by Penny Reid
Goodness gracious, this kiss.
And it went on. It went on and on, and I loved it. He lifted his head once, then twice just to come back and capture my mouth at a different angle. Releasing my hair, he stroked his hand from my shoulder to my backside, up to my hip, his fingers digging into and kneading my body. Roscoe hooked his thumb into the waistband of my pants, touching the bare skin of my stomach, igniting sparks within me. I melted.
I was left clamoring, wanting to be closer, needing to feel more of him. That’s what I felt, need and hot, pooling tension low in my belly. Everywhere he touched, need and shivery goose bumps. Each pass of his lips and tongue, bursts of aching, straining, scorching, mindless, chaotic feelings.
And need.
Reaching for his belt buckle, I slid a finger inside and unhooked the prong from the strap, sliding the leather through the metal frame. I was having crazy, freaky, awesome thoughts about logistics, like whether or not I was wearing my nice jeans and whether kneeling in the grass would leave stains. I also wondered if he was one of those guys who wore socks during the deed, and if so, I didn’t think I’d mind.
I usually minded.
But not with Roscoe.
He could put on a second pair of socks and I’d probably think it was sexy. Okay, I’d think it was weird, but as long as the rest of him was naked, and he was touching me with his mouth, I’d learn to live with it.
Unexpectedly, suddenly, horribly, we were no longer kissing.
His hands were on my shoulders, and he was far away, and I was confused, so I opened my eyes and I cursed the darkness. I could make out the line of his neck, jaw, and hair; his actual features, however, were mostly a mystery.
I sensed his attention; I felt his grip, firm but not punishing; and I heard his breathing, hard and labored. The taste of him still on my tongue, I licked my lips, finding traces of him there as well.
A sound, beginning as a groan and morphing into a growl, rumbled from his chest, and his fingers flexed on me. For a second, I thought for sure he was going to pull me in, kiss me again, let me unbutton and unzip his pants, touch him, continue what we’d started. I was so sure, I’d even call it a hunch.
Instead, I was set further away and he turned, stomping around the back of his truck.
“What . . .” The word slipped out, the beginnings of, What are you doing? But I stopped myself because I soon realized what he was doing.
He jumped on the bumper, reached under the layers of mattress, blanket, and sleeping bag, pulled out the wooden board in an impressive show of strength, and placed it on top of everything. Jumping down, he reached into the bed of the truck, pulled the pillows free and opened the driver’s side door. I watched, completely caught off guard as he stuffed the pillows in the cab. He then moved to his tent.
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m escorting you home,” came his gruff reply.
A short laugh of disbelief burst past my lips, and all those aching, straining, scorching, mindless, chaotic feelings (and need) turned cold and clammy, swirling in and upsetting my stomach.
Inexplicably, I felt like crying. I wouldn’t cry, but I felt like doing it, which was enough of a shock to snap me out of my stupor. My mouth was hanging open, so I snapped it shut. Ignoring the hot blush that had crawled up my neck and over my cheeks, I reached into the bed of the truck near where I’d been sitting earlier.
“What are you doing?” he asked, pulling up the stakes around his tent.
“Getting my phone and keys.” And gun. “Don’t worry, I’m not putting a snake in your bed.” This time.
He sighed. Loudly. And he stopped his work dismantling the tent.
“Simone—”
“No need to escort me home. I know how you like to pretend I don’t exist, so . . .” I marched to my car, blinking furiously, because—dammit—it hurt. I hurt. But I was not going to cry over Roscoe Winston.
He caught up with me before I’d managed to get the driver’s door all the way open, his hand pushing it closed as he caged me in with his arms. “Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re—”
“I’m pissed. There’s a distinct difference.” I tried to pull my door open again but he held it closed.
“I can’t—I can’t kiss you.”
Ugh. . . wow.
“Fine. Whatever.”
