“Well, hmm. I got new tires for graduation.”
I put the shot glass down. “As in four years ago?”
“Boyce, tires ain’t in my wheelhouse. I know beer and liquor. I know how to make my grandma’s pecan pie from scratch and biscuits and gravy that’d make you cry they’re so good. I know good boys and bad boys and how to turn the former into the latter. I do not know tires.”
I held up a hand. “Bring it by tomorrow, late morning—but text me first. Thompson and me are going fishing early.”
“Rick?”
“Naw—Randy. I haven’t seen Rick for a while. Last I heard from Randy, Rick was living somewhere outside Houston.”
Her mouth tightened. “Me neither. Not that either of them were geniuses, but I’da never thought Randy would turn out the levelheaded one of them two. He was one crazy motherfucker, and now he’s selling T-shirts and making jewelry.”
A guy two stools down was trying to get her attention by waving and clearing his throat.
“Well. Enough reminiscing—I got drunks to serve.”
“Hey!” the guy said.
“Keep your shorts on, sweetie—I’m coming.” She slapped the bar. “See you tomorrow, Boyce. Oh—Jesus, I almost forgot! My great-great-aunt—the one who runs the inn? Her front-desk girl is preggers, and she’s just been put on bed rest. She needs somebody smart who presents well, won’t steal shit, and can work weekends. I figured Pearl fit that, so I called Aunt Minnie and she was all over it. Tell her to stop by tomorrow if she’s interested.”
• • • • • • • • • •
By the time I returned home, it was raining. The trailer windows were dark, so I toed my boots off on the stoop and went inside in wet socks. Pearl was asleep on the sofa, sheet pushed to her waist, wearing one of her old dance troupe T-shirts. I couldn’t resist the urge to wander closer and stare at her for one short minute. Curled on her side, knees tucked high and hands folded below her chin, she sighed in her sleep. Her hair was loose and wild, covering the white pillowcase.
Goddamn Brittney and her talk of rings and babies when just trying to get this girl to be seen in public with me was as good as repeatedly bashing my head against the wall. When I could lose everything I’d built in the two shakes it would take Barney Amos to find the mother who left me with a man who talked with his fists.
• • • • • • • • • •
When I woke, I assumed it was because of the crack of thunder that shook the trailer, and I turned onto my side, prepared to sink back into sleep and hoping this shit let up before five a.m. Otherwise, my fishing plans were screwed.
The flash of lightning seconds later lit my room through the open blinds of the single window. One second, maybe two—just long enough for me to catch sight of the figure in the doorway.
“Pearl?” I leaned up on an elbow.
“Is it always this loud during storms? Or should we be concerned?” Her voice was reed-thin.
Dr. Frank’s place was a stone fortress compared to this tin box that was designed to be pulled off its foundation, loaded onto a set of wheels, and moved on a whim. Besides that, the Frank place was on the bay side of the island. They didn’t get the brunt of storms rolling in from the gulf like my neighborhood did.
“It’s always this loud. Nothing to be worried about.” Just as I said that, thunder from that last strike roared and the vibrations shook the floor. Pearl jumped visibly, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “C’mere.” I scooted into the center of the bed and held the sheet up.
She hesitated, wheels grinding away in that brain of hers. I couldn’t accuse her of overthinking. I wanted her, and I could tell she wanted me from the looks she’d been trying to mask over the past week. I was all but daring her to cross that line and let me give us both what we wanted. I wouldn’t make the first move, though, even if she joined me. The power of whether we just fell asleep or whether I kept her wide-awake for the next hour or three was in her hands.
I wouldn’t make the first move, but I’d damn sure make the second.
Lightning lit the room again—several seconds of it—multiple strikes. The next crash of thunder would rattle the walls for half a minute straight. She paused for all of about one second before crossing the room and sliding under the sheet, but she hugged the edge of the mattress with her back to me, no part of her body touching mine. She curled up like she had been on the sofa, waiting for that first loud, angry clap and the echoing bellow just behind it.
