“Shit!” a male voice roars from above before a groping hand swoops down and gives my left boob a hard squeeze. “I got you.” He knots up my sports bra, and I can feel my body slowly beginning to levitate.
I glance up, only to meet with coal-colored eyes squinted hard, sweat beading down his face like tears as my knight-in-boob-squeezing-armor bites down over his bottom lip while struggling and grunting to maneuver me to safety.
“Oh good! Thank you!” I pant, trying desperately to maintain my grip on the remaining sliver of ivy coiled around my wrist like a bracelet. A hard snap emits from the scrub oak, and in one horrific whoosh, the oak and the vine attached to it break free and slide down the rock face before crashing hundreds of dusty feet to the ground below. “Oh my God!” I howl as I dangle at the hands of a madman who couldn’t figure out how to hit the brakes himself. “I don’t want to die! I’m too young to die! I’m too beautiful to die. I swear if you let me live, I’ll use my superpowers for good and not evil. I will never blue ball in this state again!” I do my best to wrap myself around the dildo’s arm who’s struggling to bring me back to the land of the living.
“Stop struggling for God’s sake!” he thunders so loud he sends an entire avalanche of rocks and earth sloughing down the mountain around me. His other hand swoops down and snaps me up by the ponytail so hard and fast it feels as if I’m on the receiving end of a prison-worthy facelift. “Atta girl,” he strums as he lifts me up another few inches, and for some reason—also known as the deep baritone of his ultra-masculine voice—it sends that tender part nestled between my thighs spasming. And as much as I’d like to think that this is the poor man’s version of the mile-high club, I’m pretty sure my system is merely confused as hell due to the mass misfiring of synapses occurring at the moment.
Try as I might, my feet can’t get a foothold onto this sheer rock face, and my arms flail as if I’m attempting to swim to the surface of this nightmare.
“My hair—my hair!” I wail so loud my throat burns from the effort. He gives another hard yank, and a fire races across my skull. “You’re going to scalp me, you idiot!”
“Who are you calling an idiot?” he riots through audible grunts and groans as he does his best to pull me to safety at the risk of my follicles.
“That would be you, the man currently doing a piss-poor rendition of Tarzan with my prized golden locks!” He gives another hard yank as I float skyward a few measly inches. I swear, the bastard just did it to get a good yank out of the deal. He’s vengeful that way—I can feel it.
“No offense, sweetheart, but I suggest you button it up. My chief concern is keeping you out of the morgue, not the quality of your hairdo.”
Who the hell says hairdo? I struggle to look up, but my body indulges in yet another ballerina-like spin.
“God, I hope you’re not bleeding. I can’t stand the sight of blood,” he opines as if anybody cares at the moment. Dear God, what if he passes out at the sight of the scrapes and bruises I’ve incurred? My pony and I will be shit out of luck as we sail down to our final demise. I hope the funeral director at the morgue has a decent turban to hide my bloody scalp—although judging by the mile-high distance between the ground and me, I may not have a face to display either. I’ll need a turban and a hockey mask.
I do my best to glance upward and inadvertently do a little spin, reminiscent of one of those circus performers strictly clinging from their deaths by way of their own prized locks. Deep down, I have always felt as though my life were a circus, but by no means did I want to call that into existence.
The wind picks up, and that elegant little spin my torso indulges in turns into an all-out airborne pirouette, twirling and whirling so fast the sudden urge to vomit ratchets up in me.
“Holy hell!” I growl like a cat skinned alive. The buffoon who’s got ahold of me like a tiger by the tail twists my hair around his wrist until his hand is notched against my scalp. Just like that, the dizzying spinning stops cold, leaving me to pant breathless at the earthen wall before me. Never mind the fact my head feels as if it’s about to detach itself from the base of my neck, and, honestly, there might be a small mercy in there somewhere. I’m determined to claw my way back to terra firma just to deck the greedy road hog who landed me in this ponytail predicament in the first place. “That’s it.” I muster the strength to howl like a wolverine while doing my best to throw myself at the mountainside as if I were attacking a predator.
