Shake, Rattle and Roll: The Baxter Boys #4 (The Baxter Boys ~ Rattled)

by Charles, Jane

  I didn’t think a guy like Christian would know the difference between a quilt and any other blanket.

  “The quilt lady,” he says after a moment.

  “Quilt lady?” What is he talking about?

  “At the high school I was at, sometimes artists would come in and show us their craft or art. The school wanted us to think outside the box of what we could do with our talents.” He shrugs. “Every year the quilt lady came and did a demonstration and she’d have all of her quilts up for us to look at.”

  “That’s kind of cool. No quilt lady ever came to my high school.” Then again, our town was full of quilters, my mother included. And, like me, most daughters started to learn how to make quilts before they could ride a bike. Most girls abandoned the craft once they found something more entertaining to do or discovered boys, and others stuck with it, like me.

  “So, are you going to show me?” he asks again.

  “Fine!” I laugh. “We’ll work on a quilt after breakfast.”

  16

  If I curl up with Bethany on the couch and binge watch something, we’ll just have sex again. Not that I’m opposed to sex, but we need to do more than just fuck if I want this to be anything and if I’m busy quilting, I won’t be able to touch her. At least, that is my reasoning.

  She cuts the huge omelet in two and grabs a plate.

  “Do you have any quilts you’ve made that you can show me?”

  Bethany snorts. “You slept under one this morning.”

  “Really?” I didn’t even notice. Of course, the bedspread, or quilt as it may be, was the last thing I was thinking about. I just wanted to get into bed and cuddle with Bethany.

  She hands me a plate and then puts the other half of the omelet on hers. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  “Breakfast in bed?” My cock starts to thicken and the damn thing had finally relaxed.

  “Maybe.” She gives me a saucy grin and heads for the stairs. I scoop up some condoms and shove them in my pocket then grab my coffee and follow her. We can always quilt later.

  Bethany sets her cup of coffee and plate down on one of the nightstands then crawls onto the side of the bed she slept in last night. Or, where she started to sleep until I pulled her into the center with me.

  I go to the opposite side and get in as she did. Then Bethany shakes the quilt out so that it’s not rumpled anymore. “This was the first quilt I ever made on my own.” She gives me a proud smile. “I was fourteen.”

  It’s a girly quilt, but not young girl as in child. Each piece of material is either white or cream and they all have delicate flowers. Some are purple, others pink, then reds, yellows, oranges and blues. Delicate.

  “You lied to me.” It’s what she said to me once.

  “When?” She’s aghast.

  “I asked if you were an artist and you said only if stick figures count.”

  “I’m not an artist.”

  I gesture to the quilt before me. “Making a quilt, picking the material and putting it together is an art.”

  Her cheeks blossom to match the pink flowers in the quilt. “It’s not really art.”

  “Um, yeah it is.”

  Bethany blows out a breath so I guess she isn’t going to argue with me. “Well, it’s about the only thing I can do that comes close.”

  “Do you pick the material yourself or does it come in a kit or something and you just put it together?”

  She shakes her head. “No kit, unless it’s something that is really cool and I know it will be hard to find the material. But that’s been rare. Most of the time I pick my own fabric.”

  “See. An artist’s eye.”

  “If you say so.” She stabs her fork into the omelet and takes a bite.

  I hate it when people put down their own talents, as if they don’t really have one. Maybe Bethany doesn’t think she does, but I’ll convince her. “Are these your favorite colors, or do you have just one?”

  Bethany tilts her head and studies the quilt. “I lean more toward blues and greens.”

  More information that I can file away in my brain. I don’t know what I’ll do with it, but it will come in handy one day.

  “And dusty rose. The soft of old flowers, not the bright pink”

  I just shake my head. “Not an artist.” I snort. “Not an artist says red and pink, not dusty rose of old flowers.”

  “Eat your breakfast,” she growls at me.

  So, Bethany doesn’t like being contradicted or maybe forced to see something she doesn’t want to know about herself. A good something about herself. I like it.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Black.” I answer automatically.

  “Black? That is the absence of color. It’s not a color.”

  “Yes it is.” I defend. “I like black, and browns, sometimes gold and brass.”

  She’s just staring at me.

  “I know, depressing colors, but I like them.”

  “Not depressing, just dark.”

  “Maybe I’m dark,” I tease.

  “I don’t think so.” She looks at me thoughtfully, her brow scrunched. “Are you?” she asks after a minute.

  “I think a little darkness lingers from childhood, but I’ve been pushing it away.” That darkness is the furthest it’s ever been since I’ve been with Bethany.

  “Good. Just because shitty things happened, don’t let it define or swallow you. You have too much value and talent to be lost to it.”

  She’s right and I’ve worked hard. “I only let it out when writing music.”

  The left side of her mouth quirks as Bethany nods her head. “I get that. It’s probably why all of your songs are so good.”

  “Songs? I’ve written two.”

  “Two damn good songs.” She sets her empty plate aside, takes a sip of her coffee and then turns fully toward me. “It’s a good way to let it out when you need to then put it away again. That way, you don’t bottle.”

