MAYBE BABY

by ANDREA SMITH

  Trey mounted Derringer expertly, direct reining him, cueing left to turn the horse so that they faced the open stable door that led outside of the paddock area. He saw me then as I walked up the gangway toward man and beast. I suddenly felt shy and giddy.

  (God, please don’t let me make an idiot out of myself in front of this beautiful man.)

  My mom’s nagging witch’s voice was harping to my subconscious convincing my id that Trey was too handsome, too rich, too polished, and too classy for trash like me. Trey smiled as I approached.

  “Where do you want me?” I asked cautiously.

  “Well, for now, how about up on the horse with me?” He grinned mischievously as he reached his left arm down and with little effort, swung me up placing me right in front of him. I was encircled inside of his arms my head resting comfortably against his chest. He controlled the reins and clicked the signal for Derringer to start moving. Once outside of the stables, Trey put Derringer into a slow trot.

  Since Trey and I were virtually sharing a saddle at the moment, it was a bit difficult for me to do anything but remain close within his arms. As the horse trotted, I could feel Trey’s body move closer with each posting, and then back away; the rhythm was perfection. Though I had no idea what love-making felt like, I suspected perhaps the rhythm was similar to this.

  Trey directed the horse into a meadow about a mile away by my estimate. There was a crystal clear stream, and plenty of shade trees. He reined the horse over to a large tree that offered ample shade. A couple of yards away, there was a large log lying horizontally on the ground that bordered the stream.

  Trey slid down off of the horse, taking me with him. I was puzzled by the short ride, but my instincts told me that we were going to have a discussion first. Play later.

  He dropped Derringer’s reins to the ground. The horse was well-trained enough to know to stay put.

  “Come with me, Tylar,” he held out his hand and I slipped mine into it.

  We walked over to the log, and Trey straddled it, pulling me down once again in front of him, only this time, I was facing him. I looked up at him questioningly.

  “First, Ms. Preston, I would like permission to kiss you, may I?”

  I nodded ‘yes’ with no hesitation. We were only inches apart. My mom had lost this round with my id. My id wanted this pleasure, and wanted it now.

  Trey leaned in closer, cupping my chin gently with his right hand, and tipping my face up to meet his. His blue eyes were intense and tender at the same time. I closed my eyes and felt his warm, sensual lips on mine. They moved slowly, caressingly over mine, his hands now cradled my face on each side.

  His tongue softly slid over my lips, parting mine gently and expertly, and I could feel my heart quicken. Our tongues met in a sensual, playful exploration, and again, we found a perfect rhythm. I turned to jelly, placing my hands up on his face, wanting to feel every inch of it while my eyes were closed. The gnawing in the pit of my stomach started again; there was nothing unpleasant about it. It wanted more, but I knew that for now, this was what I could handle. Trey moaned with pleasure, bringing our kiss to closure, by placing soft kisses on my lips, my face, and bringing my hands up to his lips, and kissing each one tenderly.

  I opened my eyes and felt like I was drunk, only it wasn’t like being drunk on alcohol; it was a heady drunk, a pleasure spreading through me that was calming, yet disarming. His eyes were a deeper blue than before, watching me; looking for signs of what? Did he think I would freak out? Not a chance.

  “Hmmm,” he breathed against me, “Do you know how exquisite you are, Tylar? Do you know how much I have wanted you since the very first time I laid eyes on you?"

  I was dumbfounded. I shook my head letting him know that I was clueless. He lifted an errant lock away from my face, and then brushed his thumb lightly against my lips, still moist from our luxurious kiss.

  “I need you to know something, Tylar,” his tone was now serious. “I will never go beyond the boundaries of what you permit me to do as far as touching you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so,” I whispered, studying his expression closely.

  “And,” he continued, “I will never let the physical progression of our relationship escalate beyond what I feel and believe you are ready for, regardless as to whether you communicate otherwise, okay?”

