Young Enough (The Age Between Us Book 2)

by Charmaine Pauls

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed.”

  “It’s not your fault. I knew what I was doing the night I sneaked into your room. I knew exactly what I was doing when I slept with you without using a condom. It was a gamble. I hoped you’d fall pregnant. I hoped you’d grow to love me as much as you loved him. I’m just sorry you paid the price for the risk I took.”

  “It’s in the past. We’ve moved on.”

  He nods with a sad smile. “Yes, we’ve moved on.”

  “Take care of Abby. Dorothy will visit her often.”

  “You don’t need to worry.”

  “I don’t. Call me if there’s anything.”

  “Take care on the road, Jane. Oh, and I owe you an apology for Brian. I’m sorry for thinking the worst of him when Abby lied. I’m sorry if things between you didn’t work out because of that. You deserve to be happy.”

  Not wanting to drag the moment out longer, I get into my car. Francois lifts his hand in a farewell as I pull away from the curb.

  It’s strange how my old life seems so long ago. Back then, I had this beautiful house, a family, friends, and a good job, but it was make-belief. I may not have much now, but at least it’s real. Cutting across the quiet neighborhood, I head toward the highway. It’s not until I hit the four-way split that I make a decision.

  I’m going north. I’m leaving the love I’ve found in this city behind. There was a time I believed it was a love beautiful and pure, but now I know it’s a love tainted with obsession and tarnished with lies. But sometimes an impure love is the greatest thing we’ll ever accomplish. It’s not perfection that matters, but how deep our feelings go. It’s existing at the center of someone’s world, even if just for a few fleeting minutes against the rough bark of a tree.

  I drive for four hours before I hit the small mining town of Pilgrim’s Rest that dates from the gold rush era. It’s a place where I used to come on holiday as a child. Being from Cape Town, my parents didn’t seek out the beaches in summer. When the tourists flocked to Cape Town in their hordes, we escaped inland. My dad liked playing golf and fishing for trout. My mom spent her days hunting for treasures in antique shops while I basked in the sun with my books. There’s a string of touristy restaurants and pancake houses lined up in the main street, but it’s the run-down bar at the end that catches my fancy.

  Seeing that the whole town is a national monument, the buildings date from a time when every man had a dream and gold nugget in his pocket. Wooden walls are topped with steep, corrugated iron roofs. The bar is no different, except that it’s more rustic. The walls are made out of rough logs and the floors are unsanded. The name is painted in pink letters over the roof. Panties. When I push the swing-doors back, I understand why. Hundreds of panties are pinned to the ceiling. It’s a rainbow of colors in all sizes and shapes, from lacy thongs to flesh-colored granny panties. I’m grinning up at the display as a female voice says, “You have to take yours off and pin it there if you’d like to enter. Tradition.”

  A smile tugs at my lips for the first time in two weeks. “That’s a strange entry fee.”

  The scar pulls, reminding me it’s still fresh and unsightly, but the lady behind the bar doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Daisy.” She holds out a hand.

  Accepting the handshake, I take her in. She has coal-black hair and arms the size of a wrestler’s.

  “I’m Jane.”

  “What brings you to town?”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Mm-mm. If you don’t want to take your pants off here, you can shimmy out of your panties in the bathroom.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Mm-mm.”

  Shaking my head, I go to the ladies’ to return commando, my thong swinging from my finger. “Now what?”

  “Now you pin it where you like, sweetheart. Here.” She hands me a pin. “You can use a barstool to reach.”

  I take a place of honor between a hot pink French bikini and a crotchless number.

  “Burger?” Daisy asks. “It comes with a free beer.”

  “Sure.”

  I take a place by the bar. It’s then that I see the for sale sign. My mother used to say if you follow the signs, you’ll never lose your way.

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Fifty rand.”

  “No, I mean this.” I point at the sign.

  “The owner wants a couple of million. The down-payment is half a mill.”

