Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  She’s got this post-fuck glaze in her eyes that is just killing me. I buckle my belt and watch her try to rearrange her now-soaking dress. Dripping wet, smiling, and up to no good. Just my kind of woman.

  “Okay!” she says under her breath. I look at her in the mirror. She gives me an official nod. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  I cough over a laugh. Fuck, who is this girl? I don’t know, but I really like her. She stands right beside me, and I open the door.

  The bartender has her arms crossed and is not looking pleased. “Can’t you read?” She looks down at the crumpled NO FUCKING sign on the ground. It has my boot print over the words, and on the very corner, Lucy’s sandal print too.

  I crouch down, pick up the sign from the ground, and fold it in quarters. As I take my wallet from my pants, I put the sign in my pocket. No way are we leaving without that. I hand the bartender a few twenties. “That’s for the tab.”

  She puts the twenties between her cleavage. She reminds me of a prison guard I once knew and who taught me the valuable lesson: Never fuck around with women in menopause.

  Then Lucy hands her a few hundreds. The bartender looks confused and holds the hundreds out in the air. Crisp new bills, four of them. Lucy wraps her arms around me and pulls me out of the bathroom, past the mystified bartender. As we head out, she turns her head and over her shoulder, she laughs, “That’s for the damage to the sink.”

  We walk across the street, and I see that one of the room doors is open. Inside is the old guy, pushing a vacuum cleaning back and forth.

  “Christ,” I say. “All I want is you horizontal. Give a shit about the carpet.”

  She giggles and then looks up at me. Her hand squeezes mine. The neon light of the vacancy sign makes her eyes shine a little. She looks like she’s up to no good at all.

  “What’s in that pretty little head of yours…” I ask. I tuck her hair behind her ear.

  She gets up on her tiptoes, leans into my ear and whispers, “Race you to the pool!”

  And takes off running.

  6

  I kick off my sandals by the deep end, pretending like I’m going to get undressed. He’s watching me, looking distracted, then he tosses his cell phone onto a lounge chair by my purse. Just as he looks down at his belt to unfasten it, I take a step back, swallow a giggle, and shove him into the pool.

  It’s spectacular. Water goes everywhere, making the concrete slippery and soaking me from head to toe.

  He bobs to the surface, saying, “You bitch!” and laughing. He sweeps his hair back from his forehead. The underwater pool light shows me every muscle under that T-shirt.

  “I never said I sweet, did I?” I put my hands on my hips. “I warned you. I’m not a good girl.”

  He makes a swipe for my ankle, but I sidestep him.

  “I don’t want you good,” he pushes back a little off the wall with his feet, drifting back from me a little. “I want you in here. With me.”

  God, he really is just so handsome. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man with such a perfect mix of sexy and sweet. Absolutely irresistible. And so, with a leap into the air, I plug my nose and cannonball in next to him. He scoops me to him while I’m still underwater. Through the surface above me, I see him shaking his head and laughing. I bring my legs around his body and come up for air. I peel his shirt up off of his head and toss it onto a pool chair.

  On his abdomen, maybe four inches from his belly button, I see a round, dark scar. I run my fingers down his abs, but don’t touch it. He walks me backwards, so we’re not in so deep and my head is above water.

  “Is that…”

  He runs his wet nose along my cheek. More Eskimo kisses. I could get used to this.

  “A gunshot wound, yeah,” he says.

  I swallow hard and look up at him. He looks dark, serious, and focused.

  “Are you okay?” I say. He pulls down the strap of my dress, places a kiss to my skin and nods.

  “I’m fine. But I’m bad news,” he says. “You should know that.”

  His fingers find his way under my panties, and he begins making a small gentle circle around my clit with his thumb.

  I let my head sink so the water comes past my ears. I hear my own breathing, I feel him. My groan sounds like a little rumble of thunder underwater. I feel his abs tighten against my thighs.

  “If this is bad news, good news is seriously overrated.”

  He laughs a little. I feel it in his abs against my body.

