Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  “There.” He points to the glove compartment. “I think there are condoms in there.”

  “Oh really?” I laugh. “You keep condoms in your truck?”

  “From a while ago,” he says, watching me handle his cock. “It’s been a long time. Really. See if—” He groans.

  I arch over and open the box to dig through papers until I find two condom packages.

  “I wonder if they’re still good,” I say, examining the packages and torturing him with my stall. He grabs one from me and rips it open, sheathing himself before I can continue teasing him.

  Then he gasps when I impale myself on him with one quick lunge.

  “Oh, damn,” he groans. “I would like to have this everyday with you. Every single damn day.”

  I smile down at him and keep lunging and thrusting against him with my knees planted on either side of his seat. I hold his headrest to steady myself as I move faster and let my head fall back. Carson is holding my ass and thrusting into me while his hands and mouth are on my breasts. I focus on one thing only, pumping and thrusting, building up to my release. I can sense Carson holding back so he doesn’t come too soon, but he’s in overdrive, too. He trembles beneath me, trying to maintain control, yet his quiet grunts give him away.

  He begins rubbing two fingers against me where our flesh keeps slamming together. The sensation he creates with those two fingers and his lusty expression is enough to drive me over the edge.

  “Come,” he commands, but it is really a plea.

  The delicious spasms come in robust waves and grow more intense as I look down at Carson and my naked body against him. I buck harder against him until the pleasure is pouring out of me like a sieve. Carson wraps one hand around my ass and the other behind my head so I don’t slam into the steering wheel. Then he pounds into me, ramming quick thrusts until he shouts my name with his release.

  We’re both breathing hard as he wrenches me back into his lap with a full embrace. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and rest my head against his neck, still panting. It’s only then that I feel my leg cramping from the tight space, but I don’t want to disrupt our moment together.

  “You’ve lived here five months and we’ve had sex twice,” he says between breaths into my hair. “So, this should be enough evidence for your question. No, we’re not about sex, but I sure like when we are.”

  I reluctantly climb off him and get dressed.

  “You’re so quiet,” he observes as he fastens his jeans.

  I lean against my seat and study his beautiful features. He plays with a few tendrils of my hair and caresses my face.

  “I think I always wanted you. After a while, when I slept with…” I decide not to mention Dylan’s name.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “I always imagined I was with you when I wasn’t.”

  He smiles. “But that’s a good thing, right? Lucky me.”

  “Is it a good thing? Or do I make poor decisions?”

  “I don’t understand,” he says, his hand holding my chin.

  “Never mind.”

  “Don’t never mind me. Who do you think of when you’re with me?”

  “You. I always think of you.”

  He sighs with relief. “Good. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Enough what?”

  “Enough evidence. Isn’t that enough proof that we’re good together?”

  “No, it’s lust and sex,” I say and he groans with exasperation.

  I know I’m making him more frustrated, yet we all must have our own process of determining what is right for us. Otherwise, my decision process would be like Carson’s black and white version. My process on relationships has morphed into a very convoluted system of self-doubt and denial. It confounds me as well as him.

  “My point is that I have made some poor decisions. Aren’t you concerned that maybe this is one of those times? What if I’m with you because of the sex?”

  “Do you know how many guys would love to hear a woman say that?” He laughs.

  “Except I’m serious.”

  “Yeah. You’re worried that, if you choose to be with me, it could all be based on sex. Ask yourself if you wanted me to fuck you or did you want to be with me.”

  “I want to be with you, but Dylan thought the same thing. Hasn’t he always confused sex with love?”

  “Seriously? You think Dylan’s illness has spread to you? You’re not related by blood. If anyone has a genetic predisposition to mental illness, it’s me,” Carson snaps. “Is all of this indecision you have going on because you have doubts about me or are they doubts about yourself?”

  “It’s all about me, Carson. You’re…”

  “What?” He searches my face for an answer.

  “Perfect. You’re perfect.” I think back to Dylan saying the same thing to me in the diner.

  He shakes his head again and gives me a worrisome smile. “I wish you’d stop doing this to yourself. I don’t know what the hell your parents did to let you torment yourself like this.”

