by Savannah May
“You don’t want him remembering that on your wedding day.”
“Exactly.”
“Are any of his ex buddies coming to the wedding? Any strapping single dudes?”
“No. He’s not really in touch with anyone from his unit. They all, most of them, went their separate ways after - coming home.”
“Of course.”
Boo. No chance for a steamy weekend encounter with an ex SEAL then.
A long silence follows my second inept query. I realize it’s my own nervousness about the questions that will be fired at me, making me blurt out some response without thinking.
“What can I bring?” I want to be helpful but it sounds like I’m buying my way out of my slip up.
“Nothing but your fantastic self. I can’t wait for you to get here.”
Ugh, she sounds so genuine and I hate that I’m so attached to my commercial and consumer lifestyle. We say goodbyes and I flop back in my office chair. I almost envy Steele and Scherri taking off in a trailer and living a simple life wherever they choose to stop. She sounds so happy but I know I’d last five minutes before I was needing a curling iron or the stimulation of going after a promotion. But something inside is prodding at me, telling me I’ve lost direction in what’s important.
Bradly walks past my door and gives me a wave with a smirk before continuing on quickly. Another one I had stupid dreams about. They came to nothing when he made it clear he wasn't looking for anything permanent, but not until I’d given him my only ace in the hole.
Maybe I don’t have a date for the wedding because I put myself out on the market as a commodity. Always trying to be the perfect woman they’d want to seduce instead of a real person they could get to know over time.
My boss refused to give me extra time off this week to go early up to Dragoon. But right then I make my own executive decision that I’m going to take it anyway. This is a once in a lifetime weekend on so many levels and this job is no reason to miss that. Maybe I won’t have a job to come back to. The subversive side of me wants to risk that, crazy as it seems.
I leave early and drive out of LA before traffic hits, noticing how I can breathe easier as soon as I’m outside the city.
3
Bolt
I must be riding like a deranged motocross jerk, gung-ho for the finish line. Numerous times I’ve pulled over on the side of the road and looked up at the ocean of black night sky, seeking answers to my crazed behavior. What the fuck am I doing chasing across six states to speak to a woman I don’t know.
Why have I been thinking of her incessantly since I last saw her six months ago?
Everything is coming in sixes which seems kind of hellish although I’m in no way superstitious. That’s another lie I tell myself because I developed all kinds of ritualistic little beliefs I hoped would keep me alive another day. Nothing too drastic or weird. Just the proverbial lucky charm shamrock – plus an amulet from a shaman in Colorado I spent a crazy night out in the desert with once.
I should turn around but what for? I don't have anything more to go back to than I have in front of me. For some crazy reason that woman feels like home. What the fuck am I doing?
“Even if she does get married, seeing her again will be like a homecoming,” I tell myself. The only person I’ve spoken to in the last twenty four hours. Even the gas station monkey didn't have a word to say to me.
I’m not lonely. Maybe I should be.
Any of the psychiatrist types would assure me I’m on the path to destruction, living a solitary existence without a soul in the world to care whether I live or die. I’d probably be profiled as highly dangerous. I don’t give a shit what they say. Can an individual be shoved into a box, tied up and labeled? I don't think so.
And it sometimes seems my lone wolfish lifestyle affirms that. I used to be completely at ease with breezing across the country, letting my two wheels take me where they would, hooking up with some very loving women along the way. But never for more than a night or two. The feeling of clamps tightening around me is too intense by the time I’ve fucked a woman a second night running.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t outrun that creeping sensation of entrapment. But recently even a one night stand has lost its appeal. I know I can still perform, my dick is constantly pressing at my pants in ravenous hunger. When I got worried at my loss of desire, I hit the first strip club I came on and ordered a private dancer.
The girl had long blonde hair, slightly straggly and looked nothing like – anyone I know. I could forget about Bella. The stripper slid down the pole in front of me and I sat back in my chair, stretched my long legs out and enjoyed the show. I love watching a woman take her clothes off.
The slower the better and this girl was great at giving a performance. She arched her back into all the provocative shapes as she slid a strap down each shoulder. She spun around and bent over, leaving very little unexposed. She almost coyly hid her exposed tits from me as she unhooked the clasp and threw the tiny bra to one side.
Then she whipped back around to face me. Reaching her hands above her head to entwine them around the pole, she slid down. Spreading her legs apart and using her heels to stretch her bared round cheeks, she pulled her slit further open for my gaze.
My dick was rock hard in my jeans. What normal man wouldn't be solid at a sight like that? And then she offered me more.
“I can make you a good deal, Soldier,” she whispered.
That made me startle, because how could she know? I wasn’t wearing any fatigues. I was way beyond that now.
“Some other time,” I gritted out.
She looked down at the furious bulge I was packing and licked the inside of her lip with the tip of her tongue. A sudden image of another woman, months before, making that same little tell of desire blasted into my head. But that woman did it without contrivance, or awareness of what she was doing. She wasn't trying to seduce me or tease me into giving her cash to fuck her. She simply couldn't hide the fact that she was attracted to me.
So big deal?
