Dirty Promise

by Penny Wylder

  After Kia passed, I never took any time off to grieve. Instead I threw myself into my work to keep distracted from all the emotions I wasn’t ready to deal with yet. I still don’t know if I’m ready to deal with them. But having all this time to myself will probably force those emotions to the forefront of my mind. Who knows, maybe this was Kia’s grand scheme, dragging me on an Eat, Pray, Love adventure in order for me to cope with her passing. If that’s the case, I hope it works.

  Next, if I go hiking in Peru, I need new hiking boots and a backpack to carry my stuff. I’m excited to go and a little sad. I’ve decided I’m not going to tell Max about the trips. It’s better just to rip this band aid off. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I can’t bring myself to face him. I know if I do, I’ll want to stay with him, or ask him to go with me, and I can’t do either of those things right now. I can’t push my emotional baggage onto him and ask him to set everything aside so I can live out my best friend’s last wishes. It’s not fair.

  Ghosting him isn’t a nice thing to do, and it’s not what I want to do, but I feel it’s better this way. That sounds horrible, but it’s easier for both of us. He probably won’t even notice I’m gone after a day or two. It’s not like he has any kind of emotional investment in me. We were just having fun. And it was fun. A LOT of fun.

  I close my eyes. Don’t think about him.

  First is my trip to Savannah. That’s an easy one. All I need is a suitcase and enough clothes to last me a week. I decide to drive instead of fly. Truth is, I’m afraid of flying. Since I have no choice but to fly over seas to Peru and Scotland, I decide to stick to land on my way to Georgia. Besides, taking in the different roadside attractions on the way should be fun. The South has a lot of history and culture. There’s plenty for me to see and do along the way.

  Before I leave, I go to the book store and buy an audio book of Emma, another Jane Austen novel to listen to along the way. While I’m there, I pass by the same tattoo book I saw when I was buying Pride and Prejudice. I pick it up and look through the pages. Bad idea. Now I can’t stop thinking about Max. In the book is a list of the meanings behind certain tattoos.

  First, I look up the meaning for the stag that covers his chest. It means masculinity and virility. The wolf means loyalty and family. The eagle means courage and focus. I don’t know if he got those tattoos to mean those specific things, or if there is any meaning behind them at all, but if it’s any indication of his personality, it makes perfect sense.

  As I leave the book store, I take one last look around the town I’m attached to, whose city limits I haven’t left in years, and say a silent goodbye before getting on the road.

  I end up having a lot of fun on my journey. I stop at a restaurant dedicated to peaches and try everything on the menu. Cobbler, a burger topped with a grilled peach and peach barbeque sauce, and homemade peach mead which I decided to drink until I was wasted—part of that decision had to do with how much I missed Max. Luckily, I left my phone in the car at the motel so there was no drunk texting. The next morning I’m hungover and hating life. I swear, if I even taste a single thing made from the fuzzy fruit again I will vomit. I need to stop hiding my emotions behind alcohol and start dealing with them head on. That’s a lot harder said than done, but that’s going to be part of my mission on these trips.

  The tour itself is a lot of fun. There’s so much to see and do and the whole tour was as spooky as I hoped it would be. It’s easy to keep my mind preoccupied. The problem is that first night when I’m alone in my motel room and my text alert goes off. I sit in the bed, a movie playing in the background for noise to keep things from getting too lonely. I stare at my phone screen, the message that says it’s from Max, but I don’t open it at first. As much as I try to stop myself from reading it, I know it will haunt me if I don’t read it and it will be far more bothersome than any of the ghosts on the tour.

  I open it.

  Max: Hungry?

  Of course he still thinks I’m in town. I look at the clock in the corner of my phone screen. He’ll be getting off work about now. We’ve already fallen into a bit of a routine since we started hanging out more often. I’m sure when I don’t answer he’ll think I’ve fallen asleep. It won’t be a big deal. I put my phone on the charger and it stays silent the rest of the night.

