Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1)

by Leonard,Jewel E.

  “My name’s—”

  Rhea clapped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t.”

  His eyebrows quirked but she felt his lips form a smile against her palm.

  “I . . . Kinda . . . Like it better this way.” She pulled back and added sheepishly, “I hope that’s okay.”

  He nodded. She couldn’t decide if he was appreciative or a bit disappointed. “Can I have your name?”

  “Joan.”

  “Liar.”

  “I liked your nickname for me. It reminded me of a time when I liked myself better.”

  “Sunshine it is, then. Sounds a bit . . . whore-y, though.”

  Rhea stuck out her tongue at him but didn’t argue his assessment.

  “Would you at least consider calling me Artist Boy?”

  “Sorry. You’re stuck with Surfer Boy. I like it too much.”

  He sighed with a dramatic shrug. “I guess I’m just gonna have to learn to surf when I get home.” He winked. “After all, I can’t be misrepresented by my own name.”

  “You have a girlfriend.” Rhea swallowed hard. “Don’t you.”

  “Are you applying for the position?”

  His casual demeanor toward that concept put her off a little.

  “No. I just can’t see why such an awesome guy is single.”

  Surfer Boy leaned back and closed his eyes. “Sally didn’t like how I wasn’t a manly man. She also didn’t like that she wasn’t the center of my world.”

  Rhea frowned; he’d been ridiculously attentive. To her, anyway. Mark could have certainly made the same inattentive gripes of her.

  “When I’m working on a painting, it can be . . . difficult . . . to get my attention. A few too many times, I guess, I failed to drop everything to cater to her random whims . . . and she dumped me. Before her, it was Tracy. That chick kept a lot of secrets from me and was always a bit too attentive of other guys for my tastes.” He added hastily, “I don’t have hang-ups about sex—obviously, right—but if I’m exclusive with a girl, well . . . Don’t be fucking my friends behind my back. Common courtesy y’know?”

  “Mark hated to spend time with me,” countered Rhea. “I don’t need for my man to be there twenty-four, seven. In fact, I prefer my space. It’s hard to have a relationship with someone who is never around and who takes no interest in anything you do. He knew I was a massage therapist and that’s about it. He took advantage of it, too. Not by getting free massages from me, mind you! He preferred to get discounted massages at the office where I work. He . . . always asked for Amanda.”

  “What an asshole.”

  “Outside my job, he knew nothing about me.” Rhea shook her head. “He rarely bothered to comment on my Facebook status updates with anything significant. Never replied to my tweets. Between him and my family, I’d pretty well convinced myself no one wanted me to talk.”

  “How did you end up with such a jerk, anyway?”

  She took a deep breath. “He was the only one in high school who showed any interest in me.”

  “Oh come on!” Surfer Boy flailed at her. “Bullshit nobody was interested in you! Not unless you attended the Braille Institute or something!”

  Rhea hesitated. “Have you seen The Princess Diaries?”

  He laughed, but apologized for doing so.

  “I wasn’t dorky,” Rhea defended herself. Except she kind of was. “I didn’t have contact lenses back then and my glasses were . . . Let’s say they were unflattering. They were what my parents could afford, not what actually worked with my face and hairstyle.” Her hairstyle, of course, being the blunt cut provided by her father himself rather than by an actual stylist. And he’d been plenty vocal that he thought no glasses looked good on her so they didn’t waste time trying to find any. “And I wore hand-me-downs. From my brothers.”

  Again, Surfer Boy laughed. “No.”

  “Who would make this crap up?”

  “Someone looking for a laugh? Someone who got laughs from it?”

  Rhea glanced out the window. “My therapists thought I was joking, too.” She regarded him in time to see the blood drain from his face. With an impish grin, she nudged his foot with hers. “That was for laughs.”

  He mustered a weak smile. “Phew.”

  “There was only the one therapist.”

  After several minutes, Surfer Boy ventured a comment. “Your ex will be sorry for losing you.”

  Doubtful. Rhea again looked out the window as the train slowed into a station. “I never realized there was a Las Vegas in New Mexico. Weird.” There was a long silence before she ventured what seemed to be an unrelated remark. “Sex was always over real quick. He was in it for his own climax.”