I dropped the sheet over her just as the boom came like a rifle shot, transforming into a wind-powered rumble that rocked the trailer and everything in it. By the time the last of it faded, her back was pressed against my chest, her hips tucked against my abdomen. My arm lay across her rib cage, but my hand rested against the mattress in front of her. I made no move to reposition closer or farther away. A few more similar strikes ensured she didn’t leave, though none were as bad as the two or three that had sent her scurrying to my door.
Just as I was sure we would drift off to sleep, she shifted onto her back and turned her face toward mine. I hardened instantly but didn’t move as we stared at each other. The hums and aftershocks of wind and rain went on outside—more lightning, more thunder—but it was moving on up the coast and none of it seemed to trouble her now.
She made another quarter-turn, facing me full on, and I swear I’d never held myself so still. Finger on the trigger, I waited, motionless, for her clear signal.
Her fingertips stretched up and curved against my cheek. Not yet.
Her warm lips touched the edge of my jaw with a barely there kiss. Close.
The pad of her foot skimmed along my shin, bare toes trailing down, and she angled herself alongside me tip to toe, cradling my rigid, hungry dick against her belly like a welcome home. Almost.
My hand drifted to her back, my fingers charting a careful path through her T-shirt as I drew her in tight, palm sliding down her spine, pressing her flush against my chest, dipping into the bow of her lower back as she released a quiet moan. When my hand slid to cup her hip, I said, “You ready?” and she nodded.
Pearl
His mouth covered mine, his tongue spearing home as he turned me onto my back—nothing gentle, nothing measured—just raw possession and claim staked. I hadn’t wanted time to think anymore, and he didn’t give it to me.
Clutching his bare shoulders and the arms that surrounded me like indestructible bands, I gave myself over to every trembling response he lured from the buried recesses of my heart. As the storm ebbed outside and sporadic volleys of lightning shone through the window and flickered across the room, he peeled away my clothes and kissed me until I was gasping into his mouth and surging against his hand.
I whimpered as he held his body inches away, hovering over me, so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. With a muffled chuckle, he kissed and teased his way over my breasts and ribs and belly, his lips and tongue stroking unerringly. His hair was soft against my palms as he drifted lower, and I writhed and arched, craving his touch, the feel of his body against mine.
His hands connected with my thighs, and I wailed like I’d waited for days as he dipped his head and slicked his tongue over me before plunging it inside. Arching like a bow and fisting the tangled sheets beneath me like I was clinging to the surface of the earth, I panted a garbled expletive and almost cried. There was no way I could hold still, no subtle response possible.
“Mmm,” he hummed, and I came undone.
He slid up my sweat-slicked body and into me, reclaiming my mouth in the same instant. I convulsed around him, my brain screaming about protection to no avail, drowned out in waves of bliss as he cradled my head in one hand, turning my face for a deep, slow kiss as he rocked into me and came, his mouth breaking from mine to utter my name and, “Godfuckingdammit.”
Foreheads pressed together as if fused, we panted. I closed my eyes, panicked that everything I’d ever felt for him would spill out.<
br />
When he withdrew and dropped to my side, he rolled onto his back and dragged me close in one movement. His chest still rose and fell, and I watched my hand ride up and down, curled over his heart. I slanted one leg over his and he tightened his hold, but neither of us spoke. Heart rates decelerating, limbs relaxed and languid, our echoed breathing patterns returned to normal, and the comprehension of what had just occurred presented itself.
I took stock. I’d come to his door like a panicked child, afraid of the sort of thunderstorm I’d never enjoyed but had survived dozens of. He’d invited me into his bed with no seductive propositions or wisecracks. I’d turned to face him. I’d run my fingers over the soft scruff at his jawline and then kissed him there. He’d been hard against my stomach. You ready? he’d said, and I’d nodded.
I tried to be sorry and couldn’t. What a lie that would be, and I wouldn’t tell it. Not to myself. It wasn’t just as good as I remembered. It was—impossibly—so much better.
