When I'm With You

by JoAnn Ross

  I grabbed my purse, locked up the room, and stopped by the office to return Nancy’s shorts. I suppose I should have washed them first, but that seemed a little over the top, considering I’d worn them for half an hour at the outside.

  Leaving the rental car in the lot, I set out on foot for the Bucking Bronco. I was hoping for a peek inside, though I don’t know what I expected to see.

  Passing cars slowed, so the driver and passengers could gawk, as I walked toward the tavern. Strangers always get noticed in towns like Parable—if I could be considered a stranger. Most likely, people remembered me as the poor girl who thought someone like Tristan McCullough could really be interested in her.

  I waved cheerfully and picked up my pace.

  Reaching the Bronco, I noted, without surprise, that the front doors were padlocked. I tried looking through the cracks between the boards covering the windows, but to no avail. I went around back, hoping for better luck.

  Here, there were no boards and no padlocks. I turned to scan the sparkling lake for watching boaters, but there were none to be seen, so I tried the door.

  It creaked open, and I stopped on the threshold. I thought I heard music, soft and distant. The jukebox? Impossible. The Bronco had been closed for several years, according to Mom, and the electricity must have been shut off long ago.

  Still, my breath quickened. I stood still, listening. Yes, there was music. And the familiar click of pool balls.

  Ghosts? The only people who would have haunted the Bronco were Mom and I, and we weren’t dead.

  I stepped inside, hesitantly, my heart hammering. I wasn’t scared, exactly, but something out of the ordinary was definitely going on. My curiosity won out over good sense, and I followed the sounds, swimming through a swell of memories as I passed through the little apartment. Mom at the stove, stirring a canned supper and humming a Dolly Parton song. Me, curled up on the ancient sofa, studying.

  The door between the apartment and the bar stood open.

  The music brought tears to my eyes. Tristan and I used to dance under the stars to the song that was playing. For a moment, I was transported back to our favorite spot, high on a ridge overlooking his family’s ranch, with that old, sentimental tune pouring out of the CD player in Tristan’s truck. I felt his arms around me. I remembered how he’d lay me down so gently in the tall, sweet-scented grass, and make love to me until I lost myself.

  I took another step, even though everything inside me screamed, Run!

  There was a portable boombox on the dusty bar, and Tristan stood next to the pool table, leaning on his cue stick. He was wearing the same dusty clothes he’d had on before, and his hat rested on one of the bar stools.

  “I knew you’d show up,” he said.

  My throat felt tight and raw. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and couldn’t have gotten the words out even if I had.

  He hung the cue stick on the wall rack and walked toward me.

  I was frozen in place, temporarily speechless, just the way I’d been on the road outside of town an hour or so earlier.

  Tristan pushed a button on the boombox, and our song began to play. “Dance with me,” he said, and pulled me into his arms.

  I stumbled along with him. He used the pad of one thumb to brush away my tears.

  I finally found my voice. “I didn’t see your horse outside,” I said.

  He laughed. For all that he’d been herding cattle, he smelled of laundry detergent and that green grass we used to lie down in, together. “Gramps took him back to the ranch,” he said. “I walked over here from the office. Left my truck there.”

  “How did you know I’d come here?”

  “Easy,” he said. “This was home. I knew you couldn’t stay away.” He kissed me, a light, nibbling, tasting kiss.

  I should have resisted, but the best I could do was ask, “What do you want?”

  “We have some unfinished business, you and I,” he said, and caught my right earlobe lightly between his teeth.

  A thrill of need went through me. “We don’t,” I argued, but weakly.

  I felt the edge of the pool table pressing against my rear end. That was nothing compared to what was pressing against my front. “You cheated on me,” I murmured.

  He kissed me again, deeply this time, with tongue. The floor of the tavern seemed to pitch to one side, like the deck of a ship too small for the waves it was riding.

  “You cheated on me,” he countered.

  We’d had that argument just before I left Parable, ten years before, but the circumstances had changed. There had been a lot of yelling then, and I’d thrown things.