  I’ve got one point two million in my account, thanks to my retrenchment. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what it. Besides, I’ve always preferred the countryside to the city. It’s thrillingly freeing to make an impulsive decision, to throw all caution to the wind and live flat-out in the moment like there’s no tomorrow.

  It’s exhilarating to simply say, “Yes.”

  Daisy puts a beer in front of me. “Sorry, sweetheart, what was that?”

  “Yes. I’ll take it.”

  12

  One year later

  Jane

  There’s a slump between the afternoon diners and the evening customers who come in for a party. I let Daisy finish up the cleaning and take a well-earned break on the swing-bench on the porch. The sunset is orange brushstrokes over a purple sky. At night, the stars are so bright the Milky Way looks like a thick blanket of diamonds draped over the sky. It’s quiet here. Except for the crickets and the occasional frog, there are no sounds of cars racing down the highway or police sirens in the distance. Crossing my ankles on the rail, I stretch and drag in the clean air. It smells of pine and cedar. I can never get enough of filling my lungs. I don’t take a single breath for granted.

  My soul is content. My heart is at peace. I stopped looking when I drove away from Pretoria a year ago. I stopped swimming upstream so hard and allowed the current to gently drift me along. This is where I washed up. Pilgrim’s Rest. Ironically, I’m like one of those pilgrims who found their resting place. Finally, I can tick a couple of those boxes on my to-do-before-I-die list. I’ve retired to the countryside. The bar isn’t a Michelin restaurant, but I like the home cooking. It’s honest. No frills. What you see is what you get. I get to do what I love most–cooking–while finishing a correspondence degree in Food Science. Oh, and I’m taking Italian classes. Well, sort of. My kitchen help, a native girl from Naples, is teaching me to cuss up a storm. I even like the rowdy clientele and late-night singing. I made new friends, including Daisy, who is my bartender / bouncer. Not even the big folks mess with Daisy. She’s got a black belt in karate, and she can throw knives like she throws darts. I’m not living in a city of boutiques, architects, and posh private schools, any longer. I’m just the owner of a run-down bar in a bohemian town where no one gives a rat’s ass about my age or scars. It’s not that the people here aren’t curious about my past. It’s that they stopped asking questions I don’t answer.

  Abby comes to visit every second weekend and holiday. She loves it here, but not enough to settle indefinitely. She enjoys the big city vibe too much. Hank, her brother, is the cutest thing since squirrels. I’ve babysat him on a few occasions when Debbie and Francois needed a weekend break. It’s good to see Abby happy. She dotes on her brother, and now that he’s started walking, he follows his big sister and Dusty everywhere.

  Dorothy comes out here once a quarter to fish trout, her latest hobby. During those holidays, she stays in the guest bedroom upstairs, adjoining mine. My quarters are humble, but cozy. I still think of Brian, but it’s not a blooming ache that opens up and bleeds every time I poke my fingers into the memory. It’s a bitter-sweet reminder of life’s yins and yangs, of the darkness that stretches beyond the light, and the light that can’t exist without darkness.

  My mind drifts to him, as it often does, in these silent moments between the rush of living and the quiet of longing. Evan was my first love, but Brian was my soulmate. The yin to my yang. It’s not until the figure hiking up the road is only a block away that I notice him, so lost am I in my th
oughts.

  He’s got a familiar gait. The way his boots pound the tar is both lithe and powerful. It evokes contrasting sensations of happiness and loss. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but then it dawns on me like a feather drifting gently down to the ground. It comes to me slow and sweet as understanding blossoms in my chest and heats my belly. His unusual length and the color of his hair remind me of the very object of my thoughts. His body is more muscular, and the highlights in his hair lighter, giving the blond a sandy hue, but the way he moves as he shifts a duffle bag on his shoulder is achingly familiar. I tense and relax at the same time. My body is confused, not knowing how to react to the jarring signals my brain is sending, but my mind is clear. My mind knows who is coming up the road, walking toward me with a lazy stroll even as every muscle in that manly body is drawn tight. His lips are curved in a smile, exposing one dimple, but his fingers clench around the strap of the bag. He’s a contradiction of cues, a whole lot of yins and yangs twisted together.

