by Billie Dale
My chest arches, my hips swivel as a heavy tension builds below my belly button. He works the soaked cotton of my panties to the side, sweeping a single finger through my slit, circling my pulsing bundle of nerves. Frantic and needy I thrust into his touch. A half pain, half pleasure gasp puffs free on a moan. He buries his face in my hair. “How sore are you?” His hot breath along the shell of my ear sprouts goosebumps down my arms. Down below his finger slips in and out, sinking deeper with each stroke.
Fighting the blood rushing in my ears and the pounding of my heart, I think about his question. My stomach is tight with the need for release, begging for his pleasing finger to push me over the edge. As if reading my mind, he eases another finger inside and increases the pressure of his thumb while curling that index finger in a come-hither motion. And come is what I do. Unlike the other times we’ve played around, he presses back hitting a unique soft spot inside. An orgasm sprints forward quicker than a blink and a flood of wetness pours from my body.
Sore? I was, maybe I am still; my brain is a total scramble of goofy grin inducing pleasure. My cheeks hurt from the Joker-like smile and I’m high on endorphins. Unwilling to let it pass, I shove him on his back, following with my legs locked on his hips. Before he’s flat, he’s inside, and my hips bounce faster than a kid on a pogo stick.
Thirty
MAZRIC
I TAKE PRIDE ON HOW quick I learned to navigate her body.
**blows on knuckles, brushes them on shirt.**
I’m Seven Mile Forge’s teenage king with the sexual competency of a ... shit...I can’t even find a good bullshit metaphor to go along with my fake boasting. A girl could draw me a detailed map like Monica does for Chandler, and I’d still struggle to find the right combination. Seven? Where the hell is seven?
Our first time, I covered my inept fumbling with basketball stats, keeping my load from shooting on contact. I’ve learned the dips and valleys of her body like a backcountry road. Knowing makes satisfying her easier, but finding the hotspots inside a woman is a treasure hunt with a blind person reading the map.
Her face when she looked at her gift was priceless. But I’m not complaining about her shucking her clothes to avoid telling me how much she hates it. I’d pat myself on the back...but boobs. Naked Sammy Lee boobs are in sucking distance, sending my active brain into the passenger seat with my erection driving.
Distracted, trying to keep myself in check, I curl my finger on my hunt for the G-spot, before I correct the direction, her mewls cease as her entire body shakes. Her breath stutters, stalling on a gasp. A hot wet rush douses my fingers. When her chest moves again a sex drunk smile brightens her face, but my pressure on her clit doesn’t stop. She wiggles and squirms but I keep her under me. My balls ache with want and I’m figuring the best way to take her without hurting her when she turns feral. Turned on by her forcefulness, I allow her to move me where she wants. Works in both our favors because her ass slaps my thighs, her pussy hugs my cock, and she’s bouncing hard enough I meet her end with each slam.
If I died right now it’d be tragic because I’m too fucking young, but so long as heaven involves eternity spent fucking Samantha Lee Gentry then I’ll gladly duel the Grim Reaper.
I PACKED MY DUFFLE a week ago thinking it’d be easier for her to not watch me prepare to leave. When Sammy thinks I’m not looking, she flips it off. Our summer of sex is over. We’re supposed to return to our regularly scheduled programming and be best friends again. No harm, no foul.
Bullshit. I fouled out. Fucked up. Chased the white rabbit. Get it? I fell in love with my best friend when I swore I wouldn’t. Love comes in different forms, and I loved her as my pal so why I believed I wouldn’t fall ass over elbows deep with her once we became intimate, I don’t know. Here I worried about her attachment and being the bastard to break her heart, but she’s fine, and I’m the schmuck who wants to cry and plead for us to give the long-distance thing a go. Hell, I even spent time mulling over one of us switching our scholarship.
“When will Preslee be here?” she asks, picking at the threads of my comforter while I shove my last few belongings in a backpack.
“Uh,” I hesitate, “Look, Sammy. This, us— ”
“No, don’t.” She holds up a hand. “I love you, Mazric Jason. As my friend, my lover, my all, but it is what it is. We knew this day was coming and here it is. You don’t owe me promises or vows.”
