Knotted

by Pam Godwin

  Being rejected by every person I ever loved started a vicious cycle of self-hatred. Until I realized the best revenge is to put all my efforts into me instead of dwelling on them.

  Dalton Cassidy’s funeral came and went. I didn’t attend. There’s an inheritance, but I left it up to Lorne to handle the legalities from prison. Maybe someday, I can use the money and my future salary to buy the entire ranch. Right now, I just need to focus on succeeding.

  I’m running full speed toward my future.

  The all-work-no-play mindset works great for expediting my college career, but it’s detrimental to other aspects of my life.

  Like new relationships. Or lack thereof.

  I’ve had no contact with Jake or Jarret. No visits with Lorne. No friendships or boyfriends or lovers. I live in a college dorm and share a room with a quiet girl I never talk to. When guys approach me, I morph into a stiff, voiceless idiot. I’ve retreated so deeply into my work I don’t know how to interact with people.

  Yet here I am, at the biggest field party in four states, subjecting my lungs to the smoke, beer, and hormonal stench of hundreds of college kids.

  The secluded field on the outskirts of town is where OSU students go to watch boobs bounce on a dirt dance floor, drink more than their stomachs can hold, stumble around in the dark, pick fights with cowboys, and puke on other people’s boots.

  But that’s not why I’ve been coming to this field party every Saturday night for the past six months.

  I’m driven by an unshakable, deeply-rooted, screwed-up fascination with sex.

  Three years ago, my body was used in unthinkable ways, but that wasn’t sex. It was brutality. I’ve never had real sex. Not the kind that involves mutual participation and trust. Not the skin-heating, orgasm-inducing, elusive kind I hungered for with Jake Holsten.

  Jake.

  That’s where I’m stuck.

  Sex is so heavily knotted around my memories of him it’s become a trigger-happy panic attack waiting to happen. My conflicted feelings for him, his betrayal, the ravine… I keep that shit locked down. Until someone grips my wrist, crowds my back, or simply catches me unprepared. Then it all heaves from my hyperventilating lungs.

  I can tackle the day-to-day monotony of schoolwork without feeling anything. But the moment I’m with a guy, my body turns into a field of land mines. One wrong touch, and boom.

  I’m not looking for a boyfriend or attachments. I just want to unstick the celibate part of my routine, without resurrecting all the things that have gone to hell in my life.

  Kick It In The Sticks by Brantley Gilbert thumps deep and loud in my chest as I press through the throng of smoke-soaked flannels and cowboy hats. I have no idea who throws these parties or if the land owner even knows about them, but they happen every weekend, all year long, even when it snows.

  There’s no snow tonight, but it’s cold enough for coats and gloves. A roaring bonfire emits a blanket of heat and embellishes the wilderness ambiance.

  The linchpin of these parties, however, is the pickup truck. Not the trucks hauling in kegs of beer with a dozen under-aged drinkers hanging out of the cab. I mean, those are clearly important. But the truck everyone gravitates to is the one with the massive sound system of speakers and electronics stacked in the bed. An obscenely long extension cord snakes from the truck to some unseen power source near the barn.

  The barn.

  That’s where I’m headed.

  The washed-out, abandoned outbuilding seems to exist only so that OSU students have a place to fuck in private. The lack of lighting obscures the interior in blackness, and the blaring music penetrates the thin walls, making it impossible to talk over the noise.

  There’s a tantalizing sort of mystery in that. Without sight and voice, the senses narrow to the caress of hands on skin, the taste of lips, the warmth of breath, and the languid circulation of lust sliding through veins.

  I want that. I ache to be consumed by the attentive, tactile sensation of a body against mine.

  Last month, I actually made it through the doorway of the barn with a guy. But the moment he pressed my chest against the wall and put his weight on my back, my slumbering demons raised their ugly heads. The meltdown that followed trapped me in a vortex of fucked-up memories, and the poor guy couldn’t run away fast enough.

  The danger with intimacy lies in my triggers. A hand on my wrist, a chest against my back, the smell of whiskey—these are the trip wires I’ve identified. I know there are others.

  I maneuver through the congestion of body heat, sidestepping wandering hands. The drinking and dancing is in full force. Arms in the air. Plastic cups foaming over and spilling. Hungry eyes shifting in my direction, tracking my movements.

  A crook of my lips would be the only invitation they need. Any one of these guys would follow me to the barn. But he must be the right one. Someone who can navigate around my triggers. A man who can quiet my panic attacks and bring me back from the darkness. Or join me there.

  Keeping my arms tucked prevents grabby hands from setting me off. But as I move among them, they still reach. I dodge fingers, avoid eye contact, and step into the path of a grinning cowboy.

  He says something, but the deafening music swallows his voice. His gaze dips, following the protocol to check out everything below my face. Then he smiles to the full extent of his jaws.

  No thanks.

  I walk past him, bumping into writhing bodies. The flow of the crowd spins me around, surrounding me on all sides with the signs of male interest—raised eyebrows, dilated pupils, licking lips, and lingering looks that say, I want to put my hands all over you.

  Then I see him.

  Twenty feet away, he stands in the doorway of the barn, tall and confident and…

  Jake?

  He has Jake’s towering height, the broad width of his chest, and the same disarming presence. Is he staring at me?

  Shadows hide his face beneath the low rim of a baseball cap. A black biker jacket and fingerless gloves ward off the cold. Skinny jeans outline his muscled thighs, and… Canvas shoes?