A hard grunt emits from my throat as I latch myself to the face of the cliff and somehow, miraculously, my foot catches on a stone that protrudes from the mountain like a step. I look right up at those dark, sinister, albeit sexy as hell eyes, and groan. “I’m going to murder you,” I grit through my teeth, and those hypnotic eyes of his round out in surprise and, dare I say, a touch of fear, as I manage to bolster myself up a few feet. He catches the inertia of my thrust and hauls me up over the lip of the embankment.
“There we go.” He hoists me over until I’ve cleared the side and rolls himself on top of me as we topple back to safety. The sweet scent of pine and musk mingle with sweat, and something about the masculine combination makes my heart race a little faster. “God. You made it.” His lips brush over my cheek as he pants wildly into my ear. The heft of his body weighs me down, makes me feel foolishly safe and stable if not for a fleeting moment. But that whole hair pulling, boob-clutching scenario comes crashing back, and I suddenly feel less than impressed by his barbaric efforts.
“Well, it’s a lucky day for you, buddy. Isn’t it?” I push him away as he steals a moment to snap off his helmet.
“Me?” A megawatt grin flashes over his face as if I just stroked his ego, and judging by the size of it, I can see how I might have accidentally grazed it. He’s textbook handsome, older than me by maybe a decade, dirty blond hair, heavily stubbled cheeks, dark soulless eyes. Usually I’d be more than amused to be the damsel in distress—rescued by a handsome stranger fueled with the desire to feel me up while enacting his deliverance. But, at the moment, I’m a tad pissed this so-called do-gooder didn’t have the wherewithal to get the hell out of my way to begin with.
“Yes, you.” I dust myself off as I rise and examine the damage to my bicycle: bent handlebars, the front wheel is off the base, the chain still looks good. “If my brother found out I kicked the bucket at the hands of some megalomaniac who doesn’t know the rules of the road, he would make sure you died in a slow and painful, equally horrific manner yourself.”
“What?” he balks as he takes a full step forward. There’s a slight familiarity about him, and I can’t quite place it. A professor, maybe? Bartender at the Underground? Maybe this is the turkey who’s secretly been giving me decaf down at Coffeeology? Nevertheless, my mind and my heart are both still racing, and I don’t have the time or patience to piece together where he might have pissed me off prior to this occasion. And, believe you me, I know this to be true because I’m never wrong when it comes to people, and this one very much evokes all of the pissed-off vibes my body has to offer.
“That’s right.” I turn my bike around and he quickly steps in front of my path once again as if it were his job. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get home and change out of my dirt encrusted clothes. I have an interview, and I’m pretty sure the branches sticking out of my hair are not a good look for the venue.”
“Slow down, princess.” He leans in and his thumb caresses my cheek as quick as lightning before I can recoil from his touch. “I’m walking back with you. I need to check you out.”
“I am not a library book. You cannot check me out. My God, stealing second base wasn’t enough? And don’t think I didn’t notice that lip massage you offered up my face when you tried to straddle me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He holds out his thumb with a pink stain over it. “You’re bleeding. And in no way was I trying to steal second base,” he says that last part in air quotes as if I were being ridiculous before picking up his own bi
ke and trotting alongside me on the trail slowly expanding between us. “I was rescuing you for shit's sake—which I wouldn’t have had to do if you would have adhered to the rules of the road and stuck to your side of it.”
“My side?” I inch back, incredulous that he had the nerve to go there. “My side of the road happened to conveniently disappear about ten feet back just as you exploded down the trail with your head down like a battering ram. In fact, if there’s anyone here to blame, it’s you! Had you kindly plastered yourself to the side of the mountain like a true gentleman, I would have had plenty of room to skirt right by.” I stride over and get right in his face. He’s an entire foot taller than me, but that doesn’t stop my gaze from hooking onto his and demanding he look me in the eye. “And don’t you ever call me princess again. I’m nobody’s princess, and before you get high and mighty on me, you’re not exactly royalty yourself.”
