I run my thumb across her cheekbone and she melts into my hand. “Yeah, Al. I’m listening. Finley’s a bitch . . . blah, blah, blah. Honestly, though, I got a little lost thinking about kissing those sexy lips.”
I did hear every word, but kissing her so she forgets what’s bothering her is what she really wants right now. It’s what I want too.
This weekend is a big deal for both of us. Al is a varsity cheerleader and this is her last championship game to cheer at. I’m the rock of the defense, the leader of the team even though I’m a junior. I need to prove myself. She wants to go out on top.
She licks her lips in preparation, and I lean in, covering her mouth with mine. She tastes like cherries, a new ChapStick she started wearing a while back. We lose ourselves in each other, forgetting about the pressures of our teenage life, letting go of the expectations and responsibilities that rest on us, not worrying about the future as we meld together. I wish there were time for more, but reality sets in.
“Come on, let’s go start on your project now because after the game, you’re mine.” I take her hand, pulling her toward the library.
“I’m always yours.” The promise is quiet, under her breath almost, but I hear it. I feel it.
Now at Hank’s, it’s not the comfortable connection we used to have. No, that’s nothing like right now.
Allyson looks over at the pool tables as a cheer breaks out. “Looks like they’ve got a winner,” she says uselessly, just filling the silence.
I revert back to the Neanderthal ways that have served me so well over the years and grunt. I guess she’s not the only one running hot and cold.
Allyson rolls her eyes, huffing just a little. “What was that? Is that what passes as conversation these days?”
I raise a brow, challenging her little bark of displeasure with my continued silence.
She pulls her napkin from her lap, throwing it on the placemat. “This was a mistake. If you didn’t want to go to dinner with me, you should’ve just said so.”
As she stands, I put a firm hand on her arm, holding her back. “I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”
That takes the wind out of her sails, and she collapses back to her seat as she confesses, “I don’t know what to say to you either.”
It’s quiet again, but thankfully, the waitress saves us by dropping the beers off. I watch Allyson’s lips pucker around the bottle, zero in on her tongue licking the liquid residue off her bottom lip. I force myself to take a sip myself in an attempt to wash that image away.
“I remember the first beer you ever drank. Made a face like it was watered-down piss,” I say, my lips quirking at the memory.
She does make a face at that. “Johnny Jackson’s back field party, right?”
I hold up my bottle in celebration, impressed that she remembers, and we clink. “I’m guessing you’ve had a few more since then. Fuck knows, I have.”
Even I can hear the bitterness.
Her nose crinkles cutely, but she seems sad as she asks the million-dollar question. “What happened to us?”
I damn near choke on the celebratory drink I took, sputtering roughly. “So much.”
It’s harsh, and I know I’m being an asshole, but I can’t stop it. I’m so angry at her still, and I’m angry at myself for still being attracted to her. Because I am.
As much as I want to know what she’s been up to, what’s been happening in her heart and mind and life, I want to shove her up against the wall and fuck her raw and hard. Not the sweet way we used to when we were in love, but there’s something to be said for hate fucking. Maybe that would get her out of my system? Because as much as I want her, I don’t want to want her.
“Tell me about your life now,” she commands. “How’re your mom and dad?” She smiles as she says it and I know she has no idea. No concept of how crazy my whole life went after high school. I’d need a damn 4x4 truck with mud tires to show her just how off-path everything went.
“Small talk? That’s what we’re doing?” I say bitterly, tilting my head. Allyson blinks those baby blues that used to own me, waiting patiently, and I press my lips together, trying to decide whether I want to attempt to explain what my family’s gone through in the last few years.
I sigh, planting my laced hands on the table. “Fine. Shortly after I graduated, Mom got sick. It was fast, it was hard. Cancer’s a bitch.”
Allyson’s jaw drops open in horror and she shakes her head. “Bruce! I had no idea.” Her hands reach across the table to cover mine. “I am so sorry. Mrs. Martha was such a great woman. She always welcomed me with open arms, and I have so many happy memories about her.”