“I can’t—”
“Multiply large numbers in your head, balance on Tanner’s junkyard wall, do a backflip off the Bandit Lake diving platform, put a worm on a fishing hook, or kiss me. I got it. Now move.” I didn’t turn, though I felt him behind me, the length of his body a hair’s breadth from mine made infuriating pinpricks of awareness rise on my arms and the back of my neck.
Great. Now I was cold and clammy and hot all at the same time.
He was hesitating, thinking too hard, undecided about what to do next. His breathing gave him away.
“Just . . .” I shook my head, my upset stomach now spreading to my heart, my chest feeling too small. “It’s fine,” I lied. “If we run into each other, we’ll be pleasant, polite. That’s what we agreed to, that’s what we’ll do. Now, please move.”
I tugged on the door again, and this time—after a brief reluctance—he let me open it.
Taking my seat, I shut myself in and wasted no time starting the engine. Twisting on my high beams, I pulled onto the gravel road and drove to the gate, careful to keep my speed below fifteen miles per hour, even in my disordered mess of feelings and unfulfilled—no, rebuffed—need.
But really, what had I been thinking? Kissing him? Chasing him?
You like him.
Yes, but that’s a bad reason to act like a fool and—
You care about this man. You care deeply.
I grunted in frustration, a breath hissing between my teeth, because I DIDN’T WANT TO CARE ABOUT ROSCOE WINSTON.
. . . too bad.
Dammit.
Force of habit, I flipped the turn signal and paused just beyond the gate, looking left then right for approaching traffic. Noting that Officer Strickland must’ve moved on, because he was nowhere in sight, I turned left onto the winding road that would take me in the direction of home.
I’d just decided I would go through my bedroom, hunt down the rest of my Roscoe-related memorabilia from childhood and incinerate it all as soon as I made it home, when I spotted headlights behind me. My heart plummeted. I gripped the steering wheel tighter with abruptly sweaty hands, sending a prayer upwards that the car in my rearview mirror wasn’t Strickland’s.
I then realized the vehicle wasn’t a car, but a truck, and I exhaled equal parts relief and frustration. Stopping at a stop sign, I glared in my rearview mirror as the truck also came to a stop behind me. The truck was, without a doubt, Roscoe’s.
Gritting my teeth, I turned right, not signaling this time.
He followed.
He escorted me all the way home.
* * *
Since I’d texted my mother earlier and told her I would be camping with Roscoe at Hawk’s Field, I wasn’t strategizing being-scared-out-of-my-wits avoidance tactics when I opened the front door. I was thinking about my kiss with Roscoe, and how he’d kissed me back (eventually), and how it had never been like that when we’d experimented together at fifteen.
I was also pondering how he’d followed me home, stopping halfway down our driveway. When he saw me walk up the steps and into the house, he turned and left.
Which was why I was scared out of my wits when I shut the front door behind me.
But this time the scare-er wasn’t either of my parents. It was my sister Dani, wearing a green beauty mask on her face and a streaky pale-yellow conditioning mask in her hair, looking like something out of a Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode.
I jumped, gasping, my hands coming to my chest in startled fright, but so did she.
“Dani,” I growled, leaning forward to place my palms on my knees, breathing deep a
nd shaking my head. “You scared the shit out of me. You look like an alien had a slimy baby with mayonnaise.”
I glanced up and found her leaning one hand against the wall, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Three seconds later, we were both laughing. Two seconds after that, neither of us could catch our breath.
“You should have seen your face.” She pointed at me, holding her stomach with her other hand. Her features moved behind the mask, allegedly attempting to recreate my scaredy face.
“What? What are you doing there?” I sniffed, wiping at my eyes. “Is that your impression of Munch’s The Scream? Is that what you’re doing?”
She shook her head. “No, gorgeous. That was you.”
“I would try to imitate your face”—I made a show of patting down my sweater and jeans—“but I don’t have any alien sperm on me. Sorry.”
