by Jenn Cooksey
The tattoo Erica’s talking about however…well, that goes deeper and isn’t something I’m going to get into with her tonight. Another time, definitely, but not tonight.
“Sort of. I, uh…adopted that quote as my personal family motto,” I more or less answer honestly and then quickly move away from the entire topic of what I decided to etch into my body for all eternity, “But, he is trying to be a more openly caring father, and I’m trying to be a more understanding son. Plus, because of what he went through in his own life before me, he held a lot back from not only me, but everyone. I didn’t know it then, but he’s been seeing the woman he’s with now since I was in high school, and she only found out I even exist when I reached out to him for help. And even then, he only told her simply because she was bound to meet me and find out he has an adult son. So, he definitely has some issues and he’s trying to work on them. But when it comes down to what’s most important, he was there when I really needed him to be and has been ever since.”
“Man, I feel really out of the loop. And kinda bad for judging him so harshly all these years.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it. He’s still a dick sometimes and demands respect, but I totally get now how he deserves it. Being a parent responsible for another human being isn’t always easy, you know?”
She shrugs and nods her agreement. “Yeah, that’s true I guess. My grandparents made it look easy, but I know it wasn’t. That’s part of why I don’t want to ever be one…they gave up so much for me and they didn’t really have a choice. I know they would’ve done it again in a heartbeat if they did have one, but knowing how much of their lives they sacrificed…I don’t know…I think I’d resent not being able to do what I want when I want, and I just…well, like I said earlier, I have no desire to be tied down like that.”
A moment of introspective silence begins; however, it’s interrupted in short order by Erica’s cell phone pinging with a notification.
“Oh my God! Rachel just accepted my friend request!” she giggles in surprise and devious excitement. “You know her married name is Carpe? Isn’t that awesome? Marriage turned her into a legitimate fish, Cole.”
“How’s it spelled?”
“C-A-R-P-E.”
“That’s seize in Latin…maybe she got lucky with netting the guy she married.”
“Ugh, that’s not fun. Can’t you just let me picture her as a fish mounted on some kookie fisherman’s wall? Oh! Wall!” She bounces, remembering her plan and removing her feet from my chest to sit up better, simultaneously making me lament the loss of contact and my heart begin to pound by reaching behind herself with both hands to presumably unhook her bra. “Are you sure this wouldn’t bother Payton?”
“Mm-mm, why would it?” I ask in sudden panicked answer, my eyes searching wildly for the drink she made me before my phone rang. I see both hers and mine sitting in between us on the ledge, both glasses are full and completely untouched.
Shit. The ice is completely melted. It’s gonna taste nasty now.
Who the hell cares? She’s getting naked and you’re freaking out. Drink one of ‘em or you’re gonna do or say something you’ll regret. Like chewing her thong off and using it as dental floss to get the piece of chicken out from between your teeth. And by the way, you really should try to get that taken care of before you open your mouth again and she notices, you hillbilly.
Jesus Christ…
34
“Dark Horse”
—Cole—
The reality of what a hot mess I am sinks in and I snatch the glass in a hurry, rolling the distasteful watered down vodka, cranberry and grapefruit juice around in my mouth, trying to gargle with it, but without looking or sounding like I’m about to launch a fur-ball. Then I surreptitiously stick my index finger in my mouth and with my fingernail aiding my tongue, I dislodge the embarrassing leftover of dinner just in time to catch Erica’s bra when she flings it at me.
I take another gulp from my glass and look back and forth between Erica and the bra in my hand, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do with it. Wear it as a hat like in Weird Science?
“Well, I mean I know I’m a girl, but still. I’d hate to do something, again, that might make him jealous or feel insecure about you guys.”
I start inwardly laughing. He’d only be jealous because he isn’t here to gush over the incredibly soft satin and sparkly lace her bra is made of. Then her words and their meaning penetrate my witless brain…
“Wait, do you think Payton and I are…together? Like, together together?”
She stops messing with her phone and looks at me with a puzzled, yet sincere smile lighting her face. “Yeah. Aren’t you?”
She thinks I’m GAY?!
She thinks I’m gay.
Seriously. SHE thinks I’M gay.
Does she not remember the night before she bailed seven years ago? Or! Or the night before I first left town? Or, shit, any number of occasions over that summer?
“Uh, no…but you having that in your head explains a lot, I think.”
Earnestly perplexed now, she asks, “What does it explain?”
Oh, I don’t know…maybe why I feel like crying, laughing, and drowning myself in shame all at the same time. “Well, for starters, it might explain why you were so vehement about promising me you’d never kiss me again.” Hoping, hoping, hoping…
“Oh yeah, that. Definitely. But still, even knowing you guys aren’t together, I still feel awful forcing myself on you like that. I hope it wasn’t too icky for you,” she tells me with a wince, not having a single clue that kissing her is the straight-up antithesis of icky for me.
“Oh, Erica…” I chuckle a little in sarcastic self-deprecation, “Payton is most definitely as gay as they come, yes, but…sweetheart, I am exceedingly straight.”
