The Merry-Go-Round

by Donna Fasano

  Scott let go of her hand and began to undress. . .himself. Several awkward seconds passed with her just standing there watching him. Then, not knowing what else to do, she slipped off her shoes.

  The act of unzipping her skirt and unbuttoning her blouse doused the fire that had been blazing inside her. Greg had always—

  No. She shook her head, refusing to go there. This was neither the time nor the place for memories of sex with her ex.

  Okay, so making love with Scott was going to be different. Different could be good. Different would be good. Different was what she really wanted, wasn't it?

  She stripped down to her panties and bra, just one of several small, cute scraps of matching lace sets she'd bought and worn during her last couple of dates with Scott just in case an opportunity like this should arise.

  He padded to the bed, completely naked, and threw back the coverlet and top sheet. He turned to her and circled his hands like someone exercising away a bout of carpal tunnel, the look on his face either anticipation or impatience, she couldn't tell which.

  "Come on, come on," he encouraged.

  Gut instinct told her he didn't appreciate in the least her sexy undies, that his words and hand gestures were signs that he wanted her nude. So she slipped out of her expensive underwear.

  She stood next to him as he ripped open the condom package. No touching. No whispering of endearments. No intimacy at all. The scene became a little too stark and surreal for her.

  Once he'd successfully donned the single-digit latex glove, he held up the sheet for her to climb into bed. She eased onto the mattress, sliding her legs down between the cool, cotton sheets. If she could only get him to kiss her again; she was certain the sparks would fly once more.

  Scott hopped into bed beside her. "Okay, let's get this party started."

  Get the party started—all over again—is what they would have to do. She'd been oh-so-ready just a few minutes ago. She'd felt primed. Deliciously horny. Damp in her nether regions even. But the strange disconnect between their passionate foreplay on the couch and the 'undressing phase' had completely knocked her off kilter.

  She stroked his chest, determined to get back into the grove. "Kiss me."

  "All right," he groaned.

  He rolled toward her. . .and things suddenly turned oddly surreal.

  Lauren realized she'd lost her groove, totally and completely. She tried to find it—she closed her eyes, focused—but the harder she tried to concentrate on the moment, the more bizarre the circumstance became. All too quickly, he went still.

  "Man, oh, man, that was good," he said, sliding into the spot next to her and placing a perfunctory kiss on her jaw. "That was so good."

  Sweat had turned his brow slick and glossy. He heaved a deep sigh, gave his pillow a thump and closed his eyes.

  She blinked in the dim light, and then she whispered his name.

  "Mmmm?" But his breathing even and easy.

  If Lauren's mind hadn't been spinning in such a state of confusion, she'd have laughed at the utter ridiculousness of the situation. She'd been the one to suggest they have sex. She'd been the one who had come prepared with lacy undies and ribbed condoms. For her pleasure. (Yeah, right.) She'd been the one in desperate need of a Big O.

  Oh, yes, if she could collect herself and think straight, she would see the hilarity of it all. But as it was, she merely stared up at the ceiling, feeling hollow and unsatisfied, as she wondered what in the world had just happened.

  Chapter 14

  There are worst things than bad sex. . .right?

  ~Lauren Flynn

  "Wrong." Norma Jean chuckled. "But judging from the pitiful look on your face, Lauren, you really do want to believe that." She dunked her tea bag into a mug of hot water. "Well, I'm your friend, woman. And I know you wouldn't want me to tell you anything but the cold, hard truth. There is absolutely nothing worse than bad sex."

  Lauren grimaced. She'd been afraid that's what she was going to hear.

  Her sexual fiasco with Scott had upset her so badly that she'd come into the office and spilled her guts. She'd told Norma Jean everything, from the monotonous dinner dates to the toe-curling good-night kisses. Recounting her fleeting and ineffectual bedroom romp had tightened a fist-sized knot in her stomach.

  "Well, you know," Lauren confessed, "maybe it was partly my fault. You and I both know I'm, you know. . .having that 'O' problem. I've definitely let things go too long."