  “That’s odd you’d say that. Dylan was telling me to reach out to my parents. He said they must be good because of the way I turned out,” I scoff. “But then, you and Dylan are very different.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that about your parents. I don’t know them and all my beliefs stem from a pretty erratic childhood, along with my own ideas of what makes a person good.”

  “What makes me good?”

  “You have sex with me and when you’re not with me you think of having sex with me.” He looks pretty proud of that answer.

  I give him the thumbs up. “That was too easy.”

  Carson laughs, but he is guarded with me. “You’re still not sure about me. About us, so we don’t have to talk about it.”

  I can understand him being cautious. He gave himself fully to me weeks ago when he told me he loved me and I have hoarded his affections for me without giving him anything in return. He is politely letting me go.

  “Yeah, I’ve talked in circles on this topic far too long. You have a business to run and I have to get ready for my art show,” I say in my 5 Alpha business-like tone.

  We don’t speak at all on the ride home so Carson turns on the radio for background noise. It is dark when Carson drives up to my house.

  “You’re coming to the party tomorrow night, right?” he asks.

  “Yes. If you still want me there.”

  He scowls. “Shit. You’re the only person I care about seeing there. If you don’t get that by now, then we really are screwed. My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

  I inhale slowly. His words are a soothing balm.

  Thirty-Three

  We order our designer dresses online after searching for sales and have them shipped overnight. They arrive early and we gleefully pull them from their shipping boxes. Lauren is modeling her very skimpy dress for us in Aunt Virginia’s room where there’s a full-length mirror. We squeal, drunk on our excitement, as Lauren’s lanky legs look ridiculously long in her platform stilettos. Her dress is made of a gold mesh fabric that resembles a snug, gauze bandage wrapped around her and it barely covers her lady parts. She’s rail thin, but the dress gives her the appearance of a fuller bosom so she’s pleased. The gold also complements her blond hair.

  Imogene’s dress is a rich burgundy velvet and, against her long, dark mane and her alabaster skin, she looks like a voluptuous, over-sexed, fairy princess.

  My dress is simple, black, short and sleeveless with a plunging neckline that almost reaches to my belly button. The back scoops almost as much as the front. I will be very self-conscious walking into the party if other women are not wearing their sexiest dresses, too.

  “Do I wear my hair up?” I ask, holding my hair in a twist on my head.

  “No,” Lauren says. “If you were accepting an Oscar tonight, I’d say wear your hair up. We’re going for fun and sexy, so hair stays down.”

  “All-righty,” I reply.

  “
I’m going to do your hair,” Imogene says. “I need to keep my fingers busy because they really want to light a cigarette.”

  Imogene spends an hour making great spiral curls with the curling iron as well as extra curls with a twist of her fingers. She is meticulous and only sprays enough hair product on to hold the curl without making my hair sticky. Then she does my make-up, arching my eyebrows and filling out my lashes. When I look in the mirror I’m surprised and exhilarated to see my metamorphosis from computer geek to sexy maven.

  “We all look fantastic,” Lauren says. “We should walk around town like this every day.”

  Imogene and I laugh hysterically as we practice walking elegantly.

  “I have an extra surprise,” Imogene announces.

  “You’re pregnant?” Lauren asks and I gawk at her.

  “No,” Imogene snaps. “Jeremy is escorting us to the ball and he will be our designated driver.” She grins and Lauren cheers.

  “You asked him out?” I ask.

  “No, I couldn’t bring myself to actually say the words, but I masterfully manipulated him into asking me out,” Imogene says.

  “How?” Lauren asks. “Maybe I could try that on Leo.”

  “He came in for lunch at the diner and I mentioned that we really want to go to Carson’s party, but can’t risk driving my shit-mobile, so Jeremy nonchalantly said he’ll swing by to pick all of us up.”

  “Was Dylan there when you said that?” I ask. “Because he knows my car runs fine.”

  “Yes, but Dylan is a good sport and played along. He never mentioned a word to Jeremy about your car.” Imogene is smug with her conniving.

