“You can’t even imagine.”
She tucks one foot up underneath her and leans against me, letting me feel the curve of her body against mine. I don’t miss the chance, and casually extend my arm. It might be straight out of high school, but it’s a solid play. Her back nestles against my forearm, and I cup my hand to her shoulder. She stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. Her expression is full of heat and mischief. “Are you putting the moves on me? At the Urgent Care?”
You haven’t seen anything yet. “Got a problem with that?”
She clutches her box of Dots so hard that the corners crumple. And then she flashes that adorable smile again. “None at all.”
* * *
While we wait, I cover the basics. “Favorite color?” I ask her.
“Pink.” Her fingers move to her tan line, where the bikini was earlier. Fuck. “The brighter the better. You?”
“Navy. Favorite food?”
She pauses with a chip halfway to her mouth. “Are we talking about like if I could eat anything, what would I eat? Or are we talking about that awful question If you were stuck on a desert island with one only food for the rest of your life, blah, blah, blah?”
“Both.”
She breaks off half the chip with her teeth and chews thoughtfully. “You first.”
I’m halfway tempted to give her the canned bro response. A rib-eye steak and a good bottle of red wine. But maybe it’s the epinephrine, maybe it’s her curve of her cleavage, or maybe it’s the fact that I think we’re all being slowly drugged by whatever is in those air fresheners, but I want to be honest with her. Really honest. No pretense. “A Philly cheese steak with extra cheese and a really cold beer.”
“Nice,” she says. “Yeah, that’s solid.” She sniffs, and chews a while longer, and then finally answers, “I’d say my desert island pick is salt and vinegar potato chips. And a box of wine. And some tea.”
“That’s some island.”
She puts three chips in a stack. “I really love to eat. It’s a hard question.” She straightens the chips, like a poker player deciding on his bet. “But my all-time pick, that’s easy. Grocery store birthday cake. Doesn’t matter what kind, as long as it’s got plenty of frosting,” she says, and jams the chips into her mouth, as a little dusting of crumbs falls down onto her tank.
She loves to eat, she’s got a shelf full of Dickens, and she isn’t afraid to stab a man in the leg to save his life. That’s that. “I’m just going to say it, Penny. I like you. A lot.”
8
Penny
The man with the rash sidles up to us and asks, “Would you say this is scaly?” He contorts his neck to get a better look at the back of his plump forearm. “Or just dry?”
Russ’ eyes snag mine. I see a pained laugh coming up and coming up fast. From what I’ve gathered, he’s incredibly cool, calm, and collected, but everybody’s got their limit. Clearly, his limit is discussing mysterious rashes with strangers. Conveniently, that’s also my limit. There’s an impending church-and-funeral laugh coming up inside me, too. Russ grips my shoulder a little more tightly, and with his other hand dusts some granola off his suit pants.
“Umm.” I glance at the big guy’s tricep but try really, really hard not to stare. “Just dry, I think?”
He bends his body to get a better look at whatever’s happening on his arm and seems vaguely disappointed at my diagnosis. “Looks like scales to me.”
“I’m no expert,” I reply, and jam way too many Dots in my mouth, including a lot of green ones, mostly to prevent myself from blurting out something I might regret, such as, Do you think you should maybe have that wrapped in gauze or something?
“Seem like more of a purply pink or more of a pinkish purple?” He tugs at his John Deere T-shirt. “That poster says something about mauve. This mauve, would you say?”
Russ busies himself with the granola bar. “I’d leave that to the professionals, man. I’m sure they’ll know exactly what to do.”
Sure. Like, you know, amputation? Quarantine? Call the CDC?
“Suppose you’re right,” he says, and shuffles off. He slumps down in a chair that’s too small for him and picks up a copy of Southern Living, with what looks like one of the ladies from Designing Women on the front.
“Jesus,” Russ mutters, and then clears his throat. He turns to me again, but this time without the impending laugh. More serious, more interested.
In me.
Hello again. Still me.
