The FBucket List

by Lena Fox

  I could feel his deliberate slowness, how he held himself back, in the shake of his body, and see it in the clench of his teeth. Sweat beaded on both our bodies, sparkling in the candlelight. Blake’s body was firm in a way so unfamiliar when compared to my own soft flesh. My hands had taken on a life of their own, exploring every muscle they could reach.

  We eased into a rhythm together, and my body met his movements with its own. My hips lifted, pushing against his, experimenting with tilting back or rolling forward, enjoying how the changing angles made him feel different inside me. Everything was wet and smooth, sliding easily yet pushing firmly, filling me, pressing inside of me. I wanted to stay like this forever. I wanted this feeling to last forever. I didn’t know how anything could feel better than this.

  Then Blake brought his hand down again and rubbed his thumb against my clitoris. An intense pressure, an even greater pleasure ran through me. His thumb rolled against me as my eyes rolled back, and I hung there in that exquisite feeling, almost in tears at the strength of the sensations running through me. Blake’s thrusts became sharper, hammering into me, making my whole body lift and shake. His fingers and thumb moved faster, flicking and pressing, and my body jolted, uncontrolled, terrifyingly. Every part of me went rigid and white-hot pleasure burned through my mind. My muscles went tight then loose, and my high-pitched, breathy scream filled the room. Blake slammed into me, any effort to be gentle or in control lost, crying out as well, and each thrust drove my pleasure on longer. He collapsed onto me, both of us panting and breathless.

  We lay there, neither of us speaking. His weight was comforting, solid, and so very alive. I closed my eyes and went to sleep in his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Georgina

  I slipped out of bed and into my clothes as quietly as possible. Stupid halter dress. Why didn’t I bring another outfit with me? Why had I refused to accept the idea I’d be sleeping the night? Did I really think I’d just have sex with the guy, then shake hands and head off home to bed?

  Sunlight highlighted the edges of thick, closed curtains. It was hard to tell what the time really was, but I was pretty sure we’d slept in.

  “Morning,” Blake said from behind me. His voice was soft and gravely from sleep.

  “What time is it?” I asked, unwilling to turn around and look at him. I’d bet he looked gorgeous in the morning, his blond hair tussled and—stop it, damn it. Don’t look.

  I heard him rattle around things on the bedside table. “Eleven. You need to be somewhere?”

  “I have to go to my dad’s for dinner.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time then.” Blake shifted across the bed and looped an arm around my waist.

  Slipping on my second shoe, I stood up out of his reach.

  “We start dinner at noon, and I help him cook. It’s sort of a tradition. Sunday is the one day he doesn’t work at the restaurant and instead makes dinner just for us.”

  “He’s a cook?”

  “He’s a chef. He owns the restaurant Stone Soup.”

  “I’ve been there. It’s pretty good.”

  “It’s the best.” I walked out of his room and clip-clopped down the stairs in my heels. I could hear Blake scrambling behind me.

  He came running after me with his bedsheet wrapped around his waist, toga-like, his chest bare and rippling. Oh mercy. I shouldn’t have looked.

  “You can’t stay for breakfast? Or a shower?” he said.

  I tore my gaze away from his god-like form in an almost painful effort and marched out the front door. “We did what needed to be done, and now I have to go. If you still want to help me with the rest of my list, that’s cool, but I never asked for anything more.”

  Blake chased after me onto his weed-encrusted lawn. An old man next door looked up at us as he collected his newspaper, and Blake adjusted his toga with one hand and waved casually to him with the other. The old man rolled his eyes like this happened every morning.

  “I know that,” Blake said. “It’s just the list. But can’t you at least tell me if you enjoyed last night? That it wasn’t the most terrible thing you’ve ever experienced?”

  I stopped and looked down at my feet. “It wasn’t the most terrible thing I’ve ever experienced.”

  “Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I enjoyed it, very much.” I spoke louder and turned to face Blake. He was grinning widely.

