to stay put,” I shout. And then I careen down to the motel in my little sports car, faster than green grass through a goose.
I’m sitting on a rickety metal chair in the foyer of a dilapidated motel, rocking back and forth like my skin is on fire. I’ll wait here all day long if I have to—all night long. My whole life, if necessary. Because, God as my witness, I’m not leaving this place until I’ve laid eyes—and lips—and everything else—on my darling, sweet, faithful, honest, kindhearted Wesley.
I wait and wait. And I wait some more.
Wild horses couldn’t drag me away this time. Come what may.
Finally, after what seems like forever and a day, the glass door of the tiny lobby swings open, and there he is. The love of my life.
Wesley.
Chapter 38
19 Years 11 Months Old
33 Days Before Killing Kurtis
When Wesley walks into the foyer of the shabby motel where I’ve been waiting for him for close to two hours, I bolt up from my chair like I’ve been zapped by an electric eel. “Wesley,” I blurt.
The look on Wesley’s face when he sees me is priceless. Actually, now that I’m getting a good look at him, it’s Wesley’s whole face that’s priceless, not just the look on it. Lord have mercy, what’s happened to Wesley’s face? He’s turned downright handsome. Where’s my gawky, pimply, big-eared, puppy-faced boy? This here’s a man—and a good-looking one, at that—a really, really good-lookin’ man. And where’d Wesley’s scrawny shoulders run off to? This here’s a broad-shouldered man—with bulging biceps and a square jaw, too. My knees go weak.
“Charlene?” Wesley’s obviously shell-shocked.
I nod profusely. My heart is thumping out of my chest.
Wesley just keeps standing there, staring at me, his mouth gaping open.
“Wesley, get your room key,” I whisper. My cheeks are hot.
Wesley shakes his head like he can’t believe his eyes. “I searched high and low for you and, now, finally—”
“Get your gosh-dang key,” I say. My crotch has begun pulsing mercilessly.
“Holy shit,” he mumbles. He hurriedly collects his key from the motel clerk, who flashes Wesley a congratulatory smile.
Wesley and I gallop together to his room, both of us bursting at the seams. Wesley opens the door and motions for me to enter first, which I do, and then he steps inside and closes the door behind him. In a flash, and without asking permission like he always used to do, Wesley scoops me into his strong arms and kisses the crap out of me, feverishly pressing his hardness against my hip.
I literally swoon when his tongue enters my mouth. I’ve never tasted anything as sweet as Wesley’s lips and tongue, never smelled anything so good as his scent, never wanted something as much as to feel him sliding deep inside me.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Wesley says, pulling back to look at me. “I went to every place I could think to find you—and now you’re finally here.”
I laugh with glee. I can’t remember feeling this happy in all my life.
“And you look like a movie star,” Wesley says, clearly awestruck.
“Oh, Wesley. I am a movie star.” I giggle at the look of wide-eyed astonishment on his face. “Buttercup Bouvier.” I throw my hands up in the air like a magician’s assistant.
He kisses me again. But this time, when he’s done kissing my mouth, he kisses my cheeks, eyes, nose, forehead, and even my ears—all the while pressing his erection forcefully into my crotch.
“Oh, Wesley,” I breathe, rubbing myself against his hard-on. My heart is racing.
I reach down and touch the bulge between us, aching for him, hungry for him, and suddenly, we both know the time for talking is done.
Wesley rips off his T-shirt and I gasp at the sight of him.
Great thundering Jesus. Wesley’s chiseled body alone is enough to make me ooze onto the floor, but there’s something else about Wesley that makes me literally whimper with desire: That boy’s gotten himself tattooed—lord have mercy—with my name. “B-U-T-T-E-R-C-U-P,” Wesley’s tattoo proclaims across his chest, each letter intertwined with the stems and blooms of swirling, slithering buttercups.
Well, if that right there isn’t enough to make a woman scream a man’s name, I don’t know what is. “Wesley,” I purr, but I don’t want words. I want action. I want him. I begin to take off my dress, but Wesley quickly assumes the job, ripping that sucker off me like it’s on fire.
When he beholds the sight of my naked body, his eyes ignite like hot coals.
My skin feels like bacon sizzling in a skillet under his gaze.
In a flash, Wesley’s clothes are on the floor along with mine, his arms are wrapped around me, and his lips are devouring mine. When his fingertips touch between my legs and slide into me, I cry out and my knees buckle. I grab his erection and he moans. He guides me urgently onto the creaky motel bed, onto my back, and I open my legs to him, moaning like a calf at his momma’s slaughter. I’ve never ached like this before.
“Wesley,” I whisper. “My Wesley.”
Wesley groans as his body burrows into mine, and I groan, too. I wrap my arms around him and pull him into me with all my might.
For so long with Kurtis, I’ve wondered if having Wesley’s body moving in and out of me might feel somehow different than Kurtis’—and now I’ve got my delicious answer: hell yes, it does. Good lord, holy hell, yes sir, it does. There’s no doubt about it—making love to Wesley is an ejaculation that’s gonna change the trajectory of my entire life. And then some.
