A Field Guide To Catching Crickets: ( a sexy second chance tearjerker romance )

by Unknown

  “Sloan… Jesus.” He picks my feet up and places them up on the mattress. “You’re really wet.” He glides a finger down my pubic strip, straight through my wet folds, then inside me.

  I moan out a throaty sound at his touch. I’m not on display, performing. This is safe, and I’m okay now. He slides another finger inside me, and I tighten around him as he fucks me. Then he pulls his fingers out and licks them from his palm to his tips.

  “My favorite taste,” he says as he leans over my body, caging me with his arms. “It’s sexy watching you touch your pussy, listening to you, watching that blush grow up your neck.” He grins then fingers my bra straps and lowers them down. “Better. I’ve always loved your perfect, little tits.” He licks from nipple to nipple as I arch my back toward his wet mouth.

  “Can you come like this?” he asks in a low groan at the edge of my ear. “Can you come rubbing yourself, or shall I—”

  “You can do anything you want to help me out.” I’m thinking tongue.

  Maybe he is too. Then I remember I haven’t showered.

  “What would help you? Anything specific?”

  “Um…”

  I want you to go down on me, except I’m sweaty and terrified I reek. Every girl’s oral sex nightmare.

  Though the way he moves down there and settles in says something entirely different. I actually hold my breath until his tongue starts sliding over me.

  He spreads me open, and licks me with a soft tongue. “I fucking love eating you,” he says as though he’s at a five-star restaurant.

  I giggle a little in relief. “Yeah, so, it’s okay, then? I mean…you know?” I roll my eyes.

  “No, it’s not okay,” he says, penetrating me with two fingers as his eyes flash up to mine. “It’s gorgeous and delicious. You are, Cricket. Every bit of you is.”

  His open, wet mouth surrounds my clit, his tongue working magically over it. And, with that, I lay my head back and let him go to town. He becomes the mayor of my town in seconds—might have found a new borough or two.

  “How about I take you out for a nice dinner? We have tons of great little places close by. We can walk and I can show you around your new neighborhood.”

  Sloan’s brushing her teeth post-shower. I’m sitting on the long, marble vanity in her bathroom, taking pleasure in every little thing she’s doing. I could be sitting on her rooftop deck, enjoying the view with a beer while she gets ready, but this is more of what I need. We need. Time. Any amount of time I can get with her. Sort of like the more I’m with her, the less it’ll feel like we were ever apart. Making up for lost time is one of my missions, that and getting her to trust me with her past and my current scenario. She holds up one finger then spits out a mouthful of toothpaste. “Yeah. Sounds great.”

  In the bathtub, School Bus is playing in the water. How that little rascal manages to flip over and swim the way she does blows my mind.

  “A buddy of mine has a great local bistro. You like that kind of food?”

  “Kind of funny that you don’t know everything I like anymore, isn’t it?”

  “Well, that’s why we’re dating, so I can find out all sorts of things about you. And you about me.”

  “Dating? Aren’t we fancy, labeling ourselves?” she says, a coy smile on her face as she looks at my reflection in the mirror. “Is that what we’re doing?” She picks her hairbrush up then rakes it through her wet, glossy locks.

  “What would you call it?”

  She sets her hairbrush down then takes one step toward me and settles herself between my legs. “I don’t know. Dating?”

  “What don’t you know?” I ask as I lift her chin and gaze into her eyes. “You know you like being with me. You know I adore you. Would you like it if we called it something else?”

  We both smile. Mine is most definitely saying, You’re fucking kidding, right? Hers is saying, Well, that’s a damn good question.

  “Is it because saying you date a ‘porn star’ makes you feel weird?” I finger-quote porn star. “Can you say those words? ‘My boyfriend is a porn star’?”

  “Wouldn’t I be saying, ‘My boyfriend is the most “famous” porn star in the world’?” She finger-quotes famous.

  “I’d rather you say, ‘My boyfriend is the filthiest best fuck ever.’”

  She sits on the edge of the tub, throws her feet in the water, and School Bus swims onto her as though she’s an island.