  He kissed me quickly on the forehead. “Me too.”

  That would have been a nice place to leave things, but when I swung into my car seat and turned the keys, the car made no sound. Not even a small lurch.

  “No, no, no! Jiminy, don’t do this to me now,” I begged the steering wheel.

  “You call your car Jiminy?” Blake laughed. “No wonder she’s not starting for you.”

  “Jiminy is a he. And he loves me. But I think I left my lights on.”

  “I’ve got some old batteries and jumpers in the garage that can probably get him going again, but I’d have to dig around. I mostly have bike parts.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Let me take you then,” Blake offered. He was already backing toward his house. “I’ll be dressed and ready to go in thirty seconds, trust me!”

  I was already going to be late by the time I got home, cleaned up, changed, and headed out to Dad’s. Maybe Blake’s motorbike could cut some time off that.

  “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight …”

  Blake was off at a run. Through the open front door, I saw his sheet flutter to the ground behind him as he ran up the stairs.

  Chapter Ten

  Georgina

  I have to be out of my mind. I have to be. I have a brain tumor. That must be it—there’s no other explanation. I can’t believe I let Blake take me to my dad’s house.

  As soon as he came to a stop, I got off Blake’s motorbike as fast as if it were made of molten lava. “Okay, thanks, bye. See you later.”

  Blake took my helmet and then took his time strapping it to the rack at the back of the bike.

  “Georgina?”

  I cringed, then spun around with a big smile on my face. “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Is that a friend of yours?”

  Blake was taking off his helmet. Don’t take off your helmet! Go, go!

  I fluffed out the innocent flowery dress I wore and tried to somehow hide Blake and his bike behind me. We’d stopped at my place on the way and I’d showered and changed in record time. Julie was making toast in the kitchen when we’d gone through, and I saw her give Blake a surreptitious onceover as her face turned red. Damn straight he’s gorgeous, I’d thought.

  I’d left them talking about some sci-fi show they both watched and took a moment to do my makeup. I knew it seemed odd to put on makeup for my dad, but I had to look good for him. I had to look healthy. There was no way I was going to beat Blake’s thirty-second dressing record though. I was impressed he’d managed that.

  Then it struck me that that meant he hadn’t showered since we had sex. And now he was here. Talking to my dad.

  Blake extended a hand from where he still sat on his bike. “I’m Blake. It’s great to meet you.”

  “Mr Stone.” Dad brought his hands up in front of him, holding them as a surgeon would when keeping them sterile. Only Dad’s hands were covered in red gore and slime.

  Dad shook his head at me. “Honey, I’m still disposing of the last boy who took you on such a dangerous vehicle.”

  Blake leaned closer to me. “Is he serious?”

  I sighed a long, exasperated sigh. “He’s been peeling beetroot.”

  “Come on in then,” Dad said, turning and leading the way into his house. “I want to get to know the man that my daughter would put her life in the hands of.”

  I turned to Blake, deadly serious. “Go, go now. Save yourself.”

  Blake swung himself off the bike. “What are you talking about? I like him already.”

  “You are seriously not
walking in there. We do not have a meet-the-parents type relationship.”

  Blake’s grin turned truly mischievous.

  He followed my dad inside, and all I could do was chase after them.

  Dad’s house was a strange combination of a Greek-style exterior and a Canadian lodge-like interior. It was low and sprawling with whitewashed walls and decorative wrought-iron bars on the windows outside, and inside, it was dark and lush with wooden paneling and the scent of smoked foods. It was almost as much of a mess as Blake’s house had been. Dad never had gotten any better at cleaning. Only the kitchen was kept immaculate.

  Dad led us in there through the saloon doors, and we got to work. It was big enough for all of us, even given Blake’s size. The granite counter tops were already laid out with fresh produce, mixing bowls and chopping boards in use, and my stomach started grumbling at the smell of baking pastry. Dad gave Blake what I knew to be a blunt, old knife, and asked him to finely dice some tomatoes. I warned you.