My eyes are locked on her hands on mine, the searing heat of her flesh touching me. I can’t stop my thumb from brushing over her finger, feeling the softness of her skin, and she retreats, pulling back sharply.
“Me too. She was a great woman, a great mom,” I say, picking up my bottle for another drink because I’m not sure what to do with my hands now that they’re not touching hers. “Dad took it real hard, basically disappeared on us, but Brody and Shay took over running the farm. Bobby and I work the fields, and we did okay for a long while.”
It’s weird to put so much into so few words, but honestly, it’s not something I’ve ever talked about with anyone. And it doesn’t seem like the time to get verbose.
“And now?” Allyson asks, mirroring my action and taking a drink. Does she even know that she’s doing that or is it unconscious?
The waitress interrupts, setting our plates down. The pork chop and cinnamon apples smell delicious, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to taste a thing with how badly I want to taste Allyson. Even with the uncomfortable conversation and simmering resentment low in my gut.
I pull my hat off and run my hand through my hair as I sigh. “Look, you want the short story? Fine . . .” I slam my hat back down and my mouth gets away from me. “Mom died. Dad died. We lost the farm because Dad gambled it away, had to sell to the Bennetts. And now we’re like the bass-ackward, country redneck version of the Brady Bunch with Louise Bennett as the leader of our twisted motley crew of a family. The Bennett boys all have women, one of which is my fucking sister. And us Tannens are just trying to keep our heads down and work because that’s all we’ve got.”
I pick up my fork and knife and slice a big chunk of pork chop, shoving it in my mouth and chewing pointedly so she doesn’t ask more questions.
The truth is a jagged pill to swallow. I’ve adjusted to not owning our family farm anymore and have sent enough curses to the sky hoping that Dad can hear them. And I appreciate the Bennetts’ hospitality and problem solving by letting us stay on as workers so we didn’t lose everything at once. But though my day in, day out life hasn’t changed much and I still work in the same fields I have since I was a kid, I know the bottom line.
I’m unsettled. No wife. No kids. No land. No prospects. No future. I’m just doing what I’ve always done, one foot in front of the other, and one day, I’m afraid I’m going to look up and find that I’ve never gone anywhere or done anything permanent. Crops are transient. My life’s work is disposable.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, and I thought I’d made my peace years ago with the direction my life had taken, but seeing Allyson brings back all the dreams of what it was supposed to be.
I force the too-big bite down and flip the tables on her, barking out, “You? What’s your story?”
Her eyes drop first, then her chin, and though I can’t see her hands, I get the distinct impression that she’s twisting her napkin in her lap. “Uhm, got married, had Cooper, got divorced. Moved back to Great Falls a few years ago.”
She sounds haunted. There’s a lot more than the Cliff-Notes version she’s telling. Like me. And there’s a thread of anger too that mirrors mine.
How the fuck did we end up here like this?
But I know. And she knows. The past might be long gone, but it’s not forgotten.
At leas
t now I know her ex is out there somewhere, not dead. Not to be crass, but there’s no competing with the perfect memories of a ghost.
Though how someone could divorce Allyson, I have no idea. She’s perfect. Except for the leaving me part.
“And your parents? How are they? I remember dinners at your house,” I say, memories assailing me. “I washed my hands three times just to sit at your mom’s table and made sure to wear my best jeans, the only pair that didn’t have a hole in them.”
Allyson looks up through her lashes, not meeting my eyes as she shrugs. “I . . . I haven’t talked to them in a long time. I don’t know how they’re doing.”
I set my fork down a little too loudly and it clatters on the plate. “What? What happened? You were always so close.” It’s more accusatory than I intended, but seriously, what the hell? Allyson’s parents were picture-perfect nice in a Mayberry way that tended to make me feel that much dirtier and rougher.
Her shoulders tense, a sure sign the truth is buried deeper than what we’re sharing tonight. That’s okay. I’m not going to push her if I’m not willing to share either.
