The Passion Play

by Amelia Hart

  She set her burglar alarm when she went to bed, as well as when she went out.

  The next day – Saturday – he was absent, and it was a relief. Of course he had not come. He had a game tomorrow. He would be at the team's hotel, maybe in some other city. She could have looked it up on the schedule but she did not. She did not need to know.

  Going out dancing was truly enjoyable now she had found the right club - a place where the lighting was better and the music more mellow, easier to dance to. And it was fun to move her body to the beat, to be approached by this man or that one, to accept a drink, to chat. It felt like a wall of cool detachment stood between her and those men, and she accepted that was how an emotionally bruised woman would be, disinterested in connection. It suited her exactly. Yet it was good to know she could fit into this scene if she ever was ready. She drank little, left early, hired a taxi to drive her safely to her car which was parked too far away.

  It was a fun time, now she was less awkward and out-of-place. She took Caroline with her and had a giggly, raucous evening, and was approached less often. She eyed up various men Caroline pointed out, trying to imagine herself bold enough to lure one home. No one truly appealed, which disappointed her only slightly. Her mind was not yet made up to natural conception. Only her stymied libido wanted her to rush things, and mostly she had that well under control.

  Except with regards to Luke.

  He was there again the second Friday night, and it annoyed her, but she tried to put his presence out of her mind, remembering she had never felt afraid of him before.

  Strangely that night it changed things for her to watch other women admire him, pick him out, want to know him better. It made her see him as the desirable man he was. Polite with it, attentive, a nice guy. Respectful. She had seen it all before of course, but then she did not know him well, truly. For her he was a member of the team first and foremost, then the sexy guy with whom she might have scratched an itch. She had objectified him, failed to even consider his viewpoint, and then been shocked and humiliated when he did not just want to put out on demand.

  Remembering her self-absorption, she winced. His assumptions about her grated, but her own about him were embarrassing. He was a man, not a sex toy.

  Goodness, look at him dance. He was one stunning man. She looked away.

  It was completely over-the-top irritating to discover she was comparing other guys to him and finding them falling short, as if he was some gold standard. She wanted to tell him to go away, he was making the others look bad, which was nonsensical. Plus she never got the chance. He never came over to chat. They ignored each other until it was almost a farce.

  Tonight - the third Friday night - she felt irritated, anxious . . . curious. What did he want? Surely it was no coincidence he kept coming to the same place she had chosen? Perhaps next time she would choose a different club, see if she could shake him off. The song ended and she leaned in close to Caroline. "I'm tired. Shall we sit down, maybe get a drink?"

  "I'm about ready to go home, actually. I just can't handle these late nights anymore. Man, I feel so old. You'll be okay if I go?"

  "Of course. I'll see you on Wednesday for that run."

  "You're trying to kill me."

  "You love it."

  Caroline went and Felicity eased through the genial crowd to the solidity of the bar. At the other end of it he sat, gazing meditatively at the bottle of beer in front of him, a slight tension to his shoulders, a stillness, making her think he knew she stared.

  Now, in this moment, she had had enough of this crazy game of his. The whole thing was just stupid. Forget ignoring him. He was driving her nuts. She stalked over to him and stood beside him, fists on hips. He looked up in innocent enquiry, and then pretended to recognize her with a start of surprise. "Felicity! Hello. What are you doing here?" he said.

  "Shall I ask you that question, Mr Barrett?"

  "It's Luke. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

  She hesitated, and her hands unclenched and drifted down her sides. Surprisingly she was tempted, really tempted to follow his lead, to just pretend it was okay to sit down and have a chat. So much more pleasant than a squabble. This was the same compliance to the wishes of others that had made her a doormat for Dan. That thought gave steel to her willpower. "No, thank you. I'd like to know what you're trying to achieve," she said, chin lifted. "Why do I keep seeing you here?"

  His eyebrows went up and his eyes opened very wide. After a moment he said – as if surprised by the question – "The beer's very good? And the music's even better?"

  "You think I'm stupid?"

  "Absolutely not," he said promptly, and with such firmness she found it hard not to smile. Obviously he had learned from his last experience of her putting words in his mouth.

  "Then what do you think you're doing?"

  He gave an excellent performance of great puzzlement. "Enjoying an evening in a nightclub?" his questioning tone implied this should be obvious.

  She did not know what to do, how to come to grips with this slipperiness, so she frowned then gave up, turned on her heel and stalked back out into the crowd, annoyance a reckless quiver through her.

  Half in challenge, she approached a group of young guys who looked like they were in their early twenties, joined their loose bunching on the dance floor and danced with them. They accepted her instantly, surrounded her and made her their focus. For once she moved provocatively, from the hips, the sort of undulation that made her heart beat harder, and they hooted and cheered in encouragement and acclaim. It was all light-hearted, still early in the evening and no one was drunk enough to touch her, but she felt the thrill of it as she tested the boundaries and broke her own unwritten rule not to lead men on. Not to cause confusion over what she might want out of the evening.

  It was not wise, sober behavior. She did not feel like being wise. She was angry that Luke might have expectations of her, of something she ought to do for him, some way she ought to be for him. She did not want to please any man. She wanted to please only herself.

