by Sarina Bowen
“It’s half Shipley amber, half beer. That’s what makes a snakebite. If you like it you can keep it and I’ll get another one.”
“Delicious,” I say. It has the fruity nose of cider, but with the bitter kick of beer. “I didn’t know you could mix them like that.”
“The Brits invented it. It’s sort of a compromise between beer and cider.”
“It’s delicious. Let’s share.” I take another sip and hand it back.
His brown eyes smile at me, and then the smile fades. “We need to talk for a minute.”
Well, crud. I was afraid of that.
“I’m sorry I triggered you,” he says. “I can tone down the dirty talk.”
“But…” I’m speechless for a second. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t have to be so sensitive.”
His expression gets even sadder. “You’re not, Skye. Someone taught you to feel shame. And I could fucking kill that guy. Come here, would you? Just for a hug.” He hands me our glass and opens his arms.
“Sure.” Twist my arm. I set down the glass and wiggle closer to him. His bare chest smells like soap and clean man. “We can still, um…” I clear my throat.
He chuckles, and I feel his abs tighten with the motion. “Someday I want you to enjoy finishing that sentence. But today doesn’t have to be that day.”
“Okay?” I take another sip of the snakebite and lean back against his solid warmth. This is how I always imagined cuddling in bed with Benito would be. It’s good to know that I was right.
“Look, I’ve been to all kinds of training seminars, and there was this one about sexual abuse that really stuck with me.”
“Now there’s a cheery topic,” I grumble.
“Hear me out, okay? Because this woman was smart. She was trying to explain to a room full of grumpy cops what it’s like to grow up with a sexual abuser. She said that sex is like a private room in your soul. Kids don’t go into the room, because they’re too young to notice it. And then teenagers explore it at their own pace.”
I relax against him, listening. And he strokes my hair while he chooses his words.
“She said that sexual experience is supposed to be like a room that’s yours to decorate however you want to. Without anybody else’s interference.”
“Your own private sex room? Sounds kinky.”
“I know, right? But she did a good job making us listen.” He chuckles at the memory. “She said some people move right in and install a hot tub and a velvet swing. But some people are more cautious—beige carpeting and hospital corners on the bed.”
“So you’re saying that second thing sounds like me?”
He shakes his head. “No. You didn’t even get a chance. Gage beat you to it. He busted open your safe space and flipped over the furniture and smeared shit on the walls.”
“Oh.” I’ve heard worse theories.
“It’s just a lecture I heard once. It doesn’t make me an expert. I should probably just shut up. But I’m thinking that listening to Gage could put anyone off of sex. He used to call you a dirty girl, didn’t he?”
An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. “Among other things.”
“He called Zara a whore. I heard that one myself.” Benito takes a deep drink of our snakebite. “Anyway. I don’t actually know how to help you. Or if you need help. But I can be infinitely patient. If I say anything you don’t like, just tell me. I won’t be offended.”
My heart is in so much trouble. This man is going to break me.
Benito passes me the glass, but I set it on the table beside us. And then I turn in his arms and kiss his jaw. He smiles against my lips, and I kiss him three more times, each one softer and a little more sensuous than the last.
This is what I never knew about sex—that the little moments can be amazing. Before Benito, I was never comfortable enough with anyone to explore the texture of his whiskers against my lips. I never traced anyone’s six-pack with my palm, and then ran a fingertip around the flat disc of his nipple.
Benito moans quietly and fits his mouth against mine. His kiss is searching. His tongue familiar. When he exhales, it tickles my upper lip. He kisses me deeply. Endlessly. Our kisses run together like episodes of a hot new show—each one a cliffhanger that requires another.
We’re binge-kissing.
Yet Benito doesn’t push me down on the bed, or even pull me into his lap. His kisses are deep and firm and fully committed. But his hand is lying uselessly on his thigh.
Touch me, my body sings. My breasts feel heavy and full. I brush them against his chest just for a little contact.