That sounds like I’m being an arrogant fuck but it’s just honesty. All women want to wrap themselves around me. Put it down to my taut upper torso and a flatter rack of abs than ribs on the grill. The girl from back then swirled up into my head again. A vision of innocence and sensuality and directness. My homecoming queen. There was no guile in her. She seemed natural and genuine and her body was smoking.
I’d have given anything to have seen her strip for me like this professional just did without a second thought. But she was rushing to a family funeral and stressed about her car breaking down. I’m not that much of a jerk to try to take advantage of her when she was in a tight spot. I can be a gentleman enough to help out a lady in distress. Even if I am picturing myself seated on my bike and her straddling my hips, her beautiful welcoming heat impaled on my thick cock.
Shit, I have to get this woman out of my head.
I clasp Candy or Lindy, or whatever her name is, by the full hips and yank her onto my lap. She grins with more than a hint off triumph and throws me out of my reverie. She isn't that girl from before. That girl would never work in a strip club. No judgment on girls that do but that one was just too pure. Candy’s tits are swaying lightly in front of my face, the nipples doll pink and erect but up close I can tell they have that fake plastic look. She’s freeing my dick from my pants with an expert twist of her palm, sliding my burning heat into her grasp.
“Not tonight babe,” I tell her.
I got the rollicking abuse I’d expected but I didn't give a shit. I tossed down enough cash to shut her up and exited quickly before any more heat came down. I wasn't in the mood for a fight with strip club heavies although maybe it would have worked off some of my frustration. All I could think of was getting to a place where I could bring the vision back. The vision of the girl in my thoughts constantly.
I never had a sweetheart like some of the other guys in my unit. Like Steele with his Scherri. Even thou
gh those two weren't together then, the image of her face kept him stable and alive. Another one of those odd superstitions.
So I keep riding and remind myself every mile that I'm not heading back to my girl. This isn't a homecoming. This isn’t even the start of something. If this woman had a clue about how I’ve watched her on that Instagram site, she’d have me arrested for stalking. I tell myself I’m dropping by for a visit to my old buddy, Steele.
God knows that has the potential to be almost as fraught after what happened last summer. I shake my head, the longer curls at the back of my neck whipping with the wind. My helmet is strapped behind me. I trust that no cops are out in this desert at night and that they won’t ticket a vet if they are. Not for riding free in a wasteland.
Sometimes I ask myself if I'm a magnet for intense situations. They seem to draw towards me no matter what. Maybe I just read stuff wrong. But I’m sure Steele and I parted on good terms. Whatever rift had grown between us out in the desert when Soames was lost and inserted itself into our friendship like a weed growing up between paving stones, was healed by the connection to Scherri. Through Scherri. Fuck that’s one situation I hope I haven’t misread.
It’s dinner hour when I ride into town at last, tired and gritty from the road. I’m unsure what to do. It would be presumptuous to pull up at Steele’s house and ask for a meal and a bed. So I park at the seven eleven and head inside for a six pack. The cashier, bored of course, looks up from her phone and does a double take.
“Hi,” she simpers.
“Evening,” I husk.
Under other circumstances I’d have made a move. But not now. There’s something rubbing at the inside of my skin and I need to unleash it. But not on her.
I head down the aisles, looking for the beer. I’m striding fast with the need to stretch my legs that have been bent on one position for too long. I’m here now. I made it in two days, not the anticipated three. My insanely driven haste. I’m gonna – whoa.
I go slamming into an obstacle and a pile of dairy pots go tumbling to the floor. I look down to see my boots and the bottom of my jeans covered in thick white cream, as well as the pair of sexy high heeled boots on the pair of feet facing mine. My eyes trawl up and up the incredible curves I just ran into so hard they bounced right back off me. But not before my dick pricked up in interest.
“I’m so sorry about that,” the Angel before me says. “I just knew something like this was going to happen.”
4
Bella
I round the corner of the snack aisle with my arms stacked way higher than they should be. I’d only made a quick dash into the store to pick up the cream Scherri wanted. I didn't bother with a cart or basket, I could carry the cartons in my hands. Until I run slam bang into a solid wall of man meat and Everything goes flying.
The cartons, the packages of potato chips I just had to grab. My stomach is growling at me after a snackless long journey. Anyway, don’t the stores line them up so they’re impossible to resist?
All of it hung in the atmosphere for an insta-second before crashing into the ground and splattering like roadkill.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry.”
I drop to the ground, grabbing at the fallen articles while muttering apologies. Although I’m not sure who’s to blame. He crashed into me too. And we were on a blind corner so it’s impossible to know who was traveling fastest. Okay, I was, but he wasn’t exactly on the lookout.
“I knew I shouldn’t have loaded myself up,” I blather.
I hunt out the Kleenex in my purse to wipe off his soiled pants and shoes, forgetting that the spilled cream is seeping into my stockings.
“I piled on some extras because you know how sometimes -”
“No, it was my fault,” he says in a hitch of voice that drags my eyes all the way up his towering frame.
With me down on my knees he seems to loom over me. But Christ the guy is amazingly built. Not in a lurching way, you know, like those jocks that can’t keep their arms at their sides. I travel up over the thick thighs filling a pair of low slung jeans (forcing myself not to stop at the low-slung part because it’s not polite to stare, but what I did notice was impressive).
