Hungry Mountain Man

by Charlize Starr

  Brooke’s hair is falling down around her face, and I have to fight the urge to tuck it behind her ears for her and to ask her to come home with us. With me.

  Chapter Nine - Brooke

  There are two packages waiting for me when I get home from work. One is a large box, and the other is a thin manila envelope. I open the box first, sure it’s the wedding dress. It is. I laugh as I pull it out. It’s thin and the fabric feels cheap and scratchy. It’s not really white or cream, but rather the shade of yellow dirty walls turn after being exposed to weather or nicotine. I’m not sure it would actually be flattering on at all. I considered putting it on later anyway and sending a picture to Anthony. I open the letter before I do anything else. It doesn’t look it actually came in the mail. There’s no postmark on it and no return address.

  I have a bad feeling as I pull it out, and it’s confirmed when I read the letter inside. It’s from Jeff. And he’s taken his threat to the next level. He’s given me a deadline for two weeks’ time. I feel sick looking at it, a rush of panic churning in my stomach.

  Brooke,

  I’m out of patience. You have two weeks to give me $50,000 or I’m telling the police your secret. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t. I promise that you’ll be sorry if you do. You have to pay for your crime one way or another: either to me in cash or to the police in jail time. Make up your mind.

  Two weeks.

  Jeff

  I’m tempted to crumble it up or burn it, but I don’t. I feel like I should keep all of Jeff’s threats, in case I need to do something with them. Maybe if he threatens me again, or enough, I can go to the police and say he’s harassing me and stalking me, and that I have no idea what he’s talking about. It’s not a good plan, and it probably wouldn’t work, but I keep the letter anyway.

  My phone lights up, and I worry it’s Jeff before relaxing when I see it’s Anthony:

  David keeps asking about you.

  I smile as I text back, running my fingers over the thin fabric of the wedding dress absently:

  He’s a really great kid.

  I don’t have much experience with kids, but I had really enjoyed the afternoon I’d spent with Anthony and David. Anthony is great with his son, and I like seeing them together. David is incredibly sweet and fun to be around. Like his father, I think.

  He said he’s glad you’re my friend. I am too. I keep thinking us and about high school. Do you remember how close we were?

  I sit down while reading the message, a little overwhelmed. I remember everything about our friendship, every moment. I think I always did. It’s more now than that now. It’s become the only thing I can think about when I’m not worried about Jeff and Autumn. I keep wondering what would have happened if we’d never lost touch. I wonder if I would have ever dated Jeff if Anthony had been in my life. I wonder if I’d be working the same job . . . If I would have made so many of the choices I’d made in the past several years.

  I remember every day.

  I text back, deciding to be honest. Something about talking to Anthony makes me want to be more open, makes me feel more open – brighter. My phone rings right after I send my text, and I’m not at all surprised that’s Anthony.

  “Dinner at the Purple Hog tonight?” he asks when I pick up.

  “That sounds great,” I say. I try to picture what it would have been like if we’d been close in college as adults. If he’d have always been sitting across pub booths from me, giving me advice, listening, and making me laugh. I wonder what course our friendship would have taken if we would have eventually become more than friends. If we’d actually been married right now instead of joking about it.

  “Good,” he says, smiling. “My mom is already watching David tonight, so I need to have somewhere to be.”

  “I’m sure she loves him,” I say, thinking of Anthony’s mom, a warm and caring woman who used to make me cookies and ask about my grades. She had always called me sweetheart and let me stay at her house for entire weekends.

  “She does, and I’d hate to ruin their plans,” Anthony says. I can’t stop listening to how deep and rumbling his voice is. I’d never thought of it as unique, but now, after all this time, it sounds like nothing else I’ve ever heard. Anthony sounds like no one else I’ve ever heard, and I want him to keep talking so I can keep hearing it.

  “Good thing I’m free for dinner, then,” I say, laughing. With all the stress in my life and the looming threat of Jeff over my head, I’m just so grateful to have Anthony back. Spending time with him has been amazing.

