by Liora Blake
When Lacey leans in to whisper something in his ear, he moves toward her, his chin grazing against the side of her head as his hand slides over her hip. After a moment, they both lean back and he reaches out to tuck a strand of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. A ridiculous surge of jealousy rises up inside me when I see his fingers linger for a bit too long, tracing the shell of her ear so slowly my own skin prickles in response.
That’s my cue. This display leaves me with two choices: dance with Dusty again, in a wild, unrestrained, drunken sex-kitten sort of way, until Lacey is seething with such annoyance she forgets about Simon and his sweater-vest, or get the hell out of here so I don’t have to watch him enact his latest seduction routine.
Since I wouldn’t be able to stand one more second of Dusty’s stale beef-jerky breath on my skin, I’m going with option two. Mumbling something about needing some air, I leave Trevor and Kate to continue on with all their endless displays of adoration, and grab a nearly full bottle of champagne off the bar before slipping out the back door.
For whatever reason—probably the liquor again—the walk from the guesthouse back to the wedding altar seems a whole hell of a lot longer than it did going the other way this afternoon. Maybe it’s the darkness. Because despite the glare of the full moon and the bank of bright stars covering the sky, the dirt road is nearly invisible. My heels also aren’t the best choice for wandering around in right now. Swinging the champagne bottle around in my loose grip, I pull it up a few times for a swig and contemplate how I ended up like this: single, tipsy, and considering the idea that waking up with Simon in my bed tomorrow morning is a reasonable plan. The proper course of action at this point would probably be to bed Dusty instead; at least with him I’d know that the regret would last only until we’re wheels up tomorrow.
The wedding altar remains draped in a canopy of white twinkling lights, setting off the weather-beaten wood into shimmering gray planks broken up only by a few boughs of greenery and pale blue hydrangeas. Shuffling up the two steps, I slip off my shoes and pace slowly around the perimeter, fixing each step deliberately by stepping toe to heel with each one. Like a walking meditation, my breath slows and deepens until the quiet of the night fills every empty space in my mind. In the background, I can hear everything: the party, the music playing, and even a few voices. Because in a place like Crowell, absent of the white noise of a city, sound carries so far you could hear a damn bird chirp from five miles away. Without the heat of a full room of bodies, the night air is teetering on too cold, sending goose bumps over my skin as my body stiffens to fight off the chill.
“Did you come out here to tip some cows or what, Dev?”
I’m so entranced by the quiet, my breathing, and the clarity of the cool air that the voice scares the ever-loving crap out of me, so much that I let out a small yelp.
“Fucking Christ!” I nearly drop my bottle of champagne but save it at the last second, grasping the bottle neck tightly, and then hold it up to my chest. Trying to slow my heart rate down from its I’m about to get bludgeoned in the dark pace, I take in a deep breath.
Simon stands at the bottom of the steps with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the stance tightening all the muscles along his arms, forcing every inch to press against the fitted material of his dress shirt. Arms that I happen to know are covered in some quality tattoos. Mostly black and gray, the designs are a little all over the place, like he just got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, absent of any bigger plan. There are a few Japanese demons, a couple of Mexican sugar skulls, and even a few lotus blossoms buried in between. Over the years, his fair skin has disappeared incrementally, replaced by ink that looks perfectly placed on him.
Stupid arms, stupid shirt, stupid Simon.
“Do I look like the kind of woman who tips cows, Simon? Really? The cows are safe tonight. You can go back to seducing the local talent. I’ve got everything here”—I make a wide gesture with my arm, swinging the champagne bottle with it—“under control.”
“What if a cougar or a dingo or some shit leaps out and tries to attack you? This is Montana, sweetheart; there are wild animals everywhere. With your senses all muddled from the way you’re apparently determined to clear the bar out tonight, you wouldn’t stand a chance. You should be thanking me for following you out here—someone’s got to keep an eye on your ass.”