Benito smiles against my lips and then kisses me again. Slowly. Patiently.
So I grab his lazy hand and put it up under the hem of the big T-shirt he clothed me in. It lands on my hip and squeezes. Yes. Finally. I tug him down on the bed and throw a leg over his. I’m still naked from the waist down, and the simple act of parting my legs a few inches feels shameless. In a good way.
But Benito doesn’t take the bait. He rests his head in one palm and smiles down at me. “You want something?”
“Ben,” I whisper. “Come here.”
“Why?” he teases, stroking the arch of my foot with his. He’s touching my feet, and I swear I feel turned on from it.
The feet? Really? “You know why,” I complain.
His smile widens. “Honey, someday I hope you can say it.” He pitches his voice high in a poor imitation of me. “Ben, please come here for dirty, naked loving.”
That sounds so unlike me that I have to giggle like an idiot.
“It doesn’t have to be those words,” he continues. “It’s okay with me if you never like the word ‘dirty.’ I just hope you can ask for what you need and not feel any shame.”
I trace his nose with my finger. There’s a little rise in the center of it that makes him look dignified. I’d always wanted to touch it when I was sixteen, but never quite found the nerve. “It’s true that I’m not a fan of the word dirty.”
“Like I said, that’s not the point. But do you know what dirty means to me?”
I shake my head.
“Funny, I’m not sure I do, either.”
We both laugh.
“No—let me think.” He leans down and kisses me once. “Okay, when I think dirty thoughts about you, I really mean that they’re raw. Unfiltered. And when I use that word in bed I mean…unguarded. Whatever crazy thing I want is just for the two of us. It’s not bad, it’s just not fit for anyone else’s eyes. Just yours.”
“I like that definition,” I whisper. But what I really mean is I really like you.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m having some nice, not-at-all-shameful, dirty thoughts right now.”
Then he leans down to kiss me again. And I pull him close and beg him—wordlessly of course—for more.
This time he rolls on top of me and gives me the weight of his body. His tongue strokes mine, and his fingers weave into my hair. He takes his time with me, kissing me until we’re both desperate. When I finally kick off his boxers and welcome him inside, I’m ready and willing.
Everything is perfect as we’re moving together. Straining. Sharing every breath.
If there really is a private sex room in my soul, Benito has a standing invitation.
Twenty-Eight
Benito
The next morning I get out of bed very reluctantly. There’s a naked goddess in my bed. Sleeping Skye hugs the pillow, her fine hair spread everywhere.
She looks as thoroughly debauched as I feel. I spend a moment just sitting on the edge of the bed, stewing in my own wonderment. I’m still a little stunned that she’s here. It’s almost like having an extended dream. Waking up beside her doesn’t even feel real.
Other things do, though. Like the fact that I have to get to work early. So I head into the shower. And she’s still sleeping when I get dressed and ready to go. So I leave a little note on the counter and a tiny gift beside that.
The gift is sort
of ironic, and sort of not. It really depends how you look at things.
After holstering my gun, I take one more peek at her sleeping form. Because I just can’t help it. Then I make myself leave.
Because the day started so well, what comes next is something of a disappointment.
I’m on a rooftop in Montpelier, manning a video camera that’s trained on the parking lot below. My new informant—Wayne Browers—waits behind a defunct pet store for Sparks to show up. Browers is only twenty-six, but he looks a decade older. His knit beanie is pulled down low over his brow. And his eyes are the deep-set kind that have seen too much.
Before setting up here, we searched him thoroughly—both his person and his car. Our sting operation only works if we can prove that any drugs Wayne Browers possesses half hour from now weren’t present when we took our positions in this spot.
But there’s already a problem. Sparks is late. And when the dealer is late, it’s never a good sign.
At least our guy doesn’t look twitchy. He leans against his beat-up sedan looking awfully resigned for someone who’s about to entrap a potentially violent drug dealer.
