Beauty and the Running Back

by Colleen Masters

  Don’t think that, I chide myself, the second you think something’s too good to be true, it usually is.

  “Well,” Emerson says with a smile. “I’m starving. You gonna take me out for a birthday dinner or what?”

  “Since you asked so nicely,” I roll my eyes, “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

  He knows a place nearby, and drives us over to get some grub. It’s a tiny, seaside shack with maybe a dozen tables. The menu is heavy on seafood and regional staples. There’s a warmth to the place that can only be captured during the offseason at a sleepy beach town.

  In short, it’s perfect.

  We settle down into a table by the window and tuck into our complementary basket of biscuits. The buttery, flaky pastry makes my eyes flutter closed with pleasure. I haven’t eaten anything all day.

  “How’d you know about this place?” I ask Emerson, perusing the menu.

  “My dad used to take me here when I was little,” he replies, looking out the wide front windows toward the docks. “We’d come out fishing early in the morning, then stop here for lunch before driving home. It’s not fancy, but it’s one of my favorite places in the world.”

  His face takes on a cast of sadness as he talks about his dad. It occurs to me that I barely know anything about Emerson’s father, or what happened to him. I try to open up the conversation as delicately as possible.

  “Does he still live around here, your dad?” I ask carefully, reaching for another biscuit.

  “In a way,” Emerson laughs roughly. “I mean, he’s still in the state. Or should I say, In State.”

  “Your dad’s...incarcerated?” I ask, pausing in my one-woman biscuit-scarfing contest.

  “You don’t have to be so formal about it,” Emerson replies. “He’s locked up. Has been for most of my life.”

  “Wow...” I breathe, unsure of what to say. “That’s...so rough. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m pretty used to the arrangement by now,” he says. “But thanks.”

  “Do you mind if I ask...I mean, you don’t have to go into it...” I fumble.

  “No, it’s OK,” Emerson replies, “You’ve told me so much about your past, it’s only fair that I be open with you too.”

  We pause our conversation long enough to place our orders with the young, friendly waitress. Once she’s taken our menus away and left us alone once more Emerson takes a breath and begins.

  “My parents got married pretty young,” he tells me, “For a while, they really were happy. They never had much in the way of money, but when you look at old pictures of them, it always looks like they’re having a blast. It wasn’t until they started trying to start a family that things got sort of...complicated.”

  “Complicated how?” I ask.

  “Complicated in that it didn’t work for them at first,” Emerson goes on. “They kept trying to get pregnant without any luck. Their doctors told them that fertility treatments, IVF and all, might help things along. The problem is, those treatments cost money, and my parents didn’t have any. But they were hell bent on having a kid, so my dad—Peter—decided to get a little creative with the whole money-making thing.”

  “And when you say creative...” I prompt him.

  “I mean he started selling drugs to make some extra money,” Emerson says bluntly. “Nothing major. Just weed, mostly. And it worked, too—they were able to rake in enough extra cash that IVF was suddenly on the table. My mom was finally able to get pregnant with yours truly. Which was all well and good, until I was eight or so. That’s when the dealing finally caught up with my dad. He wasn’t just selling the drugs. Both my parents had already started having issues with substance abuse by then, and my dad got in a really nasty car accident while under the influence that brought everything out into the open. He went away, my mom got worse, and I was left to take care of it all. I did, too. I have been since I was eight. I mean, it’s because they wanted me so badly that they started down that road at all. It only seems fair, you know?”

  “Emerson,” I say softly, reaching for his hands across the table, “You know that none of that is your fault, right?”

  “Oh, sure,” Emerson shrugs, “I know that. In theory. But it’s hard not to feel kind of obligated to them now, no matter how badly they mess up.”

  “I know what you mean,” I nod, “I feel the same way about my dad. Like, since he lost mom, I always have to be there for him, even if he barely gives me the time of day.”

  “Look at us,” Emerson laughs, “A couple of bleeding hearts.”

  “I guess so,” I smile.