  “And that would be the truth.” She giggles, waggling her eyebrows at me.

  “Damn right it would.”

  She gazes at me with a disarming stare that makes me want to photograph her and frame it.

  “Get dressed,” I say as I scoop the duckling out of the water. “Let’s continue this over cocktails. I have more to say on the topic.” I grab the towel she’s wrapped in then snap it across her bare ass.

  “Yeeouch!” She smirks. “Are you going to give me some sort of multiple choice?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  A. We’re dating.

  B. We’re getting engaged.

  C. I’m marrying you in Vegas.

  D. All of the above.

  Now to explain to her that there’s no difference in my mind between love and promise. Unless, to her, it means something else these days, which it might. Maybe there really is some of me wrapped up in that pound of pain she’s carrying around. Maybe I’m hidden in the shadow of it. Or maybe I’m at the core of it.

  One thing’s for sure: I’ll be finding out soon. I won’t push. I’ll let her deliver it, but I will find out.

  The bistro is walking distance from Sloan’s house. We settle into a back corner of the dark, modern, main dining room and order drinks.

  “You are looking very red-carpet gorgeous tonight.”

  She cracks a smile that hits my gut. How one girl scooped up that much sparkle might be a whodunit to everyone else, but not to me. I’ve always known this about her. She managed to change the trajectory of my life with her mammoth shine.

  “You’re staring, and you have a very goofy look on your face.”

  “Cricket, hear me out.” I pause when the waiter stops by and delivers our cocktails.

  “Cheers,” she says. We clink glasses. “Now, what am I hearing you out on?” She takes a sip of her drink.

  “I want to get back to this dating thing. I hope you were joking around. But I’m guessing you think it’s too early for any sort of bigger promises. Is that it?”

  “What do you mean by promises? Like a lifetime sort of thing?”

  “Something like that. Too much too soon? I’m swinging big. This isn’t one of those we-just-met things. I know you, you know me.”

  “You sure you don’t want to wait on that conversation?” she says, squinting at me. Apparently she wants to wait.

  “Simmer down. I’m just asking you to be with me…and no one else.”

  She snorts out a laugh as she smacks her leg with an open palm. “While you merrily screw people all day long?”

  “So my career choice is bugging you?”

  “I want to be with you. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. But, you do fuck for a living,” she answers.

  “Let me ask you this: Would you rather I only produce? Level with me. I’m trying to lay my cards on the table. I’m good with jumping right back in where we left off. I’ve tried living in a world without you, it was hell. I want one thing in my life right now. You. I’m at the top of my game. My bank account has more zeros in it than I’ll ever need. You say the word—you want me to step aside and just produce, I’ll do that. I’m looking for one Hail Mary here. You.”

  Her mouth drops open and she shakes her head. “I don’t want you to change your entire life because I’m back in it.”

  Tiptoeing my fingers to hers, we hook pinkies. “You already have, just tell me what you want and I’ll do it. Anything for you.”

  She answers me with silence. I let out a gruff-sounding sigh then finish off my drink and sig
nal the waiter for another round. Sloan cups her face with both hands as she leans on the table.

  “I have boxes and boxes of things that mean a lot to me. Boxes of memories, boxes of loss…or, I suppose, collections linked to loss. Collections that hold all sorts of meaning. Maybe I can show you sometime,” she says, a far-off look in her eyes.

  “What about boxes of hope and desire? Got any of those sitting around?”

  “You’re very castle-in-the-sky, aren’t you?” She slowly blinks with a smile that wants to cry.

  “Damn right I am.”

  She scrutinizes my face with a squint and says, “Tell me. How’d you start your career? What was it?”

  I marvel at the way she’s switching topics. Jumping all over the place. Avoidance is all I can think. But I go along with her.

  “Let’s just say I’m a fine specimen of breeding and my cock was God’s way of informing my career choice.” I wink and laugh.

  “You’re obscene. I need a better answer.”

