Daring Play (Dangerous Book 3)

by Romi Hart

  The tavern partied hardy. Three nights a week, it had live music. Behind it, and its well-graveled, ample parking lot, was an inn flashing a vacancy sign and advertising a swimming pool. The truckers slept in their trucks at the end of the evening. The travelers, a little too tipsy to carry on, checked into the inn.

  It was the type of place you could depend on for already being in full swing before you ever got there. The kind of place that warmed up during the day with two or three steady customers who drew their friends in like magnets, who in turn drew in others, until by early evening, the house was half-full.

  My group, as I liked to call it now, arrived with the band striking up its full beat. The dance floor was crowded with couples, all doing their own style of maintaining rhythm. It was close-packed, chaotic and exciting.

  “Where’s the bull?” Shouted Larson. “I want to see the bull.”

  I led the way past the dance floor and tables to a roped end corner thick with tumbling mats. To Larson, it was apparently a shrine. He lifted his hands in wonder, as though it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He watched in fascination while the mechanical beast thrashed about, attempting to throw its rider. He was enthralled.

  The last person to ride was being congratulated for remaining a full minute. Without waiting for an exclamation on how it worked, Larson dashed up to the bull, exclaiming, “me! I’m going to try it.” He was on the bull before anyone could stop him.

  We squeezed our hands together and watched worriedly as Larson bounced one, twice; three times! Each time he bounced a little higher until, with the fourth jolt, he lost his grip on the saddle horn. He sailed through the air and plopped on a mat with a loud thud. He lay still a minute, while the rest of our group clung to each other anxiously.

  All at once, he sat straight up, then jumped to his feet. “Four seconds. I lasted four seconds!” He raised a fist into the air with a loud “hurrah!”

  We secured a table but didn’t really sit down until the band quit playing and another prepared to take its place. By then, we were all trying to catch our breath and felt a great need to get off our feet a few minutes.

  Angelique fanned his face. “I do believe the fresh, outdoor air is stimulating me. I feel like my mind has been jump-started.”

  “It’s exhilarating!” Agreed Larson. “I have faced the great beast and conquered my fears, though its wrath descended down upon me.”

  “Well,” said Alice. “What has come to my attention is that there are two people here who are becoming very cozy with each other. Because I’m a person who very much needs to know these things, I have been wondering. When are these two people getting married?”

  Diana and I had been paying more attention to our hands clasped together in front of us, exploring with great admiration the way our fingers crossed over each other, but now stopped and stared at our addressee.

  “Well,” Diana said, disentangling her fingers from mine. “I think we haven’t thought about marriage. It would be rather sudden.”

  “Oh, not really,” Angelique disagreed. “People used to get married on the dime. You run into someone in the grocery store one day, and three weeks later, you’re married. Marriage just seems to have gone out of fashion, somehow.”

  “That’s it exactly!” Alice said. She pouted and fluffed her hair, which had become slightly discouraged with staying in order while she was dancing. “It has been so long since I’ve been to a wedding, I practically don’t know how they are performed anymore. Which is really a pity because as I understand it, there are so many options. I just need someone to get married so I can say, ‘girl, now you know what it’s about.’ The emotional part of it, you know.”

  I recaptured Diana’s hand and drew her closer to me. I sniffed at her hair, smelling lightly of violets. “Why don’t you and Larson get married?” I kindly suggested.

  Larson drew back, and Alice gasped, flabbergasted. “Why should Larson and I get married?” Alice finally asked. “Our relationship is entirely professional.”

  “And usually platonic,” Larson added.

  I scoffed and shook my head. “Who are you trying to kid? You spend so much time play acting, you get uncomfortable with acting yourselves, but you’ve clearly got the hots for each other.”

  Larson straightened his jacket and tie, his chin lifting as he centered the turquoise inlaid clasp. “Language. Please watch the language. I’ll admit to occasionally having affections. This happens when you’ve been studying closely with someone for one or two years.”

  “Four years,” Diana corrected.

  “Maybe four years.”

  Angelique pressed his palms against his face. “It is a splendid idea! You could do your romantic scenes so much better once you’ve experienced matrimonial bliss, or at least, the wedding.”

  “I think this is too much to take in all at once,” Alice said, dismayed her question had back-fired. “I think I want to try out the swimming pool. I hope it doesn’t have too much chlorine. I neglected my bathing cap and I don’t want to fry my hair. Even if it is toxic, at least, a shower and a bed sound nice.”

  Larson and Angelique also agreed they were ready to pack it in after a long, eventful day.

  They left Diana and I together while they found rooms at the inn.

  “Angelique will inspect the sheets. He always does when he goes somewhere outside the house,” Diana said, playing with the beer on the table in front of her.

  “You’d be surprised how good the beds are,” I said. “A lot of the travelers only want a shelter for the night, protection as they go through urban areas. They don’t trust the beds, so they sleep in their bedrolls on the floor. The truckers don’t rent rooms either unless they want a shower. Then, they’re picky about the beds. If they don’t like them, they sleep in their trucks. The inn builds its reputation on truckers and travelers. If they use the beds, that’s pretty high praise in these circuits. I think Angelique will be satisfied.”

