by Mimi Strong
With each thrust, he got bigger and harder, until at last he closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and turned his head to the side, touching his chin to his shoulder.
A small cry escaped his lips as he came, shaking inside me.
I realized my feet were no longer on the carpet, but on the bed, and I’d been lifting my lower body, raising my hips to meet him.
I eased myself back down to the bed, catching my breath. He pulsed deep inside me, holding me in the hotel room with him, nowhere to escape, not even the back corners of my mind.
He reached between us and squeezed the skin above my clit. It felt good, really good, but I wasn’t going to come, so I pushed his hand away. “Maybe next time,” I said.
He let out his breath all at once and collapsed down onto me, snaking his damp arms behind my back in a hug.
“You made me need another shower,” he said.
His head was nestled next to my neck as I glanced over at the motel room door.
The door.
It was right there, and I could just go. Nut Hill wasn’t far from my house on Lurch Street, and the walk was mostly downhill.
“How about you go hit the shower before the rematch?” I said boldly.
“How about you come join me?”
“Sure. Go get the water started.”
He pulled away, though the musky smell of him remained on me, all down my front like a tattoo.
CHAPTER 13
Once Dalton Deangelo was in the bathroom with the water on, I got dressed faster than anyone has gotten dressed in the Nut Hill Motel, and I’m sure there’ve been some speedy exits.
I was still buttoning up my olive green shirt when I reached for the door handle. I glanced over at the little desk in the room, next to the chair where I’d tossed the towel. There was stationery sitting out on the desk.
My heart was pounding, my nerves telling me to run, just run, so I ran to the desk and scrawled a quick note:
Thanks for the fun. Have to work early. Want to sleep in my own bed.
I could hear Dalton calling me from inside the shower, and it broke my heart to open that door and leave, but it was the right thing to do.
I had to get far away from him, and all these confusing feelings that bubbled up in me whenever he was in my arms.
My running shoes slapped against the second floor balcony outside, the impact of my footsteps ringing through the night air with a metallic clang.
CLANG CLANG CLANG.
I ran down the metal stairs and away from the motel, down the street.
Then I stopped running, because that much running when you’re not used to it is going to make a girl throw up. I learned that lesson during the annual Fitness Test at high school.
I gasped over some bushes, my hands on my knees. Something moved out of the corner of my eye, and I worried it would be Dalton, running after me in a towel, or stark naked.
I peered into the darkness. Someone was definitely there, watching me. Not Dalton, but I could feel their presence.
“Hello?” I called out.
I stood in the alley that ran behind the motel, near the end of the block. To one side was the back of an office building, and to the other side was someone’s back yard and garage.
As my eyes adjusted in the darkness, I could just make out shapes moving in the back yard of the house. Dogs? I squinted, willing my eyeballs to work better. Cats?
The shapes turned and looked at me with curiosity.
If there’s one thing that gives me the willies even worse than dragonflies, it’s raccoons.
Two of them were ambling toward me, hell-bent on giving me rabies, for sure!
I started running again, and I travelled the dozen blocks back to my house by alternating between jogging and walking quickly while wheezing.
When I got to the house and came in the front door, Shayla was sprawled on the couch watching TV. She hit pause on the remote, turned and looked at my sweaty, red face, and said, “It just gets worse every day, doesn’t it? At least you’re not covered in dirt this time.”
“Dating a celebrity is ultra glamorous.”
“Come.” She pulled herself upright and patted the sofa next to her. “Chantalle phoned me tonight. She asked me how you got the job being a personal assistant for Dalton Deangelo.”
I slumped into the soft cushions next to her, feeling every ounce of myself, every frizzy yellow hair on my head, and every little pimple.
“That little cunt,” I said.
“Wow, Peaches. Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?”
“I’m sorry. I know you always liked her, but she puts me down.”
“It’s your fault for being offended at her ignorance. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, and she doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Right.” I crossed my arms and turned to the frozen TV screen. “What are we watching?”
“Don’t you want to tell me why you burst in here like bears were chasing you?”
I looked over at my best friend, assessing her mood. She smelled of cigarette smoke, and there was an empty cookie bag and an empty chip bag on the coffee table, as well as a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew on the floor next to her. Oh, she was in no mood for my problems. If I had to guess, she’d had more trouble with her boss at the restaurant. He was married, and she should have known better, but apparently he was a smooth talker, and things always just happened.
I didn’t need to hear about her frustrations, and she was likely in no mood to hear about mine. And what was my problem, anyway? A really cute guy enjoyed spending time with me and getting close to me. He made me want to tell him my secrets. I wanted to lean on him. I wanted to love him. But that would only lead to pain, because as soon as his movie ended, he’d leave town, taking the Airstream trailer and a piece of my heart. He’d probably feel good about it, too. He could draw on the experience for future acting roles.
Well, forget him.
“This looks good,” I said, and I pressed the play button on the remote control. Over the audio of the reality TV show about a family bakery, I said, “Raccoons. I worked late, got some food at DeNirro’s, and I ran into some raccoons on the walk home.”