  “Fine. I quit film school upon my parents’ urging then decided to shoot some edgy stuff with a girl I was good friends with. We were just sort of fucking around, but it turned out to be pretty cool footage.”

  “Must have been a really good friend,” she says, twirling her hair around a finger. “I wish we had been shooting together like we always talked about.”

  “We still can—we can make all kinds of films.” Her eyes hold a puzzle as they waver from mine. One part pain that is evident and one part who the hell knows what.

  She toys with the ice in her drink, nodding as though she’s thinking things over. “I feel so much for you. I hope you know that.” She looks up with wet eyes.

  “Feel…how?”

  “Big.” Her gaze dips to her lap.

  My God, she’s struggling with something. Me, obviously, but there’s more.

  “Big love and feelings, and I know you might want to strangle me sometimes. Be patient, okay?”

  “Ten years, Cricket. I’d say patience is my middle name.”

  We order our dinner, and the bistro fills with noisy chatter. Neither of us says anything for long seconds after the waitress leaves. I move my chair closer to Sloan’s hoping to break down some of the awkwardness between us.

  “Sloan McQueen, we are having dinner out. This is incredible, can’t say I ever saw this coming.”

  She presses two fingers to her forehead and gazes over my shoulder. “There’s a woman staring at you, you might want to say hello.”

  “Ignore it.” I snatch her wrist in my hand and glide my thumb over her line of tattoos. “Just ignore her.”

  “Maybe she’s someone you know,” she says, pulling her arm away and gripping the back of her neck.

  “And maybe she’s not. I’m with you, not her. Speaking of you, not to be pushy, but that awards ceremony in Las Vegas is coming up soon.”

  “Already? So you want me to—”

  “Be my date. Would you?”

  “Las Vegas,” she says, nervous laughter escaping her. “You’re not trying to trick me into anything, are you?”

  Her question spars with my heart. Of course that’s crossed my mind—only about fifty times since I asked her to join me for the ceremony. Is that so wrong? Is a few weeks enough time to secure a promise from her? I want to believe that it is. A lifetime and a few weeks.

  “Okay, you got me. Shit. That is exactly what I’d like to do.”

  “Very funny,” she says, as she shifts in her chair and pushes away from the table, and me.

  Gripping the edge of her chair, I slide it toward me. “I guess I can do Vegas,” she says quietly. “You did say this was the Oscars of the industry, right?”

  “And then some. I’ll book us a penthouse. You’ll look gorgeous pressed against a glass wall overlooking the city,” I say at the edge of her ear.

  “Yeah, I figured this wasn’t going to be an adjoining-rooms situation.”

  “Cricket, the only thing that’ll be adjoining is our hips.”

  A tap lands on my shoulder. “Hawke?”

  I turn my head to see my agent, Samantha, a step from our table.

  “Sam. Hey, gorgeous. Sloan, this is my good friend and agent, Samantha.”

  Sloan stands and shakes Sam’s hand. “Hey, Samantha. It’s nice to meet you.” Her eyes are full of questions. “Are you a Silver Lake resident as well?”

  Sam chuckles then laces her arm in mine. “Long-time resident and next-door neighbor to this one,” she says, pointing at me.

  “Oh, neighbors.” Sloan half-smiles as a blush rises in her face. “Nice. I just moved to the area.”

  “Oh, you’ll love it,” Sam says, her eyes sparkling. “We’ll do a barbeque at my place and introduce you to everyone. There are so many cool people who live around here.” She looks across the room. “I gotta run, guys. My date is going to think I ditched him.”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” I ask.

  “Hollyn Lynch.”

  “Seriously?”

  “All right, save it.” Sam laughs as she rolls her eyes at me. “Sloan,” she says, reaching her hand out. “I look forward to seeing you again. Watch out for Mr. Smartass here.”

  “Says the risk taker,” I chide after giving her a kiss on her cheek. “Later.”

  Sloan avoids my gaze as the waitress delivers food seconds after Sam leaves.

  “Hey, what’s up? You look like you just got sucker punched.”

  She fidgets with her napkin then nibbles on a french fry.

  “So she’s the agent you dated, then?”