  Minutes later she decided it was time to go home and she chose one of the young men with whom she danced – the one with the sweet eyes and the shy smile – and spoke directly in his ear. "I want to go back to my car now. Would you mind walking me?"

  He nodded willingly enough. She hesitated, then added: "And I want one kiss. A goodnight kiss. Will you give me one?" His eyes lit up and he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.

  She was startled. She had meant at the car, when they said goodnight, and he had clearly misunderstood, but oh, this was okay. She put her arms around him too and kissed him back. It was soft and gentle, lips and a little tongue. He was paying attention and being careful, quite a feat in the midst of his friends who started to holler.

  When she came up for air she was warm and laughing and he looked dazed, and she tilted her head towards the door and they went. The air was cold outside. He gave her his jacket that he had collected at the door. She wrapped it around herself, smelling the scent of a supermarket brand deodorant, thin and crisp, and was glad of the extra warmth over her dress. Her heels tapped lightly on the pavement as they walked together.

  "You're a great dancer," he said, looking at the ground in front of him.

  "Thanks. You're pretty good yourself," she said, thought 'not as good as Luke' and rolled her eyes in frustration. Stupid Luke.

  "Do you go there often?"

  "Quite a bit lately."

  "Maybe I'll see you again there sometime."

  "That would be nice."

  How did people do it? How did they translate this awkward sort of conversation into casual sex? She had never really understood it. Maybe it was because she never drank too much. She never had her inhibitions lowered to the point where 'anything goes’. To her this kind of self-conscious talk was the opposite of a turn-on.

  How had it been so easy with Luke? To go from 'hi, how are you' to 'ohmigod take me home s
o I can rip your clothes off' kind of lust in just a few minutes? What was the difference? She did not like that she could not control it, switch it on and off at will.

  She had not even kissed Luke. It seemed ridiculous to be mooning over him like this when she had never even kissed him.

  They reached her car and she stopped. "This one is me."

  "Okay. So, uh shall I see you around?"

  "Sure. And I want that goodnight kiss, too." She wanted to see if she could make it happen, that zing, that lustful magic, here in the quiet. There were plenty of people in the street, people passing them by, so she felt perfectly safe. She just wanted to try again. To try and control it.

  "Oh." He was surprised. "Oh, okay, sure," and he grinned and like before, stepped in to hold her. He was maybe five foot nine or ten, and he had to hunch just a little. He put his hand on her waist inside his jacket, the other arm around her shoulders and it was a nice hug, a nice kiss, perhaps slightly more daring than on the dance floor, slightly intrusive. There was no zing to it at all. It disappointed her.

  She pulled away and shrugged out of the jacket, handed it over.

  "Thanks for the escort. Have a nice night," she told him.

  "You too," he said with a smile, turned and walked away with a spring to his step.

  Beyond him, about a block away, Luke leaned against the wall of a building. He was not hiding, nor watching her. He was just there, staring out at the cars in the street. When the young man passed him he waited a few seconds and then moved away from the wall. He started to walk away, and it occurred to her maybe this was not stalking her but watching over her. Now she was safely at her car he was going.

  "Luke," she called out, not very loudly. "Luke."

  On the second call he stopped, half-turned to look back at her. She put her hands on her hips. When he stayed where he was she beckoned him, and slowly he came back, at a saunter.

  Her heart started to beat very slow, very hard, the rush of blood loud in her ears.

  As he drew level he stopped, four yards away, giving her plenty of space.

  "You following me now?" she asked.

  "Not . . . exactly."

  "Then what is it . . . exactly . . . you are doing out here right this second?"

  He thought it over, his head tilted back a little. "Providing a solution should there be a problem," he finally offered.

  "You think I might need solutions?"

  "Maybe. Better to have a solution you don't need than vice versa."

  "So this is a noble cause?"

  "Perhaps."

  "You weren't just perving on me."

  "Perve. On. You. I would never. No! Absolutely not!" There was a hint of little-old-lady to his protestations that did not fit this big, muscle-bound jock.

  She looked him over, her eyes narrowed, thinking he was here, and making himself available, and she found him attractive and he was not too pushy about it, and he might have embarrassed and then offended her but he had not done it deliberately and maybe this was a wasted opportunity. Though it was hard to concentrate when she was so strangely excited to be standing there with him so near to her, with potential charging the air between them.

  "I do have a problem," she said. He raised his eyebrows in expectation. "You see," she went on slowly, throat tight at the immensity of her own daring, "I'm looking for a certain sort of . . . experience. A few weeks ago I thought I'd found it but for various reasons that didn't really work out. Now I wonder if it was maybe a fluke. Or a figment of my imagination. You know how it is?"

  His eyes glittered. "I can imagine. Very frustrating."

  "It is. Very frustrating. Yes." She waited, hoping she did not have to actually issue an invitation, since she did not know the words to use.

  "Is it possible you're," he paused and his lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, "looking for a solution right about now?"

  "Vaguely possible." It was beyond her to speak frankly, especially when she was unclear what she even wanted. Only his touch on her cold skin; her unwarmed lips. Only the heat of it, the pressure, vital and alive. The thrill of youth, of life itself.

