She finishes the pink drink in her hand. Even though I’m not twenty-one and don’t have an ID that says I am, I hook my thumb toward the bar. “You want me to get you another round?”
Before she can answer, Drew intercedes. “Or we could get out of here? Go back to your place?” He makes eye contact with the blonde. “You can show me your . . . art. I bet you’re extremely talented.”
The girls agree, I down the rest of my bourbon, and as easy as that, the four of us head out the door.
• • •
Turns out the girls are roommates. I’m quiet as we walk the three blocks to their apartment—distracted by the uneasy feeling churning in my stomach like butter gone bad. It’s a mixture of nervousness and guilt. I imagine Jenny’s face in my head, smiling and sweet. I picture her holding our daughter in the rocking chair my Aunt Sylvia gave us when Presley was born. And I wonder if what I’m doing—what I’m about to do—is the right thing.
Their apartment is a lot nicer than what two college girls could afford alone. A doorman, third floor, a spacious living room with unstained beige couches and gleaming hardwood floors covered by an Oriental rug. A full-size kitchen with oak cabinets and granite countertops is visible from the living room, separated by a breakfast bar and three white bar stools.
“Make yourselves at home,” the dark-haired girl says with a smile. “We’re just going to go freshen up.”
After they disappear down the hallway, Drew’s head whips to me. “You look like a virgin on prom night. What’s the matter?”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“Did you not see the brunette’s tits? Getting a closer look at those bad boys could never be anything but a good idea.”
My lips tighten with indecision, then . . . I spill my guts. “The thing is . . . I’ve never had sex with anyone except Jenny.”
He rubs his forehead. “Oh Jesus.”
With a sigh he drops his hand and asks, “But she’s good with you hooking up with other people? I mean, she agreed?”
I lift my shoulder and explain, “Well yeah—she’s the one who suggested it in the first place.”
Evans nods. “Sounds like my kind of girl. So what’s the problem?”
I rub the back of my neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that’s taken up residence there. “Even though we talked about it . . . I’m not sure . . . this doesn’t feel . . . I want to do right by her.”
Drew’s voice loses its edge of irritation. “I admire that, Shaw. You’re a stand-up guy. Loyal. I like that about you.” He points at me. “Which is why I think you owe it to yourself, and your Jenny chick, to have hours of dirty, sweaty sex with this woman.”
Not for the first time, I wonder if Drew Evans is the devil—or a close relation. I can picture him offering the fasting Christ a loaf of bread and making it sound completely acceptable for him to take a big ole bite out of it.
“Do you actually believe the horseshit that comes out of your mouth?”
Drew waves me off. “Pay attention, you’re about to learn something. What’s your favorite ice cream?”
“What the hell does that have to do—”
“Just answer the fucking question. What is your favorite ice cream?”
“Butter pecan,” I sigh.
His eyebrows rise sardonically. “Butter pecan? I didn’t think anyone under seventy liked butter pecan.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. How do you know butter pecan is your favorite?”
“Because it is.”
“But how do you know?” he presses.
“Because I like it more than—”
I stop midsentence. Understanding.
“More than any other flavor you’ve tried?” Drew finishes. “Better than vanilla, strawberry, or mint chocolate chip?”
“Yeah,” I admit softly.
“And how would you have known that butter pecan was the flavor for you—not just your default choice—if you were too afraid to ever taste anything else?”
“I wouldn’t have.”
He waves his hand, like a magician. “Exactly.”
See what I mean? The devil.
Still . . . it’s similar to what Jenny said, the questions she raised. Can we really mean it when say we love one another if all we’ve known is each other? Are we strong enough to pass that kind of test? And if we’re not, what kind of future do we have together anyway?
A slap to the arm snaps me from my introspection. “Look, Shaw, this is supposed to be fun. If you’re not having a good time, if you’d rather take off, I won’t think any less of you.”
I snort. “Sure you will.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, you’re right, I will. But . . . I won’t tell the guys you pussed out. It’ll stay between you and me.”
Before I can answer him the girls walk back into the room. They’ve changed into loose-fitting, strappy pajamas, shiny in satin. I can smell the mint on her freshly brushed teeth when the blonde leans over and says to Drew, “Come on, there’s something in my room I want to show you.”