  “But I don’t like that idea,” I say, raising my head a little from the waterline.

  Now he’s using two fingers on me. God, oh my God. Not quite touching my clit, not yet.

  “That I’m bad news?” he asks.

  I shake my head, and my hair spreads out in the water. “Of you getting hurt.”

  He hoists me up a little higher. The floating thermometer bounces off of his shoulder. He smiles down at me, that big beautiful smile. “Don’t worry about me, Peaches. It’s you that needs taking care of right now.”

  Then I let my ears go back under the water, close my eyes, and let him do exactly that.

  7

  I open my eyes. I have no idea where I am at first, but then I feel the heat of Vince’s body next to mine. I prop myself on my elbow to get a good look at him. Even the way he sleeps just oozes sex and confidence. He takes up three quarters of the bed and sleeps on his stomach, with his arms folded, every muscle visible. Those shoulders… I place my palm gently on one of them. My hand looks like it belongs to a little girl.

  Then I pull back the sheets and look at his body. He has more scars than I noticed last night. Last night, God. What he did to me. What we did together.

  The gunshot wound is visible back here—a through-and-through, I think they say. The scar is about as big as a quarter, and still healing. It can’t be that old. The scar tissue is still fresh and angry looking. The idea of him on his own in pain, it makes me feel terrible for him. I wonder who helped him through that, if anybody. Hopefully he had someone, but somehow I doubt it. I draw the sheets back up over him and gently tuck him in.

  Peeking out of his jeans on the floor is the sign from the bathroom door. I can see that the marker bled through a little after it went into the pool along with him. I smile to myself. My head is pounding a little, but not bad. My body, on the other hand, is pulsing and my entire lower half aches. Not a bad ache, though. A really, really good one.

  I lie back on the pillows. I didn’t even know sex could be like what we had last night. That’s how sex should be, that’s for sure. After the pool, it only got sexier. We talked, we stayed up half the night. It wasn’t just torrid…

  It was really freaking nice. Sweet. Caring. And a little rough. Just the right kind of rough. Because I do like it rough.

  Phil Collins runs through my head. He wasn’t wrong about that being one sexy song. I touch my face with my fingertips. My skin feels smooth and raw from his stubble.

  I place my finger on the very small of his back and draw it up his spine over the sheet. I notice he wakes up with a smile, not a grumble.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He rubs his eyelids with two fingers and then stares at me, letting loose a growl. He rolls onto his side and reveals a very seriously pronounced hard-on. He’s uncut. I find it incredibly hot.

  As he pulls me across the bed into him, I see the bad news. The ancient motel clock says 11:48 am. Next to it is a little card from the management that says CHECK OUT AT NOON.

  “Check out is in twelve minutes,” I whisper and then put a kiss on his palm.

  “You think I give a shit about check out?” he says, pressing into me from behind.

  Keeping me tight with one hand, he seizes my jaw with the other and turns my face to his. Nothing tender about it. I feel the pressure of his hands compressing my cheeks as his tongue fills my mouth. My lip gets pinched between our teeth, bringing tears to my eyes, but I don’t mind. It feels spectacular, the pain and the pleasure to
gether. He pulls back and climbs on top of me.

  “How do you want it?” he asks. I watch his eyes move up and down over me. He hasn’t ripped open the condom yet. “You want it hard?” he says, gripping my hip with his palm.

  “Sweet,” I say. “I want it sweet.”

  “Shit, yeah,” he says, softening his grip. “For you, I’ll be the sweetest.”

  And we both glance at the condom in his hand.

  I know condoms are supposed to be a good thing. I know they’re safe and sensible—God knows I’ve sat through enough interminable health classes to get that message. But I hate them. I think they’re awkward and they screw up the whole point of it.

  I stare at his body. “Are you clean?”

  He halts, his big fingers only halfway through the condom wrapper.

  Then he nods. Slow and steady. “Are you?”

  I nod back.

  We wait there a second. The AC rumbles in the window.

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  He gets this look on his face, like he’s got something to say but just isn’t sure how to say it.

