“Do I get to throw my beer now?” Hunter asks.
I lean back into my seat and bark out a short laugh, “Yeah, now would be the time.”
The father behind us taps Hunter on the shoulder. “It’s all right, man, there’s still the second half. We’ve got plenty of time to turn it around.”
His son nods in agreement, hope planted firmly on his freckled face.
We don’t turn it around. Not in the slightest.
The game is a bust. The quarterback gets sacked twice and intercepted once more in the third quarter.
Ugh, I can’t take any more of this. Watching the home team get killed seriously diminishes the entertainment value of the game. Might as well chat up Hunter.
“Why did you come back to Pendleton Falls? I mean, you could have stayed in New York and designed that line there.”
“The Pumpkin Spice Lattes at the Grind ‘Em Low.” He says, his eyes on the field but his lips tilting up at the edges.
“Seriously?”
“No, not seriously.” He grins, breath sparking into tiny burst of frost in the cool night air. “I don’t know. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but I just feel like I belong here, you know? All my life I dreamed of opening that store in New York, of living in the world of twenty four hour takeout and endless parties.”
“Yeah? Sounds great.”
“It was until it wasn’t.” His eyes darken. “After a while, with each passing week, all the excitement just became noise, the parties became work, the taxis never arrived quickly enough. I don’t know, it’s like I woke up one morning and looked at my apartment and my shortening temper and all the concrete and realized that I didn’t like what I was becoming. All my life I wanted to be that guy, you know? The debonair city-guy with the nice suits and the fancy things, but I’m not that guy.”
I blink, staring at his face in profile, his expression soft. “So if you’re not city-guy, what kind of guy are you? Country-guy? Lumber-guy?”
“Um, small-town guy is probably the closest fit. Dad said he wanted to sell his house on Bee Pond and I just knew what I had to do. I knew what I needed.” He sits back in his chair. “I left a very capable person in charge in New York and haven’t regretted a single second. I feel like I can breathe again, and it’s nice.”
“Cool.” Wow, Piper, that’s all you can think of? Cool. Like I’m in seventh grade or something.
The man in front of us throws his arms up in the air and lets out a flurry of swears and the other team gets a two-point conversion on their latest touchdown.
The score quickly reaches the point of no return, Temple 45 UCONN 10.
So our team is getting slaughtered and the stadium clears.
Unfortunately, this means the only action left is between me and Hunter. I can’t leave in good conscious until the final whistle’s blown.
Hunter and I fall into this sort of awkward dance.
Every time our legs touch lightening sizzles through my system, sparks igniting everything from the tips of my fingers down into my core. So I move my leg away, but then back again to see if the shock will hit me again. It does.
The shock and the gasp and the pleasure coursing through me feels so right and so wrong and oh my gosh amazing.
I turn to look at him and he turns to look at the field, intently watching the game.
Hyper-focus is what I need. And I am absolutely hyper-focused but unfortunately just not hyper-focused on the action on the field.
Finally the awkward dance of leg-leg arm-arm shoulder-shoulder ends as the game clock stops.
As we leave the stands, the crowds are miserable. Smelly men and stinky beer breath and masses and masses of droopy jeans stand between us and the exit.
Once we get out towards the parking lot, I take a deep breath, cold air blasting my lungs for one point three four seconds and then he gets close and my body burns again. I have to get a hold of myself or this car ride isn't going to go well.
The thing about college football fans that's usually so refreshing is that they tend not to have the full-on hatred that drunk major-league fans can have. Now don't get me wrong, they can still be ridiculously inappropriate and rude, but that full-on-ire is typically still a work in progress.
But they're not usually as rowdy as they are when we get back out into the parking lot.
Hunter and I walk past a group of older, clearly intoxicated men. Some balding, some bearded, some with large bellies, some tall and thin, but all of them have their faces twisted in hate as they furl ugly torrents of bad at some hapless fan of the opposing team. When the Temple fan emerges, I see that the person wearing the offending jersey is a little boy, who's all of maybe nine.