He glares at me a moment with those eyes illuminated by the sun, lighting them up like a pair of citrine lanterns. “Look, I get it. You almost lost your life. You’re shaken up. As soon as we hit the parking lot, I’ll call for medical attention. Clearly you need to get your head examined.” His brows arch as they dig in, and his lips curl at the tips, satisfied with his delivery.
“No, thank you.” I press on as fast as my feet will scamper as we take the first of two blind corners. My God, if another biker were acting as erratically as we were, we’d both end up at the bottom of the hill. Not that I was acting erratically. Okay, so maybe I was acting a bit fucking erratic, but that’s not the point. “My brother works for the fire department, and I don’t need him wasting his time with this. Knowing Arlo, he’ll confiscate my bike, and I’ll be relegated to hoofing it for the next four years.”
“Is this the same brother who you threatened would end my life?” He hacks out a short-lived laugh as if it were a joke. “Sounds like he’s concerned for your well-being, as he should be. Maybe I’ll give him a call and have him confiscate your wheels regardless. You’re a menace on that trail. You’re lucky I was there to help you. Do you realize how many people end up at the bottom of that ridge each year?”
I stop short. “Did you just threaten me?”
“Darn right, I threatened you. Maybe if you had a little more control over your emotions you wouldn’t have been hauling like some speed demon ready to off the both of us.”
“ARRGGH!” The sound of my frustration reverberates through the pristine spring sky as I do my best to haul ass back to the parking lot. “As soon as we hit civilization, I want you out of my sight. If you think I’m a bit emotional while cruising on a ten-speed, you should see what I can do with a six-cylinder roaring beneath me. Get in my way again and just try me, buddy,” I seethe as the dirt road comes to an uncelebrated end, and the sight of my Corolla leaves me sighing with relief. The only other car in the lot is a Mercedes G-Wagen, and I scowl at the sight of the pricey ride. Figures.
“Nice,” he huffs. “Not only do you threaten a homicide, but you volunteer to mow me down yourself. Your parents must be proud.”
I gag on my response. For a moment, I consider my options, but seeing that the end is in sight and I can happily hightail my way back to Leland, I opt for the hope of a nice long shower rather than telling him off.
He follows me to my car as I struggle to open the trunk.
The brutish oaf picks up my bike without so much as asking and carefully lands it in the back, and I repay him by way of doing my best to decapitate him in the process.
“Geez!” he howls as he does his best to jump out of the way.
“And let that be a lesson to you!” I riot at him as I dive for the driver’s seat.
“A lesson on what? Uncalled-for hostility? To think twice before I save someone’s life? You bet I will, princess! I’d steer clear of cliffs if I were you. I’m putting an all-points bulletin out with your pretty little face on it. DNR—Do Not Rescue.”
I give him the finger as I peel out of the lot.
“Good luck on your interview, sweetie! You’re going to need it!”
I let out another scream, this time drilling all of my frustration into the sky along with it. Teaches me to keep an eye out for cute frat boys on a deserted trail. Only I would meet up with an egotistical maniac ready to cop a feel at the drop of a damsel in distress. Okay, so maybe I was lucky he had ham hocks for biceps. Maybe he did manage to wrangle me to safety. And maybe I was a little harsh, but lashing out on people happens to be my go-to response in a crisis, and that more than qualified.
I head back to Leland, crawl up Canterbury tower, and take that long hot shower I’ve been craving oh so bad, and soon all of that hostile anxiety melts away and all I see are those coffee-colored eyes that pulled me back to safety, those cuttingly handsome good looks, that body of chiseled steel and I get lost for a moment in a fantasy that indulges in revisionist history. I can still feel the weight of his body over mine, the scent of his warm cologne with a hint of pine still clings to my senses, and that megawatt smile sends a hot spear of wanting right down into my core.
It doesn’t change the fact he was an obnoxious ass.
I’m glad I’ll never have to see the likes of him again.
Good riddance.
Dexter
Good riddance,” I mutter under my breath as thoughts of that unstable loon come crashing back to me.