  "I'll say." Norma snickered.

  Ignoring her, Lauren squirted honey onto her teaspoon and stirred it into her tea. "I was strung tighter than a guitar string, Norma Jean. Maybe I was so desperate that my body just—" she shrugged "—shut down."

  Norma just shook her head. "Don't you dare take the blame for this. Let me remind you of the description you gave not two minutes ago." She ticked off the first item with a lift of her thumb. "You said the moment you walked into his bedroom it was every man for himself."

  Lauren cringed. Yep, she'd said that.

  "You said," Norma continued, straightening her index finger, "it was if you'd taken your car in for a complete overhaul and all you got was your oil checked."

  The knot in her stomach tightened. Yep, she'd said that, too.

  "You said—" Norma Jean's brown eyes flashed with indignation "—it took more time for you to blink twice than it had for him to get his rocks off. . .and then the selfish son of bitch fell asleep before you could say goodnight Irene." She lost count as she held up both hands, fingers splayed wide.

  Steam rose from Lauren's mug when she picked it up. "Now, now," she chided softly. "I never called him names. And I don't know any Irene." She blew across the surface of her tea before taking a tentative sip. "I read in somewhere that sex can have that affect on some men. They become so relaxed, they just fall asleep."

  Norma shook her head again, her shoulders rounding. Apparently, her angry storm had blown itself out.

  "I can't believe you're trying to find excuses for this creep. Or that you're willing to somehow make this your fault. The way you described how you gathered up your clothes and skulked out of there so you wouldn't have to face him makes it sound like you feel guilty."

  Lauren couldn't deny the truth. She had felt guilty. She'd dressed as if the house had been ablaze, and she'd driven away feeling completely confused. Should she feel angry that he'd seemed to forget all about her, or should she be embarrassed because she'd somehow dropped out of the game?

  Even though she had made all those complaints to Norma about her disappointing sexual experience, Lauren still couldn't get it out of her head that Scott seemed the right man for her.

  "He really isn't a creep." She strived to keep the whine out of her tone, but knew she failed.

  "Uh-huh, right. He isn't a creep. He's just a selfish jerk who engages in lopsided love making."

  The terminology was too fitting not to be appreciated, and here Lauren had thought her overshadowing gloom would keep her from finding anything funny in this conversation. Once she got her mirth under control and she'd wrestled down her grin, she stressed, "He really is a nice guy, Norma Jean."

  Picking up her mug once again, Norma muttered, "Outside of the bedroom, maybe." She rested her hip against the edge of the counter. "Please tell me you plan to forget about him, Lauren. If you try to ignore his obvious lack of prowess, you're in for nothing but unhappy frustration. There are tons of fish in the sea, hon. Do yourself a favor and recast your line."

  Lauren absently picked up a vanilla wafer from the basket and took a bite. The crisp cookie was sweet on her tongue.

  Maybe Norma Jean was right. Maybe she should just give up the idea of going out with Scott. But maybe she could salvage this. Maybe she could talk to him. Maybe she could make him understand that she needed a little more attention, or rather some attention—

  "Oh, hell," Norma said in obvious disgust. "I can see that brain of yours churning. There are wisps of smoke coming out of your ears. You're still trying
to figure out how to make it work, aren't you?"

  Lauren sighed guiltily, popping the rest of the cookie into her mouth and brushing the crumbs from her fingers.

  "Honey, I can't stress enough how important good sex is in a healthy relationship. Couples need to be compatible. They need to pay close attention to each other's needs. They have to feel comfortable enough to enjoy each other. There can't be any self-consciousness in the bedroom, Lauren. There has to be lots of give and take. Lots."

  Something about Norma Jean changed during this short lecture. Lauren couldn't say if it was the animation in her voice or her facial expression or her body language, but something made Lauren's attention perk.

  She studied her friend, noting the devilishness that sparkled in her brown gaze. Suddenly, Lauren felt squeamish. "Oh, no," she breathed. "Don't tell me."

