Hit&Run

by Freya Barker

  “That was my spirit, hitting rock-bottom.”

  He chuckles, putting the bag down and rounding the counter to wrap his arms around me from behind. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his face buried in my hair. “But at least it smells good this time.”

  “Hmmm.” I lean back and close my eyes, enjoying the attention he is laving on the soft skin behind my ear, and taking in a deep breath. He’s right; it does smell good, like fresh bread, cinnamon... and apples? “Hey, wait a minute.” My eyes fly open as I lunge for the bag, pulling out apple turnovers, a bag of fresh croissants, and a beautiful, light and fluffy, Italian loaf. I swing around on a grinning Jake. “How did you know?”

  “Well,” he says in a conciliatory tone, “it was a pretty safe guess, when I left you up to your elbows in flour this morning, the result would be no different from the other times you tried. Thought we might need some backup, so I stopped at the Homestyle Bakery on my way home.”

  “I should be insulted,” I protest weakly, as I press my face in the hollow of his neck, “but I’m too grateful you brought home goodies.”

  I feel his muscles tense against me and try to tilt back to look at him, but his large hand cups the back of my head, keeping me in place. “I like that.” The sound of his deep voice is gruff, but heavy with emotion.

  “What?” He releases his hold on me so I can look up in his face. “You like what?” I whisper, seeing the dark swirl of heat in his eyes.

  “Everything about you.” One side of his mouth pulls up in a lopsided grin when I pinch his side.

  “You were talking about something specific,” I challenge.

  “You said home. That struck a chord. The only home I have known was with the Mazurs. Even this place,” he says, looking around, before his eyes come back to me. “I own it, it’s my house, my name is on the deed—but it’s only felt like home for the past couple of days with you here.”

  The warmth of his words seeps into my skin and settles in my bones. Here I had been trying so hard to impress with my culinary skills—and failing miserably. With something as mundane as homemade bread, I’d tried to create some normalcy, some comfort in what—for all intents and purposes—was a forced cohabitation, when all this time simply my being here had apparently been enough. Since my father’s death, no one had ever made me feel like I was anything other than falling short. Failing, somehow, at trying to match expectations people around me placed on me. Forcing myself into a box that didn’t fit.

  It wasn’t an ‘I love you,’ but it might as well have been.

  I take in a deep breath; let it out slowly, and with blurry eyes, the years of feeling inadequate roll off me like the tears from my cheeks. I’m enough just being me.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Jake’s voice is laced with concern, as he brushes at my tears with his thumbs. I shake my head vehemently and a silly giggle escapes me. “Rosie?”

  “I’m fine, Jake” I quickly ease the worry on his face. Poor guy probably thinks I’m one step shy of a breakdown. “More than fine,” I add, resting a hand in the middle of his chest where I feel his heart pounding. “You said absolutely everything right.”

  I open my heart in the smile I give him. No reserves, nothing held back, just pure feeling. He scans my face before settling on my eyes, and I see his gray ones warming as he reads mine.

  Quietly, and without losing eye contact, he picks me up and I wrap my legs around him, as he walks me to the bedroom. There he carefully lays me on the bed, undresses us, and covers my body with his larger one. I open my legs so his hips can settle between them, and primed by his words and the rhythmic rub of his erection against my core as he carried me, he easily slides home, deep inside me.

  Even as he makes exquisitely slow love to me, we never once look away.

  Not even when I harshly cry out my release, and he bucks and shudders through his, do we lose that connection.

  That window into each other’s soul.

  JAKE

  For the past twenty minutes, I’ve watched her sleep.

  Her glorious red hair wildly tangled on the pillow, a high flush still on her cheeks, and her lush lips parted and slightly vibrating with every exhale.

  She snores.

  Not much, just this slight wheeze, with an occasional snort, when she’s restless. It’s a comforting sound I’ve become accustomed to in a very short time. A reminder she’s here, in my bed, in my home, and safe. A sound I’ve come to love, like everything else about her. I want her to stay.