  “Seven?” Anthony says, smiling.

  “Sounds great,” I say. I almost mention that my wedding dress came today, but I decide to save the news for dinner.

  I shower and get ready, smiling the whole time. I have no idea what I’m going to do about Jeff or his two-week deadline, no idea how to protect Autumn – or myself – from his threats, no idea how to get that kind of money. I do know that what I want to do right now, and maybe from now on, is spend the night with my best friend. With Anthony.

  Chapter Ten - Anthony

  “So David tells me you’re seeing Brooke tonight,” my mom says, watching as I slide my wallet into my pants pocket.

  “I am,” I say, shrugging and trying to be casual about it.

  “You know, I always really liked her. She’s become such a lovely young woman. So pretty,” my mom says, raising her eyebrows on the last part like it’s a question.

  “It’s good to catch up with an old friend. It makes me feel like I’m really home,” I say. I know what question she’s asking, and I do not want to answer yet. Everything with Brooke has been better than I could have planned, but it’s also all still very tentative.

  “Is that all?” my mom asks.

  “That’s all, and I’m late,” I say, heading out. Mom was like this about Brooke when we were teenagers too, always convinced we were more than friends. Maybe she was right. Maybe we always were.

  Brooke is already at the Purple Hog when I get there, and she looks amazing in the little yellow sundress she has on. We order way too much food and a round of beer, settling back into our booth like we never left.

  “My dress came today,” Brooke says with a slight smirk after our food arrives.

  “That’s good news,” I say, watching her as she takes a long drink.

  “I was going to try it on and take a picture for you, but then I remembered that’s bad luck,” Brooke says.

  “It is,” I say, laughing. “So, I’ll have to be surprised.”

  “I guess you will,” she says, smiling that stunning smile of hers at me.

  “We should probably make other plans,” I say, and she nods.

  “Absolutely,” she says, “Only four months to go.”

  “Not much time at all,” I say. It’s ridiculous that we’re still carrying on this joke, that we’re taking it further. But I don’t want to stop it. I don’t want to stop anything that’s happening with Brooke.

  “We should book a band,” Brooke says. Her skin is glowing, and the cut of her dress shows off the line of her collarbones and the swell of her chest. I can’t stop staring.

  “I was thinking a DJ, actually,” I say.

  “We could do both,” Brooke says. “A band for the service and a DJ for the reception.”

  “That could work. What kind of band?” I ask thoughtfully. She laughs.

  “Maybe one of those four-piece string ensembles? Those are classy,” she says.

  “I’ll make some calls,” I say. She grins at me and pulls apart a breadstick, popping a piece in her mouth.

  “And we’ll need food,” Brooke says. I nod.

  “Does the Sunrise Market still cater?” I ask, thinking of how many christenings, graduations, and birthday parties I’d been to that been catered with trays of food from the little local Sunrise Market.

  “They’re still the only ones in town that cater,” Brooke says, laughing again.

  “Perfect,” I say. “And I
know a photographer. I’m sure she’d come to town for us.”

  “A photographer from New York?” Brooke asks, sounding curious.

  “A few years ago, I did a whole photoshoot when I was named one of the Top 10 Exciting and Innovative New Yorkers Under 30, and Laurel was the photographer. She’s brilliant,” I say, smiling and thinking of the older woman with her eccentric fashion sense and outgoing personality. “Her husband of thirty years had died a few months before. She’d heard about Michelle, so she reached out to me during the shoot and we became friends.”

  “I bet she’s a fascinating person. Being a photographer sounds so interesting. It’s such exciting work,” Brooke says, sounding wistful.

  “Have you thought more about applying for that development and marketing job?” I ask, searching her face. There is something I keep noticing in little moments. It seems like Brooke is sadder, or more stressed, or more something than she is letting on. I don’t know if it’s that she isn’t fulfilled at work, but I can’t help but think that doesn’t help.

  “A little,” she says, biting her lip. “Would you really help me prepare?”