I feel like my body’s gonna explode and shatter into a million tiny pieces with each kiss of Wesley’s lips, each lick of his tongue, each thrust of his body into mine. Now that I’m finally making love to Wesley like I’ve been dreaming about doing for so long, I suddenly realize clear as day I never loved Kurtis, not even when we ate cream of wheat for breakfast and he told me I’m gorgeous without lipstick on. This whole time, my husband’s been nothing but a square peg to my round hole—whereas Wesley’s peg is round and hard and deep as the day is long. Yes, indeed.
Speaking of which, Wesley’s thrusts are becoming intense and noisy. I grab at his butt and shove him into me even harder, aching for him to go deeper inside me than Kurtis ever did. When my body starts clenching and ri
ppling from deep inside, squeezing against him in warm waves of pleasure, I can’t help screaming and crying, too. The physical pleasure I’m feeling right now is like nothing I’ve felt before, but I don’t think that’s why I’m crying. I think my tears are flowing because I’m feeling completely happy for the first time in my entire life.
Even after Wesley and I have done the deed twice in one hour—and the second time, hot damn, that boy kissed and licked me into a goddamned frenzy—we still can’t get enough of each other. He keeps staring at me, kissing every inch of me, licking my nipples, caressing every curve, and gently tracing hearts and curlicues onto my skin with his fingertips. And I can’t stop touching Wesley, either—his bulging biceps and strong jaw and ripped abs and soft lips, and especially his muscled chest with my name on it.
“You’re so beautiful,” Wesley mutters, his fingers swirling over my skin.
My heart squeezes. Kurtis has told me I’m gorgeous a thousand times, but hearing Wesley say I’m beautiful feels different—like he’s talking about more than my bouncy boobs. And actually, speaking of my bouncy boobs, Wesley’s clearly not impressed with them.
“When did you get these?” he asks, grazing his hand across my left nipple.
“Right when I got to Hollywood,” I reply. “Why? You don’t like ’em?”
“It’s just that you didn’t need ’em. Your boobs were perfect before.”
I pout. “Well, I needed ’em to become an actress, Wesley. I had to comport with industry standards—I can’t become a legendary actress without industry-comporting breasts.” (I say “breasts” instead of “boobs” because I want Wesley to understand that my new boobies are classy.)
“They’re awfully big, though,” Wesley mumbles.
“No, they’re not. They’re Monroes, not Mansfields.”
Wesley looks at me like I’m speaking Greek.
“They’re classy,” I explain explicitly (because, clearly, my prior use of the word “breasts” didn’t convey my meaning enough).
Wesley bursts out laughing.
Well, that does it. I’m instantly enraged.
I sit up in the bed and reach for my dress, aiming to march right out of this motel room like a prairie fire with a tailwind—I don’t care how good-lookin’ Wesley is nowadays—but Wesley grabs ahold of my arm and forces me to stay put.
“Hang on,” he says, surprising me with how forceful his voice sounds.
I deign to look at him—and the minute I do, I melt. He’s just so gosh-dang handsome, I couldn’t stay mad at him if I tried.
“The whole time I was in jail,” Wesley says evenly, his eyes blazing at me, “all I did every single night was dream about finally getting to touch your perfect boobs.” He licks his lips. “And now, I’m finally, finally here with you, after all this time and all my dreaming, and it turns out you’ve switched ’em up on me.” His mouth tilts up into a crooked grin. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”
My anger is long gone. “Aw, poor Wesley,” I coo, stroking his broad chest. “I sure pulled the ol’ switcheroo on you, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.” He pulls me into him for a kiss.
Suddenly, my brain realizes Wesley just said the word jail—that he was in jail dreaming about my boobs—and I pull away from our kiss. “You went to jail?” I ask. “Did Mr. Clements figure out it was you who stole the baseball cards?”
“No. Not at all. Our plan worked perfectly.”
I let out a huge sigh of relief.
“First of all,” he says, “you’ll never believe what the code for the combination lock turned out to be.” He tells me what numbers opened the safe and I slap my forehead in apparent disbelief.
“Well, aren’t you clever, Wesley,” I say, and his face lights up.
“It was you who got the envelope from under the rock, right?” he asks.
“Of course, it was. Just like we planned.”
“I figured. Because when I went to check under the big oak tree, the envelope was gone. Hey, how’d you like me putting that extra twenty bucks in there for you?” He beams me a huge smile.
“That was a sweet surprise,” I say, returning his smile. “You always were so good to me, Wesley.”
His eyes sparkle at me. “I’ve told you, Buttercup—I’m always gonna take care of you. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’ll always be.” He winks.
I beam at him.