  “Ohhh,” said Surfer Boy in realization. “That’s why you were confused when it took me so long to come. In his defense, they claim a guy who comes quickly has an evolutionary advantage over those of us who’ve mastered the art of prolonging ejaculation.”

  “They?” she asked, her face hot. Even her ears burned.

  “Yeah. The mystery ‘they’ who say these sorts of things.” He laughed. “If you ask me, it makes better sense us guys with a shorter rebound time have the advantage.”

  Rhea watched as the train departed Las Vegas.

  “So you like porn and erotica.” Surfer Boy leaned in again, resting his forearms across his lap. “And you write, too?”

  “I keep a journal. I doubt any real writer would consider that legitimate writing.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Well . . .” Rhea took a deep breath. “I prefer coffee to tea. I like my sodas flat.”

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “I know, it’s gross. Well, not to me. I’m a Sagittarius—which may or may not matter depending upon your personal beliefs on how the alignment of celestial bodies affects us—I like lilies, and long walks through dense forests. Well I like the concept. I’ve never gotten to do that but I imagine I’d enjoy it a lot. I listen to things like Fall Out Boy and Linkin Park during the day—when I’m not at work, I mean—and I like falling asleep to Mozart.”

  “And you’re from—”

  “Orange County originally. You?”

  “New York. I moved to Orange County when I was eighteen. Fell in love with the beach.”

  “What else?” Rhea asked.

  “I like playing volleyball and tennis. I was picked on mercilessly in school because I never learned to ice skate. I watch the Red Wings. They’re an—”

  “Ice hockey team.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know.”

  “Shit!” Surfer Boy laughed. “Lemme guess: you’re an Anaheim Sucks fan?”

  Rhea found the situation a little less funny than he did. “Quack. Fucking. Quack.”

  “Selanne sucks.”

  “You’re just jealous he hasn’t moved to your team to decay with the rest of the Dead Wings before he retires.”

  “Dead Wings. I’ve never heard that before.” Surfer Boy was smiling, but he rolled his eyes. They regarded each other in strained silence. “God you’re hot. Wanna go grab lunch?”

  “Sure.” She reached for the door. “One last thing on the topic of ice hockey, though.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Kiss my fat ass.”

  “Bend over and I’ll do more than kiss it.”

  Rhea was sorely tempted to see if he would if she complied. Instead, she slid the cabin door open and took a step outside. The living fossils at the end of the car were still there, still with their door open. And still with their stink-eyes. She retreated into Surfer Boy’s roomette, bumping into him. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  He shrugged it off, taking the unabashed opportunity to cop a feel.

  “Looks like I’m stuck here ‘til the judgmental bags go to sleep or get off the train.”

  “We can have them bring our meal here if you want.”

  Rhea blinked. “Wait—what?”

  “Cabins get room service if we want it. When they come around for dining car reservations, we o
rder our meals and they’ll bring ‘em down here.”

  “Yeah, that tears it. Next time I take the train, I’m springing for a sleeper.”

  “I’ve always thought they were worthwhile.”

  Rhea settled on her seat; Surfer Boy did the same. He motioned to her feet. “Why don’t you put those up here?”

  “Okay . . .” Rhea kicked off her sneakers and rested her feet on the sliver of Surfer Boy’s seat beside his right thigh.

  He moved her feet from the seat to his lap, rubbing them through her socks. “No judgment,” he requested. “I’m not a professional.”

  Rhea took a deep breath; that was the first time anyone had done that for her. “I honestly can’t decide if this is some sneaky reverse-psychology punishment or karmic apology.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing more than some nice guy who kinda sorta maybe wants back in your pants a little bit?”

  She closed her eyes, smiling. “If that’s true, I appreciate his honesty.”

  “Does that score him any brownie points?”

  Rhea pulled her right foot from his hand, pressing her toes into his crotch gently. She rolled her ankle. “It might . . .” Her head cocked and she gave him a wicked smile.

  “You keep that up, I’m not gonna be able to concentrate on you.”

  She shrugged, feeling his manhood push back against the ball of her foot.

