Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

  “Yes, please,” I say, exhaling in relief.

  He gives me a sly smile. “Did I mention the pack of condoms in the bedroom closet?”

  11

  Lucas

  We ate.

  I found the condoms.

  We took a shower together and fucked.

  And now, finally, we’re in the soft, roomy bed I’d boasted to Isabelle about, cuddling before we go to sleep.

  Trouble is, she’s wearing one of my T-shirts as a nightie. The bigger trouble is it’s ridden up, and now I can feel her soft curls against my hip.

  I push the blanket to the side, turn on the night-light, and stare at her.

  “Keep looking at me like that,” Isabelle says, “and I’ll think you haven’t had sex since your recovery.”

  “I have,” I say, “but the women weren’t you. And, I guess, the man wasn’t quite myself, either.”

  She smiles, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  Then she spreads her legs. “Stare away.”

  “Did you ever think about me?” I ask, stroking her thighs. “About the night we had?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once? Once a year? Once a month?”

  “Once a day.” Her gaze drills into mine. “At least.”

  And, just like that, I’m hard again.

  I snort in disbelief. The dozen or so times I had sex over the last few years were fun and far from a failure. But nothing like this.

  “What did you do when you thought about me?” I ask.

  Even in the dim light, I see her cheeks redden. She turns her head to the wall.

  “Show me,” I say.

  She turns back, glances at my cock, and then into my eyes.

  I’m not sure what she finds there, but both her hands slide down her flat tummy and dip between her legs.

  I shift to get a better view.

  Isabelle’s head falls back against the pillow, and her fingers move faster and faster. When she starts to pant and make those same noises I’ve been hearing in my dreams, my self-control shatters.

  “Need to be in you,” I say, my voice so coarse it’s barely recognizable.

  I roll on a condom and bury myself deep inside Isabelle’s sweet heat. My thrusts come rushed and forceful as I pump into her. My cock is stiff as steel. Isabelle writhes beneath me, opening more, letting me plunge deeper still. The universe narrows rapidly, and soon it’s centered on where we are joined. My body pulses with need. Pleasure tears through me with every stroke, blowing my mind.

  She whispers my name with an expression of utter abandon on her face.

  I withdraw and slam into her again and again and again, half-crazed with lust.

  She moans. Her inner muscles squeeze around me, and I lose control, pumping into her like a madman. My cock strains and throbs with blood and cum. Harder! Faster!

  She arches her back, and begins to shudder as her core milks my cock.

  Another thrust, and I go with her, grunting with the force of my release as I slump on top of her.

  Isabelle keeps shuddering even after I’ve stilled. Her muscles contract around me as her hips twitch and her lips breathe my name. Even as her spasms fade, I don’t withdraw immediately. Perhaps it’s the way her hands roam my back, rubbing and stroking everywhere from my neck to my butt, that prompts me to stay put. Or maybe it’s the raw emotion in her eyes, or the tender way she brushes her lips against mine.

  Afterward, as we lie in each other’s arms, too exhausted to make love again, but too excited to sleep, I bring my hand to her face and touch every bone, curve, and hollow.

  “My nose could’ve been more elegant,” she comments, as I stroke it with the pad of my index finger.

  I smile and trace her eyebrows and upper lids.

  “I wish my eyes were more almond-shaped,” she says. “And my face, less round. And my lips—”

  “Izz,” I say. “Shut up. You’re perfect.”

  She smirks and rolls her eyes.

  Why would a beautiful woman like her be so self-conscious? I’m not so arrogant as to presume the one night we shared six years ago has something to do with it, and yet…

  “You remembered so much already,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll keep recalling things. It’ll all come back.”

  I rake my hand through her hair. “Unlikely, based on what I’ve been told. But it’s very possible I’ll be able to retrieve more memories. A lot more.”

  “I’ll be there to help you every step of the way, anything you need.”

  I kiss her lips. “I know.”

  “Are you excited about the semifinals next week?” she asks.

  I nod.

  France is one of the four countries that made it to the semifinals. That means a seventy-five percent chance my boys will stand on the podium with medals against their chests. And a twenty-five percent chance those medals will be gold.

  “It’s hard to believe,” I say, “but the team is actually close to making good on my promise to our fans and to the Swimming Federation who’ve entrusted me with this task.”

  “You guys are more than close,” she says. “You demolished Italy and decimated Hungary. You have one foot on that podium!”

  I chuckle, stroking her cheek.

  She kisses the inside of my palm. “You know what else makes me proud?”

  “What?”

  “How well you’re handling the Clément situation.”

  Am I?

  “Back at the office, there was so much hatred in your eyes. I was sure you would run out, find him, and beat the shit out of him. And now—”

  “Who says I don’t want that?” I murmur, raising an eyebrow.

  “What?” She peers at me. “But… the past few hours… and the semifinals in two days…?”

  “It’s a matter of priorities,” I say. “My biggest wish was to make love to the woman I’ve been craving and denying myself for much too long. My heart’s second desire is to beat the shit out of the asshole who left me for dead. Water polo is my third priority at this point.”