  He stops in front of the porch and drops the bag to the ground. A small puff of dust rises up in the air. Resting his hands on his hips, he regards me from guarded eyes.

  “Hello, princess.”

  Brian

  I’ve been living for this moment for one, long year. If I’d been living it my whole life, I’d still not be prepared. I stare at the woman I’ve lost on every physical and emotional level. It’s like a dream, yet, nothing has felt more real. The sheen of perspiration on her skin is real. The smell of her grapefruit perfume is real. So is the way her chest gently rises as she inhales. Most of all, so is that scar she earned because of me.

  The woman who died twice. I carry the medical report in my pocket like a shrine to remind me of miracles and that nothing is impossible. Something as rare as what we had is worth fighting for. She’s worth fighting for. To hell with the how and why. To hell with the age between us.

  For a long moment, we look at each other. Jane is even more crazily beautiful than I recall. The imperfection of the scar draws an eye to her beauty, highlighting her stunning features. She looks younger. Country living suits her. There’s a strawberry blush to her cheeks and a bronze hue to her skin. Her hair has grown to just past her shoulders. She’s wearing denim cut-offs and kick-ass cowboy boots with a matching hat. Her tank top is too tight for my liking. I can already imagine the other men’s eyes on her. She’s got her legs crossed and propped up on the rail, her stance not tensing one ounce at my unannounced presence. Any other woman who shares our kind of history would’ve chased me off her property, but not Jane. She’s too considerate, fair, and empathetic. More than that, she’s confident. She’s over me. She doesn’t need to chase the hurt away. My confidence takes a knock, but I’m here to do what I have to do, and I’m not leaving until it’s done.

  I look around the building. It’s rustic. The log walls and unsanded floorboards aren’t what I imagined. I still associate Jane with expensive architecture and refined cuisine, although she doesn’t need the brands to make her the lady I remember. Even in shorts and boots she exudes an air of soft sophistication with that undercurrent of dark desires only a man like me who shares her tastes can sense. My gaze runs over the name of the bar painted in pink letters over the corrugated iron roof.

  “Panties?” I’m amused and more surprised. What kind of a name is that?

  A slight smile tugs at her full lips. “Go grab a beer inside. Tell Daisy it’s on the house.”

  I narrow my eyes a fraction, loving her guts. She’s not only enjoying bossing me around, but also making a point of showing me I’m on her turf.

  Picking up my bag and dumping it on the porch, I make my own statement. I’m here to stay. She barely gives the gesture any notice, nothing more than a cursory glance from the corner of her eyes. It’s as hot as a furnace in these parts, and I can do with a beer after hiking the last few kilometers from where my lift has dropped me. Pushing my palms on the doors, I swing them open. They make a squeaking noise. I make a mental note to oil the hinges. The interior is dark and cool, a welcome refuge. The tables and benches reflect the exterior in their homely design. Checkered tablecloths cover the tables, and potted cactuses are the center decoration. There’s a karaoke system and a jukebox in one corner. Nice. Snug, but it’s the hundreds of panties on the ceiling that catches my attention. Ha. Hence the name.

  A woman with coal-black hair looks up from the bar. Her eyes light up with interest as they roam over me. “Howdy, stranger. What can I get you?”

  “You must be Daisy.”

  She leans an elbow on the counter. Her arms are almost as big as mine. Tattoos cover the skin from her wrist to her shoulder, which is visible under a strappy top. “Do we know each other? Because I’m sure I would’ve remembered.”

  “I’m a friend of Jane, and I’ll have two beers, please.”

  “Ah.” She straightens. “You’re taken. Lucky bitch.”

  I won’t bet my money on the taken part, but I’m going to put everything I’ve got behind getting there.

  She hands me two cold lagers. “Jane’s favorite. Unless you want something different?”

  “This will do fine. Thanks.”

  She salutes me with two fingers as I make my way back outside. Leaning on the rail, I twist off the caps and hand Jane one.