  There was a knock on the door. “Taking reservations for dinner,” said the attendant outside.

  “Oh—yeah—” Surfer Boy struggled, knocking Rhea’s feet to the floor and grabbing a pillow to cover his lap. He was blushing so hard, she imagined that’s how he looked after a day in the sun. He slid the door open, telling the attendant, “We’re ordering room service.”

  The attendant smiled without a hint of suspicion and replied, “I’ll return for your order.”

  Rhea leaned out of the room, peering down the corridor. As the attendant leaned into a neighboring room, she caught sight of the old ladies shaking their heads at her in disapproval when their eyes met. She straightened with a sigh. I suppose there are worse places to be trapped. “Do you know what you want?”

  He looked sheepish as he replied, “Same thing I always get.” With a nod toward the train window and a reposition of the boner-concealing pillow, Surfer Boy said, “Menu’s in there.”

  Rhea pulled it from between the folded tray table and window, and made her decision following a quick review of the few dinner options. “So.” She rested the menu on her thighs, sneaking her foot between his legs and resting it against his erection. She tapped it with her toes. “We should probably cool it ‘til after dinner.”

  Surfer Boy gripped the pillow, hissing inward through his teeth. He whispered, “We could totally get in a quickie.”

  Rhea pulled her foot away, crossing her right leg over her left, rubbing the outside of his right calf with the top of her right foot. “I’d prefer not to,” she said simply. Quickies were all she ever got from Mark. Maybe someday she’d learn to appreciate them, but she was in no rush to acquire that taste.

  “Are you two ready?” asked the attendant.

  Rhea and Surfer Boy exchanged purposeful looks, answering in unison: “Yes.”

  Surfer Boy requested the Vegetarian Pasta. And while Rhea knew she should have done likewise, she opted for the Herb Roasted Half Chicken. It was close to a thousand calories more for her entrée than for his, but Rhea knew she had a considerable amount of walking ahead of her in Chicago; she had no plans for renting a car or taking taxicabs during her trip.

  She slid the door closed once the attendant left. “I haven’t eaten yet and already I’m having calorie guilt.”

  He smirked. “We’ll just have to help you burn some calories to make up for it.” With the train stopped in Raton, Surfer Boy pulled out his smartphone and did a quick internet search while it had enough signal to do so.

  “Kissing,” he read, “burns sixty-eight calories per hour. Undressing, at least eight.” He glanced at Rhea. “I’d sure as hell enjoy watching you burn at least eight calories.”

  She giggled. “I’m sure it could be arranged.” Her gaze shifted toward the cabin window. A few people were milling about on the train station platform.

  “Massaging burns at least eighty calories, but I’m sure you burn far more; you’re stronger than you look.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Sex itself is at least a hundred forty per half hour. If you’re straddling me again, it’s at least two hundred. For you, anyway.”

  Rhea glanced around the roomette in disbelief. “This thing can’t be more than four by six! How else could we do it if I’m not straddling you again?”

  With a small motion of his free hand, Surfer Boy replied, “These seats convert into a bed.”

  “Oh.” She considered the possibilities—though she was shamefully uncreative—and it still didn’t leave them much space. Rhea was flexible if nothing else and she wagered he was as creative with sex as he was in other endeavors, like painting. Pairing his creativity with her flexibility, she was confident they could figure out positions that would school the Kama Sutra. “Ohh.” Lost in thought, she mused aloud, “Wonder what oral burns?”

  Surfer Boy fumbled with his phone.

  Rhea arched a single eyebrow. This could be fun.

  “A—a hundred,” he stammered after a quick check of his phone. “But . . . you don’t wanna go down on some guy on the second day of a cross-country train trip.”

  “Why not? What if I did?”

  He gawked. “Are you for real?”

  “Are you?”

  “If . . . If you’re serious, at least let me go freshen up first. Though I’ll be honest . . . Much as I’d enjoy a BJ, it seems like a waste of a condom.”

  Baffled, Rhea replied, “It doesn’t have to be. Give me a heads-up—” she chuckled at her innuendo, “—and we can always switch to a less . . . wasteful use of the condom. I’m getting hot just thinking about this, so it’s not like I wouldn’t be ready for a traditional finish.”