Russ offers me the second half of the granola bar. “So, tell me about Guppy.”
It’s like I just slipped into a warm bath. I don’t think he could have said anything better, not if he’d known me all my life. I resist the urge to pull out my phone and thumb through the ten thousand blurry photos I have of Guppy doing things like staring at the wall and napping with his head next to the bathroom sink. To say I have a soft spot for that dog would be like saying Port Flamingo has a small mosquito problem. Understatement of the year. “He’s a Dogo Argentino mix, I think. I don’t know for sure. He’s a rescue.” The memories of the day flood back at me in fits and starts, each one more heartbreaking than the last. “He was found in a garbage bag, on the side of the road.”
Russ swallows hard. “Holy shit.”
“I know.” I push the memory back down. “But he recovered. The only problem is now, garbage day is sort of…” I try to think of the word. Nightmarish? Terrifying? Out of control? “…upsetting. I usually take him next door. No need to make things difficult.”
“The poor guy,” Russ says, in a soft, caring way. “But he lucked out, though. Landed on his feet with you as his mom.”
His words turn me to a mushy mess inside. With my record, I think I’m fated to be a dog mom, and only a dog mom, which is totally okay with me. It’s the best compliment he could ever have given me. “I hope so. He’s still afraid of a lot of things, but we’re getting there.”
“And what about that name?” Russ asks.
I decide to go with the party line, for convenience’s sake. Nobody ever gets the real reason. I’ve learned my lesson on that one. Whenever I explain it I’m met with a sort of dead-inside stare because obscure references to minor characters from classic British literature aren’t exactly the thing around here. “It’s because he’s so big, you know? Like when skinny guys are called Fats. Or when big guys are called Slim.”
Russ sniffs and tilts his head, just enough to show me the columns of muscles coming up from his traps. “Yeah? I thought it might be a Dickens reference.”
I hear that dun-dun noise like between scenes on Law and Order in my head. No way.
I stare at him, absolutely astonished. “Sorry?” It comes out as a moan from behind the Cracker Jacks. I try hard to swallow, but I’ve gotten into the caramel corn, and I’ve gotten in deep.
Except, he seems to have heard me, because then he says, “I saw your bookshelf, and I thought maybe he was named after Guppy, from Bleak House.”
I grip his massive forearm and choke down what I haven’t yet chewed, the jagged kernels scratching painfully as they slide along my throat. Doesn’t matter. I need to get this cleared up. Urgent situation at hand. Urgent. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?” He lifts his chin again. How do you like me now?
I press the bag of popcorn to my chest. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Nobody has ever gotten it, ever. “You know Bleak House?”
If he quotes Dickens now, I’m going to die. Absolutely die.
He flicks his chin at me, and says, “Shake me up, Judy.”
Dead!
* * *
We’re now two spots further back in the waiting line. First came a guy with a fishing hook protruding from his lip, and who is now reading a coffee table copy of Far Side cartoons. After that hobbled in a woman who dropped a knife into her foot while cutting a frozen pizza, who’s got her big toe wrapped up in a quickly reddening dishtowel and who will not stop looking a
t the cut, so help me God.
I ball up our trash and make my way to the waiting desk, where the nurse is halfway through peeling an orange and clearly not too thrilled about all these medical complaints. “How much longer do you think?”
She snaps open the sliding window. “Could be three hours, ma’am.”
I look up at the clock on the wall. It’ll be midnight before we get out of here. The epinephrine will have worn off and he’ll have fallen asleep in my lap.
Is that bad? That’s bad. That should be bad. That doesn’t feel bad.
But then I turn to face him, pivoting on my sandal. He barely fits in the little waiting chair as it is, and the logistics of getting him to lie in my lap are one word: awkward.
“Three hours,” I mouth at him. He lets his head fall back against at WASH YOUR HANDS THOROUGHLY poster. His hives are gone, and he hasn’t started coughing again—I’m pretty much certain we’re in the clear.