  “Of course I would,” I say quickly, my eyes drawn to her lips, to her mouth. The way she’s biting her lip makes me want to run my thumb over it. It makes me want to kiss her.

  “Maybe,” Brooke says, nodding slowly. She looks at me closely, blushing a little, like she knows I was staring at her mouth.

  We carry on for hours again, talk of work turning into her asking me for stories about New York, those turning into her stories about a weekend vacation she’d taken with Autumn last year. The night passes quickly, and I can’t get over how much fun I’m having. No one has made me feel like this in a very long time. I’ve spent years sleeping with beautiful women, throwing around my money and trying to live so fast that I forgot all of my pain, but none of it came close to how Brooke makes me feel. She makes me feel alive and whole and happy, and I want to keep that feeling.

  Brooke had walked to dinner, and it’s late when we finally leave, so I drive her home. She sets the satellite radio in my car to a station that plays songs from when we were in high school. We sing along, laughing.

  “You know, I was thinking,” I say, watching her sing, watching the way the moon lights up her face, “we could use this car and actually take that road trip of ours.”

  “We could make it our honeymoon,” Brooke says. She laughs, but it feels a little more serious than the jokes we’ve been making.

  When we get to her door, she smiles at me and bites her lip again, eyes moving quickly, like she’s making a decision.

  “Would you like to come in? I have wine. We could have a last drink,” she says. She’s fidgeting with the strap of her purse, and her eyes are locked on mine.

  I make a decision too. I grab her arm and pull her in, kissing her like I’ve wanted to since I was seventeen years old. Her hand comes up to my neck instantly, and she kisses me back like she’s wanted this too – like everything was leading to this. Kissing Brooke feels heady and addictive, and makes me feel like I really am a teenager with how new and fresh it seems. I’ve kissed more women than I can remember, but kissing Brooke somehow feels different altogether.

  “Do you still want me to come in?” I ask when we pull back a little. I put a hand on the small of her back and feel her tremble under my touch. She nods rapidly.

  “Please do,” she says. She sounds out of breath and already turned on. I can’t wait to hear what other sounds she makes. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without seeing her like this: eyes dilated, skin flushed, and breathing heavy. I want more of it.

  “Lead the way,” I say, kissing her again as I do.

  Chapter Eleven - Brooke

  I tug Anthony into my apartment, shutting the door behind him and kissing him again. He puts his hands on my waist, pulling me in closer. I flip on the lights, not sure if we should head toward the bedroom or toward the couch, not sure if I really should pour us that wine or if I should start to work the buttons on his shirt. Anthony makes the choice for me, guiding us to my couch and pulling me practically onto his lap when we get there.

  There’s a casual lightness but firm deliberateness to Anthony’s movements that makes me shiver a little. I think thank god and finally as Anthony’s hand creeps under my dress, up my thighs, over my stomach and ribs, up and over my breasts, back over my hips. Each touch feels like so much that they’re sending me spinning. I think I could actually melt – like Anthony could actually melt me and then maybe put me back together again. I think I’d like him to never stop touching me.

  “God,” I say, throwing my head back as his fingers dance over my breasts again, teasing my nipples and making me gasp.

  “I’ve wanted this since I saw you again. Maybe longer than that,” Anthony says, drawing another gasp out of me as he does. “I’ve been thinking about it constantly.”

  “Have you?” I ask, nodding rapidly as he pulls my dress over my head. I’m already soaking wet, and I want him so badly. I want Anthony more than I can remember ever wanting anyone else.

  “So fucking much,” Anthony says, cupping my breasts in his hands and licking my neck. He picks me up a little, moving me away so he can lean over me, and pull my legs apart with his hands. “Can I taste you?”

  “Please,” I say, grinding my hips up at his words. I’m so wet, so turned on, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had an orgasm I didn’t give myself. Even with Jeff, he was rarely attentive to whether or not I’d come. I’d ended up finishing myself more often than I should have. Anthony looks more than turned on: he looks hungry for me. I shiver.