  “Goddamn I like the way you think.” He exhaled, lifting the pillow to reveal he was at full mast.

  Had he gone flaccid and gotten aroused again, or had he been hard the whole time? Whichever case, the vein in his neck strained. So she leaned over, drawing lazy circles with her fingertip around his dick through his shorts. “How long until our food arrives?”

  “I don’t know,” he moaned. “Ohhh I don’t care.”

  “What happens if they bring it by and we don’t answer the door?” asked Rhea.

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  Rhea watched Surfer Boy’s expression, thinking she had a solution to their situation. “Want a hand job, then?”

  “Please—”

  She drew his zipper down so slowly she thought she felt the release of each individual tooth. Rhea coaxed him out of the fly of his boxers. “You didn’t happen to buy any lube at 7-11, didja?”

  “I didn’t see any. I didn’t even think about it. Son of a bitch.”

  “No worries.” She leaned over, rifling through her purse where she’d left it on the floor at her feet. “C’mon . . . It’s in here somewhere . . .”

  Surfer Boy glanced at Rhea, his brows furrowing. “. . . you . . . carry KY in your purse?”

  She giggled. “No, but how hot would I be if I was always prepared for the possibility of sex?” Rhea located the travel-sized container in her bag and pulled it out. “It’s regular lotion. Not great, but better than nothing. I don’t mean to start a fire with your wood.”

  With a shake of his head and a chuckle, Surfer Boy told her, “It’s not gonna be the lotion getting me off.”

  Rhea applied some of the generic-brand lotion to her hands, rubbing them together a few times to absorb the excess and to warm the remainder. She drew a few light circles with her fingernail around the tip of his cock and it quivered. As she played with him, she thought to warn him she was inexperienced in this type of massage but fig
ured such admissions would be a turn-off. Besides which, the plan was to enjoy herself. She hoped he would enjoy himself as well, but this was self-indulgence at its purest.

  She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, feeling his pulse throb against her palm. “Tell me what you like.”

  “I like you touching me.”

  She melted a little. “I might do better with some guidance.”

  Closing his eyes, he leaned back as much as the train seat permitted. “Surprise me, Sunshine. I like women who take control.”

  Of course he did. In theory, Rhea didn’t object to running the show; she’d just never been with a man who let her do it. She had many ideas but no experience. “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, right? Remember: I’m stronger than I look.”

  “You’re not gonna hurt me.” One eye popped open. “If you want a way out, all you have to do is say so. I know this isn’t exactly everyone’s favorite pastime.”

  Rhea paused to apply more lotion to her palms. “Enough talking for now.” She leaned in to kiss him sweetly while caressing him with a warm, damp hand along the underside of his shaft.

  Surfer Boy sighed against Rhea’s lips. She moved a hand up and down his hard length, twisting at times, squeezing at others. When he stopped returning her kisses, she straightened, alternating her hands as if milking him and trading slow, long strokes with fast, short ones. The hand beginning to cramp cupped his nuts and kneaded them gently. Rhea bit her lip; she loved their size and weight against her palm.

  Before long, Surfer Boy’s breathing changed from slow and deep to rapid and shallow, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the seat. Rhea leaned back, narrowly avoiding his cum stream.

  He moaned quietly in appreciation while Rhea continued to fondle his sac.

  “Your hands are magic,” he murmured.

  “Thanks. My hands are my business.”

  Surfer Boy glanced at her.

  “You know what I mean.” Rhea leaned over to grab the bottle of hand sanitizer from her bag. “Oh!”

  “‘Oh!’ what?” he asked, grabbing some of the train’s complimentary tissues.

  “I got my first souvenir of the trip!” And it was all she could do to keep from laughing about it. “You Lewinsky’d my bag.”

  “I—what?” Surfer Boy followed Rhea’s stare, seeing his ejaculate decorating the handles and one side of her purse. And a little bit of the train’s floor. “Oh, Christ, I am so sorry! I mean, who cares about the floor—you take a black light to this place and I bet there isn’t a spot that wouldn’t glow—but your bag! I want to replace it. Gimme your address, I promise to send you a replacement.”