I watch her as realization sinks in and cements itself within her understanding; it brings with it an achingly beautiful tint of awareness to her already flushed cheeks as her eyes note her bra still being held in my hand, and the expression of aroused contemplation I’m sure I’m wearing on my face as I do the same.
Her only response though is a rather somberly muted, “Huh. Well, that sorta changes things…”
My heart rate quickens a fraction more as my eyes travel her face and down her neck to watch transfixed as with every breath she takes, the swell of her breasts rise and fall behind a curtain of steam, teasing me and the water surrounding us with anticipation unabated.
“Like what?” I ask, somehow sounding completely nonchalant; not at all like I’m about to die of a massive coronary, with all the fanfare a flagrantly blazing erection could ever hope to lend to the excitement of an event as such.
“Uh, well…I’m no longer more worried about what Payton thought of me kissing you than what your feelings about it were,” she pauses apprehensively to wet her lips with her tongue before briefly chewing the bottom one, and I just wait, utterly captivated by the sight and seemingly unable to move a muscle, “And um…since I evidently didn’t turn you gay like I actually thought, I’m glad I don’t owe the world’s population of women an apology now?”
It’s enough of a green light for my lips to make the barest of quirks and my hand to reach out unbidden to pull her to me. She comes willingly but I can feel the skittish tension in her body as she hesitantly straddles mine and avoids meeting my eyes.
Demurely she takes her bra from my hand and tossing it aside, she nervously mumbles, “And I probably would’ve made an effort to wear matching underwear.”
My lips’ instinctual response of quirking again brings forth more of that luscious color to Erica’s cheeks and I can’t help but try teasing an even deeper shade of it from her. “Why would you have owed all women an apology?”
One hand holding her in place by her hip, the other running from the top of her back and down her spine as her head bends back and to the side while she arches forward, I dip my head and just barely place my lips on the side of her neck, wondering if she
can feel my heart pounding as violently as hers is when she says, “Because you’ve been gifted by the gods to be an unbelievably incredible kisser…and if I was the one responsible for taking your lips and gift away from women, I felt that to be a reprehensible sin warranting a deeply heartfelt apology to my kind.”
I’ve been told I’m a good kisser before. None of those compliments ever mattered; they never made me feel anything about myself that I didn’t already feel or give me confidence that I didn’t already possess. This one meant everything and so much more.
“It’s been a long time,” I mumble through another kiss to the velvet softness of her throat, my lips desperate to travel downward, at the same time wholly unwilling to be removed from where they are just yet, “How do you know there would still be anything to apologize for?”
With the question, I lift my head and she finally meets my eyes burning into hers head-on.
As if flattery spoken by the right person can cure me of any and every ailment in existence and even those that aren’t, my tumultuous heart skips a beat one last time and settles into a thunderous, yet calmed pace when one of her hands slips behind my head and the other frames my face as she leans towards me. “Let’s find out then.”
Not even a fraction of a second is needed or taken to get reacquainted; we’re simply instantly caught up the moment our lips meet. When our tongues touch, it’s as if they’re each welcoming a lover home with open arms. But it’s as our breath melds and our bodies move as one that I have to wonder how either of us survived so long without this life-sustaining chemical compound, because now I know with certainty that only she and I combined are the equation for it.
Back when we were still in school and would be forced to bear witness to someone else’s in your face PDA during passing periods or at lunch, I diligently tried to not give much thought to Holden’s occasional complaint that he and Erica weren’t a hot couple; that he felt like making out with or just kissing Erica lacked something in the way of enthusiasm on her part. He never once implied that she was a bad kisser or inept in any way within that field of play, and it wasn’t that she didn’t get him worked up either, but every now and then he’d make mention that he was the one who always initiated and she was noticeably quiet and reserved. He would reconcile it for himself by remembering that she was younger than him by two years and was raised by old people, so she was bound to be more on the tame side. However, Holden’s grumblings have been the exact same form of dissatisfaction verbalized by several married men I’ve come to know, and in their commiserating pity parties, they’ve all said at one point or another that their wives are just like that and always have been unless they’re good and blitzed, and they live with it.
Tonight, though, I’m calling bullshit.
Sure, 99% percent of the time, I initiated the encounters between Erica and me over the course of our lurid summer, and like tonight, there were a couple of times when she wasn’t exactly sober; however, they were few and far between and don’t even come close to outweighing the amount of stone cold sober moments we shared, and with every single interaction no matter how slight or insignificant, Erica was more than simply modestly responsive. She was wildly engaging and spirited. I would kiss her and she would come alive. I would touch her and her body would sing unabashed under my hands. Just like tonight. Her unflagging track record of being unequivocally responsive to me says there was something missing between her and Holden. Subconscious as the reality might have been, she didn’t feel comfortable enough with him to let herself go. It was a lack of trust.