Arching my eyebrows, I take a long swig of the warming champagne and let him finish. Because there is absolutely, positively a punch line coming. I can feel it in my bones.
“Obviously, I’m perfectly happy to keep both eyes on your sweet little ass. It’s a miserable job, but I’ll make the sacrifice. I’m just that kind of guy.” His gaze drops and as his smile starts to drift, he runs his eyes over the length of me.
Oh God. There it is again. The look that weakens my sturdy resolve. Twice in one day is probably more than I can handle. Shaking it off, I roll my eyes so I can’t focus on how his mouth drops open a little under his unmistakably lewd perusal.
“Funny, because it looked to me like you were too busy back there to take on another ass. You had Lacey in your crosshairs pretty solidly.”
Moving up the two steps, he comes to a stop in front of me. In heels, I’m still several inches shorter than him, and out of them, I have to lean my head back to look at him. With his hands still in his pockets, he bends down toward me and lowers his voice.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were turning into a green-eyed monster on me. Jealous much?”
Letting out a small snort, I lean forward and gesture toward my face. “My eyes are already green.”
“Oh, I’m aware exactly how green your eyes are and how insanely sexy they look with all this blonde hair.” Simon pulls one hand out of his pocket and draws it down my back, moving across the lengths of my hair before landing against the small of my waist. “Unlike you, I’m totally willing to admit that I didn’t enjoy one second of your little show with the town’s finest. That asshole Dusty and his grabby hands almost resulted in my fist across his jaw a few times.”
Rolling my eyes, I shove away from his body, regretting the move when my hands land against his chest, because my fingers curl a little at the feel of him. The minor delay entices him, prompting him to grab one hand before I can move it away.
“It wasn’t a show. I was just being nice to the townfolk so they wouldn’t come after me with a pitchfork later. Again, I’m all good here. You can go back to making Kate’s sister your latest conquest.”
Simon moves toward my face a few inches and then cocks his head to the side. “Lacey isn’t my type, and you know it.”
“Really? I thought I was pretty clear on what your type is.”
“Yeah? Enlighten me.”
Simon draws our braced hands together over his chest before finally letting them drop when my fingers hit his belt. Before the temptation of him being so close makes me forget that this, that he, is a monumentally shit-tastic idea, I refocus my attention on his notorious ability to bed any woman, anytime. Once I do, it makes it much easier to skewer him.
“One thing. Willing.”
Roaring out a sharp, short laugh, he steps away and proceeds to circle me in slow steps.
“Oh, I have a few more criteria than that. I know you think I’ll nail anything that moves, but I’m actually far more particular about who I get naked with.”
“Your turn, then. Enlighten me.”
Stopping behind me, Simon leans down to whisper in my ear. “It’s simple. The Four Ws. First, I certainly want a woman who’s willing. Obviously.”
My breath hitches in the center of my throat as he moves closer. Nuzzling against the skin of my neck, he lets his words fall out slowly.
“I like a woman who’s . . . wild.”
Taking another step around me, he leans his chest against my arm and presses his mouth gently to my earlobe but says nothing, only lets his lips graze my skin. When he takes another step to land in front of me, he le
ans down to let his mouth meet the corner of my lips.
“Wanton.”
Tilting toward the other side of my mouth, his lips pucker up to tease my skin. With a shallow breath, he releases the final word.
“Wicked.”
The sensation of his words, along with the scrambled way my buzzed brain makes it seem like his lips being so near mine is the most natural thing in the world, forces me to drop my head away from him, simply so I won’t follow my instincts and grab him around the neck for a real kiss. Instead, I return my free hand to his waist, letting it drape over his belt buckle, tucking the tips of my fingers just beneath the edge of his pants. When his arms circle my waist, then drop to my ass, every single inch of my body begins to hum in a drunken kind of static electricity.
Screw it. This is a wedding, for Christ’s sake. Don’t people make hundreds of stupid decisions at a wedding? Like doing the hokey-pokey or giving blathering toasts to the newlyweds that accidentally disclose how the bride once had a threesome with her stepcousin?