Clasping his mother's hand as they try to escape the jeering crowd, tears in his little eyes, she holds him close, desperate to protect her son.
Rage races through me and I wiggle away from Hunter. Racing to step in front of one of the large bullies, I get in his face he rounds in on the child and push my hands into front of his chest. "You need to watch yourself, mister. No one should be talking to a child like that. Talk about poor sportsmanship. You should be ashamed of yourself."
“You stupid-“ he goes off on a string of all sorts of horrible words directed at me and my insides quiver-jelly wow bad. I wonder why whenever a man is angry at a woman the first thing he thinks to do is to call her a slut.
I square my shoulders, I'm a big girl, and his fury has now shifted from the little boy to me. Which is good.
Turning my head to look over my shoulder at the mom as the jerk’s friends join in the slur parade. I say, "Go, now. I'm sorry about this, not all of us UConn fans are evil. Take care of him okay?"
The mother nods and whisks the little boy out of the leering crowd and I turn, and shout at the tantrum-throwing men, "You have no shame, no class! Your mothers would be ashamed."
Wind rushes against the side of my face as a green-colored blur races by. My gosh, did someone just throw a bottle of beer at me?
I take a step back and see the large, red-faced ringleader, cheeks wobbly beneath a poorly shaven beard, sputters and spits at me like a fish, “You stupid little--"
His arm jiggles as it moves back and then forward and then there is a movement at my side. Hunter. Pain and air and then whoosh as Hunter pushes me out of the way of the blow. He takes full force of the man's fist in the shoulder.
"You need to work on your manners," He says. Then lands a punch square in the man’s jaw.
I gasp. Fishy man doubles over and a thin guy comes over and takes a swing at Hunter’s side.
"Hey!" I shout, tucking my hand into a fist and sending it into tall, skinny guy’s stomach.
Ouch! For a dude that looks like Gumby, my fingers ache from the hit and the impact rides all the way up to my shoulder.
I don't think I have ever thrown a punch before. That was terrible. Why do people do this? Another friend decides to join in on the action and this one lands low on Hunter's cheek.
He bends over to take it and shoots the man a smile. A smile! And throws a right hook at the man in the ribs.
“Ha!” I laugh. Wait, no, this isn’t good. I definitely shouldn’t be laughing, but in the midst of what could be like thousands of people, I feel like Hunter and I are the only ones here. Two astronauts on the moon, fighting monsters.
Somewhere in the midst of the screaming I see the telltale pointy hat and little flashlights of the security guards. Another man throws a punch for Hunter's head and I jump on the man's back, pulling him off. The man stumbles around in shock, and loses his balance. We fall to the ground.
Rolling quickly away before the guy lands on top of me, I take a deep breath, trying to rein in the adrenaline.
Before I can catch my breath I hear a shout and see Hunter landing another punch in some guy’s stomach.
The shouts of the security guards and onlookers get louder, oh my gosh, we have to get out of here.
I make it back up to my feet and grab Hunter's ar
m. “We have to go!”
A man lands a punch to his stomach and Hunter bowls over, wrapping his hands around his middle. And then, much to my great shock, takes his free arm and lands an uppercut in the guy’s ribs.
Did he not hear me? Maybe I didn't say it loud enough. Probably not. We have to go. We have to go now.
I grab him by the arm, pulling him up and shout, "Run!”
Pulling him with me, we race away from the crows.
One woman cheers as we rush by, another gives Hunter a high five, making it feel more like we’re athletes leaving the field after a win and not two yahoos in a parking lot running from security guards.
My feet fly across the pavement, heart slamming into my aching ribs and soon it's Hunter who's dragging me behind him as we rush towards the car.
Giggles well up from someplace deep inside my belly and I can't help it.
I can’t keep them in and they leave me in some kind of joyous cascade of mischief, adrenaline, and righteous indignation.
