“I was thinking of going,” Christy says, eyebrows bouncing up and down as she tries to signal to me that she wants to leave. “It's getting a little … weird in here. There's some chick dancing on the bar … ” Christy pauses here as if for emphasis. “Shirtless.” I watch Austin's throat as he swallows and then groans, not like he did just a few minutes earlier, but like something Christy said bothered him.
Like a ghost materializing out of thin air, the redhead (Beck was it?) appears behind my friend and slaps a tattooed hand on her shoulder, flashing me knuckles sprinkled with big, blocky letters. HOPE. I wonder briefly what's on the opposite.
“I could walk you, if you want,” he tells her, but already, I'm shaking my head and looking around for my purse. I can't find it anywhere, but I figure it doesn't matter; it didn't have much in it anyway. Well, not much except for poor Adam, but I figure after the time I just spent with Austin, that he might be pretty angry with me anyhow.
“We're fine,” I say, starting to walk away, feeling a curious tickle between my thighs that's one part throbbing, swollen need and two parts aching soreness. It rubs when I walk and feels both wonderful and terrible all at once. I pray that it goes away quickly.
Austin grabs my arm in a vise-grip, squeezing but not hurting. He doesn't want me to go. I stop resisting and look over my shoulder at him, eyes even bigger and wider and rounder than they already were. I imagine that I look something like a deer caught in the headlights with that stare. Austin doesn't seem to mind.
“We're?” he asks, like he doesn't get it. “You're leaving? But you just got here.” He looks perplexed, like he can't figure me out, can't even figure himself out. He doesn't want me to go. I swallow hard and try not to notice the curious way that Christy's staring at me, like she can smell me or something. Oh God, is it that obvious? I wonder, going back to my romance novel knowledge for comfort. Quotes come flying into my brain, unbidden. 'He could smell it on her – sex and lust and longing – like sweat and mangoes ripening in the hot, hot sun.' Lame as said quote is, it begs the question: Can they fucking (ah, I love you F-word; you are my new best friend) smell me?
I look up at Beck and see that he's looking between me and Austin with a big, fat, perverted grin on his scruffy face. Pardon my language, but he looks like a bit of a whore anyhow, so maybe he has that sense. Clearly, from her next words, I can tell that Christy does not.
“What were you guys doing back here anyway?” she asks, sounding genuinely confused. I open my mouth and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, just to keep Beck quiet. He'd been about to say something crude; I could tell by shimmer in his green eyes and the laugh lines crinkling up his face. I'm not ashamed of what I've done, but that doesn't mean I want Christy to know yet. Soon, I'll tell her. I'll tell her and I'll tell everyone else because I won't care, because soon, I'm going to be leaving this town for good.
“Just asking a question,” I say nonchalantly. I watch as Austin releases my arm, leaving a tingly spot where his flesh was touching mine. I watch his face, his lips, his eyes, desperate for some sort of hint on the answer to my previous question. How do I join? How do I get a one-way ticket out of here? I had no delusions of grandeur when I came here. This was a desperate ploy at best, and I never expected Austin Sparks to get down on his knees and ask me to marry him, but I do hope that he'll help me. I'd hoped that even before I'd had sex with him – and that was not why I came down here in the first place. It just sort of … happened.
“Give me some time and I'll see what I can do, sugar,” Austin says and I notice that Beck's red eyebrows have climbed halfway up his forehead. Christy glances at Austin and then at me and then over her shoulder with a frown. I hear breaking glass from the area of the bar and use that distraction to move away from Austin. I'm afraid of what might happen if he touches me again, of what I'll do to actually get him to touch me again. Down below, something stirs.
“I think you left your purse by the bar,” Christy says as I follow her out into the main area of the bar without looking back.
As promised, the girl with the bright red lipstick and dark hair is swinging her head around on the countertop, flashing the whole room her leather clad crotch as she spreads her legs open and drops her butt to the ground and then stands back up again. Maybe it's just me, but for some reason, I feel like she's watching me as I tiptoe up to the bar stools and grab my purse from the floor. “Coyote Ugly” wannabe, I whisper to myself as I back away and escape out the front doors and into the hot, hot heat of a Southern, summer night.