  The next day I explore more of the sights of the old city. I try on dresses for an old fashioned Southern belle photoshoot, and go to a huge makeup store they have in the mall to look for items to add to my kit at home. I get another text from Max.

  Max: You awake yet? Want to get breakfast?

  A lump forms in the back of my throat. Ignoring him isn’t going to be easy, but he’ll give up. He’s too good-looking and confident to sit around and wait for a girl as basic as me.

  I turn off the phone and put it in my purse for the rest of the day. I don’t check it again until I’m on my way home. I don’t want to look at it even then, but I need to book my flight to Peru. There are five text messages and several missed calls and voicemails. I don’t even look at them. It will be easier to ignore him when I leave the country. Where I’m going in Peru, there won’t be much in the way of cell service and I don’t want technology ruining this experience for me. I book my flight and put my phone away again.

  7

  I packed my things for Peru before I left for Savannah. The only thing left to do when I get home is grab my stuff and leave for the airport. I finished my Emma audio book, which I loved. I suspect Jane Austen is on the path to being my favorite author. I decide to try something different for the long flight to Peru. Since this is a hiking trip, I swing by the bookstore and pick up a copy of the memoir, Wild, by Cheryl Strayed.

  It’s late by the time I pull up to my house. The streets are empty, the sun is going down. My own bed sounds so fantastic. When I pull up to my parking space, I see someone sitting on my front porch. His back is to me, so I don’t recognize him at first, but when he turns to look at me, my heart explodes in a riot of tremors.

  Max.

  The whole time I was in Savannah, I didn’t bother wearing makeup—though I bought a ton of it—or did anything more with my hair than putting it up in a sloppy bun. I didn’t think it mattered. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Now I’m scurrying to smooth down my hair. My stomach sinks and I search for an escape route. I’m not ready to face him right now, not while I’m half asleep and looking like I’ve spent a week sleeping under an overpass. I suppose I could take off and keep driving. It would be one hell of an asshole movie, but it would keep me from having to deal with this right now.

  But I can’t do that. He’ll think he did something wrong, or that I’m mad at him. It’s not fair to him.

  Shit. I look like a homeless person. I’m not prepared for this. Seeing him though …

  The longing I feel is overwhelming and I realize just how much I miss him.

  When I get out of the car, he stands up, but doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching silently as I walk toward him. I take slow, tempered breaths, trying to appear calm. But in my blender of a mind, I’m scrambling to find something to say to him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  His cold stare cuts me right to the bone, voice an indignant monotone when he says, “When I didn’t hear from you for several days I got worried and went to your job. The manager told me you were in Savannah and that you were supposed to be getting back today.”

  Had he been waiting on my porch for me all day? I want to ask but I’m afraid of my own voice. If I talk, I might break down.

  He continues. “She also told me you were leaving for Peru and Scotland in a day or two. Were you planning on telling me?”

  Straightening my shoulders, I try not to appear as pathetic as I feel. “No,” I say.

  He scrubs his face with his hands like he’s trying to hold in his anger. I hate seeing him this way and want to hug him or kiss him to make him feel different, but I don’t know if
that’s a good idea, so I stay where I am.

  “Why the hell not?” he says. “I thought you were lying in a hospital somewhere, or dead.”

  I’m taken aback by the anger and frustration in his voice. I assumed he’d be annoyed by the ghosting, but I figured after a week he wouldn’t care. He would’ve been off with some new girl, having amazing sex, and I’d be a distant memory.

  I feel the pressure of tears on the backs of my eyes. I try desperately to hold them in. But as I stand there under his scrutiny, I can’t. The only thing I manage to do is wipe them away as quickly as they fall.

  “I saw how busy your schedule was at work and I didn’t want you to have to put your life on hold for me while I went trapesing across the globe. But it’s something I have to do for my best friend,” I say.