  “What, what’s wrong….” I hook my legs around his hips and his hard-on rests on my stomach. My nipples perk up in the cool stream of air.

  “I got tested last month,” he says. “In prison.”

  I sniff hard, like I just got slapped. “Well, that wasn’t what I thought you’d say.”

  He starts to move off of me, looking almost ashamed. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  My hands fly to his chest. “Don’t you go anywhere.”

  The shame on his face shifts to surprise. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, and position him at my opening.

  Slowly, so slowly it makes my thighs tremble, he presses into me, bareback. My wetness welcomes him in. He grips my right hand in his, and then brings down my body. “Touch yourself.”

  Our hands flat together, I begin rubbing my clit. It’s tender from so much attention last night. But it’s just right. He hits me so exactly right inside.

  With my hips in his hands, he drives into me sweet, slow, and steady. “I forgot how good this feels.” His eyes flutter and I feel a pinch in my heart. I like bringing him to his knees. I like making him weak. Even if he thinks he’s the one in charge.

  One of his thumbs finds its way to my cheek. The way he controls my body is incredibly hot. “I need to come inside you.”

  My own wetness already dripping down my ass now feels like a flood. His eyes flash. “I need you to come inside me. I need to feel that.”

  He gives me a few rugged thrusts, and growls at the ceiling. “I like you, Lucy. A whole fucking lot.”

  “I can tell,” I tease.

  He glares, so sexy when he narrows those eyes. Too light for his skin. “You’re a nasty little piece of work.”

  “Tell me you don’t love it.”

  “You know I fucking do.”

  I work my clit hard. Then his grunts become brutal, and that’s what does it.

  “Okay,” I whisper. Just on the edge of my orgasm, just that quivering edge when it’s within reach. I focus on it, I reach for it deep inside me.

  “Fuck yeah,” he says with an animal thrust. The bed thumps the wall. “Come with me.”

  I can’t speak. The wave has started and I’m feeling it in my spine along with a cramp in my calves. He made me come so many times last night, I have to fight for this one. But I like it. Chasing it down and giving it to him. “Okay. Okay…”

  “You’re making me come,” he says, now not so in charge. I give him a squeeze.

  He sucks in air and his balls slap my thighs. I’m still coming. The earthquake has infinite aftershocks. He roars my name over and over again. “Lucy, fuck yeah, Lucy. Fuck yes.”

  The image of him driving his cum farther and farther into me is making me insane. The thing I shouldn’t want but do. So, so badly.

  Then, still snarling, he says, “I should be thanking you.”

  “For what?” I say. Everything is going blurry and white again as I tease my clit faster and faster. “You’re doing it again. How are you doing it again…”

  I’m gone. I’m lost. I’m deep in the distant land of the multiple orgasms.

  But through the whooshing in my brain, I hear him answer, “I should thank you for being such a shitty driver.”

  We split the bill, $89 with tax. Then, in the bright light of the morning in the parking lot with faded lines, we stand there in the shadow of that enormous ornamental bear on the front lawn, each one of us holding our bag.

  “I don’t want to say goodbye,” I say.

  “So don’t.” He smiles down at me. “What do you say to lunch?”

  My heart soars. It’s not goodbye. It’s still hello. “Lunch. Definitely.”

  He hoists my suitcase into the trunk and then puts his duffel down on top of it. Then he looks at me. “Was that presumptuous? That you’ll give me a ride?”

  Presumptuous! Johnny Cash, no onions, and using words like presumptuous. I clasp his hand in mine. “Extremely.”

  And he gives me a little slap on the ass as we cross the street.

  The Last Resort, unfortunately, is closed. Their posted hours are AS NEEDED. “Not that they’d have let us in anyway,” I say. “Not unless we showed up with grout and a trowel.”

  “Bolts too. I heard one hit the tile.”

  I snort.

  We get into the BMW and head south. Just a little farther down the road, the ominous yellow sign rears its ugly head: Subway.

  Lunchmeat central.