I watch Amy go with a sinking feeling in my stomach, like maybe I should chase after her and grab by her the arm, drag her up to my room and get to know her a bit better. Even though we've just had sex, that feeling of wanting to own her hasn't subsided even a little. I don't feel any relief down below, like there's a fucking fire burning inside of me, and I've got to put it out before it turns me to ash. Shit. What the fuck did that girl do to you? I wonder as I stand stone still, aware that Mireya is making a fool out of herself for attention but unable to make myself care enough to go stop her. All I can think about is Amy and her tight pussy, her blue eyes and her swollen lips. She has a body that I can barely believe and a spark in her eyes that's made me curious, too curious.
“You alright?” Beck asks, leaning against one of the heavy doors to keep it open, like he's waiting for me to join him or something. The thought of going back into that bar is making me sick to my stomach. Maybe I'll slip out the back and head up to my room; I need to think some of this shit out. Plus, I figure, I'm still horny as hell and could use some alone time.
“Fine,” I tell him, patting myself down in search of a cigarette. I can still smell Amy on me, all flowers and sweet sugar, like she was dipped in a friggin' meadow or some shit.
I stop myself and close my eyes, taking long, slow deep breaths to get a hold of myself.
“That good, huh?” Beck asks.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I say, slipping my cigarette between my lips and opening my eyes. When I said that no woman had ever had this effect on me, I meant it. I can even remember my own last name right now.
“She the one Gaine said you chased down at the dress store?”
“Bridal shop.”
“That her?”
I don't answer him right away, bending down to fish out the world's ugliest pair o' panties that I've ever laid eyes on from under the pool table. I stuff 'em in my back pocket before Beck can see and stand up.
“Yup, that's her,” I respond, glancing around for the exit. My eyes land on the sign just a second too late, drawn back towards the bar entrance and Diamond's smiling face.
“Austin,” she begins and whatever it is that she wants, I know I'm not going to like. I watch her run her skinny fingers up Beck's arm and try not to hate him for liking her so damn much. Despite my warnings to the contrary, Beck likes to play games with Melissa, and I always wonder if the next time is going to be the last, if the Pres is gonna catch the two of 'em at it like rabbits and smash his skull in with a baseball bat. It could happen. Hell, the bitch might even rat him out because well, that's just the type of person that Mel is. “Kent wants to talk to you, if you've got a minute.”
What she means is, I better damn well make a minute to come talk to Kent.
I sigh and light up, wondering if I should mention Amy now or wait out the rest of the festival, see what happens. I like the girl, sure, but do I want her to join my MC? Do I want to drag her around the country with me? After all, she doesn't have a ride of her own – doubt she's ever even sat on the back of a bike. She'd be mine to take care of, and I'm not sure I'm ready for anything like that. She was a good fuck, sure, but maybe that's all she is? A hot lay that'll fade into the distant background of my memory like most girls. Course, I'm thinking all this shit now, but when I had my hands on her hips and my dick inside of her, I was singin' a different tune. Shit.
I follow Beck and Melissa back into the bar, carefully keeping my eyes
diverted away from Mireya. She wants me to look at her, even seems kind of desperate for it, but I can't. I can't look at her after Amy and let her see in my face what I'm thinking and how I feel. I think she could sense something after the bridal shop, but I don't see how confirming her worst fears is going to help. One look at Amy and I was stuck. Mireya and I have been on and off for years, and still, I don't want to own her like I do Amy. Maybe she wants that, maybe not, but I can't let her see, not yet. I can't let her see that a girl I don't even know has got me enraptured, pulled under like I've been cursed. Maybe it's best if I don't say anything to Kent right now. I don't know what that girl's done to me, but I can't let it trip me up.
I've got other things to worry about.