  Our bountiful plates of food arrive—crab cakes for Emerson, vegetable pot pie for me—and we dig in eagerly, plowing through every bite of buttery, flavorful goodness. We even go in for a couple slices of blueberry pie to top things off. I’m surprised we don’t roll out of the restaurant at the end of our meal.

  By the time we make it back to the motel, we’re happy, sleepy, and more than a little handsy. My every nerve sizzles with anticipation as Emerson unlocks our motel room love nest and walks in before me. He flops onto the soft queen bed, and I tentatively ease myself down next to him. The whole being-alone thing is still so novel for us that I find myself feeling a little shy. Emerson can sense that I’m still getting my bearings, so he just lets me curl against his side there on the bed. His arms close around me as I press my back against his chest. We drift into a post-dinner nap, the sound of the waves cocooning us as we lay there.

  Even in half-slumber, I can feel my body responding to Emerson’s. Our chests rise and fall together, our limbs shifting to accommodate each other. It’s so simple, so easy. Like we were built for each other. By all rights, I should be feeling so much pressure and anxiety about what we’ve promised to give each other this weekend. But I’ve never felt more at peace.

  I don’t know how much time goes by before I turn myself to face Emerson there on the bed. His blue eyes ease open as I lay my head next to his on the pillow. Our mouths twist into matching grins as he runs a hand along the curve of my waist, and I rest my hands on his chest. Without a word, he brings his lips to my neck, kissing me slow and deep. My back arches as his lips move down my throat, across my clavicle, over my chest.

  My blonde hair is splayed across the pillow beneath me as I writhe blissfully at his touch. I run my fingers through his tousled chestnut hair, tugging him closer toward me. As I press myself flush against his body, I can feel that he’s growing harder by the second, just from kissing me. God, that’s hot.

  His lips continue to caress every inch of skin they can find as he slips his hand beneath my gray sweater. The touch of his hand is cool against my flushed skin as he trails up my flat stomach, the tips of his fingers brushing against my ribs. I hold my breath as I feel him reach around my back and unclasp my bra with a flick of his wrist.

  “Someone’s had a lot of practice with bra clasps,” I tease breathlessly.

  “What can I say,” He grins, “I have very capable hands.”

  He finally brings his lips to mine as he cups my breast in his hand, running his thumb ever-so-lightly over my hard nipple. That slight touch sends a pang of desire straight into my core, radiating out through my entire body. His tongue glances against mine, and I kiss him back, deeper and more urgently with every passing moment. I feel his hand skirting along my torso as I let my own fingers trail down the hard, rippling line of his abs. He groans softly as I trace the length of his stiff member through his jeans.

  I take a deep breath as Emerson pops open the button of my jeans. Pulling me close, he slips his hand between my jeans and panties. My sex is aching for his touch, and I can’t help but let my knees fall apart, spreading my legs wider for him. His fingertips brush against the thin panel of cotton covering me, already wet with desire for him. I grab onto handfuls of bedding as he pushes aside my panties and rests two strong fingers against my throbbing sex.

  “Emerson,” I breathe, my head falling back against the pillow as he traces a long, slo
w line along my slit. I can’t form any other word besides his name, whisper it over and over again as he strokes me, parting me a little deeper each time. I bury my face in his chest as he roves along my sex, laying those two expert fingers against the hard nub of my clit.

  I’ve never been touched like this by a guy, never gotten off with anything that wasn’t battery-operated before. For the briefest moment, I worry about whether or not I’ll be able to come with him. That is, before he starts tracing long, slow circles around that bundle of nerves, rubbing with just the right amount of force. A sweet, aching pressure starts to build in my core as he picks up the pace, rubbing and flicking my clit in a way I’ve never felt before. My back arches as he goes on, switching up speed and motion just at the right moment, never leaving me hanging for a second. My mouth falls open with wonder as I reach my tipping point. I’m right on the edge of spilling over with pleasure when he says:

  “Come for me, Abby.”

