Bad Reputation

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Joey leaned forward and pressed his lips against my bare shoulder. It was a gentle touch, but as he rubbed his face against my skin, the roughness of his stubble was anything but soft. He moved up my neck, alternating between tender bites that made me shiver and kisses that made me gasp.

  I want more.

  The realization startled me. When had I ever done anything that left me so exposed? That was so spontaneous?

  Never.

  Surprisingly, the answer spurred me on.

  I don’t just want more, I need it. I deserve it.

  I dug my hands into Joey’s back and leaned into him.

  When he lifted me up and brought my legs around his hips, I didn’t even pretend to protest.

  One of his hands slid over my dress, cupping my breast in a reverent manner before running his thumb over the thin fabric that covered my nipple. I inhaled sharply as his other hand made its way under my dress and found the soft edge of my underwear. He hesitated as if waiting for a signal from me.

  “Joey,” I whispered into his hair, and wriggled against him.

  His fingers had little choice but to find their way between my legs. I moaned involuntarily as he stroked me lightly through the satin. I moved against his hand, surprised by the intensity building up inside me.

  “Sweetheart,” he murmured.

  His voice, wrapped around me like silk, was the end of me.

  I came to a gasping, shuddering halt and collapsed on Joey’s chest. My body was spent, and my heart was racing. As I breathed in his scent, the sounds of the club came back to me. I leaned into Joey, allowing myself a weak moment. One where I could enjoy the feel of my face pressed into his well-muscled chest without thinking about the consequences, or about the fact that we were in a public place. Or anything at all, other than him.

  Then I heard Liandra’s voice, calling me from across the club. I glanced up at Joey, wondering if he’d noticed, and then remembered that it wouldn’t matter anyway. Because he didn’t know my name.

  My face reddened self-consciously as I remembered that he was as close to a stranger as he could get. I pulled away, embarrassed.

  “I need to go,” I stated abruptly.

  “Stay instead,” he replied softly, and tried to pull me close again.

  I stiffened, and he let his hands fall to his sides.

  “This just isn’t me,” I told him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a dark voice.

  “No, I—”

  He was already moving away. I wanted to call after him, but he headed into the crowd near the stage, and I was left staring after him, humiliated and alone. In three seconds, I lost sight of him altogether, and Liandra was standing in his place with a concerned expression on her face.

  “Tucker?”

  I mumbled something incoherent.

  “Somebody at the table said you took off after some guy and that you looked a little sick,” my roommate told me.

  “I saw Mark,” I replied.

  She frowned. “Is he still here? Do you want me to tell him to get lost?”

  I shook my head. “He’s gone.”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I lied.

  “You do look a little flushed,” Liandra said. “Let me take you home.”

  I looked away guiltily, knowing that if she knew the real reason for my overheated face, she’d pour another beer down my throat instead.

  Sunday

  Joey

  At four in the morning, my alarm went off, reminding me that if I had been sleeping, it would be time to get up and make my way out to my truck for my trip to the cemetery. I was awake when it went off but I pressed snooze anyway. I was always awake when it went off, but this insomnia was different somehow. Better, if that was possible. I hadn’t been feeling quite as much dread as I usually did, though the steady build-up was still there. That wasn’t the biggest difference, though. My ever present, darker memories had been pushed aside in lieu of thoughts of the redhead.

  Following her to the bar was one thing. My reaction her was another. It proved how little self-control I had around her, and I replayed the scene over and over again in my head.

  I hadn’t been drinking, of course, and the raucous environment was a little tougher to take than I wanted to admit. I was about to give up and go home, to assume that she’d lied when she told me she was coming to the pub. Then my gaze landed on her.

  She was wearing an incredibly short, denim skirt that showed off the fair skin on her legs perfectly. I noted that her ankle was wrapped—badly—and it made her look more vulnerable than she had the other times we’d crossed paths. I forced my eyes up, and my throat went a little dry. Her shirt was pale pink, and tight, and hugged the soft curve of her breasts in a tantalizing way. I was so distracted by the way she looked that I almost didn’t notice that she and the tall, blonde girl she was holding onto, were headed right for our table. As she got closer, I could see that she was smiling. Even so, something about her face made me think she wasn’t thrilled about being there. I sat back and waited for her to notice me, anticipated the irritated look on her face when she saw me, but she didn’t turn my way at all. I sat there with a surly expression on my face as the girl sipped a green beer, feeling annoyed that I could be that invisible to her. Again.

  Did she sense something about my intentions that made her block me out?

  I brushed off the idea. At the best of times, my intentions weren’t pure, and it had never hindered my luck with girls before. In fact, it sometimes worked to my advantage. They wanted to fix me.

  I was pretty sure that this particular girl wasn’t like the others. She seemed bright. Witty.

  Incredible.

  I examined her face. She looked mildly uncomfortable, but not miserable, and I suspected that the girl–her roommate, she’d said on the phone—had talked her into coming to the bar. I couldn’t help but wonder what she normally did with her Saturday nights. Read? Play internet solitaire?

  Go on dates?