Beck veers away and joins Gaine at a table near the front, leaving me to slide into a booth across from Kent. Melissa slips in next to him and straddles his lap, effectively blocking my view of his face. Fucking bitch, I think as she starts kissing Kent's neck and showing me that she could give a fuck less about who we are and what we do. I bet she doesn't even have a clue what Triple M actually stands for.
“What?” I snap. Kent might be the president of our MC, but that doesn't mean I have to take his shit. He knows that; I know that. Most of the time we keep out of each other's way, but not this time. This time, we've got outside influences. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that bullshit and nonsense.
“I've got the keys to the parking garage,” Kent tells me, and since I already know where this is going, I start to stand up.
“I'm not doing it,” I tell him as I blow smoke into Melissa's upturned face and wish she wasn't so pretty, so she couldn't walk around with that arrogant as shit look on her pointy face all the damn time. “You brought me in to do a job, and I do it. I do it well, matter o' fact. And then you ask me to babysit, and I do okay at that, too, but I ain't doin' this.” I point down at the table with my finger for emphasis. There are rules that bikers live by that Kent just doesn't seem to get, even after spending his entire adult life in and out of different MCs, tasting the country and feeling the wind in his face, and still, he doesn't have a single ounce of respect in him.
“Fine.” Just that one word, spewed from Kent's tight mouth, makes me suspicious as hell. Melissa sighs and leans back, rolling her eyes and mumbling something about men. I stare at them both for a long while, memorizing the paleness of Kent's skin and the way his dark eyes flash like a summer storm. He doesn't like to be disobeyed, but what is he going to do about it? He needs me, and he knows it. But I also need him, and he knows that, too.
“I'm heading back to the hotel,” I tell them both as I turn on my heels and shove the doors open on my way out. From the corner of my eye, I catch Mireya's gaze, sharp and piercing, and I know that I have more than just one problem to worry about tonight.
Christy and I walk home slowly, enjoying the sound of cicadas and the warm air against our skin. Mine feels prickly and slick, and my body wants nothing more than to curl up in Austin's arms like the girls in my books, savoring the strong, comforting feeling of another body behind me. He isn't your boyfriend, Amy, I remind myself. Austin Sparks isn't anybody's boyfriend. He's just … tall, ripped, delicious, incredible. I shake my head to clear it and try to remind myself that he's a biker, a nomad if you will. Granted, I did sort of ask him to take me along with him. I wonder briefly if I committed some sort of social faux pas or something. I've heard that motorcycle clubs sometimes have their own rules and hierarchies. What if he tries to make me his kept woman? And how terrible would that be? I slap myself gently in the cheek and get rewarded with a wide-eyed look from Christy.
“I kissed Beck,” she blurts and then flushes three shades of red, starting with pink and ending with an all over crimson blush that makes her look sunburnt. “And I liked it.” I throw my head back and laugh, pausing at the edge of our street to lift my arms out at my sides and spin in a slow circle. Down below, I'm still hurting, aching, but I feel more like a woman, whatever that means. I suspect it has less to do with the sex and more to do with the fact that I not only made my own decisions today but defied my parents at the same time. Apparently today was all about firsts and records and new experiences.
“I kissed Austin,” I admit and pause to watch a smile cross Christy's cheeks, making her face look sculpted by moonlight as she stands silhouetted against the navy sky. It is utterly cloudless, leaving the moon naked and round, proud of her own skin and happy to share it with the world. I drop my arms back at my sides. “And I liked it, too.”
“I knew it!” Christy says, pointing at me and spinning on her heel. “I could tell there was something different about you.” I almost blurt out what just happened, tell her every sordid detail, but then I remember that Christy doesn't read romance novels like I do and that whenever I've used the word sex in conversation, she's blushed. I snap my mouth closed. Looking at her all pretty and innocent in the silver light makes me feel like a bad person. How can I leave when I know that she's going to be stuck here? Earlier, I was so angry at my dad and then so enraptured with Austin that I didn't even figure my best friend into the situation. I look at the girl who helped me hide the pointy witch's hat I made out of paper at church camp, so I wouldn't get the belt, and I know that I can't do that to her.
