by Joya Ryan
I need to figure out what the hell to do to get you out of my brain. Maybe small talk. Break the ice.
“House is dark in there, never remember it being that dark.”
You frown at me. “The lights are out,” you tell me like I’m a moron. Your delicate shoulder shrugs, knocking off the thin strap of your tank top and making me hard yet again for the millionth time today. “The power company will turn them back on within a few hours.”
“Turn them back on?”
You continue to walk down the driveway until we’re almost to the end. “Yeah, I was late paying the bill. With my brother gone, we don’t have much of an income.” You sound defensive and I wasn’t trying to give you hell. I just didn’t know you had your power turned off.
“Do you need help? I can give you some money—”
“Don’t you dare say another word to me,” you snap. You stop walking and face me. All fire and anger in a small tank top and cutoff shorts. Damn it, your creamy legs are gorgeous but you’re furious. And you are face to face with me.
“I don’t need your charity and there is no going rate for fucking me—” you air quote the word fuck. “–So whatever reason you’re here, don’t pretend to do me any favors.”
I laugh. Not a gut laugh and I’m not laughing at you. You caught me off guard by various things you just said. First, “Fucking you?” I ask. “We didn’t.”
“You know what I mean,” you wave a hand at me.
No, I don’t. Because I hate to break it to you, sweet girl, but fucking is very different than me fingering you for a few minutes.
“Did I hurt you?” My voice is softer than I meant.
Your big blue eyes shoot up and hit me like a thousand fifty-pound dumbbells.
“No,” you say. “You didn’t hurt me. You…I felt…lots of things. But not pain.”
You fold your lips; you’re holding back something.
“What?”
You shake your head. “I’m certain now that I didn’t…um…you know…before you.”
I raise a brow and a victorious smile spreads on my face. “You haven’t come before I made you. Is that what you’re saying?”
You nod.
I like that. I suspected, and I like it now that it’s confirmed.
“It didn’t hurt, but I can feel it today. Feel you, I mean. What we did.”
Your voice is soft and perfect and just talking about “what we did” makes me want to relive it. Only more. There’s so much more I want to show you. Do to you.
“You’re a virgin,” I confirm again. I want to hear you say it. Say that no one has ever touched you. Say that I will be the only one to touch you.
Shit, how did my mind stray this badly? Because all I can think about is you and your perfect body and trying to get back inside of it.
“Yes,” you say. “And you told me to leave. You’re an asshole.”
“True.”
I can’t deny that. I am an asshole. And you deserve better. But it’s because I’m an asshole that I’m here. I can’t stay away and I’m selfish. I want another hit of you, Shay. I want to get high on you. You gave me a hint of something I’ve been missing. A cleanness. A calm. And I’m jonesing for another fix.
“That’s why you’re mad at me? Because I told you to leave after making you come?”
“Yes,” you say harshly. “Now I’m mad at you for saying what you did just now. I don’t want your money, Coe.”
“But if you need help—”
“I don’t. I have a scholarship to the University of Nevada and I’ll be going at the end of the summer. I’m trying to find a job until then. I can take care of my grandma. I don’t need help. I don’t need my brother…”
You trail off. You’re trying to convince me. Maybe convince yourself. Either way, you’re impressive. You work hard. Have a scholarship? I knew you were smart, but Jesus. You’re going to get out of here. Going to be amazing. You already are. And you’re thinking of this summer and your grandmother. Las Vegas is a few hours away. You’re going to have a good life because you’re a good girl.
“Fine, you don’t need a lot of things. But you want me…don’t you?”
You press your lips again. God, I love that. I want to feel those lips on mine. Feel them on my chest. My cock.
“I wanted you, and I threw myself at you. You’ve been with half the women in this town and rejected me.”
I laugh again. “Jesus, Shay, you think I rejected you? I was trying to do what was best for you.”
“I’m not a child!” you snap.