We hit the hood of his car and I turn to look through the darkened parking lot to see that the crowds still seem to be back at the site of the fight, and the only people near us as a family of five making their way into a minivan.
The laughs come fast and loud, and Hunter lays himself out flat on the hood of his car.
Damn, it must be contagious. I laugh and laugh and laugh as I place my hands on the hood and climb up the slick metal next to him, back aching. My shoulders hit the hood and I stare up at the sky, marveling at the stars.
How is it that I feel so alive in spite of the fact that just about every part of my body is screaming in pain? My heartbeat wild and rabid, I push myself up on one shoulder and lean over him.
He turns his head, eyes trapping the starlight. “You’re trouble."
"Damn straight." I say and I kiss him on the lips.
Pushing my hand into the flesh of his neck and his shoulder, the plush lips and the scratchy beard, a dichotomy of sensations, but it's like my brain can't process it, anyway, so I let go and let my mind drift away.
I taste him, his lips salty and sweet and everything I imagined that they would be. My legs shake and my breath hitches as I part my trembling lips and pull away.
What am I doing? I sit up, set my elbows into the hood of the car. I say, "Hunter, I-"
He cuts me off, taking my bottom lip in his mouth and then I part my lips and I feel his tongue, hot and slick and luscious and warm. He wraps his arms around my back, reaching up towards my shoulders, pulling me down on top of him and deep into the kiss.
Oh my, this can't be happening, this can't be real, this wow-bam-oh-my-gosh-fantastic feeling has to be some sort of a joke. A trick, like a sleight-of-hand, something that I'm imagining, somehow.
Hunter can't really be kissing me, can't really be pulling me to him, I don't deserve this kind of joy.
He pulls away his mouth mere centimeters from mine his breath lands hot on my swollen lips.
He kisses me again and even though my head is whirling around and my legs don't know whether to run or to wrap themselves around his and pull him closer I let it go and own the spinny-head-loud-sort-of-giggly-sick-fantastic feeling.
Hands land on the hood of the car shaking me out of my revelry. I look up to see some balding pudgy man scowling at the edge of the hood of the car, his wife and children wide-eyed and agog.
She shouts, "Get a room. Honestly, there are children around. Have you no shame?"
I open my mouth, "I'm sorry I didn't-"
"Clearly, we have no shame," Hunter says and gives me that lamp bright smile and kisses me again. The angry family sort of drifts away and I lose myself to his touch, to the feel of his tongue, the strength of his arms wrapped around me, to the pulsing need pounding through my veins.
Oh yes, more, I need more of him. Need that weight on top of and around and inside me. I wrap my fingers in the strands of his thick, silky hair and lean my head back and gasp as he moves his lips to my neck. Spiking thrusts of need bursting through my-
The clucks of the disapproving family snap me out of it. They move on.
But oh my gosh what the hell am I doing?
I say, "We should maybe get home."
"As you wish." He laughs as he grabs his back and stretches. "The hood of the car isn't really the most comfortable place for this sort of thing, anyway."
"Especially not after a fight. Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?"
"Honestly, I'm too high on adrenaline and whatever this is to even notice."
High from whatever this is? I slip off the side of the car and straighten my jeans. Not like my jeans need straightening, per se, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.
Hunter opens the door for me. I slide into the car with as little contact as possible. What am I doing? I can’t be doing this. He just broke up with his girlfriend.
Aside from everything else, I refuse to be anyone's rebound relationship.
But as I buckle my seatbelt and he gets in the car, I can't take my eyes off the lines of his jaw, the sleek contour of his neck, the way his hair curls softly around his ears and I hope that I can toughen up.
The second he pulls up in front of my house, he grips the steering wheel with both hands and leans forward. “I hope this isn’t going to be awkward because I’m technically your boss and-“
"No, there’s no need. There is no this. We can’t, we can’t ever do that again. Goodnight." I grab my notebook and I throw the door open and make the 50 yard sprint to the front door.