  It had been on the tip of my tongue to ask her earlier in the kitchen, but I didn’t. So far our relationship has been unconventional at best and forged in a seriously fucked-up situation. Divided loyalties, broken trust, and a vast expanse of gray area. A lot has happened in a relatively short time, not the least of which is the discovery I actually have a heart. Who the fuck knew?

  Rosie is important to me. Hell, who am I kidding? I love her. But the truth is, we were thrown together by fate, with little choice involved, at least not on her part. I want this to last—I want us to last. I need to know when I ask Rosie to live with me, she is free to follow her heart, and not feel pressured by circumstances.

  The soft buzz of a message coming in alerts me, and I lean over the side of the bed to snag my jeans to get to my phone.

  All parties safely en route.

  Well done, team.

  Sleep in tomorrow, team debrief at 14:00 @ PASS.

  I quickly turn off the sound as thumbs-up are popping up from each team member, and I quickly add mine to the group message. Beside me, Rosie stirs.

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she mumbles, rubbing sleep from her eyes before she aims them at me, a drowsy smile forming on her lips. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I return with a grin of my own. “I consider it a compliment to my phenomenal sexual prowess.”

  “Whatever,” she snorts; rolling her eyes but the smile never leaves her face.

  “The Hollywood crew is gone.” I hold up my phone to show her the message.

  “All of them?”

  She sits up, and I’m momentarily distracted by the sheets pooling at her waist, leaving her fantastic tits on display. Noticing, she yanks the sheet up to cover them, but just as fast I pull it back down, lean in, and kiss one of the now soft rosy peaks. The instant hardening of her nipple is a testament to her responsiveness to me.

  “Mmmmm,” I hum, as my cock stirs alive.

  “Jake,” she prompts me, as she slides out of bed. “So did they? All leave?”

  I lie back with my arms folded behind my head, watching her flesh jiggle enticingly as she scoops her clothes off the floor. I realize how much I like them just there. That would be perfect: Rosie in my house, naked all the time.

  “Jake.”

  I grin unapologetically as I swing my legs out of bed and stalk toward her.

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon, and we haven’t even had lunch yet,” she tries to deflect, retreating into the bathroom with her hands up.

  “We’ll eat later.”

  “Don’t you have to be at work or something?” She’s backed up against the vanity and has nowhere to go. From the smirk on her face, she doesn’t really mind.

  “Nope. And since we can sleep in tomorrow, we have all the time in the world.”

  Her hands land on my chest when I step into her, but rather than push me off, she spreads her fingers, and with her thumbs brushes over my nipples. Guess I’m just as responsive to her, as an electrical charge zaps right down to my package. With my hands on her hips, I swing her around so her lush ass is pressing against my dick.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful. Just look at you.”

  I watch as her eyes slowly lift to find mine in the mirror. She looks like a Rubens painting; lush plump curves, with pale skin, stark against the fiery red of her hair. One rough, tanned hand cupping her breast and the other splayed on her soft belly stand out in contrast. Her yin to my yang. The light to my dark.

>   “Jake...” she whispers as my lips nuzzle behind her ear, and my hand slips down between her legs.

  IT’S CONSIDERABLY LATER when we finally get to the bag of goodies I brought back from the bakery. For future reference, eating apple turnovers and croissants in bed, may not be the best idea.

  “To answer your question,” I mention to Rosie when she walks into the kitchen, wearing some of my old sweats for comfort. “The Hollywood threesome is gone, along with some of the crew. Just a handful are staying behind to finalize some stuff and clean up.”

  “Was that so hard?” She walks up to me and slips her arms around my waist, tilting her head back to see me.

  “Nope, but I had more important things on my mind.”

  “I noticed.” She grins before turning serious. “By the way, do you think instead of sleeping in tomorrow, we could head across the river to the Kia dealership? The prices are reasonable, and some of the cars are cute, and look,” she says, pulling from my arms and pointing at a full-page ad on the back of the newspaper on the counter, “they’re having a sale.”

  “You should look for safe and reliable,” I point out. “Not cute and cheap. I have a guy who can probably hook you up with a good deal on a decent, previously owned car. Maybe a smaller SUV; a Nissan, or a Ford or something.”