  Tristan slid a hand up under my tank top, and I didn’t stop him. I don’t know why. I just didn’t. I groaned inside.

  He pushed my bra up, cupped my breast, chafing the nipple with the side of his thumb, and kissed me once more.

  I am not a loose woman, but you’d never have known it by the way I responded to Tristan’s kisses and the way he caressed my breast. I was wet between the legs, and I could already feel myself opening to take him inside, even though I had no intention of letting him get into my jeans.

  He unsnapped them, pushed the zipper down, then tugged my tank top down to bare my breast. When he took my nipple into his mouth, I cried out, buried my hands in his hair, and held him close.

  I felt his chuckle of triumph reverberate through my breast, but I still didn’t stop him. Just a minute more, I remember thinking. Just a minute more, and then I’ll push him away and slap his face for him.

  “Oh, God,” I said instead.

  He hooked a thumb in the waistband of my jeans and panties and pulled them down, in one move. Without releasing my breast, he hoisted me onto the pool table, eased me back onto the felt top, and reached inside to find my sweet spot.

  I gasped his name.

  He pushed up my top, and my bra, took his time enjoying my breasts.

  My vision blurred. Just a minute more…

  “Remember how it was with us?” Tristan asked throatily, kissing my belly now. My jeans and panties were around my ankles by then. “Remember?”

  I’d tried to shut the memory out of my mind for ten years, but I remembered, all right. At a cellular level.

  Tristan stopped long enough to pull off my shoes and toss my pants aside. Then he was nibbling at my navel again, and I felt his fingers glide inside me.

  I wish I could blame him, but I was the one who lifted my heels to the edge of the pool table and parted my legs.

  I held my breath, waiting. There was a debate going on inside my head.

  Tell him to stop.

  Just a minute more…

  The debate was nothing, compared to the riot in my senses. The weather was mild, but my skin burned as the passion grew.

  Tristan parted me, took me into his mouth.

  I moaned.

  He teased me with the tip of his tongue. Made me beg.

  He sucked again, then went back to flicking at me.

  I bucked on that old pool table, and when he knew I was ready to come, he slipped both hands under my buttocks, raised me high, and ate me until I exploded. I had one orgasm, then another, deeper and harder. I lost count before he finally eased me down onto the felt again, and even though I was dazed with satisfaction, I knew it wasn’t over.

  I sensed that he was unbuttoning his jeans, unwrapping a condom, putting it on.

  He moved sleekly into me, and that was when I caught fire again. He’d worked me over so well that I wouldn’t have thought I had another orgasm in me, but I did.

  Tristan put his hands behind my shoulders and lifted me up, so I was sitting on him. I wrapped my bare legs around his hips and held on tight. I knew from experience that this ride would be wilder than anything the rodeo had to offer.

  “God, you feel good,” Tristan rasped, kissing me again. “So good.”

  He raised me, then lowered me slowly along his shaft. I gave a sob, tilted my head back, and closed my eyes.


  “Look at me,” he said.

  I was under a spell by then, rummy with need. I did as he asked.

  I had three more orgasms before Tristan laid me down again, on the pool table, and thrust hard, one, twice, a third time. We came together, me sobbing and clinging, drenched in perspiration, Tristan with his head flung back like a stallion taking a mare. He gave a muffled shout, and stiffened against me, driving deeper than ever.

  When it was over, he braced both hands against the side of the table, on either side of my hips, breathing heavily.

  “Is it like that with Bob?” he asked.

  That was when I slapped him, hard.

  He stepped back, grinning, but the look in his eyes was hard. He handed me my jeans and panties and stepped back, after pulling me to my feet. I scrambled into my clothes, jammed on my shoes. I wanted to slap him again, but a part of me was ashamed of doing it once, let alone a second time. I’m not a violent person, and I don’t believe in hitting people.