I know this because I used the ashes of everything I burned seven years ago as mortar for the protective wall I built around myself, and since then, I’ve been decisively emotionally unavailable to every woman I’ve even just considered being more than an acquaintance of. Not that I’ve had much of an opportunity to date over the years…military life wasn’t exactly conducive even if I had been interested in meeting someone, and the singles scene up here is made up mostly by women who for one reason or another couldn’t find it in them to fly the coop, a decent handful of retired widows, and divorced soccer moms whose ex-husbands, more often than not, divorced them for a justified reason. Even so, I haven’t wholly sequestered myself, although I didn’t trust a single one of them to not hurt me in some way so I never drank enough to where I’d lose any of my inhibitions, rational or irrational. Simply put, I purposely stayed sober to ensure that I always held back something of myself. And come to think of it, I’ve done that my entire life. Except with Erica. Drunk, stoned, or sober, she always got all of me, barring the verbal truth of my feelings for her.
The other opposite with her is, the more sober I am, the more likely I am to spit out all manner of declarations, which means if I don’t want to become a veritable lush, I need to learn how to control and pace myself. And I evidently need to learn quickly because despite knowing that I need to tread carefully and even somewhat slowly, even though time isn’t exactly a luxury I have, all I seem to want to do right now is grudgingly relinquish my mouth’s possession of her right nipple so I won’t be talking with my mouth full when I spout the marriage proposal that’s teetering on my tongue, while I also enthusiastically help her impatient hands that are working hard and are quite determined to free my dick from my swim trunks.
Mental wedding bells spur me into action finally, so taking both her hands and holding them at her back, I pull back enough to meet her hungry gaze and try to catch my breath. “Let’s…” get married. “We should…” get married. “I mean, I want to…” GET. MARRIED.
Completing the sentence I’m trying to get out is clearly impossible looking at her, so I drop my eyes to her shoulder and before I realize it, my lips have followed them. Erica’s throaty purr and my phone going off for the fourth time in five minutes catches me up enough though for me to realize that I have one of her breasts in my mouth again, and with gusto, I’m very much encouraging the mind-altering rhythmic movement of her hips as she essentially rides me like a damned horse without her truly being in the saddle quite yet.
“We gotta stop,” I finally blurt out, panting and swallowing a deflated sigh.
“Can’t you ignore whoever keeps calling?” she asks, her lips hovering right above the hollow behind my ear, making me shiver and my eyes roll back into my head.
“Mmhm,” I mumble, “its just Payton,” the ass pirate. I’m honestly not sure how I feel about him calling every fucking minute and interrupting. “But still…we should stop.” Erica and I seriously need to slow our roll here, and his incessant calling helps with that, but goddamnit, he’s being rude and she feels so incredible, I really don’t want to stop yet. “Or, slow down…” A little to the left and down, please. A moan of thanks escapes me when her lips satisfy my unspoken request of them.
Her hands still held at her back, she rises up on her knees a bit, poising herself just so above the fabric covering my erection, leaving her hardly enough space to enticingly rub against the aching tip of it while she breathes a very good question across my lips. “Why?”
Because I want to make love to you for days on end, marry you, and raise a child with you, and not necessarily in that order. And you don’t want to do two out of those three things. From what you said a little while ago anyway. But I didn’t buy it when you said it and I still don’t.
Nevertheless, ripping open the Velcro on my trunks while simultaneously yanking her thong to the side and out of the way enough for me to plunge her down so that’s she’s effectively impaled on my painfully throbbing dick is definitely not the best course for me to take at this point. We’ve cleared the first hurdle to find that there’s obviously more than a little bit of mutual attraction between us, but now we need slow up. I can use some time to be sure she’s who I think and am hoping she is, and she needs as much time as I’m able to give her without spooking her to see for herself what I already know in my heart…that above everything she’s been through and all her justifiable reasons, she’s lying
to herself about not wanting a family. Whether it’s with me or someone else she hasn’t even met yet remains to be seen; however, I know she still wants that for herself and she’s afraid of letting herself have it.
The decision firmly made, I straighten up and inch back, kissing her once softly before resting my forehead on hers and meeting her eyes. “Because we’ve both been drinking and I don’t think either of us is thinking clearly.”
She pulls back to get a better look at my face. “Are you saying you think you’d regret me in the morning?”
“Uh—I—” The blessed ringing of my phone again cuts my stuttered words off before I have the chance to dig a nice big hole for myself.
“Maybe I should go home…I can’t tell if you’re trying to be a gentleman or if you’re just not into this anymore—or, me, I guess.”
Just as she begins to slide from my lap, I realize what my halting the game so abruptly has her thinking and what’s she’s getting at, and it isn’t her trying to make me feel like an asshole. So I lock my hand around her wrist and pull her back to me.
“Sweetheart, it started snowing during dinner and I’m simply not gonna let you drive home tonight after you helped me clear three bottles of wine, so get that out of your head. And while you’re at it, you can stop worrying that you did something wrong or that I’ll wake up in the morning, take one look at you, and wonder what the hell I was thinking, because truth be told, I am mere seconds from showing you in no uncertain terms exactly how into you I wanna be right now…quite literally. But…I do think we should slow it down. The fact of the matter is, we have been drinking. And we might not be totally sloshed, but I think we can both admit that if we hadn’t drank as much as we did, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.”