I swear I just broke some sort of land time record. C’mon keys, turn, turn! They do and I’m in and I shut the door as quickly as I can. I lean against the door for a minute. Breathe in, Piper. Good, now out. Good. This is good.
But if it’s so good why do my insides crumble and shake? I look out the front window, fingers stealing back the fabric curtains and see him sitting in the car, a look of hurt and confusion on his face.
My stomach is raw and heavy and I swallow.
The curtain slides between my fingers and go to my room. Lying on the bed, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stop feeling whatever it is I feel. The uncomfortable tightness around my stomach, around my chest, around my head, I grab a pillow and shove my face in. What am I doing?
Chapter 11: Stupid Husbands, Stupid Pizza and Stupid Art Shows
Dear Miss Behave,
My son will leave the house at odd hours of the day and refuse to tell me where he is going. I never complain because he is doing very well with his studies at the community college. Yesterday I got in my car and followed him only to find that he works as a clown at a local amusement park. He’s a clown! I hate clowns. How do I confront him?
Sincerely,
-Frowny in the Fun House
Dear Frowny,
I get it. You’re afraid of clowns. I understand, I’ve read IT. Clowns can be scary. But the issue here darling is that this clown is your child.
He is still your son, whether he is a clown or a ventriloquist or a ballerina, you should support him in any way you can. Life is too short to be judgmental about things that don’t really matter. Family matters. Get yourself a front row seat and laugh the loudest and clap your heart out and tell him that you are proud of him.
Because honestly, honey, if a secret love of greasepaint and mini cars is your biggest problem, you should count yourself as lucky. Honk that big red nose once for me, sweetness!
Sincerely,
Miss Behave
I should just leave. Leave this town, leave this job, leave everything. Squeezing my eyes shut, the image of Hunter flashes in front of my face.
It's been two days since I’ve spoken to him. I ran away the other night, I know it's not the most mature thing in the world to have done and I realize that, but it's what I chose to do. I apologized for it on his voicemail, but he didn't return my calls, probably mortified by our kiss as much as I was.
It was a mistake. All of this is a mi
stake.
Staring at the letterhead with the silly mountain and eagle and Egyptian-eye thing on it, I tear open the envelope. My mother, apparently, wants to join a secret society. One that has its own, oh-so-secret letterhead. Peachy.
Still, she helped me out by getting me into UMass Oakville’s record department, and that would have taken weeks and weeks to do on my own. Okay, so all I have to do is write a five-paragraph essay about a woman who is a role model for me. What is this, fourth-grade?
I pull over my laptop and get writing.
"Hey there, Babygirl, I got us a pizza, come on in."
Dad. Great. I turn around to close the front door behind me, noticing a car with two men in it, driving at snail’s pace in front of the house. I shift the grocery bag into one arm and wave with the other. They grimace. Lovely. Who the hell are those guys?
I shut the door.
Dad walks up to me and gives me a hug, squishing the groceries between us. My stomach lurches, suddenly sick of the take-it-as-I-can-get-it nature of our relationship.
No. This is silly. Life is short, I have to enjoy the time I have with the people I love, no matter how fleeting.
And as we make my way into the kitchen and I unpack my reusable bag of goodies, Dad engages Gen in conversation. He clearly feels that Gen is doing something worthwhile.
His eyes are wide as he listens, hanging on every word that she says. He asks questions, she answers, and the two of them laugh. I take a deep breath, wondering what it would feel like to have dad hang on my every word like that and I open the box of pizza.
Mushrooms. Dad knows I hate mushrooms.
I grab a plate down from the cabinet and slowly slide a piece pizza onto the plate. Grabbing a napkin, I pick off the mushrooms and take a seat at the table.
"Where were you, Babygirl? I was getting worried the pizza would get cold before you got home."
"Out." He was worried? He cared? That’s funny. He didn't call.
Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1) Page 12
