by Tracy Ellen
I loved helping with the customers. To hear it from NanaBel, you’d think I was the most precocious kid ever to walk the earth. My grandmother claims I was a cross somewhere between the top sales person she’d ever seen and a little con artist. If you believed NanaBel’s version of my childhood, after hanging with me the adult customers often left the store in a daze with a bag of books they didn’t remember choosing, much less buying. You’ll never convince me those people did not enjoy reading Robert Heinlein, Robert McCammon, and Georgette Heyer as much as I did.
I had an epiphany in middle school. I decided my main goal in life was to own Bel’s Books. I’ve never looked back. I have worked in the bookstore officially (meaning actually paid a real wage and not child slave labor) since I was fifteen. I became the store manager at eighteen. Now pushing twenty-nine, I have been sole owner of Bel’s Books for the last three years while a gleefully retired NanaBel travels the globe. She’s kicking up her heels and making up for lost time.
My thoughts drifted from the store to the pressing issue of the man currently spooning me. His name is Luke Drake. He’s my lover, not an unknown intruder I was freaky enough to make out with because he could pin me.
If anyone knew what I was up to last night, some might judge me a sick puppy. I think they’d be wrong. Not necessarily the sick puppy part, the jury is still out on that decision, but wrong to judge. I firmly believe what consenting adults do in the privacy of their own sex life is their own business.
For me, last night’s shenanigans were a first. I’m sure people must play sex games all the time, although nobody I know has ever told me about them if they do.
That’s not as strange as it sounds. My friends, family, casual acquaintances, and even complete strangers have confided in me all my life. It used to stump me as to why people voluntarily told me their personal business and deep, dark secrets. They get no prompting or encouragement from my end. I have determined it’s because humans are typically contrary creatures by nature. Plus, I can keep a secret, a trait I sometimes bitterly regret. As to why complete strangers confide in me, your guess is as good as mine. I chock that one up to another mystery of the universe like black holes and dark energy.
Personally, I try very hard to keep my private life private. I rarely share specifics with anyone about my love life. Still, it doesn’t stop my friends and neighbors from laying on me every agonizing detail of their own sexcapades.
It’s also a myth that chicks talk about their adventures in lovemaking more than guys. When a man talks about not liking to discuss “feelings” he sure didn’t mean in regards to how his wanger felt last Saturday night when out with so-and-so. My male friends are most gruesomely detailed oriented. Like it or not, I’d definitely have heard if any friends of mine were up to anything remotely interesting and kinky.
This morning, He-Who-Dominates has me in a similar hold he used last night to restrain me. One arm was draped over my hips on top of the blankets with his hand resting against my stomach while the other was under my pillow and across my chest. Even asleep, Luke’s large hand greedily tried to cup both my breasts at once. I wasn’t teasing when I said earlier this man is seriously infatuated with my bosom. I know, I know, it’s difficult but I try to tolerate his fascination. However, I was not sure if I liked waking up this way. Not that Luke’s embrace was too tight, but rather I’m not used to sleeping with any man and then waking up in his arms.
Luke was still sleeping deeply. I experimentally wriggled my butt and pushed a little back against him. He murmured something unintelligible and kissed my neck. His hand caressed up the curving indentation from my hip to my waist before he relaxed back into sleep.
‘Huh, that was kind of interesting.’
I felt languorous and feminine, cozily surrounded by warm, hard muscles and soft, tickling hairiness. His knee rode up high between my thighs and my derrière was nestled tightly against him. How do people get out of bed and accomplish anything if this is how they wake up every morning? It made me want to lazily stay in bed and do dirty, fun things- not get up and get busy doing my boring chores.
Even his steady breathing near my ear wasn’t too irritating. Instead, the rhythmic sound lulled me. My mind wandered to contemplating how I came to have Luke still in my bed after playing “Who’s on Top?” last night.
Along with it being the first time I’ve acted out one of my sexual fantasies, allowing a man to stay overnight is also new territory for me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not being ingenuous here. I have gone out with quite a few men over the course of my twenties, but I don’t do sleepovers. I kid you not; there have been no pajama parties with the men I’ve dated since I was nineteen.