“No shit!” I snap back. “You’re fucking ripe. Do you have any idea what I want to do to you? It would hurt. I can guarantee it.”
“I don’t care. I want it. Stop trying to protect me from you. I just want a moment. A night. I don’t even care how long. You’re the one I want it with. I don’t want to leave this town without knowing you.”
I frown. “You want me to fuck you before you go off to college?”
“Forget it. Maybe you’re too thick to understand what I’m saying.”
Oh, clever girl playing the “smart” card, huh? Well I may be thick, but you need a lesson in the real world, baby.
You turn to walk back up your driveway. I’m losing you. Again. Nothing was accomplished, other than you hating me more and me feeling like a piece of shit. I’m more aware of your situation now and that makes it worse. My feelings are all over the place and I can’t get a handle on anything except the fire you’re lighting in my chest.
“You’re more than ten years younger than me,” I say.
You stop and turn to face me. “And you’re still an asshole.”
“But you think there’s hope for me.”
“Yes, I do.” That small smile that slips out is enough to make my heart beat faster. What I’d do to see that smile more.
“Everyone knows I’m an asshole, but you’re still eighteen and everyone can’t know about certain things.”
“You mean, like us being together?”
I nod. I would never keep you a secret due to anything about you. I have to keep you a secret for you. Mature or not, you’re still young. Still leaving after the summer. My reputation would only taint you. I won’t have that.
But I want you.
I warned you how selfish I am.
“Understood,” you say. Then you walk back into your house.
Chapter 3
“You look like shit,” my sister, Mic, says to me. If one more of my siblings tells me I look like shit, I’m going to lose my mind. Once again, I look like shit because I saw you a few days ago, at your house, with your grandma leering at us. And you left me with one single word:
Understood.
No, Shay. No, I don’t understand. Are we something? Nothing? Whatever the hell our conversation led to still has me reeling, not sleeping, and thinking of you and the high you give me. So, yeah, I look like shit. Because I need another hit of you. Then maybe I could sleep. Focus on this race coming up at least. Focus on something other than fucking you.
I sit down on the barstool and Mic slides me a Coke. Do you have any idea how much I want a beer? Alcohol was never my problem. Drugs were. But it’s probably a slippery slope so when I went clean and sober, I meant it in every sense.
“Girl problems?” Mic asks and leans a hand on the bar top opposite me. She takes good care of her place. Her bar. Her show. She’s a tough woman and I love her deeply. I don’t worry about her. She’s stronger than Trade and I put together. She’s also the baby of the family. Still, she makes a good living with her bar and loves it here in Mojave.
“Why the hell would you ask me that? Do I ever have girl problems?” I say.
“No, which is why I’m asking. When a man starts looking to be the shape you’re in, it’s women or…”
I glance at my sister. She has similar features to Trade and I. Dark hair, olive skin. But she’s lovely in a way my brother and I can never be. She’s also a tiny thing. Trade and I got our f
ather’s tall frame and physique. I alone inherited his addict predisposition.
She does have one thing just like Trade though, that worried look.
“I’m not having problems with anything,” I emphasize the last word. Because we both know anything means drugs.
When will people stop worrying about me? When will they trust I’m sober for good?
Maybe when I grow the fuck up and stop wanting you. Maybe when I get out of Mojave. Maybe when my “job” of dirt racing goes to the next level. Maybe this is all my own shit. I’m not unhappy, but I’m not happy either. I need to get it together. I need to focus on this big race coming up because that’s what qualifies me for Las Vegas in the fall and thus, that next fucking step of earning more money and being happier. Isn’t that what makes people happy? Money? I’m the wrong person to ask since—once upon a time—I was looking for happiness at the end of a straw up my nose.
“I’m fine, Mic. Just thinking about the future.”
“You’re going to do great at the race. You have a sponsor now. You’re rising up, Coe. You’re practically a star around here and you’re able to support yourself doing what you love. Stop looking so grumpy.”