I need more time to think.
I shuffle my feet and then throw my arms around her neck, just for good measure. She laughs and then pushes me off, giving me a funny look that says maybe she has some idea that something's up. Unfortunately, just like everybody else, I tend to write Christy off sometimes when in all honesty, she's probably the more perceptive of the two of us.
“Are we pathetic?” she asks me as we both cast glances towards our respective houses. Nothing seems amiss, but I suppose we won't know until we actually get inside. If he asks me into his office again, I'm going to run.
“Why would you think that?” I ask her, turning back to watch Christy's blue eyes brewing with questions.
“This is a conversation we should've had when we were fourteen.” I raise my eyebrow. She holds up her hands. “Okay, sixteen at the latest. Amy, I'm twenty-one years old and I just kissed a guy who smells like grease and has the word HOPELESS tattooed on his hands, for the sole purpose of saying that I'd done it, that I'd actually put my tongue down somebody's throat.” She leans in and grips me around the arms, hard, adding another layer of something to the list of things I have to figure out. I left that house tonight with a mission and came back with roadblocks. “Where do we go from here, Amy? I know your dad hit you again today.” I open my mouth to speak and can't find anything to say; Christy knows and there's no point in trying to sugarcoat what happened. My dad did hit me today, six times to be exact, sent me flying against the wall and drew blood from my nose and pain from my skull. It wasn't the first time, but it was the worst. If he ever found out what happened with Austin, I'd do best to run for the hills because I think he'd lose it. My dad is not the kind of man who likes to lose control. Since he's been controlling me since the day I was born, I assume that he'd probably have a mental breakdown of sorts. “And my parents are going to beat me silly when I go back inside.” Christy swallows hard. “So what do we do? How do we stop this? I don't want to end up like Joan.”
I think of our late friend, Joan Jennise, who ended up getting pregnant by the first guy she had sex with and got forced into her marriage by their families – much like my cousin, Jodie. She hung herself two days before the wedding. She felt trapped, but she didn't have to. The world is wide open and ready, waiting for us to escape this bubble and join it. I open my mouth to speak when a door swings open nearby, and I whip my head around to find Christy's mom staring at us, back lit from the yellow light that's emanating from her doorway and shredding the beautiful shadows with harsh electricity.
“Shoot,” Christy whispers, dropping her hands to her sides and giving me a crooked smile. “Finish our talk tomorrow?” I nod, but I keep my eyes on her mother's dark face, willing her
to keep her hands off of my friend. Tomorrow, I'll find Austin and I'll see if there's room for two, and if there isn't, well fuck him then. Christy and I will figure it out.
“Take care,” I tell her as she passes by, smelling like cigarettes and perfume. Her parents are going to be livid. “And I love you.”
“Love you, too, Aims.”
She disappears into her house and the door closes with a terrible finality, almost as if she's going off to die or something. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the humid heat of the evening. Just a few more days while I sort this out, I pray as I walk towards my own house with sluggish steps. I was going to climb into the window, since to be honest, that's the way I got out, but I know that Christy's mom is going to tell mine anyway, so I opt for the front door.
Better to face my demons when I'm brimming with the wonderful energy that Austin somehow pushed inside of me. A smile lights my face for a brief moment and then fades when I open the door and find both my parents in the living room, watching me like I'm the most despicable thing they have ever laid eyes upon.
“Did you have a good time?” my mother quips, not really caring if I did or not. What she really wants to say isn't appropriate, so she's going to keep it to herself until we're alone. Mama doesn't like to show Papa her violent side.
My father remains silent, taking a slow sip of his tea and turning his face away from mine. Bad sign. His silence speaks volumes and sends me scurrying up the stairs and into my bedroom where I bolt the door and lean against it with my eyes closed. Sometime, when I'm not expecting it, he's going to strike back at me. I don't know when or how. It could be public – like when I was sixteen and he spoke about my period to the whole church – or it could be private, such as the day he burned my entire book collection in the backyard.
Losing Me, Finding You Page 6