Somewhere in the City

by Toby Neal

  “Like I said. If you really were a friend, he’d have told you. Now get out of my barn and off my land.”

  And I see that what I thought was a walking stick in her hand is a shotgun.

  Chapter 23

  “Okay. Tell him I came by, will you?” I’m hurrying now, out of the barn, my heart thundering. I can feel a burning place between my shoulder blades where she wants to shoot me.

  I can’t get the bike started and out of there fast enough.

  On the way back to the city, tears pour out from under the Plexiglas face guard. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t that hostile. I can’t go back there again.

  Maybe it’s time to give up.

  I deal with guys hitting on me daily, men asking me out. Most of them are older and I can tell they’re looking to say they date a model. I’m nothing but a body and face to them, arm candy that they want to bang. But there are a few younger ones I’ve met on the set and even a male model or two who’ve elicited a tingle.

  And there’s always Brandon, who sometimes shows up at shoots and stands in the background, watching me, his face unreadable. I know that if I gave him reason to hope, he’d be at my side in a heartbeat.

  But then there’s his mother to contend with, and she owns me.

  What is it about these mothers? They just don’t like me.

  I’m finally feeling better by the time I get home, wrung out and cleansed. Riding the bike does that for me. And there’s a shoot this afternoon and a meeting to go to. I have a life. Magnus isn’t in it, and I’m really fine.

  Six months or so later, I’m twenty, not that I’m counting or anything.

  I’m in my favorite lunchtime meeting and it’s about to begin. I’m talking to Mrs. Svenson, stirring hot chocolate in a Styrofoam cup, when I feel something change in the room.

  I look up, toward the door. Just like it happens every day, Magnus walks in. He takes off his helmet, setting it on the floor against the wall, and strides to the circle of chairs with easy grace, never taking his eyes off me.

  He sits on the chair across from me. Extends his legs in black leather pants with the heavy buckled boots into the circle. Crosses his arms on his wide chest. His brutal mouth wears a curl of knowing smile. His black hair is braided, past his shoulders now. There’s a fresh scar on his forehead, a livid red line, and his eyes on me are dark and hot.

  I don’t know how I’m going to get through the hour. I feel myself going warm and cold, unable to get comfortable on my chair. I alternate between terror, anger, and a sexual hunger so fierce I want to leap across the circle and tear his clothes off right in front of everyone.

  Somehow I manage to keep it together, mainly by playing the scene where Magnus pushed me away in the storage room over and over in my head. The sharing of the meeting swirls around me, meaningless background noise. I look at the floor and make myself breathe.

  Just because he’s back, doesn’t mean he wants me.

  I sneak a look at him.

  Oh, he wants me. He hasn’t taken those black-olive eyes off me since he came in the room.

  But just because he wants me doesn’t mean he’s going to let himself have me.

  And then, there’s the tiny issue of whether or not I should show some dignity, some self-respect, and try to act like I’ve moved on. Like I’m not a pitiful teenager who fell under his spell and hunted down his house and sent a private detective after him like some stalker fan-girl.

  I should act like the international supermodel, with tons of men after me, that I actually am.

  I sneak another look at him, keeping my lashes down, and let my eyes wander up those dark scuffed boots, along his heavy, leather-clad legs, past the bulge beneath his belt buckle, up the thick chest and all the way to his smoldering eyes.

  My body jerks like I’ve been zapped with a hot wire as we make eye contact.

  I yank my gaze away and cross and uncross my legs, turning to the side to pay attention to Mrs. Svenson, who’s wrapping up the meeting with exhortations to pay attention to triggers this week. And then we’re standing, and holding hands and saying the Lord’s Prayer, and I swear to all that’s holy I feel his energy reach all the way through all the hands between him and me, and touch me with a warm caress.

  But when I look up, and try to decide if I’m going to approach him or if he’s coming to me, all I see is his powerful back walking away. He reaches down and scoops up his helmet, and slips out the door.

  I’m alone again.