She has a point. Mic did tend to speak bluntly and usually she had a positive spin on things. Too bad she doesn’t know my newly formed obsession with you. Because that is a problem. One I can’t talk about and one that even though I talked to you about it the other night, it’s still unclear. I wish I could say that I’m thinking about more than getting into your panties.
Does thinking about getting into your bed count?
What about thinking of your smile? Wondering when the last time you laughed was? Or what your dreams are after you finish college. Shit, what are you going to school for? I want to know all those things.
Doesn’t make me any less selfish, though, for wanting your body wrapped around mine. I want to hear you and know you, but I also want to make you beg. Scream.
A clack, clack, clack sound is coming from outside. And getting closer. I look toward the front door of the bar and, Jesus, were your ears burning? I can see you through the windows. You’re going to walk right in here…wearing that.
A black and gray pleated skirt, tight white shirt, and your hair up in a fiery red bun. Are you trying to make me come in my pants with this Catholic schoolgirl outfit you’re rocking?
I stand up and kick back my stool. “Be right back,” I say to Mic.
I can’t see you right now. Mic would see through me. I need to hide. You like what you’ve reduced me to, Shay? You have me fucking hiding from you out of fear that I’ll lay you across this bar and fuck you in your little skirt.
Mic’s eyes are on me, so I head to the back like I’m going to the bathroom. Only I duck into the corner so I can see you walk in, but you can’t see me. Mic didn’t notice my tactics and her attention is on you now. Thank God it’s slow so I can hear your conversation.
“Good afternoon, Michelle,” you say to Mic.
“You have to be twenty-one to be in my bar,” Mic says to you harshly. I know she doesn’t like you. It’s your last name. It’s your brother. I’m pretty sure you know that too. But I want to yell at Mic to stop being a bitch to you.
“I’m not drinking. I actually wanted to give you this.” You hand over a piece of paper. I can feel Mic’s scorn from here.
“Resume?”
You nod. Your smile lifting. “Yes, I was hoping to apply here. I saw your sign in the window that you need some part-time help.”
“No,” Mic says instantly.
Damn it, Mic. Knock it off.
“Oh, um, perhaps I could be a dishwasher or server? I don’t know the rules on being twenty-one and serving.”
“You can’t be a bartender; technically, you can be a waitress, dishwasher, whatever. But not work the bar itself.”
“That’s great! Well, um, I have experience in the restaurant business and have my food handling certification.” You point to your resume and it’s fucking adorable. So much that I hate myself more for wanting you.
“I’ll keep you on file,” Mic says with finality.
Your mouth opens, then closes. Whatever you were going to say, you don’t. I wish you would have. Because you’re fighting for a job, for money, for your education, and the lights in your damn house to stay on. And you got all dressed up to do it. Only to get rejected.
That word sticks to my skull.
Rejected.
You said once that I had rejected you.
I didn’t, but that’s what you think. I can see how it hurts you. I see it on your face, right here and now. I wonder what your face looked like when I let you walk away from my truck that night.
I’m sorry, Shay.
I’ll make it right.
I may not totally understand what the pull you have on me is, but I do understand what you need. I understand that expression you have. I’m going to come through for you. At the very least, for a short while.
“Thank you for your consideration,” you say softly and leave.
Mic shoves your resume behind the bar, the sound of crinkling echoes as I walk back to my seat.
“Why won’t you hire her?” I ask Mic.
She frowns at me. “Are you serious? She’s an O’Brien. Her brother is Randy O’Brien. Remember him? He got you wasted and high and addicted.”
“I did that to myself.”
Mic shakes her head. “Still. She doesn’t need to be around here. She’s young and—”
“And would be good for business. You know that.”
Mic rolls her eyes.
“She’s not her last name, Mic. You, of all people, should appreciate that.”
My sister bites her bottom lip and snarls. I got her on that one. We come from a shit family and hate being thought of as our last name. Not fair she’s holding that against you.