I have an ironclad rule about sending a man on his way, or skipping out myself, when the date is over. Does anybody really like the inconvenient awkwardness of waking up together the next day with morning breath and bed hair? I sure don’t. I schedule a date for an evening, not my whole, cotton-pickin’ weekend.
As I lay in bed with morning breath and bed hair, being a woman of sound mind who could rationalize her behavior with the best of them, I logically justified my unique transgression of allowing Luke to stay the night. It was a true statement our night practically began this morning. There was the tiny detail of my utter exhaustion. I guess experiencing the second best sex I’ve ever had in my life caused me to pass out in satiated bliss. I forgot my sleepover rule and I forgot to boot Luke out.
My all-encompassing rule number one where men are concerned is quite simple and easy to remember: never forget my rules.
Even thinking of Luke brought on a sleepy smile. I admit to being in lustful la-la land over this dude. After last night, there wasn’t an iota of doubt in my mind Luke really sends me.
That doesn’t change the fact my rules have evolved over time and are now cast in stone. They are based on first-hand knowledge from my experiences with the most dangerous predator known to prowl the planet- men. I live by these rules for good reasons. I like to be free to pursue the goals I’ve laid out for my life and not get bogged down with relationship issues. Following the rules helps me avoid a lot of problematic situations where men are concerned. Not following my own rules allows males to have the opening into my life they are genetically predisposed to pursue, and it creates big, fat messes.
Let’s face it, stereotypically men are hunters and women their prey. I have no desire to be bagged this week’s trophy kill by confusing the excitement of this elemental chase with the female equivalent of romanticized “in love.” I don’t need to pretty it up with a pink bow.
I thrill at the chase, and for a select few hunters, have thrown myself in for the kill. By faithfully following my simple rule number one, I have lived to walk away, unscathed and intact, from the exhilaration of the hunt for the last decade.
Since I always manage somehow to be honest with myself, in spite of myself, my quiet introspection quickly brought me to a couple of conclusions. The first, I could try and justify it all I wanted, but I have been breaking my rules for Luke since the day I met him. The second, I was going to stop breaking my rules for Luke as of this minute. I like wanting all sorts of different men in my life for all sorts of different reasons, but actually needing one main man in my life? Not so cool.
I was officially introduced to Luke two months ago at my younger brother’s house. My brother Reggie gives new meaning to the word friendly and his place is like Grand Central Station at quitting time. It’s a joke in our family that if you want to run into anyone from Northfield, stop over at Reg’s house, located twenty minutes outside of town, and you will.
Reg lives on a sweet piece of property overlooking Lake Roberds. It’s outside of a small town called Faribault, located ten miles southwest down the road from Northfield. The house that came with the lake property is a two-story old relic that defies style classification and needs massive amounts of TLC. My brother decided not to bulldoze, citing the old house had “good bones.” He’s been busy renovating sinc
e last spring.
Reggie owns his own contracting company and has many friends in the different trades. Whenever I come to visit there’s usually a guy or two helping him work on the latest project. It always gives me warm fuzzies watching that anachronism of the bartering system in action. Keeping a fridge stocked with good beer and occasionally returning the favor seems to be all the payment the men require of each other. Don’t even get me started on the assortment of women ‘just dropping by to help,’ and I don’t mean my sisters or other female relatives. My brother’s a very popular guy.
Since I’ve always been an exemplary role model of a sister, I drive over to Reggie’s once in a while on a weekend day with sustenance. I like to check out the ongoing progress on the house. Reg and I have always been close, but with both of us being so busy lately, we haven’t hung out much. It was easy and convenient to do something together before he moved out from my apartment to the lake this past summer, but now it takes planning.