  Chapter 24

  I want to scream with rage, chase Magnus out the door and pound on that rejecting back with my fists. Instead I go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet and take some breaths, and try to think of what to do.

  My choices remain the same: pursue and approach him, and risk getting rejected again, or move on and get over him. I feel the impossibility of either option.

  I hear the door of the bathroom open. Footsteps. A gentle knock on my stall.

  “Pearl?”

  Valley’s voice. I registered her presence in the meeting on some level, but not consciously until now because Magnus so completely absorbed my attention.

  Valley has truly been a gift in my life, a gift that Magnus gave me. She’s been an incredible sponsor, holding me accountable to do my twelve-steps, available by phone day or night. And she helped me buy my motorcycle and taught me to ride.

  “I know you’re in there.” Her husky voice is gentle.

  I stand up and flush, for form’s sake, and step out of the stall.

  She’s directly in front of me, this incredible woman in black leather, her jet hair in a braid, silver feather earrings flashing in her ears. Her eyes are sad and kind.

  “You need to get over him, Pearl.”

  I open and close my mouth. I go to the sink, put my hands under the water and wash with soap. Rinse. I let them fill with cool water and splash it on my hot face. Look at that face in the mirror.

  That famous face. Even without makeup or retouching, my face is something people want to keep looking at—I know, because I live in it, and feel eyes on me all the time. The idea of me.

  Such false advertising.

  My full mouth that promises sin hasn’t even kissed a guy for two years. My trademark hair that one article described as “climbable” is skinned back from my brow into a braid that no one but a hairdresser or myself has so much as brushed. My eyes, those eyes that my Melissa Agency bio says “can launch a thousand ships” look haunted, purple shadows under them like I’ve been punched.

  “I’m trying to. If there’s anything you can say that will make me hate him, tell me. Please.”

  Valley puts her hands on my shoulders, squeezes. She’s refused to answer any questions about Magnus this whole time, except to say they’re cousins and have been friends all their lives.

  “I told you I promised him I wouldn’t answer your questions. All I can tell you is that Magnus decided you two weren’t going to be together, and he’s a very stubborn man.”

  “He judged me,” I say. “And he’s underestimated me. I’ve been single for two years, waiting for him to come back. It’s not fair that he gets to decide what happens.”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror. Valley shrugs. “That may be true. What are you going to do about it?”

  I feel a reckless, crazy courage rise up in me. “I’m screwed either way, so I’m going to try to get Magnus to change his mind.”

  She smiles, a slow wide arc that turns into a grin. “Go get him, Pearl. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll be here to help you pick up the pieces.”

  One thing I know is seduction; it’s my daily stock in trade, and I’m about to go on the ride of my life to undertake it. I need a plan. A plan to blow Magnus away, and a plan to deal with his gun-toting mother if I run afoul of her.

  I slip into our brownstone quietly. I can hear Mrs. Knightly vacuuming somewhere. Rafe and Ruby are at work, and baby Peter is at his daycare.

  I shower, shave everything. Rub down with some loti
on I bought in France that’s infused with real rose oil—something like a thousand crushed petals per drop, to make that oil, and it smells amazing. I get out a favorite panty set which I kept after a runway show. It’s a satin demi-bra printed with tiny flowers that push my round, high breasts higher. It’s paired with panties in the same fabric cut to make my legs look even longer.

  I did a whole line of photos with this underwear and made the brand a bestseller. Maybe I can make one man want me enough to get over his ridiculous scruples.

  I get into my leathers. He’s not going to expect that, not going to know I have my own bike, and I hope he likes it. I know the leathers make me look good. They fit smooth and tight as a black glove against my figure, and more importantly they make me feel good. Confident. Badass. A woman who rides a Harley, by God.

  I pack a small backpack with supplies I might need, and I leave a note that I’m at a friend’s and will be gone overnight. Rafe and Ruby trust me now, and I deserve it. I haven’t had one slip in two and a half years of clean and sober living and nonstop working. I’ve wrestled my demons and won. I’ve even reconciled with my mother.