  “Jeremy offered to drive because he wants to take you,” Lauren says. “He wasn’t fooled by your damsel in distress act. Please, he’s probably relieved you gave him an excuse to take you.”

  “Well, but that’s even better, right?” Imogene does her best Jessica Rabbit pose.

  “Abso-fucking-lutley,” Lauren adds. “The nice boy likes you.”

  I smile, happy for Imogene, yet it reminds me how I have squandered my rare opportunity with a nice boy. Two nice boys, in fact, but one boy in particular.

  Imogene actually waits on the second floor and we yell to signal her when Jeremy’s truck comes up the driveway. He stands in the front hall, looking like a timid businessman and watches Imogene descend the stairs in slow motion. He is bowled over when he sees her and stutters.

  Lauren is less patient with Imogene’s theatrics. “Get the lead out, Scarlet. Tara is burning and we’ve got a party to go to!”

  We wear sneakers and carry our heels out to Jeremy’s truck so we don’t slip in the snow. Lauren brings along a beach towel to dry our sneakers and an emergency bag of who-knows-what for any wardrobe crisis we may have. These country girls have every angle covered.

  My stomach is doing somersaults as we approach Carson’s home. It’s lit up and, within all the windows we can see the crowd of people already gathered in his home. All three of us hold on to Jeremy as we walk up the path to the front door. Jeremy has a sheepish grin as we enter and all these faces watch him walk in with three glammed up women teetering alongside him.

  I look around and see Archie, Lois, Eleanor, and Imogene’s parents taking over the living room couches. Bonnie’s diner is closed for the night so everyone can attend the party, which is being catered by a popular restaurant from another town. There are servers everywhere in black outfits with white aprons, holding out trays of cocktails and appetizers. A deejay on the second floor is playing a mix of loud tunes and the dining area has been turned into the dance floor. My head is still roaming around, checking out all the people I don’t know. They fill every room upstairs and downstairs.

  Imogene stays with Jeremy while Lauren grabs my arm. “Let’s find the bartender. That’s where the single men hang out.”

  She steers me through the people with incredible determination and I’m impressed with her tenacity. I’ve never gone to a party with any agenda in place like Lauren’s scheming. For me, showing up at a party at all is a success in itself.

  Some young, attractive guy recognizes Lauren and reaches out to touch her and say hello. “Not now! Excuse me.” She brushes past him.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Who cares?” She continues dragging me into the casual dining area of the kitchen. “Bingo. The bar. The bartender. The men.”

  “You are good at this.”

  When the men at the bar see us, a path to the bar instantly opens up like the parting of the Dead Sea.

  “You’re like Moses,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Look again. Am I an ancient old man or do I know how to work this dress?”

  “You have a wow factor that’s off the charts, but I hope you remember you can’t sit down in that dress without all your lady parts showing,” I remind her.

  “We’ll be dancing, not sitting,” she replies.

  Lauren asks the bartender to make us dirty martinis with extra olives. I take a sip and make a face.

  “Oh, grow up,” she says.

  “Stop saying that or I’m not going to be your sidekick.” My roving eyes are searching for Carson.

  “Geez, don’t look so worried. Of course he’s here. It’s his party,” Lauren says wryly.

  “Lauren! Jess!” Dylan calls from across the room. He pushes his way through the men and gives us each a kiss on our cheeks. “You two look great.” He looks positively dashing in his tailored black suit with a grey shirt and tie.

  “Yes, we do,” Lauren agrees. She holds up her empty martini glass for the bartender to refill.

  “She’s going to be plastered at this rate,” I whisper into Dylan’s ear. “You have to get Leo to ask her to dance and keep her dancing.”

  “I’m on it,” he whispers back. “I need to talk to you, too.” He rushes off, hopefully to wrangle the shy Leo into entertaining the most energetic girl at the party.

  Lauren begins her second martini when Dylan hustles Leo over to her and takes her drink. “Lauren, Leo wants to dance,” he says. “Have at it.”