Now she laughed harder, which made me laugh again. Those chaotic and troublesome feelings I’d been stewing in since leaving Hawk’s Field dulled, chased away by laughing with my big sister.
Once I was able to form words again without breaking into a fit of giggles, I asked, “What are you doing here? I mean, other than that.” I flicked my wrist toward her face.
Dani lifted an eyebrow at my wrist flick. At least, I thought she lifted an eyebrow.
“I was just about to wash it off, actually.” She darted forward, maneuvering around me to grab her purse from the closet, which must’ve been her intention before I walked in. “Don’t go to sleep,” she called over her shoulder as she jogged out of the entranceway. “I have questions for you.”
With that, she left me.
I took a seat on the bench near the door and pulled off my boots. Tucking them inside the closet along with my bag, I locked the front door and ambled to my room.
Plans to incinerate my Roscoe-related memorabilia abandoned—for now—I crossed to the open suitcase on the floor and rummaged through my packing pods, looking for pajamas while swatting away thoughts of Roscoe Winston’s lips and hands and tongue and—
“Nope, nope, nope.” I shook my head, resolved to not think about him.
Skipping over the unknowns—such as, if Roscoe had a crush on me, why didn’t he want to kiss me? And why did I want to kiss him so, so, so badly? And why couldn’t I just let go of the unknowns surrounding his sudden disinterest in me ten years ago? And why was my body and heart conspiring against me by arranging intricate feelings fireworks displays whenever Roscoe and I were in close proximity?—I decided instead to make a beeline for a comprehensive listing of facts, which would lead to levelheaded action items.
His father hadn’t made contact with Roscoe since last week and clearly Darrell was still a sore subject, completely understandable. As such, it was doubtful I’d gain much intel by interacting with Roscoe further or attempting to gain his trust. Better to clandestinely follow him, wait for the Wraiths to make their move, and allow myself to be abducted/taken at the same time.
This would achieve two aims: keep Roscoe safe, and minimize time spent in his company. He wanted to avoid me? Fine.
“Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.”
Fine with me.
New list. Once all this is over, I’ll go back to DC, get laid, make brownies, and return to an existence where I never think about Roscoe’s soulfulness, height, or touching him. With my mouth.
“What are you doing in here? And you still haven’t unpacked?”
Dani’s questions had me turning over my shoulder and straightening from my suitcase, holding my pajamas to my chest.
She stood in the doorway, wearing a plastic grocery bag over her hair which was still drenched in the conditioning mask. But the green slime had been washed from her face, revealing gorgeous, smooth, glowing skin.
My sister really was stunning. Ever since I could remember, she had always received compliments on her looks, and not the garden variety you’re so pretty ones. More like, Are you a model? No? Do you want to be?
“Why wouldn’t I be in here?” I glanced around my space. “It’s my room.” I didn’t answer her second question purposefully. The truth was, I didn’t want to unpack because I didn’t want to stay in Green Valley. I wanted to be ready to go home as soon as the case was done, which will hopefully be soon.
“No. I mean”—she crossed the threshold, pausing near my dresser—“why aren’t you in the kitchen?”
“Uh . . .” I moved my eyes from side to side. “Because I don’t sleep in the kitchen?” Although, with a cot, that could be easily rectified, and think of the convenience.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I responded immediately.
Mostly.
Eventually.
“Are you sure?” She came to stand directly in front of me.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because you always go to the kitchen looking for leftovers when you come home late.”
I made a face at that. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes. You do.”
About to protest again, I snapped my mouth shut as I considered her statement and found it wasn’t entirely without merit. In fact, it was correct.
Chuckling lightly at the discovery, I shrugged. “You’re right. I guess I do.”
“And Dad made low country shrimp tonight, so you don’t want to miss that.”
“You were home for dinner?”
“Uh, yes.” She picked a nonexistent piece of lint off the arm of her silk pajamas. “I was.”
“How long are you in town?”
