by B. N. Toler
“You didn’t ask me,” she argued. “I offered. There’s a difference.”
With the stress of the changes at work and my pending move, my patience was on edge. I liked Hannah…a lot. But I was in a place where I wasn’t sure I could curtail my reactions around her insecurities, but I also realized if I wanted to see her again, I was going to have to figure out a way to do it, one way or another. Our brief relationship had been volatile thus far, and that wasn’t helping my current stress. But I wanted to see her, and if the only way was to let her help me pack and she was cool with it, then that’s what I’d do.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’d love to help you, Wren. But you have to feed me,” she jested. “Will work for food.”
I chuckled a little, relieved the tension between us was ebbing. “That, I can do. I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know when I think I’m getting off.”
“Okay. Hope your day gets better.”
“Thanks. And Hannah?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for offering.”
After we said goodbye and hung up, I jammed my phone back in my pocket and headed toward the chow room to grab some coffee. I was halfway down the hall when I heard, “Marner!”
Turning back, it was Van. He was standing in the hall, hands in his slacks pockets, watching me, and Henry was just exiting his office.
“I need to speak with you,” Van went on when he saw he had my attention.
Henry practically sprint-walked in the opposite direction, his head slightly hung, avoiding making eye contact with me.
Kegs was right.
A tool can’t help doing toolish things.
“To write something you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”
-Anne Rice
As part of building the new and improved me, and in an effort to get out and get “inspired” for writing, along with offering my services more, I decided to join a volleyball league. I figured the physical activity couldn’t hurt either. I’d played in high school and wasn’t too bad at it, taking into account I was only 5’1 and the top of my head barely reached the bottom of the net—I’d played defensive specialist. Joining this adult league was brazen of me, considering I was mostly an introvert; granted, I had some extrovert tendencies, but as a whole, it was still bold as hell.
The gym smelled like most gyms…sweatyish.
That’s a word.
I’m a writer.
I knew these things.
The orange-brown floor was shiny, reflecting the fluorescent lighting. There were several courts, and the echoes of shoes squeaking and grunts of players lunging for the ball filled the room. I neared Court 7, where I was to meet my group. I’d joined one of the less experienced groups, fearing my athletic abilities were not as on point as they were in high school. Baby steps. Several people were sprawled out, stretching, chatting with one another, none of them really noticing me. This was the part I hated—meeting new people. I figured most of these people joined with a friend or partner, unlike me. I’d asked Courtney and Kate if they wanted to try it with me, but Kate had noted she didn’t like sweating, and Courtney had laughed in my face.
Both of them.
Assholes.
Sitting on the floor, I started stretching. Spreading my legs wide, I leaned forward making sure to bring my chest toward the floor to stretch my hamstrings.
I was holding the stretch, counting in my head, when someone shouted, “Look out!”
In my peripheral vision, I could see a volleyball hurtling toward me, but it was too late. With the position I was in, I didn’t have enough time to react to catch it, so I tensed, preparing to get hit.
But I didn’t.
“Always lost in thought, aren’t ya?” a deep voice asked, causing me to lift my line of sight. The first features I noticed about the man who had caught the ball meant to hit me were his crazy-blue eyes, sparkling-white smile, and his salt-and-pepper hair against a young-looking face.
I recognized him.
The silver fox.
The best man at Britney’s wedding.
Sitting upright, I continued staring up at the man standing beside me while he threw the ball back to the players. Then his gaze honed in on me, his lip curled on one side, giving the impression he might be imagining me naked. “You look different in workout clothes,” he observed.
“So do you,” I noted. Geez, what was his name? I don’t think he’d ever told me.
“You’re pretty flexible.”
I tilted my head. What an odd thing to say. “Are you an authority on flexibility?”
His icy blue eyes flickered as he grinned, then he sat on the floor beside me. “As a matter of fact, when it comes to women, I most certainly am.”
“Is that so?” I asked with disinterest as I bent one leg into me and reached for my foot on the extended one.