  Lauren takes Leo’s arm and dances her way over to the dining area and the hopping dance floor. Leo looks back at Dylan with an indiscernible expression.

  “Is that fear?” I ask Dylan.

  “No, that expression says ‘How did I get so fucking lucky?’”

  “Really? You got all that from his bulging eyes and clenched mouth?”

  Dylan laughs. “I live with the guy. He’s gaga for her, but he’s a little slow in doing something about it.”

  “Interesting.”

  We observe Lauren taking over the dance floor with her waving arms and leggy kicks. She could have been a Rockette. Leo is much more passive and looks like he’s jogging in place. Dylan and I both burst out laughing.

  “You’re not drinking this,” Dylan says, taking my martini and putting it on the bar.

  “No, much too strong for me.”

  “Come over here,” he says, leading me to the small passage between the dining area and the kitchen where a quiet reflection fountain blocks out some of the music and voices. We are alone in the space.

  “What did you say to Carson at the shop yesterday?” Dylan demands and his abrupt change from party guy to inquisitor surprises me.

  “Not much. He gave me a tour of the new addition. It’s very impressive—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know that part. You left and he immediately left. Did you two meet up? Did something happen?”

  I gulp air and let my eyes wander over to the wall of cascading water that plunges down the concrete wall into a rectangular pool of still water as I try to think of what to say. I’m certainly not going to tell Dylan that I had his brother drive me to the Ridge and then we had sex in the truck.

  “I’m only asking because when he saw you at the shop he was happy. When I got here today to help him set up for the party, he looked like a guy who really didn’t give a shit about anything and that’s not like Carson. Did
you say something to him?”

  Wasn’t I in this same conversation with Carson when he interrogated me about Dylan? “Carson has been very nice to me, but I’m still a disappointment to him. Nothing has changed in that area.”

  “Something has,” Dylan says. Watching him cross his arms to contemplate the issue of his brother makes him look so much older, as if he has learned these skills from observing or mimicking his brother. “Have you spoken to him tonight?”

  “I haven’t even seen him yet.”

  “Great,” Dylan mutters. “You look gorgeous by the way. Carson’s going to have his heart ripped out when he sees you.”

  “Stop it, Dylan. May I remind you that you’re known for blowing things out of proportion? Did it occur to you that maybe Carson is too busy having fun to even care if I’m here?”

  “Yeah, right. Good one, Jess,” he says and then looks past me and smirks. “Well, well, well. I’ll let you two figure this out.”

  I turn around to see what he’s looking at. Carson is striding through a group of women, including Gemma who looks stunning. He says hello to them, but doesn’t stop to chat and doesn’t take his eyes off me the whole time it takes him to make it across the large room to the little alcove where I thought Dylan and I were perfectly hidden.

  “Hey, brother.” Dylan smirks again as if they have some secret between them.

  Carson glares at Dylan and then looks directly at me. “Jessica.”

  Is it ever a good sign when someone uses your full name with menacing eyes?

  “If you’ll excuse me, I see a few dozen women that want to dance with me. That’s how popular I am,” Dylan says, making me giggle and I have to cover my mouth to suppress them. Then Dylan winks at me and taps Carson on the shoulder. “Tell her how beautiful she looks. That’s always a good way to start a conversation with a woman.”

  Dylan leaves us, laughing in a smug way now that he’s the one to be the voice of reason.

  There’s something different about Carson. I’m so used to his tussled hair and beard stubble paired with his work jeans and boots. Tonight he shaved and looks very debonair with his hair slicked back more than usual. I can’t see him using hair gel, although somehow, every part of his body and wardrobe is working his look. I know he doesn’t have to spend any time on grooming the way we women slave over our appearance with sharp tools and dangerous appliances. It takes us hours to work those razors and hair devices, not to mention squeezing into the small, slinky fabrics. I imagine Carson showering, flipping his hair back and throwing on the first suit he sees in his closet. He has a casual elegance; dressy, cool and incredible sexy. The dusty jeans and tool belt have been replaced with a black suit, a black shirt without the tie and the top buttons undone. He’s a masterpiece, made for that suit.