  “Interesting ride you arrived on,” Dad said.

  “Blake built it himself,” I jumped in, trying for some reason to defend him. Blake shouldn’t even be here.

  “Quite poetic,” Dad said, his knife working easily to slice neat rounds from the beetroot, “to build the thing that will ultimately kill you.”

  “They really are safer than most people think,” Blake said.

  “That’s what every bike rider says before they lose an arm.” Dad pointed his knife at Blake to make a point. “I trust my daughter to make her own decisions in her life, but I’m telling the both of you right now she’s too precious to lose like that.” He turned directly to me. “You’re too precious.”

  My whole body froze for a second while I did everything in my power not to burst into tears. I forced myself to brush it off and let out a weak, whining, “Daaaad, stop it.”

  “Sorry, honey. Your life. Your decisions.”

  Blake’s brow was furrowed, beaded with sweat, and his knife slipped as he failed to slice the tomatoes. I wondered why he was even trying, and how long he’d persist before giving up. It was such a small thing, but conniving in its simplicity—to give a person who was trying to make a good impression in front of a professional chef a tool he could only fail with. Dad once promised me he’d never be the kind of father who would do things to scare away any boyfriends I brought home. That he would always trust me to follow my heart and make the right decisions. Not that I ever brought any home. But I guessed bringing one home on a motorbike was going to test that promise. Not that Blake was my boyfriend.

  I grabbed a real knife from the block and slipped it to Blake, a move Dad watched with interest. I turned away quickly to busy myself with crumbing the lamb cutlets.

  While stacking marinated goat’s cheese between the beetroot slices, Dad said, “Bike building—is it your profession or pastime?”

  “Hobby mostly, although I sell a few to get new parts to make more. I just love the process of putting together broken pieces into something new. But I mostly work as a roofer since I left university.”

  “Since you left?” Dad’s eyes went to mine, and I knew what he was thinking. Here was the reason I was skipping classes. It would have been easier to let that go on than tell the truth. I never got a chance to toss Blake under the bus though because Dad added, “So you two didn’t meet on campus?”

  “I thought she wasn’t—” Blake’s face contorted as my foot met his shin.

  “Yeah, he was working on one of the older buildings.” I talked right over Blake. His face was one big question mark that I ignored. I was standing there, outright lying to my dad in possibly very unconvincing lies, and Blake knew it. But I’d had to come up with something quick.

  A subject change was the only way to go now. I picked a spoon up and tasted the tomato sauce simmering on the stove. “This is great, Dad. Have you been using that smoked garlic again?”

  He looked up from where he’d been carefully rolling the beetroot and cheese stacks in crushed walnuts. “Smoked salt.” He grinned, always proud when I picked a flavor in his dishes.

  “Yum. Should I start taking things out to the table?”

  “I just have to fry the cutlets and mac and cheese, then we’re ready to go.”

  I took the finished dish off him and headed to the door. “Blake, can you come help me set the table?”

  He dropped the knife next to the mangled tomatoes with clear relief. He hadn’t had much luck even with the better blade. “Sure.”

  As he followed me out, I whispered, “You know he doesn’t need those tomatoes for anything we’re eating today, right?”

  “Your dad is awesome,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. “So, why are you lying to him?”

  Reaching the dining room, I pointed to the cabinet. “Grab any plates and cutlery, we’re not fussy.”

  Blake stood, ignoring the directions, giving me a no-nonsense look.

  I rambled, “Just wait until you try Dad’s mac and cheese. It’s the creamiest, most delicious mac and cheese in the world, and when it’s done, he sticks it in the refrigerator overnight to set and gel. The next day he slices it thinly, breads it and drops it into a deep fryer. He covers it with a rich, slow-simmered tomato sauce to serve. I swear once you eat his version you will be ruined for life. Nothing else ever comes close to it.”