Sometimes I’ll even pitch-in and work around Reg’s place. Having no prior experience, I’m not exactly DIY construction worker material. Truthfully, I suck. However, my little brother is surprisingly cool with my tool-challenged ineptitude. He’s an awesome teacher, and so are most of his friends. I never thought in a million years I’d get pumped being taught my latest handyman lesson, but I’ve been really getting into it.
It makes me proud that my baby brother no longer screams like a woman and ducks when I hold up the nail gun in my hand. It’s true what they say about men; they have no tolerance for a little pain. It was only the one time, and the nail I’d pulled out of Reggie’s thigh was a short, tiny thing- a finishing nail was what I believe he shrieked when correcting me. Yes, okay, he did bleed. But, sweet Jesus, the way he carried on you would’ve thought I’d punctured his femoral artery instead of the back of his leg. It was totally unfair to blame me for the resulting infection.
When I met Luke Drake, it was on the third Saturday back in September. Actually, our meeting was a little more convoluted than that, but I didn’t realize it at first.
I’d woken up early to an idyllic, late summer Minnesota day. I hadn’t seen my brother for over a week, so I decided to whip up some banana bread to bring to his house for breakfast. My idea was to soak up some sunshine for an hour on Reg’s new deck overlooking the water. I had plans later with a man I’d met a couple weeks back in the store. We were going to the Renaissance Festival in Shakopee. The new man was a cute, nice guy, but you can’t force the love. I knew after our first date for drinks it was strictly friends zone on my part. Still, he was fun and a girl could always stand another friend.
After taking care of some business down in the bookstore, I arrived at the lake house around eleven that morning. I turned my aging Jeep 4x4 into Reggie’s graveled parking area just as a black and white SUV was pulling out. Driving was Jack Banner, Chief of Police in Northfield.
My parents died together in an airplane crash when I was six. My dad had been a cop in St. Paul. Jack was my dad’s younger, rookie partner and good friend. My folks were flying home from Jack’s Canadian border cabin in a small plane when the engine malfunctioned and they crashed. I’ve never figured out if Jack felt some misguided guilt about orphaning my siblings and me, or if he’s simply a glutton for punishment, but he’s been a fixture in our lives ever since. I consider him part of the family and torment him accordingly.
He slowed alongside my Jeep. I smiled a greeting through our open windows.
“Morning, She-Devil.” Jack takes great pleasure in calling me defamatory names. She-Devil is mild compared to some of the doozies he’s thought up over the years.
I think it’s pretty unfair and mean on his part, but Jack’s called me these names also since I was six. After we’d heard the news of our parents’ death, Jack found me crying off in a corner by my lonesome. He attempted to pull me onto his lap to comfort me. I took a hunk out of Jack’s shoulder with my bite and told him to “keep your stinking hands to yourself or I’ll report you to my school principal.”
I was a second-grader then, and fresh from learning all about sexual harassment- I knew my rights as a woman.
In my teens, and whenever he was around, dear Jack had made a habit of trying to embarrass me in front of boys while intimidating them into behaving. He would take my date aside. First, he’d warn them not to even think of messing with me. Then he’d tell the boy I may look like an angel, but inside I was feral with a bite much worse than my bark. He had the scar and rabies shot to prove it.
Jack never quite got that didn’t scare off the boys, but made me more fascinating. Maybe it was fascinatingly scary. My dates were never one hundred percent sure why I’d bitten Jack, a cop and twenty years older, in the first place. Being a laconic man, he never mentioned that part. If the boys asked me, I’d shrug and smile mysteriously.
“Well, good morning to you, Chief. Do you have to go and protect the unsuspecting public, or can I tempt you with some yummy banana bread?”
At forty-nine, Jack is a fit and handsome man in a tough and craggy way. To be fair, he has always been tough and craggy, so he hasn’t changed much over the years. His white blonde hair is touched with a little silver now, his skin’s ruddier and lined from years spent fishing on lakes in the sun and wind, but his deep-set, gray eyes are sharp as ever. They missed little.
Jack’s a macho man. He’s the real deal, not a poser like many men who only act tough. Jack is no swaggering dude compensating for insecurities or serious woman-bashing issues. Chief Jack likes women. He is just clueless when it comes to understanding anything about us.