“They’re totally adorable, with their little raccoon hands, and you’re nuts.”
“I agree. I am nuts.”
Shayla grunted and reached for the Mountain Dew. She took a swig and handed the bottle to me.
“Thanks,” I said, and we watched TV until both of us fell asleep right there on the couch.
Wednesday.
The flowers from the day before were opening.
I stared at the lush peonies and tried to escape the thought I was a flower myself, and Dalton Deangelo’s attention was the sunshine trying to light my darkness.
No wonder I’d run from his motel room the night before. If I’d stayed, he would have kept at me, with his kind words and soft touch, and I would have been a blathering idiot before midnight. Telling him how stupid I can be. Having him look at me with pity… curiosity… disgust.
The flowers were heavy on one side, and as they opened, they drooped, taking up more of the limited counter space in the narrow bookstore. Their sweet perfume hung in the air, tricking me into thinking a well-dressed older lady was there with me.
One thing that always makes me smile is seeing a lady in her eighties, decked out in tons of accessories, all perfectly matched to the colors in her impeccable clothes. Our generation is just not into the matchy-matchy look.
Beaverdale attracts a number of wealthy retirees looking to soak up small town life. They’re so adorable when they first arrive, the ladies clapping their hands and declaring everything “so quaint,” and the men leaning in to confide to their wives, “That same exact lamp/house/pizza would cost twice as much back home.”
I never understood how people from all over America would even hear about little Beaverdale, much less get the idea to retire here, until we started carrying a few magazines at Peachtree Books, and I disco
vered there are several periodicals dedicated to small town life.
Last summer, one of them ran a story titled Beavers & Passports, all about life in The Beav. They quoted a local as saying Beaverdale’s “so far off the map, you need a passport.”
Our mayor, Stephen Monroe (Uncle Steve to me), capitalized on this, and along with the Beaverdale Chamber of Commerce, they printed up a couple thousand fake passports and encouraged people through the Visitor Center (next to the library) to visit all the sights in town and get their passport stamped.
I designed our Peachtree Books stamp myself, and I stayed within the limitations mandated by City Hall, keeping it within one inch by one inch.
Those sneaky buggers over at Black Sheep Books made their stamp one and one-quarter inch in diameter, and argued that because it was round, it was taking up no more area than our square stamp. Never mind the fact that other businesses kept their stamps within the one inch diameter. Oh, no. The rules simply didn’t apply to Black Sheep Books, because they were “creative thinkers,” and perhaps the rest of the town would benefit from their many, many innovations, such as their Borrow-A-Bike program that never really took off, on account of the yellow bicycles being too attractive as souvenirs.
Not only did their stamp exceed the size limit, but Black Sheep Books didn’t take care when stamping passports, and their heavy black ink often overlapped the more artistic stamps, such as our peach-hued stamp.
I’m getting myself all worked up. I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t get started talking about those sheep-fuckers.*
*When not in polite company, I do call them sheep-fuckers. Feel free to do the same yourself, just not around children.
So, Wednesday.
I pulled a big, plump peony from the bouquet and played a very long game of He-Loves-Me-He-Loves-Me-Not with the petals.
Carter, our delivery guy, came in the door whistling. “Ten boxes!” he said to announce what he was bringing in.
“Awesomesauce.”
He stopped and leaned over my pile of pink petals. “You making potpourri?”
I stared up at his big, blue eyes, framed by orange-blond, nearly-translucent lashes. “Who taught you that word, Carter?”
He put his elbows on the counter and leaned down so his eyes were at my level. I tease Carter about being a ginger, like my father, as they both have the same red hair that curls into ringlets unless it’s cut short.
“Am I right? Are you making potpourri?”
He was so close, I could have counted his freckles. Was he flirting with me? I’d never seen him without his shirt on, but I imagined the freckles extended down over his broad shoulders.
Carter moved to Beaverdale about a year ago, to complete his recovery from a bad car accident. He’d been unconscious for three days, broken bones all over, and when he finally woke up, he asked the nurse for a cigarette.
His family knew something wasn’t right, as he’d never smoked a day in his life—that they knew of. The truth was, he’d smoked for a few months when he was fourteen, and something about the brain injury had set him right back one entire decade, possibly to the day. There were some physical problems as well, like needing to learn how to walk without falling over once his leg was healed, but the most curious aspect was his lost memory.
He’d been a super-smart student, getting top grades in law school and being courted by top law firms in Los Angeles. But all that knowledge was gone after the coma. He couldn’t take the bar, because he was fourteen inside, with a fourteen-year-old’s knowledge.
Carter recovered physically, and by the time he turned sixteen for the second time, he had the mental faculties of a keenly intelligent twenty-year-old, getting smarter every day.
But this person, this new Carter, had no interest in law school. He wanted to play guitar and write music. Did the world need another lawyer, or did it need a poet? That was what he asked his parents when they delivered their ultimatum.
They felt the world needed another lawyer far more than another poet, hence the differential in potential earnings. When he wouldn’t agree, they changed the locks on the guest cottage across the pool from their mansion, and he found himself homeless.