  “I’m sure we can find somewhere else,” I say. I’m white-knuckling the wheel and grimacing.

  But he cocks his head. “Which we’d do because…?”

  Right. It’s a hard thing to explain. So I decide to just bite the bullet. “It’s fine. Subway is fine.”

  I park. He gets out. I get out. I trot to catch up to him. What do I do? Warn him? Pull out my phone and show him the Trending column?

  He holds the door for me and I pass under his arm again, lingering near his body longer now than I did last night. He narrows his eyes, the fine edges of crow’s feet making him look extra-focused.

  At the counter, I try to lean nonchalantly against the glass case. “I’d recommend chicken or veggies.”

  “I’ve been to Subway before, Peaches.”

  “If you like to live on the edge, there’s always tuna…”

  He crosses his arms. “Got a problem with meats?”

  Oh, if he had any idea. “Just trust me.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. At all.

  The girl behind the deli case coughs. I spin around. She’s sort of sheep-like, somehow, with these little black eyes and her hair a big mass of blonde-white curls all around her face. I order a six-inch Veggie Lover’s on wheat.

  He, on the other hand, orders a twelve-inch Italian on white. With extra salami and ham.

  For the love of God. I have no desire to be the cause of his car getting totaled and him getting something that resembles dysentery in the same 24 hours. Not even the best sex in the world could offset all that. “Who’s your lunchmeat supplier?” I ask the sheepish girl.

  “Don’t know,” she squeaks.

  “What the hell, Helen?” he whispers under his breath. He’s right behind me, I can feel his jeans on the back of my bare thigh again. “I’m a man. I have needs. You got a problem with salami?”

  I feel his hard salami very distinctly against my hams. I’m in a living double entendre.

  Unnnnfff.

  However. There is a digestive system to protect. I disengage from him and step towards a life-size promotional cardboard cut-out of Michael Phelps with a probably poisoned turkey sandwich in his hand. This creates just enough space between me and Vince that I can think straight. When he’s touching me, I find my thoughts get all jumbled up. Like he makes a smoothie out of my common sense.

  “I mean it,” I tell the girl, stepping nearer the counter and looking her right in
the eye. The meets hover ominously in my peripheral vision. I point at the storage room. “Go check. See what name is on the side of the boxes.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Go ahead.” I keep pointing and wag my finger a little.

  She slips off her crinkly food service gloves and shuffles to the back of the store.

  “For someone so sexy, you’re pretty much a pain in the ass,” he says, placing a hand around me and resting it on my hip. “What are you, like a food inspector or something?”

  I don’t answer. I just stare at the stacks of potentially hazardous cold-cut trios in the preparation line. “Food safety. It’s an important part of any road trip.”

  There’s a pause, like he’s thinking. And then he says, “Wait, what?”

  The girl shuffles back, grabbing a new pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall. She says, “Plainfield Meats.”

  God, the wave of relief. Absolution, even. “Have all the salami you want,” I tell Vince, turning to face him. He’s got me caged in around the deli case, one arm on each side of my body.

  “Got any problem with lettuce?” he growls. Between us, I can actually see my own cleavage heaving. Low and dirty, he says, “Tomato? Opposed to mayonnaise, maybe?”

  Has anybody ever sounded so hot talking about condiments? Ever?

  “No problem with any of that whatsoever,” I say, and duck down, heading for the chip rack. I love the cat and mouse with him so damned much. I snatch a bag of salt-and-vinegar Lays, pop it open between my palms, and put a chip in my mouth.

  “Well fuck. I thought you were the perfect girl,” he says, grimacing at the label and making this pinched-up face like he’s about to gag.

  I crunch rebelliously and stare at him as I do. I get up on my tiptoes and whisper, “You should know by now I like things to sting a little.”

  And he shakes his head, smiling, like, I’ll give you some salt and vinegar.

  I move to the soda fountain. From there, I look over my shoulder at him. At the register, he reaches into his pocket. I see the skin of his back with a row of red lines along it. From my own nails.