  I made myself look away, and that’s when I saw the wannabe stuffed shirt from the City Hall meeting. He was near the stage, swaying to the music with no discernible rhythm.

  I glanced back at the redhead. Her expression was still relatively neutral, and I knew that she hadn’t spied him yet.

  I stood up quickly, knocking over someone’s drink in the process.

  “Yo, Joey! Where’s the fire?”

  I slapped down a hundred-dollar bill and muttered, “Sorry, man. Drinks are on me.”

  I was determined to intercept any interaction between Mark the intern and the girl. I wasn’t quick enough. She was already stumbling toward him, and he was smiling a self-assured smile. I watched, immobilized, as he embraced her in a familiar way and left his hands on her body. I wanted to break every one of his fingers.

  And then she was trying to step back, and he was trying to kiss her and I was moving again, spurred by barely controlled rage. I grabbed her first, using the feel of her to calm my temper.

  Keep sane, keep rational. And keep your head down.

  I didn’t need him to recognize me and make some comment about seeing me at City Hall that would send her running in the other direction. I kept my cap low as I shoved Mark away, but I couldn’t resist a glance at the girl. I paused to drink in her warm gaze, then sent the ass-hat packing.

  For one second, the nervousness in the girl’s eyes made me second-guess myself, but as she confirmed she had no interest in the other guy, my ability to keep away from her went out the window.

  I wanted to erase all memory of Mark’s recent touch. I wanted to erase all memory of him altogether. What happened next…Jesus. I’d never been so turned on in my life, and all I wanted was to make her feel good. I’ve never wanted so desperately to please someone. And I thought I had. At least physically.

  But her face, so full of regret, filled me with guilt. Maybe I misread her. Maybe the intense want was one-sided. Maybe it was the drinks she’d had.

  T
oo many maybes. I need to see her, to ask her, to talk to her about it.

  I turned the alarm off as it buzzed a second time.

  Talking would have to wait.

  I skipped breakfast, headed to the garage with a heavy heart, and inched my truck out of the driveway.

  I drove myself out of the city with my usual flair for running red lights and stop signs. For whatever reason, my bad habits intensified every time I made the trip. They also got worse the closer I got. It was an hour-long trek, and by the end of it, I was driving at breakneck speed and more or less daring the cops to give me a ticket. If they could catch me.

  Right before I reached the large perimeter of the peaceful site, I slammed on the brakes and slowed to a snail’s pace. I pulled into the parking lot at a crawl. My speedometer didn’t even register that I was moving. I nodded my head at the gardener who’d pulled the unfortunate night shift and was just finishing work. I knew them all. Bob, whose real name was Umberto and who had moved to the area two years ago from Venezuela. Cody and Alma, who were twin brother and sister, and who had celebrated their sixtieth birthday earlier that month. And Dimitri, who didn’t speak a word of English, but could sing along perfectly with any Frank Sinatra tune. I’d spent enough time at the cemetery that they knew me, too.

  I drove past the main grounds and took a spot in the private parking area reserved for those with loved ones in the expensive, gated part of the cemetery. I turned off the engine and grabbed the flowers from the front seat.

  It was all a part of my ritual.

  I had the lilies on auto-order. I picked them up on Sundays when I came for a visit. My obsessive routine was another thing I didn’t want to think too closely on.

  I let myself out and walked with familiar trepidation to the well-kept stone marker. I knelt beside it and placed the flowers against the smooth marble. The ones from this past week had already been removed. The gardeners were very respectful of my schedule, and I appreciated it. I told myself it wasn’t just because of the social status associated with that particular part of the cemetery.

  I leaned down to brush aside some imaginary dirt.

  “Hi,” I said in my quietest voice.

  I wanted to say more, but as was often the case, I couldn’t manage anything else. I kneeled down on the grass and let sorrow wash over me. My throat closed up and angry tears threatened to boil over. I ran my fingers through my hair and pushed down the emotions that made me feel the loss all over again. I closed my eyes and pressed my fists against my face. It was dumb, I knew, to try to force them aside. There was nowhere more appropriate to let them out. I couldn’t let them rule me.

  Very slowly, I traced the letters on the stone marker. Elizabeth Fox. Wife. Mother. Beloved.

  The words were misleading, because they made it sound like the three things were the same.

  I breathed in slowly, and flinched when a cool hand closed on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, and saw the sun was fully up, glinting off the heavy diamond on my mother’s ring finger.

  “Son.” Her voice was tinged with a level of suffering that rivaled my own.

  “Why?” I whispered the word that was always in my heart.

  Even though I wasn’t looking at her, I knew my mother was shaking her head. I waited for an answer that wasn’t coming.

  “When does it stop hurting?” I asked.

  “I don’t know that it will. And I’m sure it won’t ease until you forgive her. And yourself.”

  “Have you forgiven her? Has Dad?” I wondered out loud.

  My mother read my expression easily. “I’ve never blamed either of you, Joey.”

  I was going to argue, but as I tried to form the words, I noticed things about her I hadn’t before. Her hair, formerly grey at the temples, was now nearly all white. Her crow’s feet had deepened and extended, moved her face from being distinguished into being aged. She was standing, but she was stooped, like she was carrying a heavy weight on her shoulders.