“You know, Simon, weddings are like Vegas.”
My words emerge as more of a mumble than anything, because I’m unsure, unsteady, and starting to feel unhinged enough to toss out the freaking window every logical reason I’ve ever thought of to avoid this man. I’m sure in the sober lucidity of morning, when I roll over and see Simon snoring next to me, I will regret using the corny Vegas line, but in the shadow of Montana nightfall and pricey liquor, it sounds appropriately suave.
“What?”
As I drop my fingers a tiny bit further under his waistband, I can feel his abs tighten.
“Like Vegas. You know, what happens there, stays there, and all that crap.”
Raising my voice, I want to make sure he hears every single word of what I’m about to say, because if I have to repeat it, I’ll probably remember why this is a bad idea.
“It means you could take me upstairs, undress me, and we could do a million crazy things before the sun comes up. Because it doesn’t count; it’s a wedding, and people are always sleeping with the wrong people or whatever. Shit happens, but it doesn’t count.”
Simon lets out a deep groan, but the sound of it is strained. It’s desire, but somewhere behind it, there is a shred of what sounds like disappointment. His hands move slowly away from my ass as he lowers his head to rest on the top of mine.
“There is one thing that always makes a woman a no-go for me, Devon.” As he steps away, my fingers fall from his pants and I look up, confused. Taking my chin in his fingers, he tilts my face up a bit to fully meet his gaze. “Wasted.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I can feel it seep down into the open neckline of my dress, setting off an anger inside that, if I’m not careful, will probably send me into a puddle of pathetic drunken tears. Melting into tears right now is not an option, because I just offered myself to Simon and he’s the one who has basically propositioned me for two straight years now. This was his chance to make good on all that talk, so I intend to make him regret the fact he just shut me down.
Jerking my face way from his fingers, I grab my shoes and stomp off, aiming for the stairs and then the dirt path back to the house.
“This was a one-time offer, Simon, so don’t ever give me any shit again about not giving you a shot. This was it and you took a pass, remember that.”
Just as my feet land unsteadily on the dirt, Simon grabs me from behind with one arm wrapped tightly around my waist, with so much force that my feet raise off the ground a bit in his grip. He speaks roughly into my ear, his words pained.
“Do not get this twisted, Devon. I’m willing every ounce of self-control I possess to stop from shoving your dress up and taking you right here. Fuck going upstairs. I don’t need a bed to have you screaming my name. But when this happens . . . you and me? I want it to count. I am not interested in being a drunken mistake for you.”
My feet fall to the ground again as he loosens his grip. He wrenches the champagne bottle from my hand before stepping away to pour the rest of it out on the ground.
“Hey!” I make a pathetic effort to swipe it back from him, missing hugely. The inertia of my gesture sends me stumbling a few steps down the dirt road. Instead of turning back to try to save my champagne again, I experience a moment of inebriated clarity and remember there is more at the house. Righting my body, I start walking that direction.
I can hear him shuffling behind me, mumbling something about being an idiot before he reaches my side and tries to put his hand in mine. I try to escape his fingers, but he grabs again and again until I relent. Refusing to give him my whole hand, instead, I curl my index finger loosely around his pinkie finger and let our hands sway gently between us, deciding that can somehow be a punishment.
Once he has me tethered to him, he sighs. “Let’s get your drunken ass upstairs and put you to bed. I think you’re about ten minutes away from having the earth turn on its axis, and then you’re going to be begging for the room to stop spinning.”
2
Apparently, the state of Montana sits so close to the sun that when someone is nursing a universally epic hangover, it feels like the heat could bore a hole right through your pounding skull. It must be the altitude. Frankly, I would take a hole in the head right now, just to put me out of my current state of misery.