  His shoulders lose their stiffness and there’s a sorrowful look in his eyes when he says, “Shouldn’t you have let me decide what I wanted? If I want to put my life on hold, that’s my choice to make, not yours.”

  My tears fall faster. It’s impossible to keep up with them. “I didn’t think you would care. I just assumed you would’ve moved on.”

  My purse feels like it weighs a million pounds. Everything feels heavy, my shoulders, my head. Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted from traveling, or maybe it’s all the guilt I feel that’s weighing me down. Seeing him this upset makes me realize what a mistake I’ve made. I honestly didn’t think he’d care this much. I just want to collapse and curl into a ball and cry. All those emotions I’ve been bottling up are finally starting to break loose at the most inopportune time. I really didn’t want an audience when it happened.

  “Why the hell didn’t you call me?” he asks. His voice has changed. He sounds more concerned than angry now.

  “I didn’t want to burden you with all my baggage. It’s not like we’re a couple or anything,” I say.

  It was the wrong thing to say. The look he gives me could scare paint off the wall. “You think I’m going to spend all my time with someone I don’t care about, who I’m not invested in? It’s not like I was only calling you in the middle of the night for a quick lay then sending you away with slap on the ass. You hung out at my shop around my customers. You met my friends. I want to be with you.”

  My tears come down in droves now and my breaths shutter. Every ounce of me wants to break down, do that hard, ugly crying that makes your face warp, but I’m holding back. I was hoping he cared about me because I really care about him. I only allow myself to admit it because he did first. This whole time I’ve been lying to myself, trying to convince myself that this thing between us was just a fling. It’s such a relief to know he wants to be with me too. But now I’m worried that I blew it. He’s so pissed at me right now. I don’t know if he can forgive me.

  Seeing me cry seems to soothe his rage and he shakes his head. The hard wrinkles on his forehead smooth out. “What’s going on with you? Talk to me,” he says. He sits and pats the space on the porch steps next to him.

  I sit beside him and take a shaky breath before saying, “I don’t want to go on these trips without you. This was supposed to be me and my best friend, but she’s not here and I don’t think I can do this by myself.”

  The tears fall harder and I can barely catch my breath. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.

  “Then I’ll go with you.” The way he says it, likes it’s nothing more than going to a movie or to the store, makes me wonder if he realizes what I’m saying.

  “I’m talking about Peru and Scotland,” I say.

  He smiles. “Yeah, I got that. I’m not as dumb as I look.”

  I continue to stare at him. “But your work schedule.”

  “It can wait. They’re tattoos, not neurosurgery. If my customers want them bad enough they can wait. If not, they can go to someone else. I have the best artists in the area on my team. They can pull it off.”

  “You would do that for me?”’

  “I would do anything for you.”

  I take his face in my hands. When he looks at me, there’s something vulnerable there. Something I’ve never seen from him before. I close my eyes and kiss him. He runs his thumb across the line of my jaw and tilts my head back so he can deepen the kiss. He scoops me off the ground and lifts me into his arms. I yelp and laugh at the sudden weightlessness of being picked up. I reach out and unlock the door and he carries me inside. My apartment is small enough that he easily finds my room. He lays me on the bed and we kiss more. His hands don’t wander, he doesn’t touch any part of my body other than the sides of my face. He seems perfectly content to just kiss me for now. I love the soft dance of our tongues as they come together. I could kiss him all day if my body weren’t so insistent that it needed more from him.

  He pulls away from me, keeping our faces close together. “I missed you. You scared the hell out of me. If we’re going to be together, you can’t scare me like that again, okay?” he says.

  I run my thumb along his sharp cheekbone. I love everything about his face. And I can’t help but feel proud that his is the face of a man who wants to be with me. There are going to be so many jealous women out there.

  “I promise,” I say.

  He takes off my shirt. I take off his. Quid pro quo until we’re both naked. Then we just explore each other’s bodies. It’s slow and passionate. The lights are on. Neither of us are in a hurry. It’s just two people getting to know each other in the most intimate way possible.