“Never mind. It’s okay, Al. We don’t have to talk about that.”
She looks back to me gratefully, both of us not knowing what to say again. Taking the easy way out, I stand up. “Come on, let’s dance.”
“What?” she screeches as I grab her hand.
She doesn’t fight me on it, but I wouldn’t have let her off that easy, anyway. Conversation’s hard. We need the action of spinning around the floor. I think it’ll do us both some good.
I pull her to me, keeping space between us as I lead her around the floor. It’s friendly but not friendly. It actually reminds me of the school dances we went to a few times where chaperones around the edges of the floor would keep everything PG-rated.
But though our bodies don’t touch, I’m drinking her in with my eyes. We sway together, and I spin her slowly in deference to her heels, my hand teasing along her lower back until we’re back front to front. This time, we’re a little closer as the music transitions into the next song, a slow and sultry one.
Cody Johnson’s Nothin’ On You washes over the floor, over us, creating heat all around us as everyone feels the music flow through them. I put Allyson’s hand on my chest and don’t bother with any fancy spins or tricks. We just move together, shifting back and forth.
Her fingers dance across my chest, searing me through my shirt. Even in her heels, I look down at her, watching her eyes trace her fingers’ movements. Her gaze moves left and right, measuring my chest, and my arms flex, drawing her attention. The pad of her thumb slips over the lines of black tattoo ink peeking out of my shirt sleeve.
“When did you get this?” she whispers into the space between us.
“A few years ago,” I tell her. “I’ve got others too. If you want to see some time.” Need rumbles through my voice, and though I’m shit for flirting, she knows exactly what I’m saying.
A tiny gasp passes her lips, and she looks up to meet my eyes in slow motion. “Bruce . . .”
I can’t hear whatever she’s about to say. I don’t want to hear her say she wants me, really don’t want to hear her say she doesn’t. So I do the one thing that will shut her up and take her breath away.
I kiss her, right there on the dance floor at Hank’s in front of the whole damn town, hard and sure. Not that I’m giving a single thought to them as I take her lips. She freezes for a single heartbeat, and then she’s kissing me back with a heat echoing what’s roaring through my blood. We stop any pretense of dancing, our tongues tangling and tasting, our bodies remembering and wanting.
“Fuck, Al.”
I wrap my arms around her tighter, pulling her against me, and I feel her lift to her toes, giving me more of her weight as she leans into me willingly. She moans, a vibration I feel more than hear, and I slip one hand up to cup the side of her throat, wanting to make her do it again against my palm.
“Whoooo, Brutal! Yeah, man . . . getcha sum!” a voice calls out from over by the pool table.
A few chuckles sound out around the room, but the spell between us is broken. She drops down to her feet, stepping back from me. A single step has never seemed so far.
I see the shock, the confusion in the blue of her wide eyes before she drops them, shutting me out.
“Al—” I try to say, but her hand twists my shirt over my chest and she shakes her head, refusing to meet my gaze.
“No, we can’t.” I’m not sure if she’s telling me or asking me, so I answer as though it’s a question.
“Yes, the fuck we can. We’re adults and can do whatever we want. And make no mistake.” I tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes to mine. “Allyson, I want you.”
Heart, meet silver platter. Okay, maybe it’s not quite like Bobby predicted because I’m not offering my heart. But I’m damn sure willing to give her my cock, even knowing it’s stupid as fuck.
She closes her eyes like that hurts her to hear. “I know. I’m sorry, Bruce. I just . . . I can’t.” She takes another step back, virtually running for the door.
When it comes to fight or flight, Allyson was always a fighter, but damned if she’s not flying away right now. Which pisses me off . . . at her, at me, at the fuckwit who interrupted us. As the door swings shut behind her, I whirl toward the pool tables. I’m definitely not a flight-er.
“Who the fuck is making my business their business? Because now, your business is mine,” I roar so loudly the rafters rattle.