“The only part of the plan I changed at the last minute,” Wesley continues, “was putting that Yogi Berra card under Christopher’s mattress instead of mine.” Christopher was a particularly dumbass kid back at the group home. If all his brains were dynamite, that boy couldn’t blow his nose. “I figured it was better to put it there and let Christopher take the blame if the shit hit the fan than get greedy and keep the card for myself.”
My, my, my, so Wesley’s smarter than I gave him credit for—smarter and a helluva lot handsomer, too.
“And it’s a good thing I did that, too,” Wesley continues, “because when Mr. Clements finally opened the safe and found his cards gone, he turned the entire house all catawampus before any of us kids even got home from school yet. He found that card under Christopher’s cot right quick and had the police just sitting and waiting to take him away the minute he got home from school. Man, they took that boy away just like that, no questions asked.” He snaps his fingers.
“Oh, Wesley, thank God you did that. If you’d followed my stupid suggestion and put that Yogi card under your own mattress, they’d have taken you away instead of Christopher.” I shudder at the horrible thought. “Thank goodness you didn’t listen to my stupid idea.”
Wesley taps his temple with his finger. “I’ve got brains for days, Charlene.”
I don’t even mind Wesley calling me Charlene. In fact, it’s kind of nice for a change. I’d even go so far as to say it kind of turns me on to hear him call me by that name after all this time.
“And do you know what else that bastard Mr. Clements did?” Wesley says. “He lied and told the police there was five hundred dollars inside that safe, not twenty, just to make sure the police took Christopher away for good.”
“Woo-wee!” I exclaim. “That Mr. Clements would steal the nickels off a dead man’s eyes.”
“You bet he would.”
“So why were you in jail, then?”
He rolls his eyes at what he’s about to say. “After they took Christopher away, a bunch of kids started talking about how they didn’t think Christopher had enough brains to figure out the safe. And then that fucker Thomas, you remember him? He started telling everyone he thought it was you who stole the cards. He said he saw me and you under the big oak tree a million times and that you were just playing me for a fool.”
I gasp.
“So I bashed his head in.”
Oh my. An intense humming sensation suddenly courses through my body, zinging me in my most private places. This man right here was willing to do whatever he had to do to protect me—even something against his very nature. The thought makes my skin buzz like I’m gripping an electric fence. “Wesley,” I breathe, and we kiss again, good and long. “Touch my boobs,” I whisper, and he complies greedily. I reckon he’ll learn to like my new boobs good enough.
I’ve never put a man’s package in my mouth before, but I’m suddenly aching to do it for Wesley. And so, I do.
I always reckoned sucking on a man would feel like sucking on a warm Otter Pop—but, no, even with my eyes shut tight, there’s no mistaking Wesley’s smooth, pulsing meat-popsicle for a frozen treat. At my tongue’s first taste of him, Wesley groans really loud, so I reckon I’m on the right track—and when I take all of him into my mouth, he makes a noise of surprise and delight that could send a herd of buffalo stampeding. When I finally muster the courage to suck on him like I’m coaxing the last dregs of a Slurpee through a straw, well, I reckon I’ve hit the mother lode because the boy starts grabbing at my hair and pushing himself into me like he’s
a fish getting fileted. And that’s when it dawns on me—this right here is what men throughout the history of time have been willing to die for. Or kill. And the thought makes me hotter than a fresh-fucked fox in a forest fire.
I’m not sure, but it feels like Wesley’s about to lose control of himself into my mouth, so I stop what I’m doing and climb on top of him. I’m not opposed to letting Wesley give me a mouthful of something to remember him by—in fact, I’m surprisingly eager to taste every last drop of him at some point in the near future—but I’m thinking that particular feat might be a tad ambitious for my first time at the rodeo. I reckon Wesley doesn’t mind me changing course on him, though, because after only a few minutes of me riding him like a mad bull, he’s jolting and bucking underneath me and I’m screaming his name as muscles deep inside me twist and warp and squeeze.
When we’re good and done and both of us are marinating in each other’s sweat, Wesley and I lie side-by-side, naked as jaybirds, touching each other’s bodies, and chatting up a storm. I find out that poor Wesley sat in jail for almost eighteen months for smashing Thomas’ head in—until well after he’d already turned eighteen. Who knew a judge could “try a minor as an adult?” I sure didn’t.
When I tell Wesley I’m awfully sorry he had to go to jail and all—and when my eyes tear up because I really am heartbroken over it—he smiles at me in the most adorable way and says, “Aw, jail wasn’t so bad. The food was pretty good, and I got myself some true-blue friends.” When I commend his positive attitude but repeat that I’m so very sorry he had to get locked up for so long, especially on account of me, Wesley just shrugs his shoulders and says, “If a man can’t run with the big dogs, he’d best stay under the porch.”
I feel a thousand pounds lighter knowing why Wesley never showed up at the bus station ten months ago. It wasn’t because he’d forgotten all about me, like I thought; it was because he was busy whittling sticks into wooden bears and fishes in his ten-by-ten-foot prison cell.