  (Oh, God, he is referring to that whole, ‘Trey, will you fuck me?' disaster.)

  I felt myself turn beet red. I pulled my legs up folding them in front of me like a fort of protection. I wrapped both arms around my bent legs and lowered my face so that my chin was resting on my knees, not really wanting to make eye contact with him at this point. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I suspected he knew that I was a virgin. A damaged virgin at that.

  Trey reached out with his hand, tilting my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes. Eyes that were searching mine for something.

  “Tylar, you have nothing, nothing my sweetness to be ashamed of, do you understand that? We are going to make this right, damn it, I promise you that!”

  (Okay, now I am a bit confused.)

  Obviously, he had figured out that I was a virgin. I loved that he was telling me that I had no reason to be ashamed of that fact. What I was not getting was his promise to me that ‘we’ were going to make it right. How could we? Had I not put it out there for him very bluntly? How could we make it right if he was opting out of fucking me, at least for right now?

  Trey sensed my confusion.

  “Do you want to talk about it, baby?” he asked softly.

  “I do,” I answered, “But I am a little bit embarrassed as well as confused.”

  “Just tell me what confuses you; you’ve no need to be embarrassed about anything, it’s not your fault, do you understand?”

  “Okay, here goes Trey; I am going to just blurt it out because I can’t candy-coat stuff. That is just not my style. It’s not the way I roll.”

  He nodded, ready for it.

  “I love that you are okay with the fact that I am still a virgin at almost twenty-one years of age,” I blurted. “But what I don’t understand is your promise that you and I are going to make that right when you refuse to …. Uh…you refuse to fuck me because I guess your standards don’t feel that I’m ready. So my question is: how much longer do you think my virginity needs to stay intact?”

  I looked at him and the realization hit me that I had totally blown his mind. This much I could tell. He couldn’t say that I hadn’t warned him about my bluntness. I continued to watch him closely waiting for a response. His expression was that of shock or confusion. Maybe a little bit of both. He looked as if he had simply come late to the party and had no clue as to what was going on or had taken place prior to his arrival.

  “You’re a virgin?” he finally sputtered. “I had no idea; my God, Tylar, are you sure?”

  “What do you mean, am I sure? I think I would know, don’t you? What the hell did you mean when you said ‘I had nothing to be ashamed of’ and then the part where you said that ‘we would make it right,’ if you weren’t referring to my virginity?”

  “Tylar, I was referring to what I presumed to be sexual abuse against you at some point in time. I mean the dreams, your utterances while you were in the hospital. Your aversion

  to things that comes on suddenly. It points to some type of abuse; I supposed or assumed that it was sexual.”

  “What?” I yelled. “Are you serious? Don’t you think that I would know it if I had been sexually abused?"

  “How do you explain the dream last night?”

  “It was a nightmare, for god sakes, Trey; I’ve had a few since my concussion. They are weird and a little scary, yes, I admit that, but to think they indicate I have been raped, or abused? That’s absurd!”

  “In last night’s dream you were screaming things at me. You were asking me why I was letting ‘her’ use me to hurt you. You then screamed that you could do those things; that you could be what she i
s.”

  “So?” I asked, defensively. “None of that sounds like I was raped does it?”

  “Who is she, Tylar?” Trey demanded, “Is she your mother?”

  I didn’t answer him. I turned away not wanting to look at him. I did not want to have this conversation. Trey was relentless.

  “I have heard you shout out things when you were dreaming. Not only last night, but when you were in the hospital also. You were yelling at your mom, you were trying to get out of bed. I had to restrain you even. You said you wanted to slap her; you said you wanted to call her a whore. You mentioned Daniel, that Daniel was yours. You sobbed and cried, Tylar. Did Daniel hurt you in some way?”

  His eyes were searching mine for an answer. I was afraid to trust him with this secret. I did not want to believe that it was true.