A narrow waist but powerful as a dagger in its litheness. The chest splays out into strong arms, the kind of strong I’d love to feel envelop me, tender in their power. I continue on up and the ugly fluorescent strip light in the ceiling sends a flare across my eyes and his face blurs.
His body lowers in front of me while an electric shock travels up mine. I tip forward to cover up my unusual embarrassment. At the same time he reaches out for my hand to stop me mopping at the spilled liquid. Out heads knock together.
“Sorry. Sorry.” We both apologize at the same time.
Then we laugh together releasing the awkwardness. That is until it swiftly returns when my gaze locks on to his large brown eyes. They’re so dark they seem to disappear deep inside him like unfathomable sinkholes.
“- cream just refuses to stiffen,” I finish off my sentence without intending to. The words emerging from my mouth of their own volition, each one more slowly than the last as the sentence grinds to a filthy halt and my eyelids stretch open in surprise.
He grins at that last one and as the double meaning dawns on me, I feel my cheeks blaze hot.
What an idiot.
First gaping at him like a puffer fish, then blushing like a teenager at a rock star.
I quickly look down to clean up more of the mess. Anything to get busy and cause a distraction from my ridiculous humiliation. Except he still has my hand in his. Grasped around the top at the wrist but it feels so intimate, like he has total control over my body.
“That’s a lot of cream,” he burrs, his voice half barroom croak, half smooth as strong black coffee.
Against my will, my eyes travel back over his body, a sense of knowing seeping through me. My body seems to recognize this other person. Now that he’s at my level, I can get a close up look and he’s just as hot as I first detected. The chest just as broad and solid and comforting without the bulge that indicates the guy has nothing to do but live at the gym flexing his eight-pack.
When I reach his face, I may well have swooned if not for the fact that he’s holding me upright in the force of his grip. His hair is all unkempt, like he’s walked through a tornado. His scruff of beard says he hasn't bothered to shave for days. But damn if that doesn't make him even hotter than the last time I ran into him. That time not quite as literally as this one.
He is simply gorgeous. And wearing a knowing half grin that’s making my heart go skittering. I doubt this guy could even comment on the weather without his features emanating a barrel of sin. Just like the last time I looked at him.
I’ve never forgotten that night.
I doubt I ever will.
And worst of all he doesn't even recognize me.
Why should he?
I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted. Just for a moment I wasn’t sure, but no, that smile hasn’t morphed into words like; “Hey, don’t I -?”.
“It’s not mine,” I mumble, gazing at him still. Like my mind craves the imprint for future recall. “The cream, it’s not mine.”
“Then we won’t cry over the fact that it’s spilled.”
He powers up those awesome thighs to rise to standing, taking me along with him. Luckily, because I don’t have quite the same strength and would have made a total fool of myself grabbing at the stacked shelves to pull up on. He pulls me up too fast.
I can’t stop.
My free hand goes slamming onto his chest to brake myself from falling into his embrace. Which Satan knows is exactly what I’m yearning to do. He looks down at my hand and the soggy creamy Kleenex scrunched against his black tee.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I blurt, dabbing at him, making it worse,
He covers my hand with his. His is so much bigger that mine is like a shell cupped by a rock in comparison. I become mesmerized by the power
ful beat of his heart in my hand, the pulse of life strong in him. His eyes capture mine again and he grins, bowling into my heart and making it fly everywhere like skittles.
We stand there frozen, my hand sandwiched between his hand and his heart, staring at each other for what seems like hours. Still he says nothing about meeting before.
Suddenly that certainty enters my head – you know the one, I'm being played. That he pulls this with every lone woman he encounters at night. Perhaps he’s out prowling, looking for women he can assist, or knock flying.
I extract my hand from his trap and he releases me but doesn't make a move to go. That makes me nervous again. I don't know why. I never get nervous. I’m usually known for my capable control. I go to the cold counter to grab more cartons of whipping cream and the guy stands there still, watching me. Being unaccustomed to nervousness, I resort to babbling.
“It’s for my sister,” I repeat. “She wants a fantasy summer theme for her wedding. All the things we seem to have lost these days. I told her, you’re not even twenty five, Sissy, how can you be so nostalgic for old days? The simple life, she said. I think it’s all the old aunties around her, that have come for the wedding, reminding her of the adventures they used to have.”
I stop to take a breath and still he hasn’t moved. The smile is in place and he’s actually listening, no glaze over at all. Holy shit, when was the last time a man actually listened to me. Even on a date he’s looking past my shoulder glassy-eyed, hoping for something more entertaining to happen by.
“The aunties?” he says.
“Yeah, our grandmother had seven sisters,” I say, on a roll now with the captive audience.
The awesome dude walks alongside me as I head for the cashier.
“Wow, I can’t imagine.”
“Right? I can only imagine what that must have been like. I love my sister to bits but if there were six more of her, all with such widely opposing ideals about life, it might be crazy-making. It’s fun to see them all in one place now. All assembled for my sister’s wedding.”