  I would be happy buy her a safe vehicle, but I get the impression she might not feel that way. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t ways around it.

  “Those tend to be too expensive, even secondhand,” she protests as expected.

  “Brick is a good guy. He does maintenance on our work fleet. Occasionally, he gets a bead on vehicles coming to auction or company cars coming off lease, and he fixes them as good as new and sells them. We can go see what he has in the yard now, and if there’s nothing to your liking, he can keep an eye out. He’s trustworthy and he’ll get you a good deal.”

  She narrows her eyes at me, weighing her options and finally nods. “Okay, we’ll check him out first, but I really need wheels to get around, otherwise, I have to rent and that’s expensive too.”

  “Want to pick out a movie while I give him a call? I’ll throw some popcorn in the microwave when I’m done.”

  She smiles and lifts up on her toes for a kiss. “Great idea.”

  I watch her move into the living room and plop down on the couch, remote in hand. I toss a bag of popcorn in the microwave and slip down the hallway to the bedroom, where I quickly dial Brick.

  “I have a 2017 Subaru Forester sitting out back,” Brick tells me after I quickly explain what it is I’m looking for. “Came off lease and needed some minor body work, which is done. Thirty-three thousand miles on it, but it’s got a long life left.”

  “What are you hoping to catch on it?”

  “Blue book starts at around sixteen grand for this model. Are you downsizing or something?”

  “Not for me, it’s for a friend.”

  “Friend?” he chuckles. “You got bit by the bug?”

  “Let’s just say it’s important to me she’s safe, in a reliable set of wheels. Important enough to make sure you get fair price, and she can afford it. I’m good for the difference.”

  “Gotcha.”

  By the time the microwave pings and Rosie looks over her shoulder, I’m in the kitchen waiting with a bowl.

  “What are we watching?”

  “There’s a rerun of Postcards From The Edge, it’s a classic with Shirley MacLaine and Meryl Streep.”

  Not my first choice—not by a long shot—but I’ll sit through it for her.

  “Perfect,” I manage through clenched teeth, as I almost burn my fingers on the damn bag, dumping the popcorn in the bowl. She starts laughing when she catches the grimace on my face.

  “Nah. Just yanking your chain. I’ve got Dunkirk lined up; hope you like your history.”

  For the next couple of hours we watch Allied forces battle for freedom on the beaches of Normandy—at least Rosie does. I miss half the movie; I’m too busy watching the woman snuggled against me.

  CHAPTER 23

  ROSIE

  “You’re going shopping without me?”

  “Like you could peel yourself away from your Dutch boy,” I point out to Grant.

  I haven’t spoken to him in a few days and wanted to check in while Jake showers. From the way he answered the phone, I could tell he had company.

  I forgot he’d made plans with Olaf and am dying to see how things are going, but don’t want to put him on the spot, should his lover be around.

  “He’s still sleeping,” Grant replies. “Plumb wore the boy out last night.”

  “Guess that’s good news? I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Jury’s out on that one,” he says, a wistful note to his voice. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s got all the moves, but his mind was definitely not in bed with us last night. It’s a little disconcerting when someone has their eyes shut tight the entire time you’re doing the horizontal Mambo.”

  “Yikes.” That does not give me good vibes. Especially knowing the way it feels when Jake can’t seem to look away from me as we make love. If he kept his eyes closed the whole time, it would make me wonder what, or maybe who, he was seeing.

  “Right? One redeeming factor, he asked about you, which was kinda sweet. Anyway, enough about that. Do you know what kind of car you’re looking for? You should go for a sleek little sports car.”

  We spend the next five minutes arguing about pretty versus practical, until Jake walks in and motions for me to wrap it up.

  “Honey, I’ve got to go,” I warn Grant. “Jake’s got a meeting this afternoon, and if we want to go car shopping, we’ve got to get a move on. Best of luck with your little problem.”

  “What’s wrong with Grant?” Jake asks, as he ushers me out the door and to his truck.