  “Daniel was my high school boyfriend. I told you about him taking me to prom,” I explained, not daring to look Trey in the eye. “In the hospital, I dreamed about my senior prom. It was so vivid; there were details I recalled and some that I didn’t. Daniel and I were going to make love for the first time but it never happened.”

  “Why, Tylar? Why did it not happen?”

  “I’m not sure,” I mumbled. “Probably because I got drunk and then sick.”

  “Is that all that happened?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Your nightmares seem to be focused around your mother,” he commented. “Are you sure that there isn’t more you’re not telling me?”

  His questions were starting to feel invasive and I became defensive.

  “What if it is my mother in those dreams, those nightmares? What does that prove? It doesn’t prove that I was sexually molested or raped, or that I’m frigid!”

  I was yelling by this time.

  “Who said anything about you being frigid?” he asked, his eyes flashing.

  “Is that what frightens you baby? Because I can tell you this, you don’t have one frigid bone or muscle in your beautiful body. No, there is something else that you are not telling me, Tylar. Why won’t you trust me?”

  He was practically pleading.

  “Because there is nothing to tell!” I screamed.

  "I have a shitty mother, so what? A lot of kids grow up with shitty mothers and absent fathers. I guess we all can’t be brought up with perfect parents, perfect educations and perfect lives, Trey! Some of us simply do the best we can with the cards we are dealt!”

  “Don’t go there with me, Tylar,” he warned.

  He was now starting to get pissed.

  “Don’t you turn this around as if I am flaunting the opportunities that I have had in your face. Don’t presume that the last thirty years of my life have not had their share of disappointments and heartbreak.”

  (So he's thirty.)

  “Maybe that’s the crux of it Trey," I replied.

  “Perhaps both of us are presuming too much about the other. I give you that. You are right; I should not presume that your life has been free of pain, suffering, regret and heartache. I want to know what your life has been like. I want to know who you are; what makes you happy and what sadness you have faced. I've heard rumors but I want to know the truth. Are you ready to tell me the truth?”

  “Tylar,” he sighed, raking a hand through his hair, “You’ve never asked me about any of that. But yes, I will tell you whatever you want to know. But right now, we are

  talking about you. I want to know what has happened that makes you afraid to get too close. What causes these nightmares? What causes you to push away?”

  I realized that Trey was sincere, without saying as much; he knew that I was fucked up. And maybe in some way, he felt that he was fucked up too.

  “Trey, I can’t tell you about the nightmares, because I am not sure what the reality is when I dream them, and what is pure fantasy or at the very least, symbolism. I can tell you that if anyone has the answers, it’s my mom.”

  “Good,” he answered. “Then that is where we will go. We will find your mother so that we can get some answers.”

  “I’m afraid to have you meet my mother,” I said hesitantly.

  “Why?’ he asked softly, lifting my chin, forcing me to look into his blue eyes.

  I hesitated, not sure how to properly convey what was behind my fear. He was waiting for an answer, and I knew that he would not give up until I provided one.

  “Because,” I sobbed, burying my head into his clean linen shirt, smelling his smell, “Because if it turns out my dreams are based on reality and not fantasy, she is a fucking monster.”

  The tears and sobs let loose, and he held me and stroked my hair, softly whispering and soothing me. He told me that everything would be fine. He asked me to trust him. Trust had never come easy for me.

  Trey did his best to change the mood after our discussion. He wiped my tears, kissed my face about a hundred times. I was finally laughing, begging him to stop. He put me astride Derringer, and for the next twenty minutes led me down a path that opened up into a perfect riding track. It was circular, fenced in and I loved that it was private.

  He relinquished Derringer’s reins to me and cautioned me to trot for awhile, letting Derringer get used to the feel of my reining him. It went well, and soon I was permitted to increase the pace to a canter. Derringer acted like he had been carrying me forever. Trey was comfortable with that.

  At two o’clock Trey asked if I was hungry. The truth was I was famished. He climbed up behind me once again, taking the reins which allowed me to settle back against him. I was getting my ‘Trey-fix’ two days in a row and I loved it.