  “You bastard,” I said. Then I fled, across the tavern, through the apartment, out into the backyard, letting the screen door slam hard behind me. The lake was right there, shimmering with azure blue beauty, and I wanted to drown myself in it.

  Behind me, the door hinges squeaked.

  “Gayle.” Tristan’s voice. I knew without looking that he was in the doorway.

  I wasn’t planning to turn around, but I did. Hadn’t planned on letting an old boyfriend screw me on a pool table, either. Did that, too.

  Tristan was leaning against the door jamb, just as I’d imagined, rumple-haired and too damned attractive, even then. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I stared at him. I’d expected something else, I don’t know what. Mockery, maybe. More seduction. But certainly not an apology.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned your boyfriend.”

  I almost defended Bob, before I remembered he was a vibrator. “You proved you could still make me lose control. Let’s leave it at that, okay.”

  “Is he going to be mad?”

  I suddenly saw the humor in the situation, even though I knew there were fresh tears on my face. “There’ll be a buzz,” I said.

  Tristan looked confused, which was fine by me. “You’re planning to tell him?”

  I nodded. I was on a roll. “He’ll be rigid about it.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that he might not be the right man for you, if it was that easy to get hot with me?”

  So much for nonviolence. I would have slapped him again if he hadn’t been well out of reach. “Maybe it’s not a great relationship,” I said, “but at least Bob doesn’t cheat on me.”

  Tristan shoved a hand through his hair, and his jawline hardened. But, then, he wasn’t in on the joke. “No, but you cheat on him. Some things never change.”

  I tightened my fists. “No,” I snapped. “Some things never do.”

  With that, I headed for the rocky beach that runs along the edge of the lake. I was both relieved and disappointed that Tristan didn’t follow.

  The motel was a half-mile hike, but I was so distracted that I hardly noticed. Fortunately, the Fun Family had left the swimming area, so I didn’t have to worry about anybody seeing me with my hair messed up and my eyes puffy from crying furious tears.

  I pulled my key from the hip pocket of my jeans, let myself into the room, and immediately took another shower.

  I wanted to hibernate, but the Big Mac had worn off, and I knew the Lakeside didn’t offer room service. I dressed carefully in the only other set of clothes I had, besides the prim business suit I planned to wear to the meeting with the other owners of the Bronco and the new buyers, a cotton sundress. I’d briefly scanned the papers, and knew the gathering was scheduled for ten the next morning; I would worry about the where part later.

  Determined to restore some semblance of dignity, I put on make-up, styled my hair, and left the motel again.

  There was still only one restaurant in Parable, a hole-in-the-wall diner on Main Street, across from the library. I had to pause on the sidewalk out front and brace myself to go in.

  I was the girl who had done Tristan McCullough wrong, and I knew the locals remembered. By now, some of them might even know that I’d just done a pool-table mambo with the golden boy, though I didn’t think Tristan would stoop so low as to screw and tell. Just the same, I’d be lucky if they didn’t throw me out bodily.

  I was starved, and the only other place I could get food was the supermarket. That would mean going back to the motel for my rental car, shopping for cold cuts and chips, and huddling in my room to eat.

  No way I had the strength to do all that.

  I needed protein. Immediately.

  So I forced myself to go in.

  The diner hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been there. Red vinyl booths, a long counter, a revolving pie case. There was no hostess, and all the tables were full.

  I took a stool at the counter and reached for a menu. I could feel people staring at me, but I pretended I had the restaurant to myself. Oh, I was a cool one, all right. Unless you counted a tendency to boink Tristan McCullough on a pool table with little or no provocation.

  “Help you, honey?”

  I looked up from the menu and met the kindly eyes of an aging waitress. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I didn’t recognize her name, even when I read it off the little tag on her uniform.

  Florence.

  “I’ll take the meat loaf special,” I said, looking neither to the left nor right. “And a diet cola. Large.”

  “Comin’ right up,” Florence assured me, and smiled again.

  I relaxed a little. At least there was one person in Parable who didn’t think I ought to be tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail. Make that two—Nancy Beeks, over at the Lakeside, had been friendly enough.