The crowd quiets and scatters, leaving behind a couple of skinny farm boys who are already a few sheets to the wind. They’re both holding their hands up, and one says, “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to scare her away. Just . . . you know . . . WHOO!”
He pumps a fist in the air like he was trying to celebrate my possibly getting laid, like we’re friends. I don’t know this asshole from Adam, though.
I take slow, measured steps toward him, nothing fast or Hank, the bartender and owner, will pull out the Louisville Slugger he keeps beneath the bar. There’s no need to do that because Hank’s a good guy and I don’t want him getting hurt. I grab the asshole’s shirt, twisting the collar up so it’s nice and tight around his throat and he has to stand on unsteady tiptoes. His buddy has already stepped off into the circle of the crowd.
“What’s your name?” I snarl low, right up in his face. His breath reeks of beer.
“Bloomdale, Kyle Bloomdale. You’re my boy’s football coach.” He’s stammering, slurring words, but there’s a thread of pride running through them.
I don’t show my surprise, but I do set Kyle down on his feet. “You’re Killian’s dad?” He nods too fast and I sneer at what I see before me. “I didn’t know he even had a dad, seeing as he never mentioned you. Seems like he’s lucky to have his grandparents raising him. He’s a good boy. Thanks to them.”
The dig is knife-point sharp, taking the bluster out of whatever kinship he thought we’d have. He gapes like a fish and I hold his eyes as I yell over my shoulder,
“Hey, Hank? Kyle here is gonna be paying for my dinner, Allyson’s too, plus a tip.”
He whines and I stare him down. “Consider yourself lucky I’m in a good mood.”
I’m not really, or at least not anymore. But I was there for a minute with Allyson in my arms, her taste on my tongue, her body writhing against mine.
From the other side of the crowd, I hear Hank’s voice, smoker rough from the packs-a-day habit he broke years ago. “Sure thing, Brutal. You boys have a nice night, you hear?”
The threat of violence at Hank’s hand is woven through the nicety with the subtlety of a crowbar to the head. I chuckle darkly and turn, walking away and heading toward the door. The crowd parts for me like the Red Sea.
Once upon a time, I would’ve busted Kyle’s nose and walked out of here with his blood on my fists. I’d like to think I’ve grown up a bit since my misspent youth.
Some days that’s true, some days not as
much.
Chapter 10
Allyson
Ding dong!
The doorbell chimes happily, and I set down the rag I’ve been working across the kitchen counter for the past ten minutes. It’s already spotless, but Sunday is my day to reset for the week ahead, a little something I call ‘bless this house’.
I’ve got laundry going, the bathrooms sparkle, and Cooper’s been dusting every flat surface for the last hour. He’s not the best at it, but I think it’s important for him to have chores so he develops a sense of pride and ownership. A sense of home.
“Coming!” I call out, my steps quick toward the door.
I peek through the peephole and I’m left breathless. What’s he doing here?
I put a hand up to my mess of hair, piled haphazardly on my head. I’ve got my glasses on, which make me look owlish and nerdy. But worst of all, I’m wearing a pair of ratty cotton shorts that are way too short for company and a tank top with a built-in bra that only mostly keeps everything locked and loaded. In short, I look like shit that slept on the ground outside overnight and then lucked into a roof over its head for the day.
And I smell like Pine-Sol.
I blink, wondering again what he’s doing here. But I open the door anyway. “Bruce?”
I see the genuine surprise on his face, his brows jumping up and crinkling his forehead. But then his eyes sweep lower over me and something more animalistic takes over his expression. “Al?”
My skin tingles and there’s a tiny piece of me that preens under his heated perusal. Maybe I’m at least a hot mess?
“What are you doing here?” I say, knowing I sound ridiculously breathless for the situation.
He holds his hands up, each one clasping a gallon jug of pink liquid. “Watermelon water delivery. This is the address Shay gave me?” He answers his own question, leaning back to look at the metal numbers affixed over the mailbox beside the door.
“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Debra said she was going to order me some fancy juice she had at brunch the other day. I guess that’s you?”
Rough Love Page 9
