One Reckless Summer

by Toni Blake

  He looked to one of the room’s windows. “Your mother made those curtains.”

  In response, Jenny shut her eyes, tried to regroup. She felt like an uncaring ogre, but it had to be said. “Dad, those curtains are worn—they’re nearly as old as I am. We can pack them away with her other stuff you saved, but I really think some new curtains and paint would pep up the room. I hope you won’t ask me not to do it—I think it’s a good idea, for both of us.”

  And she was trying to stay strong—she was committed to it, in fact—but it was difficult with her dad sitting next to her looking brokenhearted all over again, as if her mom had passed away just last week.

  “All right,” he finally agreed. But then he peered up at the blank spot on the wall and said, “I just never dreamed I’d walk in this room and not see your mother smiling at me.”

  The words nearly took Jenny’s breath away, because she could feel how much he still loved her mom, and it made her so sad that after all this time he really, truly had not moved on. It made her want to weep.

  And it didn’t help that her dad was sitting here looking at her like he didn’t know who she was anymore.

  And…oh boy. If he thought this was out of character, what would he think if he knew about Mick Brody?

  But this is all okay, she told herself. It’s okay if Amy has her little suspicions. It’s okay if I have a secret or two my dad doesn’t know, too. It’s okay because I’m a grown-up and I can have an affair if I want to. And none of the…well, less-than-great aspects of the situation were going to stop her pleasure. For the first time in my life, I’m breaking rules, and I’m doing what I want, and nothing’s going to get in my way. And that’s final.

  Walter Tolliver wasn’t quite sure what led him to pull into the gravel lot at the Dew Drop Inn the following afternoon. Truth was, he almost wanted a beer. Something to numb his feelings. He wasn’t on duty, so he could have one if he wanted. But he didn’t think it was good for a lawman to be seen out drinking, especially when he was driving the squad car, so he decided a Sprite would be smarter.

  The lot was empty, and now that he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure the bar was open at this hour. But the door was open when he pulled on it. Stevie Nicks sang “Landslide” on the jukebox, and the new owner he’d met last time was busy unloading bottles of beer behind the bar in another pair of tight jeans. She looked up when she saw him, and he could tell she was surprised, but she smiled. “Well, if it’s not Officer Tolliver—what can I do for you, Walter?”

  He couldn’t decide whether or not he liked it that she was so quick to use his first name. But she was bold, he’d give her that much. And he guessed you had to be bold to be a lady bar owner.

  “Sorry if you’re not open yet. I was just lookin’ for a cool drink.”

  “We’re not,” she said, “but take a stool anyway. Sprite? Or something harder this time around?”

  “Sprite’s good.”

  Something about that made her smile, but when she set a glass of it before him a minute later, she said, “Something troubling you, Walter?”

  That surprised him. “Why would you say that?”

  She pointed to the spot between his eyebrows. “You’re all pinched up and tight right there. You look like a man with something weighing on him.”

  He tilted his head, not sure if he was impressed or annoyed. “You a mind reader or somethin’?”

  She laughed softly. “No, a bartender.” She went back to unloading beer. “So what’s the trouble?”

  He shook his head. It would sound stupid, be hard to explain. Maybe it was stupid to be upset over this—he couldn’t figure it out.

  “Aw, come on—whatever it is, I bet I’ve heard crazier.”

  He let out a sigh, then blurted it out without planning. “My daughter’s stayin’ at our old house this summer. And when I walked in there yesterday, she’d taken down my photos of her mother—who passed away.”

  The bar owner—what was her name? Anita, he thought—rose from her task and ran herself a glass of Sprite from the nozzle behind the bar. Finally, she said, “Did she tell you why?”

  Walter nodded. “Said they made her think about her mom too much.”

  “How old was your daughter when your wife died?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Well, no offense, Walter, but that makes good sense to me. A girl losing her mother is a hard thing—I can’t think of much harder. And at that age—must have been a nightmare for her. How old’s your daughter now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Thirty-one,” he said.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, Anita Garey looked surprised, like maybe she’d expected Jenny to be younger. Maybe she thought it was pathetic that he still missed his wife after so long, the same way Jenny probably did.

  The thought made him add, “She was the love of my life.” Only after he’d spoken did it occur to him that it was a damn personal thing to be telling a stranger, a stranger he had nothing in common with. But it was too late now.

  In response, Anita set down her glass and touched his hand. It felt odd, moving through him in ways he hadn’t expected, in ways that made him feel…guilty. They were talking about Judy here, after all.

  “It sounds like you and your daughter both suffered a lot of heartbreak, Walter. Thing is, people deal with heartbreak in different ways. If your daughter will feel better, stronger, having the pictures down while she’s visiting, what will it hurt?”

  He turned the question over in his mind and couldn’t deny it was a good one. What would it hurt? Nothing. Nothing at all. He sat quietly for a moment, a little sad, a little embarrassed. “Guess maybe you’re right. She just got divorced, my daughter, so…reckon she needs to feel as strong as she can right now.”