  “I’m afraid his involvement with Olaf is not destined a long life, and it’s not because of Grant; he is head over heels, but I think the object of his affection has one foot out the door.”

  “Ouch. It sucks for Grant, but I have to tell you, from what I’ve seen, these Hollywood types are more the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind.”

  “It makes me sad. He deserves so much better than that.”

  Jake responds with a sympathetic grunt as he backs out of his driveway.

  The drive is silent, with only the sweet sounds of Fleetwood Mac drifting around the cab of the truck. Jake pulls up to a business that looks more like a junkyard than a car dealership. Car parts, old tires, and rusty junkers litter the lot, and I turn to him with an eyebrow raised.

  “This is the place?” I ask, unnecessarily, since it’s obvious from the fact Jake turns off the engine, grabs his phone and wallet from the console, and opens his door, that this is, indeed, the place. Yikes.

  “This is Brick’s,” he confirms, grinning when he sees the dubious look I give him.

  “Honey, I’m not sure if any of these will be an upgrade for my PT.”

  “Don’t let the front fool you—it’s meant to throw thieves and lowlifes off the track—he keeps the nice stuff in the back.”

  No choice but to trust him, I take his hand and let him lead me into a small office, where a man in a dirty pair of overalls is working on the largest iMac I’ve ever seen.

  “Hey, man,” he greets Jake when we walk in. He gets up, moves around the desk, clasping Jake’s hand, and slapping his shoulder. “This your friend?” he asks, turning to me.

  “Rosie, this is Ernest Paver; Brick to his friends.”

  “Pleased to meet ya, ma’am,” the gruff looking guy says with a salute to his imaginary hat. “Hutch here tells me you’re looking for a new ride?”

  “New to me, yes, but previously owned is all I can afford.” I figure it’s best to get that out there right away, before he gets any ideas. “Something not too big, but reliable, that’ll last me a few years.”

  “I may have something. Come with me.”

  We follow Brick through a back door to a caverno
us space. A former warehouse, I’m sure, with one side set up as a workshop, with three bays. Two of them have vehicles up on lifts, with a couple of guys working on them, and the third looks to be a spray booth, with an overhead door.

  It’s the other side of the warehouse that has my mouth drop open. Clearly this is what the junk outside is supposed to be hiding; an impressive selection of luxury vehicles, maybe ten or twelve in total, in addition to a handful of newer looking cars.

  “In addition to fleet maintenance and general repairs, Brick specializes in bodywork on luxury cars,” Jake explains.

  “This may be a good little car for ya,” Brick says, walking ahead to small, canary yellow VW Beetle.

  “Fuck no.” Jake glares at the grinning Brick. I’m sure he’s yanking Jake’s chain, and I decide to play along.

  “Oh, how sweet! Ever since they came out with the new ones, I’ve wanted one of these.” I wink at Brick. “Does it come with one of those flowers in the dashboard?”

  “’Fraid not, no, but I can get my hands on some big fluffy dice to hang off your rearview—”

  “All right, enough of that,” Jake snaps impatiently, realizing he’s being had, and cuts Brick off. “No dice, no flowers, and no yellow cookie tin. Show Rosie a real car, will ya?”

  The dark red SUV Brick shows us next is gorgeous, and so far out of my league, it hurts.

  “Great vehicle; Subaru Forester, 2017 low miles, good on fuel economy, and one previous owner. It’s sturdy, she can take a beating in winter, and these babies last for fucking ever. Pardon my French,” he adds as an afterthought.

  “You bet, but, erm...Brick? It’s gorgeous, but I hate to ask about cost, I’m pretty sure it’s way over my budget.”

  “Well, what’s the budget?”

  I look longingly at the SUV—no way in hell I can afford something like that. It’ll be well over ten grand. I’d hoped to get something under eight, but Dad used to say to never show your bottom line right off the bat. “Between six and seven thousand?”

  Brick makes a clicking sound with his tongue, while squeezing one eye shut. The universal ‘aw shucks’ sign. Dammit, I really love this car.