  But Diana was thinking about other things. “I don’t know what to think about the future,” said Diana.

  “What’s to think?”

  “You haven’t met my four brothers yet. It could be a game changer.”

  “I thought we agreed it wasn’t a game.”

  “But when you have four brothers it can be a frightening thing, especially if we’re stepping up the pace.”

  “I think to be fair, Alice and Larson should step up the pace first. After all, they’ve been fooling around for four years.”

  “You might have a point.”

  The place was getting ready to close. The band was packing up their equipment. Most of the locals had gone home. Some of the overnight customers planted themselves solidly on their bar stools, determined to remain until the last minute, but the rest had wandered off to their beds. I stood up and offered Diana my arm.

  Desert evenings have a special coolness that springs bright and sparkling with the evening sky. It’s a coolness that blows straight from the icy stars, bringing delicious, subtle winds that relieve you all at once.

  Diana sighed, closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh air. I watched the moonlight play over her face in pale blue shadows.

  “Do you want to rent a room, or do you want to sleep in the truck?” I asked.

  She tucked her arm in his and teetered off in her sharp-heeled pumps in the direction of the big rig. “I want to sleep in the truck.”

  I cornered her against the door. “You’re such a romantic.”

  “Help me in and I will show you how romantic I can get.”

  I opened the cab door and helped her inside. We pulled the blankets around us as though we were pulling around the night. We were enveloped in each other’s scent, in the complex tangle of our bodies, searching for more ways to get closer.

  “Do you think we should get married?” I asked her.

  “I don’t think we should do it just because others want it. Let’s decide on our own. One day at a time. No outside pressure.”

&
nbsp; “Okay then…marry me?”

  “What? Are you really asking or…?”

  “Yes. I’m really asking. I always thought this would be the scary part you know. But now that I realize I’m happier than I’ve ever been before, I just want to ask. Right now. Like the gang was talking about. Will you marry me? Diana?”

  I kissed each one of her fingers, my lips curved in a slight smile. “I told you not to give me that look with your blue eyes,” she warned me. “You know if I accept, it means you’ll have to meet my brothers.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Just don’t call them “bro”. They won’t like it. And tell them you’re a Raiders fan. If you know anything about engines at all, don’t tell them, or you’ll be stuck all day looking under a hood.”

  She pulled the blanket closer around us, sealing out the world so that there was only the two of us left--our breath mingling, our hearts thumping in rhythm with each other.

  “Then you’ll marry me?”

  “Well…yeah,” she whispered as she cradled my face in her hands, her fingers smoothing back the lock of hair that was forever falling into my eyes.

  “Yeah, I will,” she laughed, and cried, lending me the same feelings. Our hearts were naked, open and trembling with joy. The Lamplight didn’t turn out to be a showdown…but it did prove to be the best thing that ever happened to me. She was the light, the star, that changed my life for the better.

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  1

  Maya

  A flower is something beautiful and the world resents it. Untarnished, it glimmers with hope. When it’s out of place or unwelcome, it’s customary for some angry, cynical person to crush it under a strong foot. Shame on the flower for being innocent. Shame on the flower for being damaged. It inspires nothing but lust and greed even in the best of people.

  Yet I’m a woman who still cherishes my idealism, especially since believing in something as out of date as flapper hats. Most of my friends despise being a “virginal woman”. I should too…since I’m already twenty-one years old and haven’t even felt more than a long kiss. But I figured out something important from the very first moment I noticed guys staring at my tits:

  The more you give it away for free, the less value you have…at least in the eyes of men. Men all want what they can’t have. The moment they take a girl to bed, they start thinking they can do much better. Everything a man does is prompted by horn-dogging and feeling “thirsty”.

  But I don’t want to hate them for it. I know how it feels. I know how it feels to have an incurable passion inside…to masturbate and to still feel horny. To touch yourself so much that your clit just becomes numb…and to still want more. I know what it’s like to write an erotic poem and to just want to explain to a handsome stranger why I wrote it.

  Of course, I don’t actually go around begging for guys to do me. Call me crazy, I just think that’s low-class. I come from a long line of moms who never begged for anything. Not food, not sex.

  And yeah I do get a lot of offers from guys. Well, I guess I should clarify I get a lot of friendly invitations to do dumb things. Dinner with his folks. Square dancing. Once got asked to tag along in a squad car with a police officer.

  All of them were perfect gentleman. And I found it very sexy that underneath all their respectable conversation and gentle eyes, they were really asking to plow into my virginity and unload their balls in a strange new place.

  That’s the one side of me, the side of me that totally feels like a man, at least when it comes to wanting sex.

  But then there’s the other side. The side who still longs for flowers. For romance. The teenager in me that longed to meet a Prince Charming. What is it about romance that’s so different from fucking, anyway? Is it the way he looks, or the kind words he uses? Or is it something else? The emotional bonding of two souls that might comfort in each other, maybe.