  Norma's grin inched from ear to ear. "Oh, yeah. You got it." She waggled her fingers over her head and performed a happy little shimmy of her fanny.

  Lauren took a small backward step. "But you two haven't been seeing each other that long."

  "Longer than you and your Rapid Ralphie."

  Lauren was too bowled over to even think about taking up for Scott. "But my dad is a gentleman."

  Heat flushed Norma Jean's cheeks. "Oh, I totally agree. He is. A very conscientious gentleman, I might add. He did things to me that I've never—"

  "Norma! TMI! TMI!" Lauren slammed down her mug, plainly seeing a good portion of the contents slosh over the rim but caring only about running away as fast as her feet could carry her. She rushed from the break room, Norma's delighted laughter ringing in her ears.

  "Come on, Lauren," she called after her. "Old farts gotta have fun, too."

  Making a bee-line for her office, Lauren snatched up her jacket and purse and then headed back into the reception area.

  "I've got to make a quick run to the barn," she told Norma Jean who now stood in the threshold of the break room, leaning casually on the jamb. Lauren tried to ignore the utter delight turning Norma's face to a beautiful and amazing work of art. No doubt about it, the woman looked euphoric.

  "Another one of the carousel horses is finished," she explained, her hand bracing open the front door. "I have to meet Howard and give him a check."

  Without waiting for a reply, she stalked out into the bright sunshine.

  Had Norma Jean actually described what she was doing with grumpy Lew Hunkavic as fun? Lauren shivered, slipping into her car and shoving the key into the ignition.

  As the engine revved to life, she was hit with a realization that forced a loud, incredulous groan from her throat. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

  For the love of Pete, her seventy-year-old father was having better sex than she was. Life just wasn't fair.

  Chapter 15

  The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth

  and sharpen my tongue.

  ~Dorothy Parker

  On a rare Friday afternoon, Lauren had found herself with no client appointments and no court appearances scheduled. She'd told Norma Jean to turn on the answering machine and take the afternoon off, then she'd high-tailed it to the library, checked out half a dozen or so books and was now seated on a makeshift chair made of a rickety wooden sawhorse while she poured over information on merry-go-rounds, a chilled bottle of peach-flavored green tea at her elbow and the silence and seclusion of the barn wrapping her in a restful cocoon. She hadn't felt this relaxed in ages.

  Sure she had work needing to be done, clients with upcoming court dates, briefs to write, case law to research, but in her line of work those things would never go away completely. Add to that the fact that she still had to figure out what she was going to do about Scott. He'd called her cell and left a voice message, and he'd called the office, too, Norma had told her. Lauren wasn't sure what to say to him; all she knew for certain was that she didn't want a repeat of those awful three minutes they'd spent together in his bed.

  However, even though she had unfinished business in both her professional and her personal life, she was in dire need of a break. A break from the office and a break from worrying about her miserable sex life.

  While trolling the internet investigating prices and the best way to sell the carousel animals, she'd seen many a warning to buyers against being deceived and purchasing a figure that wasn't authentic. It had made her curious enough to want check to see what, exactly, made a merry-go-round animal 'genuine' rather than 'fake.'

  Authentic carousel animals, she read, were never carved from a solid block of wood. The carver began with a hollow box that reduced the figure's weight and allowed for normal expansion and contraction of the wood and prevented excess cracking. Lauren knew her animals were hollow. The painter she'd hired, Howard Largent, had told her so. He'd disassembled one of them each week from its metal couplings and carried it to his truck, unaided.

  The hum of an engine outside drew her attention away from the books she'd spread open on the workbench. The motor went silent, and by the time she heard the vehicle door slam shut, Lauren was halfway to the door. She'd been certain Scott, Jr. had classes and had hoped to have the barn and the whole afternoon to herself.

  The wide plank door wobbled on its hinges when she pushed it open. Seeing Greg sauntering across the grassy expanse sent a thrill shooting through her. The reaction was unexpected. Visceral. Uncontrollable.