  With a slight prompt from his hand, my legs open for him. He runs his fingertips up and down my legs, sending shivers through my body. He reaches up to cup my breasts, squeezing my nipples until they’re hard. One hand stays on my breast while the other roams between my legs. He slips two fingers into me and pulls them out, then raises them to my lips. While I suck his fingers into my mouth, I stroke him. Pre-cum coats my hand, making it easy to glide up and down his thick, long shaft. His hips move, fucking my hand.

  Spreading my legs further apart, I guide him into me. He fucks me slowly at first, but then he reaches around my waist and lifts me off the bed while remaining inside of me. I wrap my legs around his waist, and with my arms around his neck, he fucks me standing up. It must take an incredible amount of physical strength to hold me up while fucking me at the same time. He makes it look easy.

  After a while he presses my back against the wall to keep me steady while he puts my legs over his shoulders. My eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back as he slams into me.

  “You have such a tight pussy. It feels so good,” he says. “I love the way it squeezes my cock.”

  His lips lock onto mine and our tongues tangle in a passionate kiss. I’m moaning into his mouth as his dick drives deeper inside of me, painful and exhilarating at the same time.

  “Your dick is so fucking big,” I say when our mouths part.

  “Yeah?” he says, slamming it hard into me until I scream.

  My neighbors probably think I’m being murdered. That, or they’re enjoying the show. So far no cops have shown up.

  “You like the way I fuck you?” he asks.

  “I love it.”

  He carries me back over to the bed and lays me down, standing above me. “I want to watch you finger yourself,” he says.

  I do what he wants, rolling my clit between my fingers as he watches, delving into my wet, swollen depths with two of my fingers.

  The look on his face is intense as he strokes his hard cock.

  “Faster,” he says.

  I’m masturbating at a furious pace, bucking my hips as I grow closer to climax. “That pretty pussy belongs to me now,” he says. “No one else can have you.”

  I like the way he gets possessive during sex, so rugged and animalistic.

  My moaning becomes louder as the intensity builds. I can’t hold out much longer and he knows it.

  “Come for me,” he says. “I want to watch you come.”

  My body lets go. My orgasm throbs. I pull the hooded skin of my pussy ba
ck so he can see the evidence of my hard clit. I can feel my wetness leaking out of me. He leans in with his tongue, drinking it up, and engulfing my sensitive clit in his mouth.

  Once he’s had his fill, he leans back with a lusty look and says, “Good girl.”

  “Your turn,” I say.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “Stroke that big cock for me.”

  He stands at the edge of the bed, putting on a show with his slow, deliberate strokes. I get on my knees in front of him and lick the tip, catching his pre-cum on my tongue as it drips off.

  “That’s so fucking hot,” he says.

  I cast my eyes up at him and watch his face.

  “I want to see that beautiful ass of yours,” he says.

  I turn around and bend over for him, spreading my cheeks.

  His voice gets deep, intense. “Oh, God, baby, you’re amazing.”

  I lick my finger, making it wet then start fingering my asshole, pushing in past the tight barrier.

  “Oh, fuck,” he cries out and I feel his hot cum spirting along my crack and my asshole.

  He collapses on the bed beside me, looking utterly content. “Holy shit,” he says. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I kiss his lips. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  It takes him a while to catch his breath. Once he comes down, he gets up and walks naked around my room. I lie in bed watching him as he studies the spines of the books on my shelves. I let out a contented sigh as I admire his beautiful body, the hard curves of his calves and hamstrings, that tight round ass. All solid muscle and sinewy grace. If I were an artist, I would paint him just like this, standing in my room.

  I love that he’s so comfortable in his own skin, and that I’m starting to feel the same way when I’m around him. He makes me feel sexy and beautiful.

  “Which one is your favorite?” he asks, pointing to the books.

  All of my books are old. I haven’t read them in years. They’re mostly the remains of my high school years when I had all the time in the world.