The quaint little park bench I’m sitting on feels a stretch better than the sticky pleather banquettes in Deaton’s Café, though. At least out here, there isn’t the smell of grease hovering in the air and I don’t have to watch Simon perched at the Formica counter, flirting with a college-age waitress wearing tight cowgirl jeans with a bunch of giant rhinestones on the ass. The glare of those rhinestones almost justified wearing my sunglasses inside, which I’m sure would have made me look like a real LA jerk. The last straw was when Deputy Dusty Frank sauntered through the door and tipped his cowboy hat in my direction with a grin that probably made everyone think he saw me naked last night. I felt the bile of last night’s revelries rising up and, crawling right over Kate’s lap, ran out the door and into the rejuvenating Montana air.
I shut my eyes and tip my head up to the sun—do your thing, vitamin D—as fragments of last night come back to me in all their horrifyingly embarrassing glory. After Simon carried me up the stairs, he got me inside my dark room, closed the door, and nudged me toward the bed, where he pulled the zipper down on my dress, letting it fall around me on the floor. He had me sit on the bed, then kneeled down and pulled my heels off before rolling my stockings down my legs and telling me to crawl under the sheets. That’s when the room started to spin just as he’d predicted.
Not my finest moment.
I tip my head back again and try to take a series of deep breaths, pushing down all the regret with each one. At twenty-eight years old, I should know my limits a little better. But the fact that I ended up stumbling down a dirt road with Simon, who happened to possess the moral compass in this scenario, at my side, means apparently I don’t. But the breathing exercise seems to help a bit, as the dull pounding in my head begins to lessen.
“Morning, sunshine!”
The sound of Simon’s loud-ass voice, right next to my ear, morphs into a series of sharp screeches that threatens to tear my skull in half. Despite the pain, my reflexes kick in and I throw my hand up to grab at the collar of his T-shirt, yanking him forward with every bit of mortification and annoyance I’m still feeling from last night’s incident.
When the scent of him, all clean and soapy fresh, surrounds me, I hazily want to bury my face in his neck. Which is irritating as hell, because I shouldn’t want that when he rejected me less than twelve hours ago. I manage to put my lips near his ear without succumbing to nuzzling, and speak in a whispered growl.
“If you value your life, Simon, you will shut it until we land in LA. Because if you don’t, I will find whatever strength necessary to rip your vocal cords from your throat. Do. Not. Test. Me.”
Once he stops laughing, I relax my fist and rel
ease him from my grip. The desire to be home immediately begins washing over me. The air here is too clean and refreshing. I need the murky air of LA to work like a charcoal filter on my lungs. I need to be at a lower altitude, where the sun is farther away. I need a two-hour hot yoga class where I can steep in my own sweat until I forget everything that happened in the hours after Trevor and Kate said their vows.
I hope no one I know gets married ever again.
Two weeks later, Kate and I head toward lunch after our weekly Wednesday yoga class. The first time I asked Kate if she wanted to go to a yoga class with me, she looked at me like I was trying to initiate her into a wacky Hollywood cult or something. She insisted that yoga was for blonde California girls like me, not brunette Montana girls like her who were strung a little tighter than most. I promised her if she just went to one class with me, I would drop it if she hated it. I was right, she loved it, just as I suspected she would.
Today she insists we walk to lunch instead of drive because she swears she did nothing but sleep, lie on the beach, and eat while she and Trevor were on their honeymoon in Fiji and claims her jeans feel too tight. As she talks, I make a show of leaning back to inspect her ass, then give it a smack for good measure. She jumps with a squeal and a guy walking toward us starts basically drooling out the corner of his mouth. When he gets within a few feet, he winks at me and offers a crooked smile to Kate.
“She’s my sister-in-law, dumbass. My brother would kick your ass for whatever you’re thinking right now.”
Walking backward, the guy refuses to let it drop. “I’m not related to either of you, so I’ll let my imagination run wild.”
Kate shoves me in the ribs with her elbow. “Nice work, Devon. You managed to cop a feel of my ass in front of a guy who might be a hornier bastard than Simon. I didn’t know such a person existed.”