  Blake didn’t break. “He doesn’t know you dropped out?” he hissed.

  “Shut up! He’s got ears like a fox!” I hissed back.

  “Georgie, can you come into the kitchen please?”

  Kill me now. There was no use arguing, so I put the plate down in the middle of the table and went.

  Dad stood over the stove, deep-frying the pasta in a wok as the lamb chops fried in a cast-iron pan beside them at the same time. “He seems nice. Is this a serious thing?”

  I shot a look at the swinging saloon doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. “Shh, no! He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends. Barely acquaintances. He just gave me a ride because my car battery was dead. You’re the one who invited him in—don’t forget that.”

  “You could have invited him. I’m happy for you to bring boys home.”

  I smiled at how he said boys, but didn’t like the frown that stayed on his face.

  Then he asked, “Does he know?”

  “No. Don’t you tell him, either.” I rested my hip against the kitchen bench. “Dad, do you know how bad it sucked to wonder if guys were looking at me because they thought I was cute or because they were staring at my wig?’

  His fingers touched my hair. “The wig is gone.”

  “Do you want me to take anything else out?” Blake stood behind the kitchen doors, peeking over them. He looked uncomfortable, but also determined. It was obvious that he had come to rescue me, and Dad chuckled under his breath as he said, “Yeah, let’s get this food out. Dessert is coming up well. I hope you like fruit tart and ice wine.”

  “Ice wine from Canada?” Blake asked with a grin.

  “Is there another kind?” Dad raised one bushy black eyebrow—a skill I didn’t inherit, or I would have, too. Blake didn’t seem like an ice wine guy.

  “No, sir.”

  Blake opened the door for me as I walked through carrying a bowl of salad. We headed back for the dining table, but Blake stopped in front of the wall where Dad had my childhood artworks and school photos framed.

  A pit of nausea opened up in my chest.

  He smiled as my photos progressed through infancy, childhood, teens, and then he paused when he reached my fifteenth year.

  I stared at my fifteen-year-old self, at the wig that was always slightly askew on my head, and the pasty skin of my swollen face. I looked so different there to how I did when I was younger, my hair color and style at odds with before and after, dark shadows under my eyes aging my young face.

  Blake didn’t say anything, but his expression said it all.

  “Bad flu. Bad hair day.” Lying had become my go-to. I w
alked past him, past the hateful reminders of my teenage years, but he didn’t follow me. I turned around and snapped, “Please stop staring at that thing!”

  Dad came in then, his arms loaded with plates of food, and we all sat at the table.

  We ate, and talked, and Dad seemed to be warming to Blake—a turn of events I was not sure I liked very much. I didn’t need the two of them ganging up on me.

  I had hoped that the conversation would stay out of dangerous waters but it headed back that way as soon as we had dessert on our plates when Dad asked, “Why did you leave university?”

  At first I thought he was talking to me, and I nearly choked on my wine.

  Blake replied, “I thought that some physical labor would help me put things in perspective.”

  “That’s an interesting reason to drop out.”

  “Dad, this is personal!” I protested.

  “It’s all right,” Blake replied. “But I didn’t drop out.”

  Dad frowned. “You said you left.”

  “Sorry, I should have said finished. But I’m considering going back to do my master’s, so I guess it still feels temporary.”

  “What subject?” I blurted, curiosity overcoming me. I knew so little about Blake. Which is how it’s meant to be. He’s not my boyfriend. Don’t get attached.

  “Economics.”

  I sucked the last of the wine out of my glass and reached for the bottle. Blake is smart.

  “I almost went that direction,” Dad said. “I love how numbers play together. Good options for careers there too, especially with a master’s.”

  My world was spinning. Blake has career options.

  “There’s a certain science in cooking which I love too, but with cooking you get something to eat as well.” Dad patted his belly. “Got to watch how much you eat, though, when you’re no longer young and fit like you.”