  The little bell over the door tinkled as someone entered, and the diner chatter died an instant death. I knew without turning around that Tristan had just walked in, because every nerve in my body leaped to instinctual attention.

  Damn him. He wasn’t going to leave me alone. He’d gotten past my well-maintained defenses without breaking a sweat. He’d made love to me in an empty tavern. What more did he have to prove?

  He took the stool next to mine, reached casually for a menu. He’d showered, too, I saw out of the corner of my eye, and put on fresh clothes—Levi’s and a blue chambray shirt. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, without looking my way.

  “Like it’s a surprise,” I retorted.

  Florence set my diet cola down, along with clean silverware. “That special will be ready in a minute, sweetie,” she told me, before turning her attention to Tristan. “Hey, there, handsome. You stepping out on me, all slicked up like that?” she teased.

  To my satisfaction, color pulsed in Tristan’s neck. “Would I do that to you, Flo?”

  She laughed. “Probably,” she said. “Who’s the lucky gal?”

  “You wouldn’t know her,” he replied, smooth as could be. “The meat loaf sounds good. I’ll have that, and a chocolate milk shake.”

  Flo glanced at me, then looked at Tristan again. Somehow, she’d connected the dots. She smiled broadly and went off to give the order to the fry cook.

  “How long are you going to be in town?” Tristan still wasn’t looking at me, but I figured he wasn’t asking the customer on the other side of him. The man had the look of a longtime resident.

  “As long as it takes to finalize the sale of the Bronco,” I answered, because I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone until I did. Tristan was a hard man to ignore. The reference to the tavern made me squirm, though, because I couldn’t help remembering how many orgasms I’d had, and how fiercely intense they’d been. I hadn’t exactly kept them to myself.

  “Shouldn’t be long,” he said, still staring straight ahead, as if he’d taken a deep interest in the milk shake machine, already churning up his order. “The other owners are eager to sell, and the buyer is ready to make
out a check.”

  “Good,” I replied, and took a sip of my diet cola. At the moment, I wished it would turn into a double martini. I could have used the anesthetic effect.

  He turned his stool ever so slightly in my direction, but there was still no eye contact. Like everybody in the diner didn’t know we were talking. “I suppose you’ve talked to Bob by now,” he said.

  Bob was in my dresser drawer, under four pairs of panties. “Of course,” I said lightly. “Bob and I are honest with each other.”

  “Right. By now, he’s probably on his way here to punch me in the mouth.”

  “Bob isn’t that sort of man.” Bob, of course, wasn’t any sort of man.

  “I’d do it, if I were him.”

  I smiled to myself, though I was shaken, and there was that peculiar tightening in the pit of my stomach again. “He’s not the violent type,” I said.

  Flo set my plate of meat loaf down in front of me. Hunger had driven me to that diner, but now I had no appetite at all. Because I knew Tristan and everybody else in the place would make something of it if I paid my bill and left without taking a bite, I picked up my fork.

  “And I am?” Tristan asked tersely.

  “You said it yourself,” I replied, with a lightness I didn’t feel. I put a piece of meat loaf into my mouth, chewed and swallowed, before going on. “If you were in Bob’s place, you’d punch him in the mouth.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “I told you,” I answered smoothly. “He’s in electronics. Mostly, though, he just concentrates on keeping me happy.”

  “I’ll just bet he does.”

  I wanted to laugh. I ate more meat loaf instead.

  Tristan looked annoyed. His voice was an edgy whisper. “What kind of man doesn’t mind when somebody else boinks his woman?”

  “Bob gets a charge out of things like that,” I said. It wasn’t the complete truth. I didn’t have to plug him into the wall like I did my cell phone. He ran on Duracells.

  “I can’t believe you’d settle for a man like that,” Tristan snarled. He glowered at Flo when she brought his milk shake and silverware, and she retreated quickly, though she was grinning a little. “Don’t you have any pride?”