“I’m not hitting on you, ya know. If I’d wanted to hit on you, I would’ve at the wedding. Wouldn’t have been too hard, either. You were three sheets to the wind.”
I scowled. “I was not.” I might’ve had a buzz, but I certainly wasn’t drunk.
He held a hand up. “I’m not judging. Just saying I’m not hitting on you.”
I looked back at him. “Then what are you doing?”
His lips perked up in thought as he let his gaze scan the folks surrounding us. “Just being friendly.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re alone here, like me.” Something about the statement hit me. Alone. That word was not a favorite. His eyes met mine and he furrowed his brow. “I’m always in pursuit of new friends.”
I snorted. “Is this some kind of fake-out? You pretend to want to,” I made air quotes with my fingers, “make new friends, and really you want to sleep with me?”
Reaching a hand out, ignoring my question, he laughed. “I’m Brigham. I don’t think we ever properly introduced ourselves that night.”
As I took his hand to shake, Wren crossed my mind. I made a point to make my grip firm. Perhaps a firm handshake would tell this man I was no pushover. If Brigham noticed the intent in my grip, he didn’t show it. “Hannah,” I told him.
“Nice to meet you, Hannah,” he said politely. Little did I realize this would be one of the last polite moments I would share with this man. “And to answer your question,” he went on, “no. I don’t want to sleep with you. I don’t sleep with white women.”
My head reared back. I would have never imagined that would be the next thing out of his mouth. “Then I guess I’m safe,” I said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond.
Brigham leaned back, the muscles in his arms flexing, showcasing his lean, but firm build. “I like exotic women.” Then casting an apologetic look my way, he said, “No offense.”
I laughed, loudly, earning a few glances from others. Was this guy serious? “None taken,” I assured him.
“Most white women I tell that to don’t like me much after that.”
Switching legs, I took a few seconds to digest what he was saying to me. Or rather, asking myself why was he telling this to me? “Is this usually your conversation opener with them?”
When he smiled, his dimples popped out, and I have to admit, he was attractive. “Different strokes for different folks. I figure it’s best to get it out of the way in the beginning. No use in wasting anyone’s time trying to be friends if they’re just going to get offended.”
“Hmm,” I muttered, ignoring his question and asking my own. “What kind of success rate you got with that?”
He looked up to the ceiling as if he were counting, then met my stare again. “So far…” he shrugged, “there’s been you.”
We both laughed. I didn’t know much about this Brigham, but I couldn’t deny I enjoyed his candidness. There was a realness to him that attracted me, and I didn’t mean in any kind of physical or romantic way. It was refreshing to meet someone not afraid to admit things about themselves most would keep secret in fear of offending or
going against the status quo. He wasn’t fake…at least he didn’t seem to be.
Just then, a tall woman with ebony skin called out to everyone, asking us to gather around her. “Now, that’s the kind of woman I like,” Brigham noted. The woman was gorgeous, for sure.
“Well, good luck,” I offered as I stood and brushed off my tights then pulled up my knee pads.
“Luck is for suckers, Hannah. There is no such thing.”
I raised my brows, again thrown by him. The statement had been bold in response. “Noted. And thanks,” I added. “For stopping the ball.”
His mouth tilted up. “What are friends for?”
As we walked over to join everyone, my mind turned over the oddness of our introduction. Who was this man? And what might have made him this way? Ideas started swirling in my head, images of a man like Brigham and the path that led him here. He was staring at our long-legged ebony princess of a coach, when I glanced at him. Jerking my eyes away, I shook my head. I was here to play volleyball. I’d create a character modeled after Brigham later. I smiled. Inspiration. I’d come here hoping for it…and there it was.
“When you become a writer, your heart and
mind become divided between your many selves.”
-Unknown
When I arrived at Wren’s house the following day, “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” from the Disney’s Cinderella was blasting over his speakers. He was standing at his counter, his back to me, staring at his laptop, not hearing me enter because the music was so loud. He wore a backward ball cap, tight gray shirt, and basketball shorts. In the fitted T, his back and shoulders looked massive and I took a brief moment to appreciate and drink in the fine male specimen he was. Tall. Overpowering. All man. How could I have thought I was going to keep myself in check…not get hooked on staring at him, make this all business and about my writing? Like I had a chance…I mean, really. He was hard to look away from. Not even the kiddie song was distracting me from checking out the curve of his perfect butt…the ridiculously wide plane of his strong back.