  I finish off my food and set the plate aside. “What is it that you bottle?”

  Bottle? “I don’t bottle anything.” Hell, my life has been a picnic, without ants or bugs, compared to his and really, nothing even remotely bad has ever happened to me. Great parents, a great home, and even my one and only boyfriend was great, even if he was gay. The only hardships I’ve ever faced are tough classes I was afraid I’d fail.

  Christian turns fully to me. “You’ve never bottled anything? Had to force some unpleasant emotions deep down because letting them out would be bad or dangerous?”

  “No.”

  He studies me and at first it’s almost like he doesn’t believe me and then nods. “You’re lucky then.”

  “Yeah. I’m fully aware that my life has been easy. Really easy.”

  Guilt washes over me for having such a perfect childhood and easy life, even though it isn’t anything I had control of. I didn’t pick my parents, or the place I grew up in, it just worked out that way. It sucks that all kids couldn’t have what I did and it’s unfair that Christian had such a shitty start. He’s such a great guy and he didn’t deserve that beginning. Nobody does.

  I grab my plate and then head downstairs, Christian following.

  We sat in my bed and he didn’t even kiss me. I had assumed we’d end up back in bed because he can’t really want to binge watch some show or quilt. The whole idea makes me want to laugh. But, he doesn’t want sex, so what are we going to do for entertainment?

  I suppose we can continue to talk. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of learning what I can about him.

  He puts his plate in the sink then wanders over to my sewing machine, looking around. “Are you working on a quilt now?”

  “You don’t want to know about my quilting.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Blowing out a sigh, I walk over to my current project and all of the swatches of material pinned onto a board. “No quilt has overwhelmed me like this one.” And I can’t believe I’m sharing it with Christian. He’
s just being polite because he can’t be interested in this.

  “Why?”

  “My version of a prism quilt, kind of. All these little squares, only broken with strips of white muslin. Except, I want a waterfall or rainbow effect for each square.” I set it aside. “The quilt isn’t difficult, it’s getting the colors to work, so they blend into the other, getting darker as they go.”

  “You have holes,” he finally says. “In the colors.”

  Not just a few, but a ton between the colors I’m already using. “That’s because I can’t find the right shades.”

  “Do you have any spare fabric?”

  I nearly groan. Well, we’ve gone this far so I might as well let him see the full extent of my sickness. One I inherited from my mother and grandmother. I go over and set the tubs in the middle of the living room and open them and start taking out yards of fabric, one after the other. “You might as well know now that I have an addiction. I can’t pass a fabric store without going in and buying material that I don’t need, but plan on using—one day—in a quilt yet to be planned.”

  Christian laughs as he goes through the fabric. “There are worse things to be addicted to.”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t keep control, this could be just as expensive.” I pick up the fabric and start added it back to the tubs. I am not going to work on a quilt when I have Christian all to myself.

  “Hold up.” He grabs some blues.

  Inwardly I groan. We are really doing this?

  “These two can be fit right here.”

  I go stand next to him. He’s right. “I didn’t see that before and I’ve looked at this fabric a ton.”

  He grins up at me. “Maybe too much.”

  “Thanks.” I take the material and unfold it on my table, then get out my grid map, measure and cut squares, then hand them back to Christian and he adds them in to the spots he suggested.

  “Let’s see what else we can make work.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was enjoying this. He can’t possibly be, can he? Instead of arguing, I just let him go through the tubs of fabric while I refill our cups with coffee. He has an eye, that’s for certain, and maybe I just looked too hard and too often. In the end, he’s found about a dozen shades that work. It doesn’t completely solve the quilt problem because there are still holes to fill, but it’s still progress.

  “Thanks.” I start picking up the pieces and putting them in bags I have for each individual color block.”

  “You aren’t going to sew?”

  “I’m not putting anything together until all the holes are filled and since this has taken me almost a year to get where I am, it might be another year before I start even pinning it together, let alone sewing it.”

  Christian frowns. “So, not a quick project.”

  “Only if I have all the right fabric to begin with.”

  17

  It’s kind of disappointing when Bethany puts all of her fabric and quilting stuff away. I was having fun trying to match colors. Art and color were never my thing. Just music, but this was kind of cool and different. Maybe the artists I’ve surrounded myself with have rubbed off on me somehow. Now I wish I would have paid more attention to what the Quilt Lady was telling us. I just thought she sewed a bunch of fabric together and made nice quilts. It’s a hell of a lot harder than that.

  The quilting also served as a distraction not to haul Bethany upstairs and into the bed. My attraction to her can’t just be about sex. It’s not all about sex, but I really want to have a lot of sex with her.

  “We’ll, that is basically my usual Sunday.”

  It’s cool and kind of lonely. Doesn’t she hang with friends? “What do you do when not quilting, like for fun?”

  “Fun.”

  She bites the bottom corner of her lip as if she has to think about it. That’s not a good sign.

  “I go out with friends sometimes, like on Friday nights or Saturdays. Mary and I will grab a drink after a grueling day. Stuff like that, like everyone else.”