And when another vehicle eventually rolls into the parking lot, it’s not Sparks’s car. It’s a black Taurus that I’ve never seen before. Fuck. It comes to a slow stop as I hear my boss speak into the wire in my ear. “New subject approaching. I don’t know this guy. Caucasian male, twenties, heavyset. Tattoo visible on his neck.” My boss has a better view of the car’s driver from his position inside the pet store.
“Copy,” I say quietly. “No ideas here.”
Then the man steps out, and I don’t recognize him, either. But he strolls up to Browers and they shake hands.
They chat a minute. It looks pretty friendly down there. I prepped Browers for the possibility that Sparks might send somebody else. And it looks like Browers is holding up okay under this slight change of plans. As he’d been coached, my informant pats his breast pocket and then removes the roll of bills I put there earlier. He hands the money to Mr. Heavyset Caucasian. In turn, he’s handed a small paper bag.
My guy peeks into the bag and nods.
A minute later the perp drives away. Again, Browers does exactly as we instructed him. He opens the trunk of his car where we can see him. He puts the bag into the trunk and shuts it. Then he gets into his sedan and drives slowly out of the lot.
Since I’m still up on this roof, it’s someone else’s job to tail him back to our meeting place. I put away the camera and leave the roof via the store below—it’s a chain shoe store. I thank the manager for his help and then drive back to our point of rendezvous.
Another detective has already confiscated the drugs from Browers’s car, and Browers will be free to go momentarily, until we need him again. “You done good,” I tell him. “Who was that guy?”
Browers shrugs. “He said, ‘I’m Dave,’ and I didn’t exactly ask him for no ID.”
“Fair enough.”
“He said Sparks is busy until tomorrow or Thursday. And I tole him I had more business to do maybe, and should I ask Sparks about it later this week? He says sure.”
That’s not necessarily a bad omen. And this job is rarely easy. “Any idea what Sparks might be busy doing tonight?” Our man Browers doesn’t strike me as Mr. Insightful, but it never hurts to ask.
I get a shrug. “Cookin’ up the next batch?”
It’s as good a guess as any. “You know where they bag it?” I ask. It burns me that I can’t find his cutting room.
Another shrug. “His car got a Smokey’s sticker on it. Must be local.”
“Yeah, okay.” I chuckle because that’s not bad detective work. Smokey’s is a barbecue wagon often parked on Route 12. And anyway—I can run the plates on the Taurus as soon as I get back to the office.
My job is like a slow game of chess. Because we got him on film selling drugs, I can get a warrant to track Mr. Heavyset with a device stuck to his car. We can follow him digitally around the county until he inevitably links us with Sparks. Who then links us with Gage.
But please, lord, let it be soon.
“We done here?” Browers asks.
“For now. Thank you for your service.” I remind him of his obligation to stick around and get ready to do this again in a couple of days.
And then I head back to the office to contemplate which chess piece to move next on the board.
Twenty-Nine
Skylar
Waking up alone in Benito’s bed is a pretty great way to start the day.
I’m naked, which is not a usual thing for me. Even though I live alone now, I never sleep in the nude. I never saw the point. Note to self—it’s decadent to feel my skin right against the sheets.
I get up slowly, pulling on Benito’s bathrobe over my bare body, and that feels decadent, too. The apartment is silent as I pad into the kitchen to make coffee in the new machine. That’s where I spot a note on the counter.
Skyescraper,
It won’t be easy to reach me until the afternoon. You know the drill—if you need anything, ask Zara. To make things easier, I had this made for you on my way home yesterday. My place is your place. Make yourself at home.
Love you,
B.
Love you. I get a little stuck on that salutation for a moment. Those are words that nobody ever says to me, unless we’re counting Aunt Jenny. I sure like seeing it, but I don’t know what to do with it. We’d gone a decade without seeing each other. Now, after I’ve been here less than a week, Benito is whipping out the L-word.