“Isn’t she leaving for school?” Mic asks. “I feel like everyone in town is talking about this girl. She’s legal, gorgeous, blah, blah, blah, but she’s—”
“Smart. I heard she got a scholarship to UN.”
Mic’s brows raise. She’s right, though. The town has been talking about you. We appreciate beauty and brains in Mojave. You haven’t gone unnoticed, Shay. Which is why I can get away with talking about you a little bit.
“She’s probably looking for some money before she leaves for Las Vegas. Why not? She’d be reliable.”
Mic shrugs. “Summer job.”
“That’s all you want to fill anyway, right? Give her a shot.”
Mic glares at me. “Stop pulling that big brother guilt voice.”
“Then stop acting like a spoiled baby sister.”
“Ugh! Fine. I’ll give her the job. But it’s a shitty job of running orders to tables and cleaning dishes in the back.”
“You don’t have to sell me. Call Shay. Maybe have her start ASAP because it looks like the mill just let out.”
I raise my chin toward the door and, sure enough, several guys are coming in, smelling like oil and dirty from work. It’s beer-thirty around Mojave and the night is just beginning. Which means it’s time for me to leave.
#
I’m sprinting harder, faster, the desert disappearing behind me and I’m coming up on my double-wide. A trailer in the desert, surrounded my makeshift racing track, my race car, and hot dry air, sounds like hell to some. I think it’s pretty great. Yeah, it’s a trailer, but it’s not a shithole. There’s not a lot of options around Mojave in terms of housing. It’s just me, anyway. Nice enough for a single guy. Clean. Big. I can’t complain.
I can race and have space anytime I need it. I bought the land, so there’s always room to grow. To build. Set roots. Not that I’m thinking that way.
With dusk on the horizon, I open my screen door and head straight to the shower, kicking my shorts and shoes off as I turn the water on. A long hot run, followed by a cold shower, should hopefully take the edge off of wanting you. Although, you in the skirt today will
likely plague my fantasies tonight.
The cold water hits my chest, splattering up to smack my neck and chin. The smell of summer night air within the growing steam makes me grin. It’s a good smell. Clean, hot, cold, fresh. All of it wrapped up smells like home. Reminds me of you. You have a freshness to you. A cleanness.
I scrub and force myself to think of anything but you. I purposefully go fast and rough all over my skin with soap. I refuse to wonder what your hands would feel like…
Fuck this.
I’m in bad shape and distraction isn’t helping. I need to sleep this off. It’s barely nine and I’m ready for bed just to hope to kick this need…this high I’m craving. You.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I walk to the kitchen and straight to the fridge. A tapping at the front door stops me. I glance out. There’s no headlights. Who the hell is here?
I walk to the front door, open it and…
“Shay?” Your name on my mouth feels good. Just like you on my mouth.
“Hey,” you say shyly. You’re still wearing that skirt and it’s all I can to do to keep from getting hard. You’d notice pretty quickly since I’m in nothing but a damn towel.
I hold the door open and stand there. You won’t look at me. Your eyes start to travel the length of my abs to my chest, then you glance away. Water is still dripping down my shoulders to my torso. You watching the water stream along my skin, sweet Shay? Is that why there’s a hint of pink in your cheeks?
“I just came to say thank you,” you whisper. “I know you got me the job at your sister’s bar.”
“You’re qualified and reliable. I put in a good word.”
Your eyes meet mine. Wide and innocent. Your full mouth opens slightly. “Thank you.”
I shake my head. You don’t have to thank me for a thing. You’re the one who works hard. The one who goes out and tries every day. I just have the same name as the bar owner. No big deal.
You look down at my chest again and this time I watch your eyes go a little further to the low-slung knot in my towel. I flex my abs for good measure and your breath catches. You counting them now, baby? I’m cut and defined and you seem to appreciate that.
“Like what you see?”