He stands smoothly. “Then there’s something in your room I want to see.” Before they advance to the hallway, he glances my way. “You good, man?”
Am I good?
The curly haired brunette stares at me expectantly—waiting for me to make my move. And the realization finally sets in that . . . there’s not any reason to say no.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
Drew takes the blonde’s hand and she leads them into the room at the end of the hall.
Left alone with my dark-haired companion, I take a minute to look at her—really look at her. She has breasts larger than I’m used to, a tiny waist, and a firm bubble bottom that balances out the whole package nicely. The kind of ass a man could hold on to, knead with his fingers and guide forward and back, up and down. Her legs are smooth and toned, her skin flawless and tanned.
For the first time tonight, genuine attraction unfolds low in my gut, stirring my poorly underused dick from his five-month hibernation.
I don’t ask her name and she hasn’t requested mine. There’s a thrill in anonymity, a freedom. I’ll never have to see this girl again—what we do and say tonight won’t leave this apartment, won’t come back to haunt me, won’t find its way to judgmental ears in a small town far, far away. A thousand fantasies, each more deviant than the last, flit through my brain like smoke coming off a campfire. Acts I’d never dream of asking Jenny to perform—things she’d probably smack me for even suggesting.
But a beautiful, nameless stranger . . . why the fuck not?
“You want to see my room?” she asks.
My voice is deep, rough like my thoughts. “Okay.”
Her room is a swirl of dark reds, browns, and burnt orange, not overly feminine. I sit on the edge of her bed, feet on the floor, knees spread.
Any trace of indecision has left the building.
As she closes the door she questions, “What’s your major? I meant to ask earlier.”
“Prelaw.”
She moves in front of me, standing an arm’s length away, regarding me with an angled head and hooded eyes. “Why do you want to be a lawyer?”
I smile. “I like to argue. I like . . . provin’ people wrong.”
Taking a step closer, she picks up my hand. Then she turns it over and traces my palm with her fingertip. It tickles in a stimulating kind of way that gets my pulse hammering.
“You have strong hands.”
There are no soft hands on a farm. Tools, rope, fences, saddles, lifting and digging makes for tough palms and hard muscles.
“You know what I like best about sculpting?” she asks on a breathy sigh.
“What?”
She drops my hand then lifts a dark, daring gaze to mine. “I don’t think at all while I’m doing it. I don’t plan, I let my hands . . . do whatever they want. Whatever feels good.”
She grasps the bottom of her top and slides it over he
r head. Her breasts are pale and ripe and gloriously new to my eyes. She stands just inches away, bare and proud. “You wanna give it a try?”
She puts her hands over mine, skimming them up the warm velvet of her rib cage. When she places my callused palms on her breasts, I take over. Cupping their weight, massaging gently, brushing my thumbs across the peaks of her nipples. They tighten and darken from pink to dusty rose and I scrape my lip with my teeth to stave off the immediate urge to latch on, lick, and bite.
My last coherent thought is six quick words:
I could get used to this.
• • •
Three weeks later
“You lying, cheating sonofabitch!”
Jenny’s hands fly out, wild and whipping, striking my face, shoulders, and anywhere she can reach.
Slap.
Slap, slap.
Slap.
“Jenny, stop!” Finally I get a grip on her forearms, holding her still. “Fuckin’ stop!”
Hot, angry tears cover her cheeks and her eyes are puffy with betrayal. “I hate you! You make me sick! I hate you!”
She pulls out of my grasp and runs up the porch, slamming the screen door behind her as she disappears into the house. I’m left standing on the lawn—shredded. Feeling like I’ve been flayed open, my heart not just broken but ripped out. And there’s something else—more than regret—there’s fear. It makes my palms sweat and skin prickle. Fear that I’ve messed up, terror that I just lost the best thing that will ever happen to me.
I push a hand through my hair, trying to keep it together. Then I sit on the porch steps and brace my elbows on my knees. I keep an eye on Presley, on the blanket twenty feet away where she plays with her cousins near the swing set. Her white-blond curls bounce as she giggles, thankfully, completely unaware.