  Anita cast a pleasant look and said, “I’m sure she does,” and was about to turn back to her unloading—when Walter impulsively reached out and covered her hand with his.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I know it seems simple, like I shoulda figured that out on my own, but…I just couldn’t see it from her point of view.” And touching her, it turned out, felt even better than when she’d touched him. So maybe he kept his hand there a heartbeat too long. Maybe he noticed too much the way her tank top clung to her breasts. Maybe he should take his hand away now—so he did.

  But Anita Garey didn’t look the least bit flustered—like he surely did by now. She just smiled—all confident, sexy, and tough.

  “So,” she said, changing the subject, “anybody got any good fireworks around here on the Fourth?”

  And for a brief moment, he considered inviting her to Betty and Ed’s—but he bit his tongue and took another sip of his Sprite instead. “A few different folks set ’em off. And there’s a festival up at Creekside Park,” he added, not mentioning that it was usually poorly attended because most people went to Betty and Ed’s and that this might even be the last year for the park event according to Johnny Fulks.

  Was it unneighborly not to invite her? But if he did, would it be like…a date, heaven forbid? And even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t imagine the crowd at Betty and Ed’s making Anita feel welcome. So it was just best he left it at that.

  Mick knocked on the back door of Jenny’s house and waited, anxious to see her. He’d been thinking about her all day while he dug. And dug. And dug. He wasn’t totally surprised when she didn’t answer—he’d noticed there weren’t any lights on—but he couldn’t quite bear to leave so easily. The muscles in his arms were tired and sore from all the digging, so rowing across the lake had taken more effort than usual—and to just go home now would be a shitty end to what had already been a long, hot, shitty day.

  So he knocked again, loudly. He knew he should feel bad for trying to wake her, but…he just wanted to see her. He wanted to see her smile. He wanted to see her long brown hair all tousled from sleep.

  But shit, still no answer.

  That’s what you get for coming so late. Wayne had been awake, more than usual t
onight, and they’d found Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on TV. Despite the ending, they’d loved the movie as kids—when they’d been roaming the hills, Wayne had been Butch, Mick Sundance, and they’d held up imaginary trains using small broken branches for guns. Given what was to become of them later, the memories probably shouldn’t have been good ones, but for Mick they still were. They were…the best of being a bad guy. When it was only pretend, it was pretty damn fun. It was when it had turned real that the fun had ended.

  Instead of knocking again, he tried the door handle—and it turned, opened. Damn, people here were still so trusting. He couldn’t quite decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, but he had a mind to yell at her for it. What if he was someone else? What if he was…Wayne, at another time in his life, looking to rob somebody? He shook his head, disturbed by the notion.

  He knew he probably shouldn’t go inside, but on the other hand, he didn’t think she’d mind. All the bad feelings between them seemed in the past now, and he knew without being told that she waited for his visits.

  And as much as he wanted her right now, this wasn’t so much about sex as it was about just…seeing her. Even if she was asleep. Because the mere sight of her always reminded him that there were better, nicer parts of life out there than what he was seeing on his side of the lake these last weeks. Digging a man’s grave was bleak work. Digging your brother’s grave was even bleaker.

  And so he walked quietly through the house, guided by the moonlight that shone through the windows. He caught sight of that big blank area on the wall, and the lingering scent of fresh paint told him she must have repainted the room, but he couldn’t tell what color. A half-open window across the room meant she was smart enough to let the fumes out of the house, even if some of the air-conditioning went with them.

  He’d never been upstairs before, but he found the steps easily enough, and began to slowly climb them. Some creaked beneath his weight, so he tried to move lightly. He didn’t plan to wake her—he just wanted to look at her, just wanted to feel her goodness wash over him a little.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d started realizing how much he valued that in her—the stark, pure goodness that emanated from her—but it had quickly become something he depended on. He thought of it like oxygen, like something he ran out of and needed more to energize him.

  For Christ’s sake, dude, when did you become such a goofball? He rolled his eyes at his own thoughts as he neared the top of the narrow staircase, glad no one but him would ever know he’d gotten so sappy and cheesy lately. He didn’t like being this way. But he told himself that desperate times called for desperate measures, and these were desperate times. Helping his brother die would be the hardest thing he’d ever do. So if it made him a little sappy for a few months, so what?

  A narrow hallway that cut through the center of the house led to a small bathroom dead ahead, with doorways at both sides. He checked the one on the right, peeking through, and his chest tingled when he spotted Jenny lying there, looking just as pretty in slumber as she did awake. A ceiling fan turned overhead and the moon shining in the window above the bed cast a square of light across her body. Covers rose to her waist—but her arms were pretty and bare, looking silky smooth. Her lips parted gently, and her hair fanned across the pale pillowcase beneath her head.

  God. She took his breath away. He’d thought she was pretty enough awake, but asleep—damn. She looked as innocent as he knew she was. And as sensual as he also knew she was. She was that beautiful girl on the dock, a dream girl, a fantasy girl—somehow magnified, multiplied.

  What was it like to be the kind of guy who lived on this side of the lake, the kind of guy worthy of Jenny Tolliver? Not just to sneak around with in the night, not just to have sex with, but the kind of guy she would want for keeps. What would it be like to live here with her, in this cute little house, to climb with her into that four-poster bed, to wrap around her in sleep?