  I can seduce one stubborn man.

  And if I can’t, I’ll survive. And I won’t use over it. No matter what, I’m never going back to that dark place.

  I pick up my backpack and my helmet and stride out the door.

  The ride to Magnus’s house in the country calms my racing heart, cools my hot cheeks. Centers me. Motorcycle therapy—it works for me. I turn down the bumpy, long dirt drive with its overgrown pine trees leaning in as if trying to hide the narrow road.

  I navigate the potholes, thinking of what to do if Magnus isn’t home. I plan to hide my bike so his mother doesn’t see it, and break into his house and wait for him.

  Yes, I’m desperate as an addict who will do anything for a fix.

  At least I know the dog likes me.

  I hear a roaring sound that penetrates even through the helmet, and as I come around the last overgrown pine tree into the clearing between the cabins and the barn, I see Magnus directly ahead of me.

  He’s wearing safety goggles and work gloves and a lumberjack shirt in red plaid, and he’s chainsawing a pine tree.

  I brake the bike, and put my feet down, and wait for him to notice me. I get to stare at him in his heavy work clothes, ear muffs canceling the sound of my approach, and watch the way he slings that heavy saw like it’s a battleax and the tree is his enemy.

  It makes me melty in the knees to watch him work.

  Whiskey the dog spots me and runs over, barking and wagging his thick tail, and Magnus looks up. Sees me. Cuts the motor on the chainsaw. Lowers it until the pointed end is resting on the ground. He’s gone still and alert, but I can tell he’s not sure who I am.

  This is my moment.

  I take off the helmet. I shake loose the pile of curls I bundled inside. My hair tumbles down around me. I’m fully aware of how my shining, creamy blond locks contrast against the supple black leather I’m wearing. I put down the kickstand and swing my leg off the bike. I hang the helmet from one of the handlebars, all without breaking eye contact with him.

  I stride toward Magnus with that sway and stomp, my patented sexy runway walk, and as I get closer I see that his mouth is hanging open and his eyes are wide behind the safety goggles.

  I get to him and stand in his space. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t closed his mouth. I reach up and take off the safety goggles. Tuck them in his shirt pocket. I hook an arm around his neck and pull his mouth down to mine.

  Chapter 25

  The hot wire that zapped me in the meeting is nothing to the feeling of his lips. I am electrified, every hair on my body springing to attention, and as my leather-clad pelvis presses against his, I can tell that’s not the only thing springing to attention.

  He lowers the chainsaw with a clatter and groans into my mouth. His arms circle me and press me so close that I can’t breathe, and I couldn’t care less.

  Our kiss is deep, a probing of souls as well as mating of tongues. He tastes of coffee and sorrow to me. There’s a desperation in the kiss, a longing for life. Something terrible has happened to him. Perhaps it had, before, but I never tasted it so clearly—and terrible things have happened to me too.

  Our wounds meet and meld and merge and it’s delicious and painful too, as one of his big hands in the leather work glove clasps my buttock and hauls me closer and higher against him, grinding me against his erection.

  I couldn’t love it more, the dark intensity, this tearing need roaring through both of us without a word exchanged.

  We stumble backwards, somehow making it to his little porch, up onto it, all the way to the front door of his cabin. Magnus lifts his head, eyes hazy as he fumbles with the knob.

  “You sure you want this? You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “Oh, God, yes.” There is no hesitation in me whatsoever.

  “It’s on you, then.” He hoists me up by my ass like I weigh nothing, applying his mouth to mine. My legs wrap around his hips as he slams the door open. We’re kissing and consuming each other as he carries me inside.

  He backs me up against the bed and I let go of his shoulders and fall backward onto it.

  He strips off the work gloves. “I must be dreaming. You, here in my bed. Wearing leathers.”

  “You left. I had to get my own motorcycle therapy.” I let my hands drift over my body. One of them circling my breast, feeling its full, taut peak through the leather as the other hand slides down to my hips. I can feel my core heating even more as I watch him undress.