  He eased a step closer to her, nodding with sage wisdom. "I could give you that."

  "I've been informed you're a man with solutions."

  "It's been said of me." He even made it amusing, despite the tension arcing between them.

  "I don't suppose you could provide references?" she joined in, and he now he did smile and took another step.

  "That's not the way it works. It's an individualized service."

  "On a case by case basis?"

  "Yes."

  "So I'll have to make up my own mind?" Her chest was rising and falling swiftly, so she thought maybe she was hyperventilating.

  "You will."

  "And if I find the solution doesn't quite work for my situation?"

  "Customer feedback is highly valued. Adjustments can always be made." He stood much closer now, less than a foot away.

  She reached out and grasped the edge of his jacket, the heat of her own courage warming her, thrilling her. "Ah. Responsive. Always a bonus." With a tug she pulled him the last little distance, amazed and delighted at herself.

  He caught his weight on his hands, palms laid flat on the car on either side of her, so she felt the contact but not the weight of him. He was a solid plane of heat and muscle, lightly pressing her into the cool metal and glass at her back, a contrast that made her shudder.

  The fire was instant, licking tongues of flame curling up inside her body from each point where it touched his. His kiss came more slowly, a gradual lowering of his head that gave her an infinity of time to take the escape she did not want. When his lips finally touched hers the contact made her suck in a sharp breath, to push up against him, her back arched like a drawn bow.

  This, this was what she had wanted. This flash burn, this suction, a seduction of mouth and tongue sliding over hers in subtle strokes. The hunger of it, the desire, the excitement of being so alive, so charged with feminine vitality. She felt the swift rise of his erection against her abdomen and it was a triumph to her that she could move him so much, make him think of sex and want it and her so badly, so swiftly. It healed the small hurt of his rejection which had piled on top of what had come before – a year of disinterest.

  She was alive and she was desirable and she was free to use her own body the way she wanted to, to lift and strain against him until he wrapped his arms around her and hitched her a foot high off the ground, between him and the car, and stood between her slightly parted legs.

  It caught her by surprise, and for a moment she did not like the helplessness of it, to be out of touch with the solid concrete, but then she discovered she could put her arms around his neck, one hand on the back of his head, burrow her fingers through the silk of his hair, could lean forward and intensify the kiss, push back against him and take what she wanted.

  He made an approving sound as she grasped on him, sucked him in, not trying to hide her enjoyment of this feast. She wanted more, wanted to crawl inside his clothes and discover him. It was so good to be wrapped in him, the scent of clean skin and line-dried cotton and soap, his ready strength focused on her.

  They kissed for a long, long minute, ignoring footsteps coming and going on the footpath, the warmth between them fighting the chill of the evening.

  When she finally pulled away he sighed quietly, raised a hand to cup her face, his thumb resting on her cheekbone. His eyes were close, staring into hers. Too close to read. She hesitated, still quivering with sensation, wanting to stay in this communion where it did not matter what had gone before, it was just the two of them and how good it felt to touch and be touched.

  This was what she wanted, simple and good and uncomplicated, just her body and his and more of that relentless groundswell of lust. No more than that. Affirmation, catharsis and release. But how could she tell him that? How could she just come out and say it? She had never done this before, with someone she knew no
t-at-all. What were the rules?

  The silence, the moment of looking straight into his hazel eyes, had drawn out too long and taken on an intimacy of its own. It was too much. She laid her hands on his chest and pushed gently, and he lowered her back to the ground. Her feet had gone a little numb and it was hard to stand steady. He did not quite let her go, just gazed down at her, stroked the fine strands of her hair back from her face, tucked them behind her ear with big, gentle fingers.

  "What now?" she asked, thinking aloud.

  "What do you want?"

  She paused, thinking she wanted to take him home with her, to dive deep in sensation with him and not surface for a long time, to find out the mystery in those depths, of why and how he could make her feel this way, and where it led.

  Yet when it came down to it she just could not say the words. They froze inside her, so foreign to her mind, her mouth, her sense of self. She did not know the right way to extend the invitation, to ask, and it seemed too sudden and spontaneous when just two hours ago she had been glaring at him across the club, resenting his presence.

  Not sensible. Not logical. Not something she was allowed: to change her mind so much, to be ruled by desire.

  So she shrugged, hoping he would offer to come home with her, to drive himself to her door and let himself in and just join her in her bed so she did not have to say it herself.

  "Would you like to have dinner this week?"

  She shook her head sharply. No. Not dinner. Not a date. Nothing romantic. She did not want that with him. No.

  "Dancing? Would you like to go dancing together? Next Friday?"

  It was a long time to wait. She would rather go dancing tomorrow. She would go dancing tomorrow. But he would not be there of course. He would be getting his proper night of sleep before the game on Sunday. Waiting a week took the shine from the apple, the dangerous tang dissipating.

  "Friday," she conceded, dissatisfied, and she pulled away from him and walked around to the driver's door, putting the distance of the car between them. "Goodnight." Her skin prickled with agitation, and she wanted to scream wildly or hit something. Carefully she opened the door, deliberate and slow.