  She let her gaze dart off to the horizon behind him, pressing cool fingers to her suddenly warm cheek. She jerked her hand from her face, collecting herself with a deep breath.

  "Hey, there." Greg lifted his hand and then let it fall to his side. "I stopped in and had lunch with Lew today and he told me you'd be out here."

  Lauren kept her smile cool. "I haven't had an afternoon off in awhile."

  He stopped a few feet from her. "I called your cell to see if you were busy," he told her. "But it went right to voice mail."

  "I turned it off. I needed a little peace and quiet."

  Greg nodded. His dark eyes darted from her face to her feet to the inner recesses of the barn.

  "If you're busy, I can, ah. . .go. I don't want to bother you."

  "No," she said, her backward step an unspoken invitation inside. "I've got the heater running. Thanks for leaving it behind. I was just doing a little reading." She walked toward the workbench and the books scattered across its surface. "Did you know that European merry-go-rounds turn in a clockwise direction while American-made ones turn counter-clockwise?" She reached the bench and turned to face him. Without waiting for him to respond, she explained further. "Apparently, European craftsmen were focused on mounting the horse properly, so the left flank faces outward." She chuckled as she added, "And in famous American prize-winning tradition, we changed the direction in order to capture the brass ring. Most people are right handed."

  His black eyes shined like polished stones as he studied her face intently. Finally, he said, "I haven't seen you smile in a long time."

  The curl at the corners of her mouth slipped and suddenly she felt self-conscious. "So—" she shoved her hands into the pockets of her cable knit cardigan "—how are you? I haven't seen you for, what? A month?" Since that embarrassing episode on the merry-go-round when she'd nearly lost control. "You doing okay?"

  "Yeah." He nodded, sliding his hands into his back pockets. "I'm doing just fine," he told her. "How about you? You look good, Lauren. You look really good."

  His compliment made her blush. She dipped her chin in an attempt to hide the unsettling reaction and snuggled her hands deeper into her pockets.

  "Lew told me you're seeing someone."

  She nearly gave herself whiplash jerking her gaze up to meet his. A frown bit deeply into her brow. It was difficult to tell if the concern on his face was caused by the news he'd learned or by her reaction to his comment.

  "Is that why you're here? The two of you shouldn't be discussing my—"

  "No, no. Hold on." He lifted up bo
th hands, palms out. "Lauren, no names were mentioned. No details were discussed. You're free to do what you want. I was just. . .making small talk."

  His choice of words was an abrupt reminder of the difficulty she and Scot had, time and again, simply trying to get to know each other. While they'd been together, she and Greg had often debated topics for long stretches of time. Communication had never been a problem between them. Not until the end, anyway.

  As if he'd crawled right into her head and read her thoughts, he said, "I hate walking on eggshells. We used to be able to talk about anything, Lauren. Even if we held opposing views, we could talk about something all day long and not argue. Now all we seem to do when we see each other is fight."

  Thankfully, he didn't mention their last meeting here at the barn.

  Frustration tightened his handsome face. He was right. And it wasn't him. It was her. These days, when it came to Greg, she was always ready for an argument. Even though she'd tried to come to terms with what had happened between them, it seemed that remnants of anger continued to simmer. But she honestly wanted to let it all go. The tension in her neck and shoulders relaxed when she sighed.

  "I am seeing the father of one my clients," she said. "His name's Scott Shaw. We've been out—" a weird sensation swirled in her chest, forcing her gaze to shift from his "—I don't know, a few times."

  Why was it so hard to get that out? She and Greg were divorced; she owed him no allegiance. Yet the idea of him discovering that she'd slept with Scott made her outright panicky. Maybe it wasn't so much him finding out she'd gone to bed with another man as much as it was that she didn't want him knowing the experience had been such an utter nightmare.

  He looked a little confused. "Your dad said he thought things were getting serious. That you were having dinner with his guy several times a week."

  "Why are you so interested?" she asked, pleasantly surprised that she was able to keep her tone light and cordial. "I'm dating. . .so what? You're dating, too. We should be happy for each other."