  The crease between her eyebrows deepens. She opens her mouth as if to say something and shuts it, looking terribly concerned.

  Clearly, my words aren’t what she was hoping to hear, but they are the truth.

  12

  Isabelle

  Eric, his police officer friend Yann, and I climb out of the car in front of the Photo de Luxe Studios.

  We just drove through the streets of Paris at a speed that would’ve earned us a ticket if we weren’t in a police car.

  At around ten this morning I realized Lucas had sneaked out before the end of the workout. I pulled Eric aside and told him about Clément. He called his cop buddy and convinced him tracking Lucas’s phone and intercepting him ASAP was a matter of life and death for France’s most promising coach.

  Because having suffered brain damage in the past, a second head injury might turn him into a vegetable.

  We push the revolving doors and run upstairs.

  Yann asks several men and women if they’ve seen Clément. The tracking software gave us the building but can’t deliver Lucas’s exact location in it. We run down hallways and open doors, drawing curious glances and raised eyebrows.

  A woman of average size and height says she may be able to help. We gather around her. She’d look perfectly fine outside the studio’s walls, but here, surrounded by these creatures, aka models, she looks like an Italian mamma.

  “I saw Clément, and some angry-looking dude get on the elevator a few minutes ago.” She points to the elevator doors at the end of the hall.

  “Is the roof accessible?” Yann asks her.

  She shakes her head.

  “Is there an underground parking garage?” he asks again.

  “Yes,” she says. “Those elevators will take you down there.”

  We run, take the elevator down, and run again.

  When we find them, both are yelling and shoving each other, but no fists are flying yet.

  “Stop!�
� Yann hollers, “On the ground, both of you!”

  A minute later, it’s over.

  Clément and Lucas are cuffed, led out of the building, and shoved into Yann’s car. Eric and I are asked to take the métro.

  “You can come to the station and check on your “Avenger” later this afternoon,” Yann says, waving goodbye to us.

  My eyes are on “my Avenger” the whole time, but he won’t look at me.

  “Can later this afternoon be interpreted as 1:00 p.m.?” I ask Eric, glancing at my watch.

  “I don’t think so.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on, we just did something very impressive. All that action and adrenaline. Don’t you think we deserve a good lunch?”

  “OK,” I say with a sigh. “Can we eat in this neighborhood?”

  Eric scrunches his face apologetically. “Afraid not. Now that I’ve saved Lucas’s life, I need to get to my car and save my car from being towed. I’ll move it, we’ll eat, and drive back here.”

  If it were up to me, I’d camp on the sidewalk across from the station for a couple of hours, and try my luck. But Eric needs to rescue his car and vent about our “mission.” With everything he’s done this morning, I owe him.

  Three hours later, we return to Yann’s station. Lawyers were called, papers were signed, and both Clément and Lucas were released with a warning not to try anything stupid again.

  “I told your coach we’ll be going after Clément for the violation of the Good Samaritan Law,” Yann says to us.

  Eric’s eyes widen. “Can you do that?”

  “In this country,” Yann says, “you’re liable before both civil and criminal courts if you deliberately fail to render assistance to a person in danger, which is exactly what Clément did six years ago.”

  “Does that mean he might go to jail?” I ask.

  Yann nods. “He might get up to five years in prison, a fine, and be ordered to pay compensation to the victim.”

  I frown, remembering Lucas’s list of priorities. “Even if the victim refuses to sue him?”

  “Lucas doesn’t need to sue him,” Yann says. “I saw the photos in his file and the ER doctor’s report. There’s also usable DNA.”

  Eric rolls his eyes. “Can you explain for us lay people?”

  Yann smiles. “Six years ago, Lucas fell and hit his temple. Head wounds like that produce spectacular gore. Think blood spurting with every heartbeat. With the DNA from their fight, we’ll have proof Clément was there. And even if he hires an army of lawyers, they’ll have a hard time convincing the judge that it hadn’t occurred to Clément when he ran away that Lucas would bleed out and die.”

  “I hope Clément goes to prison,” Eric says.

  God knows, I hope so, too.

  We thank Yann for everything and leave the station.

  “Hop in.” Eric points to his car. “I’ll drive you to Lucas’s.”

  Does he suspect something?

  He laughs. “I was going to wait until you or Lucas felt comfortable enough to tell me about your relationship, but the way things have accelerated…”

  Oh.

  He doesn’t suspect. He knows.

  “For the record,” I say as we drive off. “We don’t have a relationship, strictly speaking.”

  “Tomayto, tomahto,” he says.

  I smile, but given Lucas’s track record, I’m not at all sure sleeping with him will lead to a relationship. I don’t know if he wants a relationship with me. Truth be told, I don’t even know which Lucas will open the door in a few minutes, the old one or the new.

  Assuming he’s home and he opens the door.

  Twenty minutes later, Eric wishes me good luck and drives away.

  I buzz from downstairs.