Carter packed up his car, leaving behind most of his worldly possessions, but not his three favorite guitars. He drove out of LA not sure where he was going. He stopped for gas and picked up a copy of Small Town Life in America. He opened the magazine to a story titled Passports & Beavers.
By the time he got back into the driver’s seat, his mind was made up, and he programmed Beaverdale’s coordinates into his car’s navigation system.
“I know all about potpourri,” he said, grinning and still eye-level with me. “It’s petals and bark, and you girls like it. Are these flowers from some dude?”
“Yes. Some dude.” I could feel my cheeks reddening, because now I was thinking about some dude. He was quite the dude, all right. My brain was traipsing around the filing cabinets full of images of Dalton with his clothes off, recalling the sensations of his soapy hands all over my body in the shower.
I continued, “Just a dude I know. We’re sorta seeing each other, but he’s not my boyfriend.”
“I should’ve asked you out when I had the chance,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes at Carter. Red-haired boys are always the biggest pranksters—what’s that all about?
“Don’t make fun,” I said.
He backed away, holding his hands up. There was new ink swirling up his arm—those fancy fish people put in their ponds. Koi. Or as the local raccoons thought of them, supper.
The koi fish on Carter’s arm were spotted with his freckles.
“I'm not teasing,” he said. “Let me know when you get tired of this douche and I’ll take you out for one of those fancy lemonades girls like.”
“How do you know he’s a douche?”
“I took one look at you when I came in, and you looked like you were going to cry. Usually you get real excited to see me. I like to pretend it’s my good looks and tight ass, but we both know it’s the new books I deliver. Today, though, your face is all droopy. So, what’s the matter? What’s the story, morning glory?”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to tell him specifics, so I said, “Do you ever think other people will never understand what it feels like to be you?”
“People don’t know what it feels like to truly be themselves, let alone other people.”
I swept up the petals and crushed them into a ball in the palm of my hand.
“Why are you so wise?” I asked.
“Because I took a workshop from Dottie Simpkins.”
“What?”
He started laughing, bending over and slapping his knee. “Just kidding. Shayla tried to get me to go for one that’s just for men, but I have band practice scheduled for all the same times as the workshops.” He grabbed the hand truck he’d brought some boxes in on and wheeled it to the back table where I liked to receive the stock. “Would you like your delivery here, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir.”
He bent over, giving me a good view of his cute buns and muscular calves. Carter always wore shorts, even on the coldest days of winter. He claimed he “ran hot.” Mm-hmm.
Carter moved quickly, tossing the boxes onto the old wood table as easy as if they were empty and not full of heavy books. He raced back out the door and returned with the other five boxes.
I grabbed my clip board with the invoice attached, plus the box cutter. Naturally, this was the cue for a rush of customers to come in the door, all needing to get recommendations. I knew that helping customers was my real job, but when you’re trying to receive an order, they do feel like interruptions.
“Have fun,” Carter said with a knowing look as he rolled his handcart out the door.
I got busy, unpacking boxes and helping customers until it was past lunch break. I put the “Back in Five Minutes” sign up, locked the door, and ran over to get my lunchtime mocha and my tuna sandwich from Java Jones.<
br />
Kirsten, the girl who managed the place, looked more wan and limp than usual. She was probably on another juice cleanse or three-day fast. Either way, I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask.
“What are you up to with that actor guy?” she asked as she steamed the milk for my mocha.
“Nothing. What did you hear? Who told you? Was it Chantalle Hart?”
She snorted as she finished making my drink. “Saw you with my own two eyes. In here the other day. He even asked if I knew you.”
“Ah. Yes. He wanted to ask me some questions about life in a small town, as research for the movie they’re shooting.”
“Is he staying up at the No-Tell Motel?”
Yikes. What did Kirsten know?
I shrugged, a pitiful attempt to hide my shock. “Beats me.”
Kirsten shook her brown ponytail and gave me a Like Hell look. She’d been a few years ahead of me in school, but I was well aware of her reputation. Whenever an attractive couple broke up, Kirsten would appear on the doorstep of the young man, ostensibly to cheer him up, and wearing nothing but a bit of lace under her overcoat. I heard through Shayla that she’d gone to the city for Sex Addict Rehab, but first of all, I don’t think that’s a real thing, and secondly, I don’t think it worked.
“Who’s the tiny girl with the short, brown hair?” Kirsten asked. “Do you think she’s an actress? If she is, I sure haven’t seen her in anything.”
That sounded like a description of Alexis, the girl who’d been angry at Dalton and trying to take his picture. I was equally curious, but didn’t want to let on to Kirsten how much I knew.
“Tiny girl, huh? If I see him again, I’ll ask.”
“That’s her over there,” Kirsten said, pointing to the person walking out the door of Java Jones.
The girl moved quickly, her head ducked down, and I swear she glanced over at me before she started moving faster along the sidewalk.
Oh, it was Alexis all right. What was she up to now?
We had six coffee shops in Beaverdale, five of them serving decent coffee. So why was Alexis at that particular coffee shop? The one that had a direct view in the windows of Peachtree Books?