  Anthony leans back down to kiss me, running his hands up and down my arms a few times he does. He pulls back up and traces his hands over my body, stopping to lick lines on my breasts, my ribs, around my navel, my hip bones, my thighs, until I’m whimpering over and over.

  He licks from my hips to my thighs, circles getting closer and closer to my soaking wet clit, making me feel like I’m on fire. He spreads my legs apart firmly, and I groan at the sensation. Anthony dances fingers on the inside of my thighs, running his tongue over a thousand sensitive spots, before running it up and finally licking my clit.

  It’s all I can do to not buck my hips at the sensation, more so when Anthony starts to tease a finger, dipping just slightly inside me but not really – not enough. “Fuck,” I say, breathing hard. Anthony keeps licking me as he slides a finger and then two all the way inside me. Slowly, slowly he moves in and out. The combined feeling of his mouth and fingers is so much I feel lightheaded.

  For a while, I just lose myself completely in the achingly good sensation – the slow twist and pull of Anthony’s fingers, the warmth of his mouth, the circles he makes with his tongue, the firm press of his free hand on my hip. For several long minutes, maybe longer, I ride the waves of it. I’m lost and floating until Anthony picks up the speed of his fingers and tongue rapidly, sending me falling over the edge. I’m coming so hard that I scream out his name – so hard that I think I see white at the edges of my vision.

  Anthony stands up and takes my hand, and I pull him close and kiss him, my own taste on his lips making me somehow even wetter. I want him, need him, now. I tug on his hands, leading him toward my bedroom.

  Halfway to my bed, just inside my bedroom, I decide there is something else I want right now. I kiss Anthony again, suddenly wanting, needing, to make a stop first, before we get to my bed. I can’t get the way Anthony had looked on his knees out of my head. It’s swimming with how much I want Anthony. With how much I think I’ve wanted it for weeks, maybe longer. And right now, now that’s it’s actually happening, I want everything.

  But first, I think I want to--

  “Wait,” I say, angling us so Anthony’s back is to the wall. I kiss him again, firm and hard. He responds, pressing up against me, rocking his hips, breathing hard. I can feel the swell of his cock through his pants. I know how hard he is.

  “Wha
t’s up?” Anthony asks. He probably means it to sound light and casual, but it comes out sort of desperate.

  “You’re not the only one who's wanted this,” I say, sliding my hands to the edge of his shirt, running my fingers over his muscles.

  “No?” Anthony asks as I pull his shirt off.

  “No,” I say, running my hands over his chest, his stomach, every curve and line, heading for the waist of his jeans. “And I wanted to see you and touch you and taste you.” It’s a little bolder than something I’d normally let myself say, and it makes feel sort of wild and dirty. I like it. Everything feels different with Anthony. I feel like I can be more upfront about what I want. I want to be with him, want to let myself fully want him like this, appreciate him like this, feel the full force of my attraction to him like this.

  “Please do,” Anthony says, and I and kiss him again before undoing the button on his jeans and tugging them down.

  I allow my eyes to roam, to travel all over Anthony for a minute, taking in every muscle, every flash of skin, the sight of his cock, hard and waiting for me, bigger than anyone else I’ve ever been with. I run my hands over the all the lines and muscles I find.

  I want, I think, to do this memorably – to be the best. I know Anthony has had a lot of sex with a lot of women in New York, but I don’t care. I want this to be a standout sort of experience. I want this to be burned into his brain.

  So, I kiss him again and slowly slide a hand down to wrap around his cock, light and slow. He gasps into my mouth.

  “Shit,” Anthony says, “please.”

  I keep my hand moving slowly as I lick my way down Anthony’s neck, down his chest, slowly tasting all that skin, all those lines, as I stroke his hard cock slowly. He shudders and puts a hand on my neck. I keep going, lowering myself to spend a while licking his hipbones, hearing all the sounds he makes, the words that roll out of his mouth.