Finally I mumbled something about the bathroom and slipped out of his arms. The night table drawer was ajar, and a condom wrapper was on top, empty. I hadn’t noticed him reach for it, but I hadn’t noticed much of anything past what he was doing to me. I plucked my T-shirt off the floor and pulled it on as I padded from his bedroom, through the kitchen, and past the living room with my disheveled sheets on the sofa as I’d left them.
I washed up in the dark by the light of the lone porthole window over the shower, unable to look myself in the eye just yet. What now? Back to the sofa? I had no idea of the time, but there’d been no hint of dawn through the windows as I passed them. The rain was still falling, quietly tapping against the roof and windowpanes, but the lightning strikes had abated and the menacing winds had calmed like exhausted toddlers after a tantrum.
Boyce was just outside the bathroom when I opened the door. He caught my hand as I passed and pulled me close, tipping my face up and kissing me tenderly, slowly—nothing like our turbulent coming together moments ago. By the time he released me, I was light-headed. I turned and walked to the sofa, sitting and then curling under the sheet, my mind more muddled than ever. What did it mean? Anything? What had I done?
Minutes later, he exited the bathroom, walked directly to the sofa and scooped me up, sheet and all.
“We’re not done yet,” he said, and my heart launched into a staccato beat as he carried me back to his bed.
This time everything was slow motion. He drew me astride his body, his hands enveloping my face carefully before sliding into my hair and pulling me down for long, deep kisses. Once he was sure of me, his fingers wandered down my arms and back, caressing over my shoulders, along the center of my back to finally duck beneath my shirt and set fire to my skin. His kisses gentle but insistent, he gripped my hips and pressed me against the hard length between my legs.
This time I was aware when he reached into the drawer. Aware when he tore open the wrapper behind my back and tugged me up on my knees while he rolled it on before pressing me back down, hands at my hips, impaling me, filling me. His face disappeared beneath my shirt as I came down and he rocked up. I felt but couldn’t see him tug a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue round and round the tip until I moaned, then sucking so forcefully it was almost painful before alternating to the other, his hand moving to cover the first sensitive, wet nub, pressing his palm to my breast like a blessing.
This time when I began to come, he flipped me onto my back and pressed deep, one hand between us, thumb and forefinger stroking lightly—once, twice, three times—until I bucked and screamed with the unbearable pleasure, cresting and shuddering until I thought it would never end. Before the tremors subsided, he withdrew and surged home, setting me off once more when he came, my name in his mouth before he kissed me like it was the last time.
• • • • • • • • • •
I woke with a start and sat up, heart hammering. Full daylight streamed through the window across the room as if the thunderstorm had been a hallucination. I’m late.
No—it was Sunday. I heaved a relieved sigh and then listened for Boyce’s presence outside the bedroom, but every sound I detected originated outside—the squawk of seagulls scavenging a few blocks from the beach, the hum of a car passing on the street, the low horn of a tanker or cruise ship out in the gulf. I was alone.
I pulled the sheet back, revealing my bare legs below the worn T-shirt twisted around my torso. Scooting to the edge of the bed, I realized I was a bit sore. It had been five months since I’d broken up with Mitchell. Returning to my comfort zone after the breakup, I’d thrown my full concentration into academics and earned a 4.0 in my final, most challenging semester. I’d had little to no social life outside the Chi-O house. Attending compulsory spring events with guys who were friends, I declined any actual dates and sidestepped hookups, preferring the use of my hand and my imagination as a sexual partner. No misunderstandings, no complications.
Little wonder I’d responded so forcefully to Boyce’s skillful attention last night. Oh my stars. I’d never, ever nearly cried during sex… except for the first time—also with Boyce—but that was due to pain, not ecstasy. I’d always thought It hurts so good was a silly expression, a fictional ideal.
Wrong.
My shorts were folded on the night table, next to a note scribbled on the back of a list of auto parts.
Gone fishin’ (always wanted to write that to somebody). Back around 11. Brit is bringing her truck by late morning but she’s supposed to text me first so she shouldn’t bother you. BTW - she says her aunt needs a front desk person at the inn on Cotter. She told her about you. Sounded like you could show up and it’s yours, if you’re interested.