  Once we were back at the stables, Charlie Roberts was inside, getting the horses fed, watered, and cleaning the stalls out. He seemed surprised to see me with Trey. He eyed me a bit warily, and again, I got a creepy feeling. Trey appeared not to notice. He dismounted then turned and lifted me off the horse. Trey called Charlie over, handing him Derringer’s reins.

  “Will you get his gear off, rub him down, and make sure you clean his hooves as well?” Trey asked.

  A dark look passed over Charlie, as if he felt put out for having to care for Trey’s horse. It did not go unnoticed by Trey, either.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Roberts?” he asked tersely.

  “Not one bit,” Charlie replied, his face expressionless. He turned away from us and led Derringer down the gangway towards his stall. Trey gazed after him for a moment, his expression was unreadable. He turned back to me, all signs of irritation gone, and smiled.

  “Let’s go eat, Ms. Preston. I’ve got just the place in mind.”

  He took my hand and we walked out through the door that faces the drive leading up toward the Sinclair mansion and garages. In the background, I heard something muttered from the direction where Charlie was standing.

  I couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like, “Uppity bitch.” I looked over at Trey, but he was reaching for his Blackberry he had pocketed before our ride. He had been beeped with an email message. He briefly read it then shut the phone off. He had not heard the muttered remark.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Trey,” I whined as he tugged me across the lawn towards the driveway to the Sinclair mansion where his Lamborghini Gallardo was parked, “Shouldn’t I change if we are going out for lunch?”

  He laughed playfully, displaying his glorious dimple.

  “It’s just lunch, Tylar, and you look great,” he said. “Trust me, it’s nothing fancy.”

  He opened the shiny black door for me on the passenger side of his intimidating black sports car. It was impeccably clean inside; I only hoped any dust or horsehair I may have accumulated this afternoon would not mar the immaculate beauty of the interior. Trey climbed into the driver seat, fastening his seat belt and instructing me to do the same.

  “Ready, baby?” he asked, like a kid showing off his new toy, all grins.

  “Maybe, baby,” I responded, grinning. “Kick in the afterburners, Sinclair; let’s
see what this machine can do.”

  That was all the encouragement Trey needed. He fired up the car, and within seconds, we were peeling out onto the highway, my hair blowing in the wind.

  It truly rode like a dream; a very swift dream as Trey put the car through all of the gears.

  “Zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds,” he bragged.

  “Well, there you have it,” I said, “That alone makes the $250K price tag a steal!”

  He laughed good-naturedly.

  “Smart ass,” he teased.

  I had no clue where we were going, but the ride was nice and he was here next to me so all was good. We passed through Bristol where most everything in the small town was closed on this Sunday afternoon.

  Just outside of town, about three miles, Trey pulled the car into the parking lot of a lone brick building with neon sign in the window blinking “Open.”

  The sign above the building was an old Pepsi-Cola advertisement sign with the name of the establishment in bold, black lettering underneath the Pepsi logo, “Morelli’s Fine Italian Dining.”

  Trey parked, got out and opened my door, helping me up from the low ride seat. As soon as we walked in, the aroma of lasagna, spaghetti, ravioli, rigatoni, fettuccini and garlic bread hit me. I was ravenous. A short, black haired sort of pudgy woman, obviously Italian came over to greet us. It was obvious that she knew Trey.

  “Signore Sinclair,” she greeted heartily, “It’s nice to see you, how long has it been mio ficco?”

  “Saluto, Carmelita!” Trey greeted the woman, embracing her, “Come stai?”

  “Equesta la vastra bella moglie?” asked Carmelita.

  [Is this your beautiful wife?]

  “No, non ancora forse un giore succedera,” Trey responded.

  [No, not yet, someday maybe]

  “Il suo amore Tl posso dire!” Carmelita said loudly.

  [You love her, I can tell!]