It’s possible that word doesn’t mean to him what it means to me. And only five days in, how am I supposed to know?
Beside the note is his gift—a single key to his apartment. It has the shiny finish of a key that’s just been cut, and it’s on a key chain that I think is meant to amuse me. It’s a plastic cut-out of Vermont, and it’s printed with “I love Vermont.”
Somebody is a funny guy.
This is way too much thinking before I’ve had my coffee. So I point myself in the direction of the new machine and the grounds I bought yesterday. I turn it on and figure out where to put the water and the filter. Then I hit the button and wait for the telltale sound of coffee flowing into the carafe.
My phone rings, and I have to run into the bedroom to find it. My heart does a little dance, wondering if it’s Benito calling.
Stupid heart.
But no, the caller is Aunt Jenny. Of course it is. When I don’t keep in touch with her, she worries. “Hello!” I gasp into the phone when I find it. “Hi. Sorry. I should have called. I’ve been busy, what with the on-air penis and my impromptu trip to Vermont.”
There is a silence on the other end of the line, and I wonder if our connection has failed. “You’re still in Vermont?”
“Yeah. Rayanne is in some kind of trouble. It’s complicated.”
“You’re staying with her?”
Here we go. “Not exactly, no. Her house doesn’t feel, uh, safe to me, so I’ve been staying with…” Aunt Jenny is going to lose her mind. “…Benito.”
She lets out a shriek so piercing that it actually hurts me. And then she starts babbling. I hear “unbelievable!” and “miracle!” and a few other words that make me cringe. “When is the wedding?”
“Jenny!”
She giggles.
“Stop it, okay? For all you know he could be married.”
“Is he?”
“No,” I grumble.
She laughs some more. “Tell me everything.”
Well that’s not happening. Jenny and I are close, but there’s no way I can tell my aunt about hot kisses in the woods and hot loving in Benito’s bed. So instead I tell her about his cool apartment in the mill building. “The windows are taller than I am. And the rooms are huge. If this place were in Manhattan, it would cost three million bucks.” A cop in New York couldn’t live anywhere near this nice, even if his family did own the building.
“Fancy,” Jenny says
.
“It’s really beautiful. That’s the funny thing—I thought everyone I met in Vermont would be sort of trapped in amber. But everyone owns a cool bar or a funky coffee shop, or they make award-winning cider. I’m a little irritated at all of them for being more interesting than I thought they’d be.”
Jenny snorts. “You’re the only one who’s allowed to grow up and have an interesting career and shop at…wherever it is you shop these days. I never could keep track.”
“They even have bagels,” I whine.
“Really? Out-of-town bagels are a dicey proposition.”
“There’s this cute baker at the coffee shop. He can apparently make anything.” My stomach rumbles. “But it’s still not New York.”
“Right,” Jenny agrees. “I don’t know how you’d live without rats on the subway tracks and bad service from the superintendent. You’d better not move to Vermont.”
“I could never,” I say quickly. “My job!”
“Your job is a fucking shitshow,” Jenny says.
“Jenny!” Sometimes I think she’s determined to say every curse word that I avoid, just to even things out in the universe.
She laughs. “Well it is! They walk all over you and you don’t put up a fight. They’d shit themselves if you ever quit, though. You run that place and never get any credit.”
Jenny is very loyal, so I hear this sermon a lot. But she doesn’t realize how many hungry journalism graduates are standing in line for my job. If I made a fuss, they’d pluck another pretty blonde twenty-something out of the line and hand her my laser pointer. She’d be doing the traffic and weather faster than you can say “point your tits at camera six.”
“So what’s that stepsister of yours done this time?” Jenny asks.
“She’s mixed up with some jerks. And is therefore hiding from the cops.” That’s as much as I’m willing to say, because Jenny worries.
She groans. “That child is a lost soul. I thought all that yoga would help.”
“It has,” I say, rising to Rayanne’s defense. As I often do when we talk about her. “But men are scum,” I add quickly.