“But maybe— ”
“Please,” she pleads, watery fought tears clogging her voice. I plop on the bed next to her, cupping her small face in my hands. “This is good. You’ll go to California and be the star of the Bruins. Party, d-d-date.” Her throat moves with a gulp. “Sow them wild oats as Daddy would say. We’ll stay in touch by texting, talking, videoing. I see the promises you’re wanting to make, but please don’t. As much as I’m dying to jump up and accept, we need to do this. Best friends who are a whole lot closer.”
A horn honk outside signals Elvis’s arrival. We did the whole sendoff party yesterday and Preslee made me promise to meet her outside because she couldn’t stand to say goodbye again. We both stand; Sammy steps toward the door.
“Wait. If you walk me down, I don’t think I can leave.” I pull her into my arms, curling my body around her. She disintegrates into my embrace, losing her battle with tears.
Her strong carefree façade drops. “I love you,” she sobs.
Emotion chokes me. My heart aches and I feel my soul ripping in half. Before the moisture filling my eyes breaks the levy of my lids, I fill my lungs with a deep breath, drawing in one last soothing pull of fresh-cut grass and sweetness from her hair. The second we disentangle I’m fucked because I already miss her softness, and I haven’t even left yet. I move to my desk, pulling a small white box from the top drawer.
“Here is your real birthday gift, Splinter.” I hand her the present forcing a smile to tip my lips.
Her eyes leave mine long enough to look at what’s inside. Nestled in the tissue paper, she pulls the ring free. Back at Christmas I found a god-awful necklace in Ma’s jewelry box. She laughed telling me the story of how Dad sent it to her from Afghanistan, thinking she’d love the gaudy thing. The first time she wore it, he demanded she take it off and apologized, promising to never purchase gifts under the influence of alcohol again.
Turns out, the lapis lazuli stone is the symbol of friendship and trust. I spent the entire winter melting down the thick gold chain and meticulously carving the stone under the tutelage of Pappy. Seeing her cry harder, looking at the galaxy colored infinity symbol wrapped in gold, proves it was worth every burn and cut finger.
“It’s gorgeous, Maz.”
I slip it on her index finger. “You didn’t really think I’d give you a book on skipping rocks, did you?”
“Hey, when you come home, I’ll kick your ass thanks to that book.”
Her broken smile cracks my heart. “This ring is us, Sammy Lee. No matter what, we are friends forever. I expect to be battling in wheelchair races through the halls of the nursing home our kids stick us in. You don’t want any promises, but you’re getting one. I love you, and I swear one day you will be mine again. When you’re a big fancy biomedical engineer and everyone is calling you Doctor, bragging about a miracle drug you created, I’ll be the proud durfy ballplayer hanging on your arm.”
Preslee honks again. “I gotta go, Splinter.”
I kiss her open lips to silence her words. “No goodbyes. Just I’ll talk to you later.”
She dries her tears on the back of her hand, “Yep. Later.”
Before I break down, I sling a bag on each arm and race out of the room. I hug Mom and Gramps, begging them to take care of Sammy until she leaves. Through quiet sobs, “Of course, honey,” Momma answers. After throwing my stuff in the trunk, I open the passenger door glancing one last time at my bedroom window. My girl stands with her hand pressed to the glass and streaks staining her cheeks. I blow her one last kiss, ducking in the car as my eyes fill a
nd one drop breaks free. Before I become a waterfall, I demand Preslee drive.
Thirty-One
SAMANTHA
HE LEFT FIVE WEEKS ago. There isn’t a word to describe the grief hole I’ve fallen in. I’m supposed to drive to Baltimore in fourteen days. For the last seven I’ve been sick. Self-imposed, maybe, or it could be a virus I picked up while volunteering at the town’s daycare. Those little germ carriers would bring about the zombie apocalypse with their tiny dirty hands and snotty noses. But if you want to heal a hurt heart, I recommend hugs from toddlers. They’re the best medicine to revive your shredded soul. Well, that and nights spent using free air.
He’s fine. Spending his days bro-ing it up with his new teammates, lifting weights, and shooting baskets. So, he’s too tired at night to talk for long, it means nothing. Once he settles his routine, we’ll find our groove.