  So, she does stuff with friends. That is good. I’d hate that she’s all school, volunteer, work and quilting.

  “What do you do for fun?”

  With that question, I think I’m stumped like she appeared to be. Do we both have to really think about what we do for a good time? That kind of sucks. “Music. Even though it’s business, it’s also what I enjoy.”

  She nods. “I get that.”

  “And, I like to go out and listen to good music. Not at big concerts, but in smaller bars, clubs and pubs. Sometimes you hear the best music in those places.”

  “Like where you first heard Louie and the guys?”

  “Bee Bee’s?” I smile and get this vision of sitting in some of the places I like, at a back corner table with Bethany, listening and talking. Things you can’t really do in a concert hall or any venue designed to entertain thousands. Hell, you can’t even have a decent conversation at the Poison Apple when a band is on stage. “Yeah. I’ll take you there when I get back.”

  She heads to the couch and sits in the corner like she did last night. “Do you and your friends hang out there a lot?”

  I settle into the same spot as before. “I’ve never taken them there.”

  Her blue eyes widen. “Why not?”

  “It’s always been my place. I didn’t like to share.”

  Her smile softens. “Are you sure you want to share it with me?”

  I look into her eyes and know the answer without a doubt. “Yeah. I do.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’d take you tonight but it’s closed on Sundays.”

  “Good, because leaving would require hair, makeup and a bra.” She laughs.

  “Bra? Are you not wearing a bra, Bethany?” I tease. I know damn well she didn’t have one on, but tried not to think about it.

  Her cheeks start to turn pink as she holds out her arms. “This is my Sunday best, if you must know.”

  “I like your Sunday best,” I assure her as I lean in. She mentioned no bra. I knew there was no bra, and I’m done fighting the physical.

  “Really?” she asks, leaning toward me.

  “A lot,” I whisper right before I kiss her. It’s awkward and awesome. The way we are sitting the only parts of us that can touch are our lips, and then tongues. I reach out, grab her hips and scooch her closer. She puts her legs over mine then grasps my shoulders. So much for only lips touching. Before I realize it, I’m laying over her and pushing her t-shirt up.

  “Bed?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Condom?”

  “Got it.” And, there will always be a condom in my pocket whenever I’m with Bethany.

  Christian gets up from laying on me, not that I minded him there one bit, but before I can get up, he scoops me up in his arms and heads up the stairs. All I can do is hold on and laugh. Is he that eager to get me in bed?

  I know I’m eager to get him there.

  Christian tosses me into the center of the bed and stares down at me. “Now, where to start?”

  “Start?”

  “So many delectable parts.”

  The intensity in his dark eyes melts my bones and heats my blood.

  “Shirt.”

  “What?”

  “Take it off.”

  My face flames. Nobody has ever ordered me to undress and I kind of hesitate. I want to be naked with Christian, but this is new for me.

  “Mine is off, so yours needs to be too. It’s only fair.”

  He never did put on a shirt after he got out of bed, not that I had any complaint. He is a nice bit of eye candy.

  “This has to be even,” he says.

  As much as this embarrasses me, I pull my shirt off and close my eyes, even though I peek at him from beneath my lashes. I’d much rather have him on view than be embarrassed. I think.

  “Much better. The bed dips and he settles beside me.

  With his index finger he circles each erect nipp
le and they only get harder. When his lips lock around one, I’m gone. As he teases, nips and gently bites, his hands are caressing the rest of my body. My fingers slide through his soft hair and I want to hold him close, but he shifts to the other side as he starts pushing my pajama shorts down my thighs. Cool air hits my heated girly parts and I know that my panties are going with the shorts, and I don’t care. Not that it’s cold in here by any means, but the change in temperature with the clothing being removed is a relief.

  Christian sits up only long enough to pull the shorts all the way off and toss them on the floor, then gazes down at my naked body. He’s still wearing jeans. I reach for the fly. “Fairness,” I remind him. He jumps from the bed, pulls condoms form the pocket, tosses them on the night stand, shoves off the jeans and boxers and is back on the bed in almost the blink of an eye. He goes right back to kissing my breast and his fingers sink into my folds.

  Pressure builds from his talented fingers. I want him in me. He shifts between my legs and I reach for a condom. He takes it, but sets it aside and then kisses my stomach.

  He’s not going to…Before I can finish the thought his tongue swipes across my clit. Pleasure shoots through me. He shifts so that my legs are over his shoulders. Between his fingers inside, working magic and that talented tongue, pleasure washes over me, building, higher and higher until the orgasm bursts with so much force that stars dance behind my eyelids.

  “Oh my God.” I finally breathe out as he lowers my leg than grabs the condom. I reach to help but he’s already got it out of the foil and is rolling it on. His dark intense eyes stare into mine as he lifts my hips again and poses himself at my opening. He waits, as if asking for permission.

  “Please.”

  In one thrust his fills me. On his knees, holding my hips, his eyes never leave mine as he fills me over and over and with each trust he meets that magic spot deep inside and in a matter a moments I’m on my way and the orgasm is almost instantaneous. I shudder, shocked that I came twice. Christian stills.