  Nothing happens.

  So I wait until someone comes out and enter the building. I run to the second floor and ring the bell.

  In vain.

  I pull out my phone and call Lucas, almost certain he won’t pick up.

  No answer.

  He must’ve gone to his parents’ place, I tell myself.

  Or maybe he just needed to be by himself, somewhere outside Paris, where he can breathe. Wherever he is, he clearly doesn’t want to see or talk to me.

  I toy with my phone. On a crazy impulse, I type up an email and send it to Lucas.

  I’m sorry I rained on your parade this morning, but I hope you’ll understand and forgive my interventionism.

  On the other hand, how could you be so irresponsible, knowing you’re at a higher risk than the average person?

  Anyway, here’s the thing.

  I love you, Lucas.

  But I’m prepared to walk away, just like I did last time, if you’re nowhere near my wavelength. Please, figure out what you want, and call me when you’re ready.

  Isabelle

  13

  Lucas

  We beat Serbia, a country so good at water polo, they consider anything short of gold a disgrace. Team France was on fire, and the guys played the best water polo of their lives.

  Despite the Serbian hole defenders’ best efforts, Zach delivered an unrelenting barrage of shots. He even managed five long-range lobs from the corners and straight on. I almost cried every time the ball flew in a high arc above everyone’s hands and quietly landed inside the cage.

  Those lobs were so beautiful they bordered on art.

  But we were up against Europe’s best teams, which are also the world’s best.

  Still, “La Marseillaise” was played, and my boys climbed on the podium, with bronze medals against their chests.

  I’m back in Paris now and ready to call Isabelle.

  She picks up and says she has made no plans for the evening. I go to her place. She doesn’t kiss me or even say hello after she opens the door.

  Planting her hands on her hips, she glares at me. “A whole week without a word from you. Not. A single. Word.”

  “You said to call you when I’m ready.”

  “And you weren’t until today?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you ready now?”

  I nod.

  The corners of her lips stretch downward. “Let me guess. You’ve plucked up the courage to say it’s not you, it’s me.”

  “What? No!”

  She looks surprised. “Then what?”

  “I love you.”

  She gasps.

  “I love you,” I say again.

  She searches my face. “Have you been recalling more things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including things about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And about your beautiful Angie?”

  “She called me when I was in Cologne.”

  “What did she say?”

  “A lot,” I smirk. “A deluge of words, compared to our previous conversations.”

  Isabelle frowns in confusion.

  “She wanted to know if I held her responsible for covering for Clément.”

  “Oh.”

  “I got tired in the end and told her she was an ugly person.”

  Isabelle’s brows go up. “Wow, what a downgrade! Ugly, huh? That would make even me prettier than Angie.”

  “Izz, cut the crap, will you?” I touch her cheek. “Why does this self-confident, beautiful, smart woman turn into an insecure little girl the moment Angie’s name is mentioned?”

  She scrunches her face. “Because last time you picked her over me?”

  Touché.

  “Well, this time around, I don’t feel anything for her, not even lust,” I say. “But I feel plenty for you. My body hungers for you, all the time. Actually, I meant to ask you to move in with me straightaway.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I’m just being practical.” I shrug. “I want you in my arms every night from this night on, so you may as well move in tomorrow.”

  She puts her chin up. “I won’t.”

  “This weekend?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Next wee
k?”

  “No.”

  I frown in bewilderment. “But you love me.”

  “I can love you from afar,” she says. “I’ve done that for nine years with great success. I’m a boss at loving you from afar.”

  I smile, but my disappointment is so strong it seeps into my voice. “Will you ever move in with me?”

  “I need to be sure who you are first,” she says.

  “Lucas Delaunay at your service,” I say, bowing ceremoniously. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me. And here I thought I was the one with amnesia.”

  She doesn’t laugh.

  My expression grows serious, too. “I’m the sum of everything I’ve done before and after the coma, aren’t I? The first thirty years of my life, my actions made me a jerk. The last six years, I was a goody-two-shoes. And now that my memories are coming back, I’m all of it. The bad and the good.”

  “The bad… it’s too bad for me.”

  “Is there something you aren’t telling me? Something I did or said that’s worse than sleeping with you and then informing you I had a girlfriend.”

  She chews on her lip, her eyes riveted to mine.

  “If you’re trying to go easy on me,” I say, “please don’t. Bring it on. I can handle it.”

  “OK,” she says suddenly. “You did say something, after you told me about Angie.”

  I wait for her to continue.

  “You said I was plain.” She looks away. “You said it was a pity fuck.”

  My insides lurch.

  I did expect to hear something unpleasant—but not this. This is… this makes me…

  “A piece of shit,” I say. “I was a piece of shit.”

  We keep silent for a long moment.

  “Give me another chance,” I beg, “I’ll move heaven and earth to make you forgive me.”

  She says nothing.

  I draw in a breath and utter the most honest words I remember myself saying. “I love you more than you know, but I can’t promise which side of me will win in the end, the good or the bad.”