  And I do, a shudder of bliss rolls through my body as I clutch onto him with all my might. I’ve had orgasms of my own creation before, but never have I come with another person. And certainly not for another person. Spent, I fall back against the bed, my chest heaving. Emerson lays down beside me, resting a hand on my stomach.

  “Holy shit...” I breathe, “I think you’ve killed me.”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs, “Nothing turns me on like seeing you let go. It’s the sexiest thing, Abby. You have no idea.”

  “So then...are we gonna...?” I ask, glancing down at his gorgeous body.

  “Nope. We already decided on tomorrow,” he grins mischievously, “That was just to hold you over.”

  “What?!” I exclaim, “But—”

  “We’re sticking to the plan,” he says firmly. “Tomorrow, when you’re no longer a The Younger Woman, it’ll be a different story.”

  “Ugghh,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Guess you have a lot more will power than I do, then,” I tell him.

  “I like the thrill of the chase,” he grins.

  “Hey,” I say, with mock sternness, “Don’t torment me, now, or I won’t give you your real birthday present.”

  “You got me a present?” he asks, seeming genuinely touched.

  “It’s nothing, really,” I reply, wanting to temper his expectations some. “Just...I thought you might like it, so...”

  “Well, come on then!” he exclaims, sitting upright, “Show me the goods!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a grownup now or something, Emerson?” I shoot back, feigning impatience as I swing my feet over onto the floor. Really, I think his enthusiasm is downright adorable.

  “Nah. I don’t plan on being a grownup anytime soon. Being a legal adult isn’t going to change that,” he declares. “Hey, we should drink to that.”

  “Drink?” I ask, as I grab my backpack off the floor.

  “I know your dad just keeps this stuff in the house for company,” Emerson goes on, snatching up his own overnight bag, “So I figured he wouldn’t mind if we pilfered some. Dude had, like, twenty bottles in the basement. How’s that for willpower?”

  I watch as Emerson produces a bottle of champagne, and can’t help but giggle.

  “How fancy of you,” I say.

  “What? Doesn’t champagne in a motel room just scream class to you?” he shoots back, searching around his bag for an opener.

  “Or something like that,” I say, my fingers finally closing around the sketchbook I’ve been hunting for. I pull out the thick, weathered book as Emerson pops open the bottle and pours us each a Styrofoam cup of the bubbly.

  “Here you go, Ma’am,” he smiles, handing me some champagne. “To not becoming grownups until they literally force us to,” he says, holding up his cup.

  “Here, here!” I laugh, touching the lip of my cup to his. The fizzy wine tickles my nose as I take a sip, savoring the sweetness. “Thanks for the booze, Dad,” I add, tipping my cup in the general direction of our hometown.

  “Oh no,” Emerson groans, glancing down at my hands, “Tell me you didn’t get me a book for my birthday.”

  “First of all, what’s so bad about getting a book as a present? That’s, like, the best present on the planet,” I reply, and before he can protest I add, “Secondly, it’s not a book. It’s just in a book. Here...”

  He watches as I peel open the well-loved pages. Somehow, this feels nearly as intimate as what just went down between us on the bed. I hardly ever show my sketchbook to anyone, yet here I am, flipping through the pages as Emerson looks on. Sharing my art with someone has always felt impossible, something that required far too much trust for me to be able to do. But Emerson’s teaching me that trust isn’t something that’s off-limits to me just because of my history. And I’m even starting to believe him.

  “Are those all yours?” he asks, his eyes glued to the pages.

  “Yep,” I reply, “All of them.”

  “They’re amazing,” he says reverently, as I linger on a drawing of a stylized, distorted landscape. “Please tell me you’re going to major in art when you go to school in the fall.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I demur, “I might try and focus on something a little more practical.”

  “Fuck practical. These are incredible drawings,” he exclaims.

  “Well...who knows?” I allow, “It’s not like there are any real jobs out there anyway, right? Might as well major in something I actually like.”

  “That’s the spirit. I think,” Emerson replies.