He rakes his hand through his hair and laughs. “What do you think?” he mouths to me.
I turn back to Linda of the ladybugs. “Can we leave?”
“You’re not paid by the hour to be here, are you, hon?” She throws a little strip of orange skin in the trash with a vengeance. I thread my fingers through the bulletproof slot and slide the clipboard back through the opening. I put a line through his name, admiring his strong, confident writing as I do. Russ Stevenson.
I walk back across the waiting room, watching him watching me. I fluff my hair, Herbal Essences forever, and sway my hips maybe a little more than is totally necessary.
“You’re free, prisoner,” I tell him, and pick up my purse. I pout, as if I were going to tell him something dirty, but instead I say, “How about some jumbo shrimp?”
He deadpans me right back. “Clam chowder.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I run my tongue over my lips. “Oysters on the half shell.”
He breaks into a smile first and puts his hand on my back, where it was before. “I like the way you think.”
Outside, it’s gotten dark, and the sea breeze catches my hair. I wind it into a long twist off to one side and then plunge my hand back into my purse vortex to look for the keys.
“I hate this bag,” I mutter as I plumb the depths. “It’s as heavy as a feedbag, and I can never find anything ever.” But as I’m distracted, he takes the opportunity to step into me, walking me against the plate-glass window. He produces the keys from his pocket and jingles them in front of me. I try to snatch them up, but before I can take them from him he grabs my hand and pins it against the window, the keys between our palms. My purse slides from my shoulder and thumps onto the pavement.
He looks greedy and all full of desire, like now that we’re out here in the open, he’s calling the shots
Over me.
Yes, please.
He cages me in more and more, until I’m flat against the window pane, until his hips are pressing into my stomach, until I feel his cold belt buckle through my tank. He says, “I've been dying to do this for hours. So hang on tight.”
As he brings his lips to mine, he finally scratches me with that stubble and slips his tongue deeply into my mouth. This kiss is aggressive and confident, and so overwhelming I find that I really do have to hang on tight, clasping my free hand around one rippling forearm. He is hard against me, and the smell of his cologne is intoxicating. I let go of his forearm and tug on his shirt, two buttons in my fist. He moves one arm around behind me and yanks me into him.
I try to keep up with the kiss, giving as good as I get, but I can’t. He’s too powerful, too good, too delicious, and I finally just let myself be taken away. Transported. Shot in a cannon right over the moon. The way he kisses tells me more than anything else I’ve learned about him yet. He’s dominant, knows what he wants, and is damned well going to take it.
Take me. Take me.
His hand kneads my ass as his teeth grate against mine. It isn’t sweet or tentative; it’s pent-up and furious. He inhales hard, but doesn’t exhale, and then he ups the ante by parting my thighs with his knee.
Knock-knock-knock. I force my eyes open, but his eyes are still closed and it seems he’s totally unaware of anything outside the two of us. He lets go of my pinned wrist and the keys fall to the ground. He brings his palm to my jaw, pressing into my cheek with his thumb as the kiss gets deeper and deeper.
In my periphery is the nurse with the ladybug scrubs. She looks furious and is making a shooing motion with her hand. Still though, Russ pays no attention, and cups my ass with his palm.
Whap-whap-whap. She is mere inches away from me, and one Band-Aid-wrapped finger points at my face. Linda of the ladybugs means business.
It takes all my strength, but I do manage to push him away, but no more than an inch.
“We’ve got an audience,” I whisper.
He looks almost angry at me for interrupting him. But that fury gives way to a new determination. He plants his palm on the glass and pulls me to him even tighter. “I need you horizontal, Penny. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
9
Russ
The drive back to her place takes ten minutes, and I don’t move my hand from her thigh, not once. The ride feels like it takes an hour, every minute an eternity. Every passing second is one I should be spending mapping her body with my mouth. At a stoplight, I inch my palm up her thigh, putting my fingers under her shorts. She grips the door handle so hard that I watch her knuckles go white.