B.
Boyce had left me a note to tell me where he was and when he’d be back… but Brittney Loper was bringing her truck by, despite her supposed lack of influence over his Sundays. I fought back the surge of jealousy that made my eyes burn. Boyce wasn’t mine. We’d slept together last night, but that didn’t mean he belonged to me.
Brit had been friendly yesterday and had possibly arranged for me to land a job at an inn. After my initial job-search failure, I wasn’t willing to look that gift horse in the mouth.
I grabbed my shorts and the note and went to shower. When I got out there were two messages and a pic on my phone—from Mitchell. I tapped Edit and my thumb hovered over Delete, but I couldn’t do it. My curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to know what the hell he had to say.
Mitchell: I got an apartment in the Hillsboro West End area. It’s biking distance from campus on nice days. I think you’d like it. The pic is the view from the patio.
Mitchell: Anyway. I wanted to apologize one more time. I know you deleted my messages after we broke up instead of reading or listening to them, and I don’t blame you. I was such a jerk. I guess I’m just hoping you read this. I’m so sorry, Pearl.
“Be sorry, asshole,” I muttered. So much had happened in the past five months. So much had happened in the past twelve hours. Mitchell didn’t deserve to know any of it. He didn’t deserve an I forgive you… even though I’d reneged on all our plans and didn’t tell him until I had to.
I didn’t regret my decision, but if I’d just told him about it earlier, I could have avoided these pangs of conscience. I closed the message without answering or deleting it, unsure which to do. No rush, either way. Besides, I had a job to land.
Brittney Loper’s words reverberated in my head and I wondered what had made her think them. If you wanted Boyce, you could land him. I didn’t want him to just want me in his bed. To manipulate him into promises or arrangements because of that want. I wanted him to love me like I loved him. I wanted to be his only. But no one had ever been Boyce Wynn’s only, and I wasn’t foolish enough to view that as some sort of challenge. He wanted me sexually, yes. But interpreting desire as proof of love produced a counterfeit result, born of immeasurable evidence and hidden formulation and a vague hypothesis with no falsifiable alternat
ive.
He was a magnet and I was a magnetized entity. One week was all it took to submit to the magnetic field that trailer had become, and there were nine weeks to go. The only question was whether his undivided attraction would last the whole nine weeks—whether my heart would be shattered before the time was up or I would shoulder the pretense of being the one who left, my dignity intact, outwardly.
I had what in science is known as a hindsight bias. When it was over I would say I had known all along how it would end, because I’d been here before. It could be argued that I would influence the result—that my wrecked heart would be a self-fulfilling prophecy—but I couldn’t see how that mattered one way or the other. And that’s when I knew how far gone I was.
chapter
Eighteen
Boyce
Sunday afternoon I’d sent Brit packing with balanced tires and orders to get a new set as soon as she could afford them when Pearl texted me. She not only got the job, they wanted her to start right away. Aunt Minnie—who was about a hundred—had taken a spill over Katy Perry, the inn’s reception dog, and fractured her femur one week before her knocked-up front-desk girl got put on bed rest.
If I were Pearl, I’d have thought long and hard about the bad luck making the rounds there before signing on, but she’d always been a logical sort of girl. Luck one way or the other wouldn’t faze her because she’d never believed in it.
She came home around ten thirty, tiptoeing through the trailer for no good reason because I was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling and praying for a gully washer despite the fact that there was a two percent chance of rain and not a cloud in the goddamned sky. She fell asleep on the sofa while I tossed and turned and cursed the fact that my pillow still smelled like her.
Sam showed up Monday morning, full of beans because she’d survived her trial period and was now a bona fide employee. We were working on a routine brake job under the lift I’d set low so she could see and reach everything. I pulled my weight bench over so I didn’t have to squat. I’d never worked on an underbody while seated, but it was damned sight more uncomfortable than I’d have thought.