Picking up one of the hundreds of bullets scattered around his house, I tossed it at him, hitting him in the back. He jerked quickly, his eyes wild, his hands fisted, prepared to counter an attack. I froze on the spot and stared at him as he uncoiled his shoulders and dropped his hands when he realized it was me. It was a good thing I hadn’t touched him myself, I might have gotten knocked out.
“Sorry,” he shouted before hitting something on his laptop, effectively muting the music.
Dropping my purse by the couch, I moved beside him. “What’s with the Disney music?” I chuckled.
His mouth tilted down a fraction as he shrugged one shoulder, fixing his gaze on his laptop. “My mom used to play it when my sister and I would help her clean the house. Got used to it, I guess.”
My heart panged. Reaching out, I squeezed his arm and he smiled sadly down at me. “I don’t even know where to start,” he sighed, moving on from the somber memory he’d shared rather quickly. Giving me a quick once-over, his mouth curved up. “I’m liking this dress.”
I snickered, disbelieving him. I was wearing an old, flower-print cotton dress that reached my legs mid-thigh. It was one I usually only wore around my house, but I figured since I was going to help him pack, it was okay.
“I brought some boxes and moving tape. I had some leftover from when I moved.”
He lifted his brows slightly.
“What’s that look?” I inquired, gathering my hair up to tie into a knot, ready to get to work.
“Nothing,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It’s just, it didn’t look like you had much in your house.”
I looked away from him. I’d forgotten he’d stepped inside my house the night he’d driven me home after I’d blinded myself. In truth, I had made every effort to wipe everything about that night from my mind. When I’d sold my dream house, the house I’d built after my good fortune in writing, I’d sold the furniture, too. Everything. The only things I’d kept were a television, small dresser, and my mattress, which was on my bedroom floor. There were also my books—my beauties. Those I could not part with.
“I have a lot of books,” I explained as I walked into his kitchen and started sizing the room up, trying to figure out where the best place to start was. I hoped he’d afford me the same luxury I had given him moments before and just move on, but this was Wren we were talking about.
“Is there a reason why you don’t have any furniture?” he pressed.
My cheeks flamed with heat. How could I explain this? It was humiliating. I’m broke, my career is shit, I had to sell everything I own and still haven’t broken even.
But there was more to it than that. I didn’t want those things anymore. And that’s what I told him. The truth. “I don’t want…things.” I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Things own you. You think you own them, but that’s bullshit. You take pride in having this or that, but in the end, you end up killing yourself to keep them. People get attached to things, then you have to protect those things, so you kill yourself to have a place for those things. Then someone else might want those things you love, and you have to fight over them; it’s draining emotionally, and it’s just not worth it.”
Flicking my gaze to Wren, I found him watching me, his expression stoic. I widened my eyes, realizing I’d gone overboard in my explanation. I took a deep breath and tried to smooth my verbal vomit over. “I don’t want to be owned by things anymore.”
Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, he bobbed his head once and looked away from me. “I understand.”
There was an awkward beat of silence, and he still wasn’t looking at me. Damn. I’d just freaked him out with all my insane rambling and made him uncomfortable. He was right—I was crazy. The crazy girl. I decided we needed to move away from this subject. Fast.
“So…should I start here in the kitchen?”
Scratching the back of his neck, he rounded the counter and gazed upon the room with me. “I guess this is as good a place as any.”
Taking my hand, he held it in his, like we were a couple—like it was the most natural thing in the world. He hadn’t pushed me to explain myself or my situation. Instead, he’d let it go and now, took my hand to show me it was okay. It was okay that I didn’t want to talk about it. It was such a small gesture of affection, but it made my belly twist—in a good way. The man inspired me. I’d made him my muse, woven him into my book. But it was more than that. He terrified me, but I liked him. I really liked him. And the most cynical part of myself shouted at me to run, but I realized I didn’t want to. For the first time, in a long time, I wanted to believe in love.