  I realized that in all the time since I’d been home I hadn’t really looked at her, hadn’t really talked to her. I wanted to ask her about the things she didn’t usually discuss, like how she’d been holding up, and how she filled the hours of her day now that she had retired from real estate. We’d been close, years before. I’d always been able to connect with her on level I couldn’t quite match with my father. She balanced out his toughness with her softness, and I was regretful that I hadn’t taken the time to ask her how she was doing.

  “Mom…”

  “It’s okay, Joey.”

  I stood up, embraced her quickly, and then left her to have her own time of mourning.

  As I put my key in the ignition my mood was already lightening. When I hit the road outside the cemetery, a small smile was on my face.

  It was a change I couldn’t explain. It was like once my duty there was done, I could pretend I no longer had the obligation. Or at least I could bury it deep enough that it wouldn’t surface for another a week.

  During that brief reprieve, I could carry on with my life, the angst pushed to the bottom of my mind.

  * * *

  I drove home at a much slower pace than I’d left.

  I had one more stop on the final leg of my ritualistic journey, but as I made my way to the run-down motel, I made a conscious detour. For the first time in five years, I veered from my routine. I pulled the truck onto campus property and circled the redhead’s dorm.

  I was using my dad’s work as an excuse, but the truth was, I wanted to see her face. Maybe even needed to. But I wasn’t completely ready for her to see mine, so I stopped as close to her dorm as I could manage without actually being within visual distance.

  I’m nervous.

  It was an odd realization for me. With the exception of my past, I approached life with an almost unholy self-assurance. Women. Business. School. Nerves weren’t a part of my repertoire. At least not until her.

  Which meant I really needed to face her head on.

  I took a deep breath, exited my truck, and walked the perimeter, practicing my opening line.

  I got about ten paces away from the edge of the dorm’s yard when I paused.

  I spotted the grey-clad enforcement officer standing with her hands on her hips and a displeased set to her shoulders from a good distance away. I smiled automatically, because even the drab uniform couldn’t hide the fact that she had a nice rear end and smooth, lean legs. I watched her climb onto her bike and decided to step behind a tree and let her pass.

  As she pedaled closer, I felt a surge of panicked recognition.

  It’s her. I’m not ready.

  Then her bike swerved in the other direction, and I realized that in a few seconds, she was going to be too far away to hear me, and too far away for me catch up to her. Whatever half-assed plan I had went out the window.

  “Hey!” I called.

  Feeling a little foolish, I chased after her. I had to move fast, and pretty soon I was out of breath. A block from the dorm, she paused. As I got closer, I realized that she was standing in front of my truck with a scowl on her face.

  “Hey!”

  She ignored me.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m writing a ticket,” she replied impassively.

  “That’s my truck.”

  She shrugged. “So I’m writing you a ticket.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “If you touch me and I report it, Trans U will automatically put you on probation,” she warned.

  “You’d do that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you at least—please—not write me a ticket?” I asked.

  “Too late.”

  She ripped the top copy off and stretched up to stick it under one of the wiper blades. As she did, I grabbed her wrist gently. Her skin was soft under my grip, and even though the rest of her arm was covered, the feel of her pulse beneath my thumb brought back the previous night’s heat with a vengeance. She turned around slowly, and o
pened her mouth as though she was going to say something. When her eyes met mine, she remained silent.

  I lifted her arm over her head and pinned it against my truck. She kept her gaze locked on me. I soaked up the intensity I found there. I took a step closer and watched as she inhaled sharply. The uneven rise and fall of her chest drove all thought from my brain.

  I placed my free hand just above her knee and moved it slowly up. Even through the fabric of her uniform, I could feel the need-filled quiver of her inner thigh. She let out a little gasp as I dragged upward, palm down. I widened my fingers and pressed my hand firmly between her hip and her abdomen.

  The ticket book clattered to the ground, and the hand that had been holding it found its way to my chest. For a moment, I thought she might push me away. Instead, she gripped my shirt and dragged me closer. The feel of her body flush against mine drew a groan from my throat. She tipped her mouth toward me expectantly, lips parted hungrily, and I leaned down. I wanted to take a taste, but I wanted to savor it.

  I waited a second too long.

  A horn cut through the air, followed by a raucous catcall as an SUV, with it windows down, sped past us in the parking lot.

  The redhead clung to me for another moment, then whispered, “Stop.”

  I desperately wanted to get the moment back. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t want me to stop a second ago. Or last night.”

  “Last night was a mistake,” she snapped. “You know it, too, or else you wouldn’t have taken off so quickly.”

  “Funny,” I replied. “I got the distinct feeling you wanted me gone.”

  She pursed her lips irritably, and I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted something as badly as I wanted to kiss her. I still held her wrist above her head, and she wasn’t trying to get away. I leaned forward, eyes half-closed. Her free hand slammed upward, right between our mouths.

  “Is there anything you won’t do to get your interview?” she demanded.

  Damn. I’d very nearly forgotten about my ready-made—albeit totally falsified—reason for following her around.