  “Yeah, we did date.”

  She nods along with a shaky exhale. “Is this what it’s going to be like?”

  “What does that mean?” I know what she means.

  “Is every woman we run into going to be someone you’ve fucked, and have a video of on your website?” She forms a fist and places her chin on it while studying me.

  “Wow, that’s a little whiplash feeling.” I scratch my jaw and take a second, not wanting to jump all over her. “I do this for a living. And I have not fucked every woman I know.”

  “Oh yeah?” She clears her throat as her eyebrows shoot up. “Do you have any female friends you haven’t?”

  I throw my hands up, then run them through my hair. “What is this, a witch hunt?”

  “Answer the question!” Her voice cuts through the air. Sharp. Stinging.

  “I don’t know, no.” I pinch between my eyebrows.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  Brushing my fingers along her arm I say, “I’ve already told you I would change things for you.”

  “You can’t change what’s already been done. I mean, who you’ve done.”

  She picks up her hamburger and takes a giant bite. What’s been done, who you’ve done? Was that directed at me or herself?

  “Christ, did Sam set you off that much?”

  She swallows, shrugging. “Sorry, I just, I don’t know…this whole thing is, well, I have some adjusting to do, if we’re going to be together.”

  “How did our night go from we’re dating to if we’re dating? Are you drunk or jealous? Or both?”

  “I’d like to see any woman in my position not get a little weirded out.”

  “The only position you should be getting weirded out by are the ones we haven’t gotten to yet.”

  “Good, Hawke, make light of it. Yes, let’s talk about more sex.”

  “I’ll talk about whatever you want. Be my guest, steer the conversation.” I cut into my steak, taking aggression out on it.

  “So, who’s the guy? Sam’s date? You seemed really surprised when she said his name.”

  “Hollyn Lynch. He’s a big-deal, loaded producer, filmmaker, player, and overall prick. He camps out in Europe, it’s not often he’s seen in LA. Word is there’s some shitty stuff in his past. He avoids the glare by keeping a low profile. Sam can handle him. I’m just a little surprised she’s out with him. She usually steers clear of the playe
r types. And criminals.”

  “Is that why she dated you? You were never a player type or a criminal?”

  “Me?” I laugh as I scoot Sloan’s chair closer to mine. Again. “I might be criminal, but I’m not a player.”

  “Kind of funny, isn’t it? Players wanting all that no-strings stuff, and here you sit. You’ve got it made. You get all the sex and none of the attachment issues.”

  “Ouch. I do have one attachment issue. The one in front of me who seems to have her fucking undies in a twist. I think we’re kind of going in circles all of a sudden. What’s going on?”

  I have to wonder who I am in love with: the idea of who we were or the prospect of who we could be. And what exactly is that besides a rollercoaster ride?

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to fight,” I say, groaning into my hands. Worry about telling Hawke the second part of my story hacks like a dagger around my stomach.

  He cuts his steak as if he’s gutting a deer. After chewing and swallowing a bite, he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well you have a funny way of showing it.”

  I wouldn’t say I’m the jealous type. Though his career choice isn’t going to make the two of us moving forward in a healthy relationship any easier.

  The rest of our dinner is quiet and a little on edge. Hawke pays the check, and we agree to make our way back to my place to check in on School Bus. After we peek at the squeaker, Hawke pulls me into a hug. Everything inside me relaxes.

  “You doing okay? I don’t want our night to be done quite yet. Come over?” Hawke gathers my hand in his and kisses my palm.

  “I’m fine. I don’t want it to be over either, a nightcap at your place sounds nice. Plus I’m dying to see how you live.”

  Walking the streets with Hawke as he points out his friends’ homes, all the while holding my hand, takes me back to trick-or-treating with him eons ago. I’ll never forget how protective he was, crossing the streets while gripping my arm, waiting for me at every turn. It’s funny to look at him now, to notice the things that are the same and the things that have changed. I wonder if he sees those things in me. In my smile, the way I lift my eyebrows, my gestures? Is there still some of that girl in me?