  Finally, I come to the sketch I’ve been looking for. It’s right at the end of the book, my most recent finished piece. Drawing a steadying breath, I turn the sketchbook around and pass it to Emerson. His eyes fall on the elaborate sketch and go wide. He drinks in the image for a long moment before finally looking up at me.

  “Is this...?” he asks.

  “It is,” I assure him, smiling at his amazement. “It’s you.”

  We study the drawing together. It’s a portrait of Emerson I’ve been working on for weeks, since our first heated exchange at that party. The drawing shows him in half-profile, staring with determined purpose from the page. I’m really proud of how I was able to capture him, and I can tell he’s impressed with the effort.

  “This is how you see me?” he asks, his voice surprisingly soft.

  “Absolutely,” I tell him. “To me, that’s the essence of who you are. Intelligent, strong, unwilling to back down from what you know is right. From the things you want out of life.”

  “Can I...Can I keep this?” he asks, looking up at me imploringly.

  “Of course!” I tell him, “It’s for you, Emerson. I want you to have it, always.”

  Placing the sketchbook down with great reverence, Emerson leans forward and catches my lips in his.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, running a hand through my hair. “It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”

  I smile and lower myself onto my knees in front of him. “Then you’re going to love this…” I say with my best seductive grin. I slowly undo his belt and unzip his pants as he leans back, a look of utter disbelief on his face. I can see the hardening outline of his staggering cock growing down the inside of his jeans and my mouth begins to water instinctively. Oh how I’ve dreamed of this moment.

  My heart feels like its going to beat out of my chest as he lifts his hips and I pull down his jeans and boxers, unleashing his throbbing dick. It’s beautiful, I’ve never seen one up close before, and his is absolutely amazing. I grab it reverently, without thinking, and lower my mouth onto him, taking as much of Emerson into my throat as possible…

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  When the early morning light draws me back up from the depths of slumber, I’m surprised to find that the bed beside me is empty. I roll onto my side, peering around the hotel room for my missing companion. Even after one night, the feel of waking up without him doesn’t suit me. I’m just about to roll out of bed and
go searching for him when the motel room door eases open. Emerson appears on the threshold, carrying two cups of takeout coffee and a paper bag. He sees me sitting up in bed and freezes.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  “Good morning to you too,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  “No, it’s just...I was going to surprise you,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Here—just pretend to be asleep.”

  “Emerson...” I moan.

  “Come on,” he pleads, turning his back to dump the contents of the bag onto the dresser. “For me. Please.”

  I flop back onto the bed and pull the covers over my head as Emerson futzes with something across the room. I hear the click of a lighter, the crinkling of the bag, and finally Emerson saying, “OK. Open your eyes.”

  Pulling the covers down ever-so-slightly, I feel my heart melt into a puddle of goo in my chest. Emerson is walking toward me with a little makeshift breakfast in bed. There’s my coffee, some creamers, and a blueberry muffin with a couple candles in the shape of a 1 and 8. He places the tray in my lap with great ceremony, humming the Happy Birthday song.

  “Go on. Make a wish before it gets all waxy,” he instructs me.

  I glance up at him, wondering what on earth else I can wish for now that he’s barreled into my life.

  I wish that this all works out...I think to myself. Somehow. I blow out the candles, and Emerson sits down next to me on the bed, his own coffee and muffin in hand.

  “What did you wish for?” he asks.

  “I’ll tell you...if it ever comes true,” I smile.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “Happy birthday, Abby.”

  “Thank you,” I say, peeling the wrapper off my muffin. “Adulthood is off to a pretty great start, don’t you think?”

  The day only gets better from there. After I treat myself to a long, hot bath and get dressed for the afternoon, Emerson and I head down to the beach for a long walk. We take our time, talking all the while about our pasts, our ideas, our notions about the future. Emerson’s planning on going to college, eventually. But probably not this year. I’ll be starting school in the fall, of course, but we don’t talk too much about that part—the never-seeing-each-other again part. Maybe we can find some way around the distance, if this whole thing doesn’t go up in flames. But we’ll be step-siblings tomorrow, so maybe it will be better to stay away after all.