Jack’s got that cop stare down. The one that makes most people nervous and willing to confess to crimes they haven’t even thought of committing. Add that to the physique of a powerful bull in his prime, speaking only when he has something to say, and wearing a default facial expression so flat that it makes a shark look animated, and you have one very tough hombre. Anyone with half a brain would think twice before crossing Jack.
Happily, I am immune to all that. I’m not sure if that means I have more or less than half a brain, but Jack’s always been a pussycat in my eyes.
“I’m heading into the office. Paperwork.” His eyes were shaded by the clichéd mirrored aviators all cops seem to wear. He made a curt motion with his left hand draped over the steering wheel. “Gimme some to go.”
I tilted my head to the side and waited.
“What?” he barked out after the silence dragged on.
“Please Anabel, sweetest of all women and best baker on earth. Isn’t that what you were about to add?”
That earned a fleeting tightening of the lips. For Jack, it was tantamount to a belly laugh. “Damn, are you going to make me lie for food, Junior?”
I tapped my forehead. “Oh, that’s right. You are getting up there in age, aren’t you? I don’t want you lying when you’re so close to meeting your maker.”
Jack gave me “the look.” I chuckled and reached for a foiled wrapped loaf of bread from my wicker basket. I nodded to him, tossing the bread between our trucks. Reflexes lightning fast, Jack snatched it out of the air, cradling the loaf as gingerly as an infant in his ham-sized hand.
He nodded back and took his foot off his brake. “You just made an old man very happy.”
I am very conscious of my civic duty. I consider it part of my voluntary contribution to community service hours to give the bachelor Chief Jack a hard time.
“Oh dear, Jack, I’m truly sorry.” Sad lips, I was mournful. “From some of the…er…females I’ve seen you with over time, I suspected it didn’t take too much to make you happy. Seriously though, a little loaf of my bread is all it takes?”
Jack braked abruptly. He stabbed a finger at me. “Listen, Miss Thing, you couldn’t handle what it takes to make a man like me happy. Not after all those pansy-assed boys you’ve had jumping through your hoops over the years.” Seeing my grin, he shook his head and bit off something about smart-assed wom
en under his breath. “See you tomorrow night.”
I saluted sharply. It’s a standing invitation that I host a family dinner on Sunday evenings at my place. It’s my way of atoning for doing my best to avoid most of them the rest of the week.
I caught the quirk of his lips again before he drove off down the bumpy driveway to the main black top road that circled Lake Roberds.
There were three other vehicles parked at my brother’s that day I’d met Luke. One was Reggie’s red truck with the white “Axelrod Contracting” logo on the door. I made a sour face at the next car; I knew who drove the light blue Honda Civic with the vanity plates. I didn’t have a clue who owned the third vehicle. I let out an appreciative whistle. The owner may be unknown, but I definitely recognized the brand spanking, Mack Daddy of a new truck.
I loved my jeep, Lady Liberty, but she was getting up there. I’d been circling around this identical truck for a couple of weeks now at the Apple Ford dealership. I hadn’t yet decided if I was going to move in for the kill. I was deeply in want, but trying to talk myself out of crippling truck payments. Not to mention the very real possibility of crippling myself trying to get up into the front seat. I would need to carry a stool for entry assistance into a truck that size, especially after a meal and a couple of glasses of wine made me weak.
Picking my way over the graveled area towards the house brought me closer to the truck. I adjusted the heavy basket on my hip that contained the loaves of banana bread, a pink bakery bag of cookies, and bottles of OJ and chocolate milk. A gust of warm wind off the lake swirled my dress around my thighs when I stopped to admire the truck more closely.
I held my short sundress down while I toured around the vehicle. It was a 2012 Ford F-150 Harley-Davidson. The color was called Tuxedo Black. I had bonded so completely with this beauty in the last two weeks; I was half-tempted to prostrate myself on its hood to get some sun, instead of on my brother’s deck.