  The truth was, he couldn’t even imagine. It was too far beyond his reality. He had no idea who that guy was, what he was about, what made him tick. He didn’t know how to be that guy.

  Not that it mattered. He wasn’t that guy and never would be.

  But he moved quietly closer to the bed anyway, because right now, in this moment, he wanted to know how it felt to share a bed with Jenny.

  Walking to the empty side, he quietly stepped out of his unlaced workboots, folded back the covers, and lay down beside her. He rested on his side, watching her some more. He listened to the silence, to the sound of crickets outside, loud and clear even with most of the windows closed. He thought he could like being that guy, that guy she’d end up with someday after all this was over, after her divorce was long in the past, after this summer when they both needed some comfort and gave it to each other.

  Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep. It would be easy in such a comfortable bed after working hard all day, but he couldn’t leave Wayne alone all night, and he sure as hell couldn’t be seen in the light of day heading home.

  Still, he reached down to pull up the covers on his side—and she awoke with a gasp.

  Shit. “It’s only me, pussycat—didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Oh. God. Mick.” He hated having scared her, but he loved the sound of relief in her voice. People around here weren’t usually relieved to see a Brody.

  “You didn’t answer the door,” he whispered. “But I just wanted to lie here with you a while.”

  Next to him, she sat up tall in bed, revealing the pretty white sleeveless nightgown she wore, looking like some kind of angel hovering above him, gazing down. And then she crossed her arms over herself and drew the gown smoothly up over her head, leaving her beautifully topless before him in the moonlight.

  The sight stunned him—because Jenny never made the first move. And he suddenly felt as if helping himself into her bed had been pushy. “We don’t have to,” he said quickly. “Just resting here is nice.” And he meant it. He was tired, after all.

  “But…I want to,” she replied.

  She wanted to. God help him. And somehow, just the way she looked at him felt…different. Like she was more sure. More ready. Than ever before. He might be tired, but he couldn’t even think of saying no. Instead, he simply reached for her.

  Jenny’s body hummed with electricity. She felt bold. And beautiful. And a little bit naughty, just naughty enough for a guy like Mick Brody. A part of her couldn’t believe she’d taken off her gown that way, but this only proved it was true: She was wild, and she could have an affair. She could be a seductress, a temptress. She could initiate sex. And she wanted to make him feel good. The same thoughts from earlier flowed through her veins: Nothing is going to stop me here, from taking what I want, from finding pleasure with this man.

  Biting her lip, pleasantly aware of her nakedness, she bent over him, ran her palms over his chest, stomach, through his T-shirt—this one a dark color she couldn’t clearly make out in the shadowy light. Not that it mattered—all that mattered was that it was in the way. So she pushed it up to reveal the muscles underneath, the dark smattering of hair on his chest; she ran her fingertips through it, then bent to kiss him.

  His mouth was warm, moist—he smelled musky again tonight, like the scent of guy and earth mixed together. She kissed him harder and savored the feel of his hands in her hair, the sensation of his tongue snaking between her lips. It stirred her desire deeper, made the crux of her thighs tingle, and a soft moan echoed from her mouth against his.

  Lifting from the kisses, she helped him free of the shirt, then took in the scintillating sight of him in her bed. She couldn’t have dreamed this as a girl—she couldn’t have known then the raw, gut-wrenching appeal of a man’s hard body, or that having such a specimen in her very bed would make him feel like…a confection, something decadent and delicious for her to feast on.

  And something inside her, something dark and a little feral, sent her bending back over him to kiss his broad chest—she needed to feel
that, the hardness of his body beneath her soft lips; she needed to let it fill her, with stark awareness, and still more need. Need to give, and need to take. Still kissing, she pressed her palm to the firm bulge in his pants.

  A low groan escaped him and sounded to Jenny like sweet, driving music. She kissed his chest again, let her tongue flick over one of his nipples, loved the sharp intake of his breath in response.

  Beneath her kneading hand, he grew stiffer, larger still, and her breasts ached with longing, and still kissing him—his stomach now—she reached her other hand down to work at his belt buckle, then his zipper. She undid his jeans and parted them wide. “Help me,” she whispered, and Mick lifted himself from the bed and assisted her in pushing them down. She lowered his underwear at the same time, and felt her utter nearness to that hardest part of him. Her heartbeat pulsed through her whole body like a drum. It pulsed between her legs.

  As she leaned down once more to kiss his stomach, her hand curved around his erection, and Mick’s breath came louder, and she knew they both anticipated what was coming.

  Finally, she lowered her mouth over him and began to move her lips up and down the thick, rigid length. The sensation filled her, and Mick’s moans fueled her.

  She’d been thinking about doing this, fantasizing about it—and she wasn’t sure why, since it wasn’t usually one of her favorite things, but she’d just wanted to give Mick pleasure, amazing pleasure, like he’d given her. And because her revelation with him the last time they were together had given her license to be daring now. Because they were having an affair. And that sounded lush, racy. It made her feel like a woman who lived life to the fullest. Funny how much her realization—that she could be reckless and wild in bed—had changed how she felt about herself, about the whole summer, and about her encounters with Mick.