  He’s tearing at the long-sleeved, heavy lumberjack shirt, finally getting it off. His torso is ridged with muscle across the chest and abs, lightly hairy in a shape that only emphasizes his physical magnificence as he leans down to undo the heavy work boots. I’m rendered speechless by the way the light coming through the window gleams along the deep groove of his spine, across the rippling muscles of his shoulders.

  “I should shower,” he mutters, fumbling with the laces of the boots. I worry he’s trying to gather steam for second thoughts.

  “I want you just how you are.” I can’t bear to wait any longer. I surge back up to grasp his belt. I undo the buckle and slide down the zipper as he gives up on the boots, straightening up to tangle his hands in my hair as I slide the jeans down off his lean hips.

  His erection is fighting the fabric of his boxers. Finally slowing myself down, this time so I can savor, I lower the fabric to his knees.

  His shaft is proportional to the rest of him, and just the thought of him in me makes me groan. I put my mouth on him, circling and swirling with my tongue. He throws his head back as I take him in deep, my hands clasping his hard buttocks, digging into the thick muscle as I surge forward, slide back, and do it again.

  “Oh, God. Pearl,” he says hoarsely. It undoes me, this cry from the man I’ve wanted so long. The sound of my name in his mouth makes me so hot I find myself pressed against his legs, making tiny mewing sounds in my throat.

  He detaches me by pulling my hair back. “Slow down. I want to savor this.”

  I sit back on the bed and let him wrestle off his boots and jeans, and finally he’s totally naked in front of me and I can feast my eyes on the tree trunks of his legs, the stacked vee shapes of his body—but not for long, because he puts a knee between my leather-clad legs and pushes me backwards, a wolfish grin on his face. “Your turn.”

  He captures my hands in one of his and lifts them above my head as he slides the zipper of my jacket down. I moan and toss beneath him, rubbing myself against his leg, shameless and wanton as he takes his time stripping off the leathers.

  When he has me down to panties, he stands up to look at me. I can’t see past anything but his erection, but I feel his gaze wandering over all of me like a caress.

  “You’re so beautiful, Pearl.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I’ve heard that too much before. I’m coming unglued, rubbin
g myself in those pretty panties against him. I feel close to coming already, and we haven’t even got down to business. “I need you. Please. Now.”

  He looks around. “I have a condom somewhere.” Another too long delay as he finds one in a drawer, leaving me to wonder who he does bring home to make love to. But I don’t have long to think about that before he’s finally got the panties and bra off me. Lying beside me, he lifts himself on his elbow and strokes me from breast to hip and back again, his firm hand igniting a trail of fire with every touch.

  I turn on my side, facing him, and stroke him too, savoring the different textures under my hands: the thick muscle, hard and yet covered in silky skin with the tensile roughness of hair adding textural interest. I lean in and flick my tongue over his nipple. I feel his erection leap against my leg and he tenses.

  “I’m trying to make this last, Pearl, because I know it won’t take long once I’m in you.”

  I look into his eyes. Really look into a brown so deep it’s like bitter chocolate. His lashes are a thick fringe that make them even darker, and up close they are so beautiful.

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s over fast. We can just do it again, and take our time the next time.”

  He moves quickly now, rolls the condom on and rises above me, and I open for him. He tries to go slow, easing into me, holding himself high above me on straight arms trembling with strain, but that’s not how I want it.

  I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him into me with all the strength four times a week on the Stairmaster has given me.

  He makes a harsh sound in his throat as he sinks in fully, and I arch and cry out at the deep penetration, my tissues unused to anything like this for so long. He freezes, afraid he’s hurt me, but I buck my hips, wordless and begging for more.

  And he gives it to me, thrusting so hard I slide backward, and we grapple with each other in a wrenching depth of feeling and need that is wordless and endless and all consuming—and, just as he predicted, over too quickly in a rush of inarticulate cries and mind-bending ecstasy.