“I want hot cocoa, please.” I can’t help but smile at the sweet little girl with pigtails staring back at me. There’s no one as precious to me as my daughter. “Just give me the monies. I want to pay by myself.” Chelle sticks her tongue out through the new opening where her front tooth stood until two days ago. Its next-door neighbor is loose as well, and she’s damn proud of it. I’m damn proud of her, too.
“Sure thing. Get me a coffee while you’re at it. Tall, black.” I hand her a twenty, and she fists it in her chubby little hand, her nails cut and painted in bright pink squares.
Her rosy little lips twist in a knot. “You know I’m not a baby. You’re not allowed to tell them they’re babysitting me.” Chelle is all of eight-years-old and ready to take on the world. She has her mother’s long dark hair, her mother’s pale green eyes, but she has my spirit and tenacity, and that’s what’s going to get her through the long haul.
“Of course not. Why would I need a babysitter? I’m strictly looking for a time management specialist who will figure out how to get you to finish your homework before the streetlights go on at night.” I lean in abruptly as if I were about to initiate a tickle war, and she giggles herself over to the line. She’s in my full view, but for the last six months she’s wanted less and less to do with me, at least not in the helicopter sense. She keeps telling me she’s a grown girl, and as much as my heart isn’t ready to, I’m beginning to believe her. But much to her discontent, I am very much vetting my babysitting options. Cecilia, the woman who has been with us now for the last five years, has to go back to Canada to be with her ailing mother. She was the pricey nanny I chopped my financial arm off for, but she was worth it. After Trish and I divorced, I needed all the help I could get. And now that Chelle is eight, I still need it, but just with the light stuff—picking her up from school, making her a snack, helping with homework. I put an ad up around campus and received four calls. Correction—Cecilia vetted them. I’ll admit to utilizing her as a personal secretary on more than one occasion, and she seemed glad to do it. But as of yesterday, it’s just me all by my lonesome, and it’s feeling just that—lonesome.
I watch as Chelle steps up to the front of the line, self-assured, tossing her pigtails back as she readies to put in her order. We are in the smack dab center of Leland University, sitting in the java-laden arms of Coffeeology, soaking in the scent of fresh roasted beans. I’ve practically raised Chelle on this campus, and she’s already assured me she’ll be a coed here one day. And I have no doubt she will. Chelle’s been through the wringer with me, first with the divorce—it was Trish who initiated it. She met Bart at a b
each party in Cabo and, low and behold, he followed her home like a street dog. It turns out, Bart is a Grammy-nominated music producer who can work from anywhere. Lucky me. Then there was the Scarlett fiasco. Scarlett Stafford, actress turned country crooner, took my heart and put it in one of her famous soy-free, vegan concoctions she starts the day off with and ate it for breakfast. Then there is the present blizzard I’ve ushered into our lives, the campus-wide, now world-famous, Social Experiment. It started off like many things, a bad idea over beers with my brother. Dan has always been there for me through all of my formidable fuck ups, and for this one he happened to be present for the birth of the idea. Prove to the world that love is nothing but a hoax. Neither Dan nor I believe in it, not romantic love anyway. But, like most wildfires, it got out of hand quickly, and as fate would have it—a little lights, camera, magic, and people actually seemed to be falling for one another. Go figure.
A tall brunette wearing jeans two sizes too small and a half-top that allows me to see the underside of her tits heads to the barista and asks for Cecilia. That’s what I’ve instructed them to do. It’s nice to see she follows orders, is surprisingly a whopping two minutes early, but that outfit just worked against her. It told me everything I wanted to know and everything I didn’t. I’m not an idiot. I know for a fact Chelle spends her time imitating the people she idolizes. And in no way do I want her squeezing herself into Barbie pants and showing off parts of her body I’d rather not think about.
The barista points my way, and the brunette scuttles on over.
“Oh my God! It’s you!” Her face contorts with surprise, revealing three rings in each nostril and a ring speared through the middle of her bottom lip with an encrusted infection brewing. “Dexter Houston? Like no way! So, you need me to watch your kid? It’ll be a pleasure, sir. I’ve already applied for The Social Experiment, and I’m on a waiting list for next fall. Heather Michelson,” she annunciates it slowly as I rise to shake her hand.
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