Song Bird
We spent four hours packing. While Hannah handled the kitchen, I started boxing up my office. By the time we decided to stop, it was already ten at night, and I could tell she was tired, even though she insisted she wasn’t. It was late, and I’d blown it as far as keeping my end of the deal and feeding her. In a small town on a weeknight, the food options were limited, so we ended up grabbing some gas station burgers from the mom and pop store closest to my house because I was a real Casanova and I knew how to treat a lady.
As we climbed back in the car, I uttered, “I’m sorry I didn’t get us something earlier.” Literally, the one thing she’d asked for in exchange for helping me pack was food, and this was what I ended up giving her.
She shrugged. “We were in the packing zone. I didn’t even think about it either.”
One thing I liked about Hannah was she seemed to roll with certain things I would think some women might scoff at—gross burgers that’d sat under a heating lamp for who-knew-how-long being one of them. But she didn’t seem to mind a bit. Or maybe she was so hungry she didn’t care. Of course, her go-with-the-flow personality didn’t apply in all areas.
As I shifted gears and pulled the car to the road, checking for other cars, my eyes fell on her bare legs. The parking lot lighting was hitting her just right, accentuating the curves of he
r thighs, adding a sharp cut to her plump lips. The dress she’d worn to my house that day was fitted, but not tight—just enough to see what she had going on underneath. It had been damn near impossible not to slide my hands up it all day, loop my thumbs around the sides of her thong I knew she was wearing underneath, and slip them down her legs. As bad as I wanted to have her, I’d held off, the time constraint of my move plaguing me. Pulling onto the road, I decided to take the long way home that wouldn’t require much shifting of gears and would allow me to have a free hand. I could only hope this late on a week night out in the country, the roads would be clear of fellow travelers. Work time was definitely over.
Hannah didn’t seem to notice we were heading back a different way than when we came. She wasn’t familiar with this area. Once I’d shifted into fifth gear, I let my hand rest lazily on her thigh. After a moment, she began tracing circles on the back of my hand; a timid rounding motion. I followed her motion and started moving my finger against the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
She shifted in her seat, but not to stop me. She’d adjusted to give me better access to her leg; made it easier for me to reach. When I glanced over at her, the console lighting allowing me the view of her face, she was staring straight ahead, her lower lip tugged between her teeth, her chest lifting slowly as she controlled her breathing. The woman was riding a line of uncertainty. Was this going where she thought it was going? Maybe she should play it cool just in case it wasn’t. Smiling where she couldn’t see, a surge of adrenaline rushed through me, making me hard. I liked seeing her on edge this way—playing it cool, but wanting at the same time. Gradually, still brushing my finger over her delicate skin, I inched my hand until I reached the lining of her panties. Before sliding my hand between her legs, I looked at her to gauge if I should keep going or not. Her chest was rising and falling, her eyes closed. Her hands were at her sides, gripping the seat as she pushed her hips forward ever so slightly. She knew where I was going and she was waiting for me. Keeping my eyes on the road, I cupped my hand over her sex, my blood pumping hard when I found the fabric of her panties completely soaked. A growl I hadn’t been able to stop escaped me. I traced my fingers up and down with enough pressure to tease her, but not enough to get her there. She slid off her sandals and now had her foot closest to the door propped up on the side pocket and her leg closest to me jammed against the console, giving me as much access as she could provide. Perfectly opened…just for me. With my middle finger, I circled her clit, waiting for it—her song—the melody of that moan, the bucking of her hips, that delicious curse word that would slip from her beautiful mouth telling me I’d found it—that I’d hit her sweet spot. Our sexual encounters had been limited, but I’d learned this much of Hannah—when she felt good she was happy to serenade me in all the ways a woman could convey her pleasure. I knew when I’d touch her just right, she’d croon that song for me—and I was determined to make her sing.