“Just through Sunday.” She took several steps toward my desk and sat on the edge of it.
“Are you here to see Billy?”
Dani’s reluctance to respond was obvious.
When she did, she offered a cagey, “No.”
“Does he . . .” I studied her, took note of the way she’d cleared her face of expression. “Does he know you’re in town?”
“No. He’s busy—at the mill. Also, government is in session this week—I didn’t want to interrupt.” She sounded so blasé about this, like it was a perfectly adequate excuse.
“Interrupt?” I snorted. “Dani, you’re getting married to the man.”
She crossed to my dresser and opened the top to my jewelry box. “What are you doing home tonight? Mom said you were camping with Roscoe.” Then, quieter, as though she were speaking to herself, she added an amused, “Dad almost had a heart attack when he found out, he was so happy.”
A pang of residual discomfort tightened my chest, a virtual potpourri of inconvenient thoughts and emotions. Yeah, I’d been embarrassed when he’d rejected me, but that was honestly the least of it.
I was . . .
I was so . . .
I just wanted . . .
“Simone?”
I sighed. “I decided to come home.”
She was watching me, examining me in that uncanny way of hers. My sister could read people like most folks read the newspaper. She knew when to act, when to chill, and how to outmaneuver at precisely the right time. If life was one big game of Clue to me, then it was a game of Chess for her, where she was both the queen and the king.
When she continued examining me in silence, I gathered a bracing breath and met her penetrating gaze.
Her expression shrewd, she tilted her head slightly to one side. “Please don’t tell me you and Roscoe, that you—”
“What? No!” I made a sound of protest, like a pshaw, and shook my head. “That’s never going to happen.”
Not adding the rest of my thought, Even though, if it did happen, it would be totally hot and awesome. Somehow, I knew this. It would be life-changing. Which was why it could never happen. I didn’t want to change my life.
Now she looked doubly suspicious. “You like him.”
I found I had to swallow against a sudden dryness in my throat. “I don’t- I don’t like him.” I really, really like him against my will. Big difference.
“You’re lying.”
�
�I’m not—” I covered my face with my hands and released a short breath. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“Simone, what are you thinking? He ghosted you. You were inseparable and he just”—I heard her snap her fingers—“dropped you, acted like you didn’t exist. You shouldn’t even give him the time of day. Plus, you could do so much better than Roscoe Winston.” She made a face as she finished her tirade, as though Roscoe smelled like dirty socks.
Dropping my hands, I rolled my eyes, expecting to say, Can we not talk about this? But accidentally said instead, “What’s wrong with Roscoe? I mean, besides him ghosting me over ten years ago.”
“First of all, he’s a flirt and a huge player.”
My first instinct was to defend Roscoe, to tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about. But searching her face, I saw she believed this to be true. Now I was officially curious.
“What makes you say that?”
My sister arched an eyebrow. “Have you seen him out and about town? It’s ridiculous. He flirts with everybody, he’s flirted with me, and I’m getting married to his older brother.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. No buts. Just last month, I went grocery shopping for Mom and he was flirting with Mrs. Townsen behind the deli counter, who is at least thirty years his senior and in a wheelchair. And then he flirted with one of the stock girls—I forget her name, one of the Pattersons, awkward with braces—and then, he flirted with Kimmy Jones at the register. The girl was a flustered, giggling mess the entire time she rang me up.” Dani huffed a sour sounding laugh, shaking her head, like she thought his behavior shameful.
Meanwhile, I was back to stewing, because I’d witnessed what Dani described. Roscoe had flirted up a storm with Charlotte last week at Genie’s, but he hadn’t flirted with me.
That’s right, I was feeling cranky because the guy I liked against my will had never flirted with me. Another fine example of feelings-fail.
“Roscoe is just like Jethro, when Jethro was that age.” Dani pressed her lips together, giving me her you-know-what-I’m-talking-about glare. “Careless, thoughtless. Just look at how he treated you.”