  She tilts back her head and takes a big swallow. The way her throat moves forces my dick to attention. I can’t help it. She’s always had this effect on me. Even before I met her in person. I’m just glad my tools are still functioning, because I haven’t had a spontaneous hard-on since that day. I still can’t bring myself to say it. The day she walked away from my engagement party. The last day I saw her. She’s a miracle. Still a princess. And I want her. Irrevocably and immediately. My body starts pulsing until every nerve ending has taken notice. I haven’t touched another woman since Jane. The only way I settled my urges was with hand jobs, and now that she’s in front of me in flesh and blood, I both want to not lay a dirty finger on her and tear her apart with my cock. Her pussy, only inches away from me, reminds me how unfulfilling those hand jobs were. My desire for her hasn’t waned one bit. It grew worse. In an effort to cool down, I down half of the beer. She’s on a quarter of hers before she speaks.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Dorothy. Although, I always kept tabs.”

  She nods in a way that doesn’t tell me if she approves or disapproves.

  “Where’s your truck?”

  “Sold it. I hitchhiked here. Walked part of the way.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Thinking of hanging around, then?”

  I give the bar another glance. “I could do with a job.”

  “What happened to Orion?”

  “I resigned.”

  “Your mom? Sam?” Her gaze slips to my bare ring finger. “Lindy?”

  This needs some explanation. I sit down next to her. She doesn’t make space for me, but she doesn’t chase me away, either. Our hips are touching. Her skin burns me through the layers of our clothes.

  “Jane…”

  At the soft utterance of her name, she turns her head an inch toward me.

  I wipe a sweaty palm on my thigh, clutching the beer bottle like a buoy. “That day…”

  Say it, damn you. Get it the hell over with. Take your guilt and fucking own it.

  I take a deep breath. “The day I almost…” I check myself. No use beating around the bush. “The day I killed you, I called my mom and told her to close the hatch.”

  Jane’s fingers twitch on her bottle. I need to touch her. I need to soothe her, make up for too many things that don’t have words, but I have to take it slow. Resting my arm on the backrest of the bench, I let my fingertips casually, accidentally, graze her shoulder. She tenses. Regretfully, I ease up, moving my hand away just far enough so I’d still touch her if she shrugged or lifted her shoulder.

  “She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t cross the lawn and close the hatch to prevent you from drowning,” I say softly.
“That’s the day I realized it couldn’t carry on like that. I realized you were right. I had to do something to help her.”

  Her voice is quiet but attentive. “Did you?”

  “I booked her into an institution that deals with cases like hers. She didn’t like it, but she understands now.”

  “Is she better?”

  “She lives in her own flat in Hatfield with Sam. She has a steady job and friends. She’s been sober for a year.”

  “That’s good.” She sounds sad in a nostalgic kind of way, as if she doesn’t like where her memories are taking her. “I’m happy for her.”

  “She has a great therapist. He reckons they can stop their sessions this autumn.”

  “It must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “Toby paid well.”

  She chuckles. “He did.” Slowly, she turns her head toward me. “Why did you resign?”

  Her eyes say I had a great thing going. True, but nothing compares to her. Nothing is worth anything if I can’t share it with her.

  “I gave up my studies.”

  She discards her bottle on the floor, jumps to her feet, and walks to the rail. Leaning on it with her elbows, she stares at the darkening mountaintops in the distance. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  I leave my beer next to hers and follow her to the rail, molding my body around the air between us. The only point of contact I allow myself is to brush her hair over her shoulder, but I retract my hand when her body freezes up.

  I push forward, laying my life at her feet. “It took me a year to get my life in order, a year to sort out my mother and Sam and the thing with Lindy so I could get back to you.”

  She flings around, her earlier serene expression sparkling with anger. “You shouldn’t have done it, Brian. I’ve gotten over you.”

  It hurts like a lance rubbed with poison through the heart, but I gladly take the pain. I’ll take anything to have this moment, to get another chance.