Who am I kidding? I can’t even lie. We’ve already grown apart. How does it happen in such a fleeting time? If you figure that out, I’m all ears. Preslee’s all set in her new apartment, promising she’ll drive the forty-five minutes to UCLA once a month to check on Mazric. A lesser woman would worry about the two of them hooking up. Yes, the thought crossed my mind a time or million, but it wouldn’t happen. Deep down where the crazy woman doesn’t live, I believe my two best friends would never cross that line.
Stop tsking and shaking your head. What happened with him and me is different.
My head rests on cool porcelain. I’ve spent so much time praying to the bowl, I expect it to propose soon. Last week looking at food sent me running and this week smelling it does. Come to think of it, the mere scent of air sends me running to the Altar of the Flusher.
Damn those virus-carrying tots. I confirmed with Mrs. Sotherland, the preschool teacher, how I’m not the only one suffering. The whole facility shut down for disinfecting. Old Doc Hart put out a bulletin about the rotavirus. You spend days sleeping and puking then poof it vanishes, and you think ‘woohoo I’m on the mend.’ Thirty-six hours later, BAM, it mutates and hits you harder. If my commode at home knew how friendly I’d been with every other facility in town, it’d be jealous. I’m an impartial puker: toilets, bushes, the drive-thru at McDonald’s, in between the speaker and the window. But damn it, I continued to get my sausage and egg biscuit.
“We have to tell her.” Vivianne’s voice carries through Pappy’s house where I’ve staggered in search of something to settle my raging stomach.
“No. Shh, she’ll hear you,” Carrie responds.
Curious, I tiptoe toward the kitchen, careful of the creaky spots in the floor.
“Yes, and she needs to. Carrie Lynn, she leaves in a few days.”
“Viv, she’s a smart girl, she’ll figure it out.”
“She’s the densest genius I’ve ever met. We can’t let her leave in this—”
“Sammy Lee, how ya feeling?” Joe calls, interrupting as he steps in from enjoying his coffee on the front porch.
Carrie peeks around the corner. “Sam, hey.” She’s blinking too fast and strangling a dish towel in her hands. “How long you been there?”
Vivianne pushes her aside. “Saaaaammmmy!” My hackles rise from her cheerful syrupy greeting. “Hendrix needs a ride from the airport and I’ve got that Southern Belle meeting. Would you be a dear and collect him for me?”
I cock an I-smell-bullshit eyebrow taking in her floral boho skirt and flowing peasant top. Her tangle of blonde dreadlocks and pierced nose are not debutant-ish. She’s about as belle as I am dumb.
“With my stomach issues, driving two hours to Lexington wouldn’t be smart. Carrie, can’t you go? Or Paps?”
“Heavens no, I have all those cupcakes to bake for the fundraiser at the church and Joe’s gotta get the irrigation going in the fields. The sun’s frying the crops.” Carrie slaps Joe on the back, stopping whatever words were ready to fall from his lips. “Here.” She hands me a wad of plastic bags. “In case you need to get sick and munch on these.” She slips a sleeve of saltines in my other hand.
“But... but...” I protest, but she steers me to the door.
“Go on now. Don’t want to leave him waiting at the gate.” She hip bumps, sending me tripping on the patio. “Here, take my car, it’s easier on gas than your Mustang.” She throws her keys. “Drive safe.”
I knew Hendrix was coming home today and I can’t wait to see him at dinner tonight. He finished his composition and decided to take a few weeks hiatus before submitting it. These two hen-pecking women think I don’t know they begged him to come home so he can ride shotgun with me when I leave. I won’t call them out on their meddling because a companion on the ten-hour drive is welcome, but feeling like shit and traveling to the airport wasn’t part of the deal.
Were they talking about me? Is there something going on?
Great. Now on top of nausea this will eat at my brain while I drive.
I GRAB MY TICKET FROM the temporary parking box, travel multiple laps around the lot before finding a spot, but nothing will dampen my happy dance. Two whole hours without stopping to toss my cookies. Saltines are the magic cure. Who knew a salty dry square is the cure-all for the flu? It’s a medical marvel. Plus turns out a nice long trip allowed me to find perspective and put my neurotic fears to rest. Mazric and I agreed to move on, and I can’t be mad at him for finding his way in his new home.