Tension, desire. Need.
On a left turn, gravity is against me, and my grip loosens. She puts her hand over mine, all her fingers saying, Don’t go, please don’t go.
So I don’t. I stay there, grip her harder, turns be damned. I move my fingers up higher, and higher, until I brush the edge of her panties with my fingertips. That’s where I stop, because if I get inside her now, there’s no fucking way we’re going to get to where we need to be.
As I stop, she growls, fucking growls, and stomps her feet on the sandy floor.
“No fucking way am I taking you for the first time in the back of this Suburban, got it?”
She plants her hands on the seat, and on the long inhalation she whispers a desperate, needy, “Jesus.”
Once we arrive at her place, I go around to open her door for her and take her by the hand. She’s got her keys ready before we even get to the front stoop, and we’re inside in an instant. I slam the door shut behind me and take her in my arms, letting the doorknob grind into her ass. I kiss her again, and she flattens her palms against me, like her knees would go right out from under her if she didn’t have me to keep her steady.
Makes me fucking insane to know what she’ll do when I finally get inside her.
Still kissing her, I undo her shorts and let my hand move along the outside of her panties. I can tell she’s wet already, damn near soaked.
But then I feel something pushing into my ass. Something wet, and large, and…
The dog.
“Guppy,” she whispers, snapping for his attention, but also pulling me closer with her other hand. Two of her fingers slide between my shirt buttons and touch my chest.
An enormous paw rakes down my calf. It feels like someone’s trying to get my attention with a gardening trowel. He inhales hard against my pocket, and then blows out a wet sneeze.
“Guppy!” she bark-whispers again. “Bedtime.”
A long puff of hot air from his nose steams my thigh.
“Guppy,” she says, “I’m serious. Bedtime. Mama’s busy.”
His nose wedges into my ass a little harder. I hold my eyes right on hers. She looks dead serious, her eyebrows furrowed. “Bed. Time,” she says, snapping with each word. She sounds official and stern, like it’s another way to say, Mama doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.
She wins, because then he sighs a totally human sigh and trundles off toward the family room. The floorboards creak under his weight, and the wicker couch protests when he jumps onto it. He blows out a breath like
a horse, his huge jowls flapping.
Back to business.
Keeping my hand down her shorts, I guide her backward into the kitchen. She drops her purse and kicks off her sandals. When I’ve got her up against the island, I slide one finger past the lace trim and work my way inside her pussy. She’s hot, tight, and ready. She crumples backward, slapping her hand on the butcher block for balance.
“Jesus,” I groan into her ear. “You always this wet?”
“For you, I think so.”
I spin her around and hoist her up onto the countertop, making a nearby teakettle clatter and slosh. She loops her arms around my neck, and I kiss her again, pressing her head up against the cabinets. I add another finger, feeling just how fucking tight she really is. I compress her clit and she rolls her pelvis into my palm. That tiny movement, the shifting of her pussy, her body saying yes, it sets off something inside me, as powerful as a fucking starting pistol, and I smack the wooden door behind her head, making dishware rattle and ding.
Her hands make their way down to my belt. I pull back from the kiss and watch her, her delicate hands working the leather, unthreading the end from the loops. With my thumb, I press into the edge of her clit, which makes her freeze, buckle clasped in her hand. Her eyes flutter shut, and she goes slack in my arms.
I take over and pull my belt off. “So, listen,” I say, keeping my tone serious and dark. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want. You get that?”
“This is what I want,” she gasps, feeling me through my briefs. “Oh my God, you’re huge.”
“Think you can handle me?”
“If you teach me.”
Shit, how sexy is that? I tip her chin up toward my face. “Yeah, I’ll teach you. But I want you to be fucking explicit.”
“About what…” She trails off as I lick a line up her throat.
“About what you like and how you like it. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, and I don’t want to fuck around.” I drag my tongue along the shell of her ear. “Be dirty, be rude. Tell me what you want and don’t hold back.”
Just Like That Page 5