  I know at some point, everyone’s favorite “little girl”, Maya DeBank will have to do the unthinkable and take a risk. I’m not a saint. I don’t want to stay a virgin for life, or even until marriage. There’s just too much to do in the world. It’s like that song says… “What good is sitting all alone in your room? Life is a…a…”

  How does it go? Damn, I can’t remember it. I used to love that song because I learned it as a teenager, right around the time I fell in love with my first fictional character. The Maximilian von Heune, such a sexy guy! Some of that was the actor, but I just loved his dialog…his wild streak. Maybe when I think of romance, I think of a man like that. Someone who just commands the room. He’s not arrogant, per se, but he’s dominant. He knows what he wants. He respects me but not so much that he won’t fuck me if he gets the chance.

  What terrible thoughts unbecoming of a virgin! Am I shallow for saying for the FIRST TIME, it has to be a man who knows what he’s doing? A man for whom I don’t have to fake attraction or award pity fuck points because of his sincerity. And I do reserve the right to reject him based on bratty imperfections unbecoming of my fantasy world.

  Maybe love isn’t perfectly timed…maybe fantasy is far removed from reality. But for my first time I want the earth to move and shake. I want the mountains to fall and for miracles to happen because I know my value…I know how unique and wonderful I am. And to quote another song, it’s my party, I can cry if I want to!

  Sure, and I also know that the moment I lose my virginity, everything special about me will disappear. Maybe that’s what I’m most afraid of. Maybe that’s why I have the right to be a little snotty. Because after that one magical night, I’ll be damaged goods like everyone else.

  I want to be special…for as long as possible. Even if it’s all just leading up to one special day. Where I lose it…and when I then realize, life will never get any better than this right now. This is the top of the mountain.

  I blink away my anxiety and smile as I notice a man walking closer to me on the sidewalk. I’m walking home from the bus and suddenly very aware of his presence, meaning he’s probably been looking at me for minutes on end. I suppose a young brunette woman of generous proportions and with innocent blue eyes is hard not to notice. I also like wearing quaint clothes from the golden era—the nineteen fifties. Love the old Hollywood look, makes me feel classy. Revered. Today I’m wearing a head scarf and yellow dress combination, with the wavy hair. Why own this moment now? Why not a moment from seventy years ago?

  I glance back and smile, noticing a rugged-looking black man tailing me. He’s dressed well, with shades, probably thinking he’s the gangsta rap star of tomorrow. I love it when men are bold, like they can’t help but speak of the sexual tension in the air. He has no problem speeding up his pace to meet me. I even make him wait for eye contact. I make him wait for our eyes to meet.

  I won’t make this easy on him. Nor does he expect me to be easy.

  “Uh, hi?” I say with a half-smile.

  “How’s it going?” he says in a deep voice.

  “It’s okay…are you—?”

  “You want to get high?”

  I laugh in his face but he’s still staring me down.

  “Come on, no introduction?”

  “My name’s Balzac.”

  “Ball Sack? That’s your name?”

  “No, Balzac—the writer. The poet. I renamed myself after him. I figured you for a girl who likes poetry. You’re smart.”

  “And do you know who I am?”

  He smiles gleefully, as if he knows I’m going to fight him…every last moment, until he beds me. That’s what makes it hot for him…and it’s starting to make me hot too.

  But alas…

  As I stare into his eyes and let him probe me mentally, I still can’t shake the feeling that he’s not the “peak” I’m looking for. Maybe I’ll fall for a guy like him later in life. But for now, he’s still not grabbing hold of my mind and stroking me to new intellectual heights. It’s all body with him. It’s all in the moment. But this isn’t a moment.
This is The End. The beginning of The End.

  I know he will never understand. Maybe no man will ever understand this type of thinking. But at least they understand the principle behind it.

  “Sorry, dude. I don’t smoke and I’m not looking.”

  “Got a boyfriend?”

  “No. I’m just not looking.”

  “Got to open your mind, girl. Prince Charming is late. Live life while you’re young.”

  “I deserve more than free pot, Balzac.”

  He slaps his hands together in a laugh. “Who says it’s free? Know what I’m saying?”

  “Touché!”

  “All right, you have a good Valentine’s Day, little girl. Don’t be paying attention to those big bad wolves.”

  I point at him in good fun. God, Valentine’s Day. It’s always such a drag.

  I hurriedly start to walk home—at last, my own apartment away from mom and dad!—and cringe at the thought of the Big V.

  Valentine’s Day, the sour reminder for every single person that no one loves you, and for the moment, no one’s even lusting after you. You’ve successfully alienated every man who could have been the one and are now one of those pathetic doggies in the window, just hoping for pity sex.

  God, I have to be strong. I keep reminding myself being alone is a good thing. It’s empowering. It’s brave. Fucking Elsa from Frozen was alone and that was the best part of the damn movie.

  I keep telling myself that I reject men all the time, everyone from gangsta ass badboys to Christian boys, to nice guys and dirty old perverts. I COULD have anyone I want for Valentine’s Day. I’m the one who’s decided to wait—I’m proud, dammit!

  But then why do I feel so sad on Valentine’s Day? Because it’s all corporate-sponsored lecturing, suggesting that love is the only thing that keeps us going? Or maybe I’m resentful because I haven’t met The Right One yet and that he’s long overdue to make an appearance in my life.