Peppier than I’ve been in days, I sling my bag across my body and head inside. A quick glance at the arrival board directs me to his gate. I’m believing this wretched virus packed up and moved out until I stroll by Cinnabon. Cinnamon, sugar, and dough sweeten the air, and on a normal day the aroma tantalizes, but today a riot breaks out in my stomach and half a package of crackers climbs up my throat. If my calculations are correct, let’s face it they always are, I have about three minutes to reach a receptacle for purging.
The race is on for the restroom. Hendrix can wait. Women hover signaling the stalls are full because it wouldn’t be a ladies’ room without a freaking waiting line. But influenza waits for no one.
Here’s a tip. Want to clear a room of women waiting to pee—throw up in the trash can. They scatter like cockroaches when you turn on the light, leaving you ample space to FREE the PEE. Or drop to your knees and gag for five minutes, but hey at least the sinks open to cleanse the nasty I just added more germs to my germs residue from your entire body.
Is bathing in hand sanitizer an option? If only I carried a gallon with me. I make do with a good hand scrub and teeth brushing, exiting in time to hear Hendrix’s flight called. To avoid further tummy turmoil, I hold my breath until I reach his gate. Glad to be clear of the food section, I fill my lungs with much needed oxygen while searching the exiting passengers for my friend.
Hendrix’s rock star style brings out the clingers. He’s easy to spot, just look for the big hair, big breasted, leopard print mini skirt wearing skoozie’s. (Skanks and floozies.) If you see a harem of groupies, Hendrix Carmichael is bound to be in the center.
I wait and scan. Everyone’s off but Hendrix isn’t among the masses. Loved ones hug and celebrate. Thinking maybe he slipped by during my dig for more crackers, I look again. A frazzled mom corrals two children, an elderly couple embraces teenagers, a man in fatigues surprises his wife and mom. A flash of blond hair stops me on a man with broad shoulders, wrapped in the clean lines of a well-tailored expensive suit. Tall, defined with fitted slacks molded to a nice tight butt. His backside is f-i-n-e. I notice his long fingers tap a rhythm on his thigh as his head shifts back and forth.
Holy shit, I know those piano playing hands. The once long hair now brushes the collar of the white shirt above the cut of his coat. This is no ordinary businessman. No, this long lean drink of water wrapped in Armani is Hendrix Carmichael.
My eyes track the lines of his back and yes; I pause again on the taut globes of his perfect ass. He’s always been stellar in the looks department, all Goth music god. A man in a suit never tripped my trigger, but with his head
turned and the profile of his cut jaw shadowed with stubble he’s gorgeous. The darker strands of his hair sweep up and away and I can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his lower lip.
Before he spots me, I weave behind, tapping a hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for my friend. He was on your flight. Long hair, gauged ears, dressed in shredded jeans, a retro band T-shirt, leather bands on his wrists, and big, black combat boots on his feet. Did you see him?”
One side of his lips tilt. He whips around and the full front effect curls my tongue. His white shirt stretches across his chest, two buttons unhooked at his neck where a loose blue tie sags. The multi shades in the necktie enhance his indigo eyes, and I can’t stop myself from checking him out.
He releases the handle of his travel bag, “Well, well, well, Samantha Lee Gentry, don’t just stand there, girl, give me some lovin’.” The deep cadence of his voice hasn’t changed, it still hums through my ears, hitting me dead center in the lady bits.
“Are you sure I won’t wrinkle you?”
“Well, if those are real curves, I see hiding under those baggy clothes it’ll be worth the steam press.” He pulls me to his chest, tightening his arms around my waist. My cheek rests on the high thread count softness of his shirt with the silk of his tie brushing my nose. Ink and smoke mixed with a hint of chocolate takes me back to long days spent in the parlor within Carmichael Plantation.
Vivianne organized a workstation in the far corner where I’d spend my days with earphones on, listening to lectures and completing classes. Hendrix had his area of instruments and computer equipment in the opposite corner, where he’d sit behind a grand piano to compose. Once a day I’d discretely unplug to listen. He’d play and play, switching instruments, running his hands through his hair, scribbling notes and lyrics only to growl, wad up the paper, switch instruments and begin again. I’ve never heard anything more beautiful than his songs, but forever the perfectionist he hated every chord.