  No, not Jake. He wouldn’t be caught dead in those clothes. Not to mention the hair peeking out beneath the sides of the cap. It’s too long, too black, and too curly. Definitely not Jake.

  That’s good. Seeing him here would really put a damper on my night. But I like that this guy looks like Jake. The familiarity in his build ignites a thrill low in my belly. I also like that he’s not grabbing and leering and all up in my personal space.

  He remains rooted to the spot, watching me. At least, I think he’s watching me?

  I step closer, and he doesn’t turn away.

  Lift your face to the firelight. Come on, I want to see your eyes.

  I put my hand up, offering a wave of greeting, without waving.

  His arm rises, mimicking my gesture.

  Oh God, he’s definitely looking at me. Looking and waiting.

  My heart buzzes a hypnotic rhythm in my chest, and my nipples tighten. The field dims, and my mind slips into a fugue state, where there’s no music. No rowdy laughter. It’s just me and this man and the possibility of sex.

  He backs into the inky depths of the barn, beckoning me without lifting a hand.

  My square toe boots kick up dust in my hurry toward the entrance. Will he grab me the second I step inside?

  I hold my gloved hands low and close to my body, protecting my wrists as I slip through the crack in the door.

  Darkness.

  It closes in around me, shuddering with hunger and luring me deeper into its fold.

  No amount of blinking adjusts my eyes to the blackness, and the reverberation of music hammers so loudly I can’t hear myself breathe. If I scream, no one will catch the sound. If a panic attack rises, no one will know. The thought empowers me.

  I blindly feel my way through the murk, toeing my boots across the dirt floor. My shoulder brushes a back. My hand grazes a leg.

  The darkness bends and undulates with
people at various heights and positions. Rocking against the walls, kneeling on the ground, sprawling, sitting, straddling—the unviewable landscape heightens my senses. Faceless, nameless sex thickens the air and presses against my skin, intensifying the temptation. The anticipation.

  Where is he?

  When I reach the rear wall, I lean my back against it, remove my gloves, and tuck my hands behind me. Uncertainty careens my pulse against my jugular, and my teeth saw the inside of my cheek.

  He doesn’t make me suffer long.

  The blast of music drowns out his footsteps, but I feel him. His heat. The power in his body. The persuasion in it.

  I should be afraid. Petrified. Adrenaline courses through my nervous system. Tremors hijack my limbs. But it’s not fear. It’s relief. Like a release valve is turning inside me, letting off the steam of pressurized energy.

  Warm fingers brush my jaw, and every muscle in my body tenses. His gloved palm rests against my throat, the leather stiff and hard like his coat. I touch the sleeve, stroking the shape to feel the muscle beneath.

  Strong forearms, imposing height, patient hands… Without my sight, he could almost be Jake.

  I don’t want that.

  Except I do.

  I haven’t seen Jake in over a year. Haven’t touched him in three years. All I have is memories, and the sharpest ones aren’t tender.

  The caress along my neck pulls me back to the stranger. He’s probably ugly as sin with an oversized nose and a face covered in pimples. I don’t care what he looks like, but suspicion lifts my hand.

  When my fingers connect with smooth skin and a sculpted jawline, I imagine Jake’s mouth, his brown eyes, and the alluring smile that brightens every gorgeous feature.

  Stop it.

  I slide my touch to the man’s cheek, and he catches my fingers. Not my wrists. Just the tips of my nails, like he knows exactly where to grip me.

  He’s probably seen me at this party before. Probably witnessed what happens when someone grabs my arm in the crowd.

  Lowering my hands, he guides them to his narrow hips and adds pressure. A silent command to hold on.

  The heat of his breath signals his nearness. When the rim of the baseball cap bumps my brow, he rotates it backward and cups my face.

  Is he trying to see me in the dark? Is he speaking or smiling or glaring? The booming music pulses through us, drowning out the rush of my breaths and whatever sounds might be passing his lips.

  How strange to engage a man without eye contact or conversation, but it’s better this way. It’s intimate, without making it personal.

  His exhale feathers my face, and velvety lips find my skin. Soft and warm, they kiss a path along my jaw, my cheek, dipping down to taste my neck. My pulse careens out of control, and I sway beneath a head rush of euphoria.

  He pushes the coat off my shoulders, and his mouth continues its seductive hunt along my collarbone, nudging aside the neckline of my shirt to lick my skin.

  My nails bite into his hips, slipping beneath his waistband, and he releases an intoxicating huff. Then he works his way back up, his lips opening against my throat. His breath rasps out as the ardent flicker of his tongue teases my flesh.

  I shiver all over and pull him closer. The hard length of him pushes against my stomach, and a tingling burn ignites deep inside. He presses against me again. And again. Then his mouth seals over mine, devouring my gasp.

  I wrestle with the next breath, because holy fuck, it’s been so long since I’ve been kissed.

  His tongue sweeps past my lips, and I flounder against him, groping at his waistband in the dark. He tastes like cigarettes, cloves, and other non-Jake things. Same dominating control, though. He invades my mouth with possessive flicks, piloting my movements and swallowing my moans.

  God, he’s good. I’ve only ever kissed one other man, but this one… This one powers his way through me, demanding I feel his kiss in the curl of my toes, the waver in my knees, and the tight, hard throb between my legs. By the time he releases me, I’m swaying unsteadily and panting with unquenched desire.

  His hands rove downward, sliding off my coat and letting it drop to the ground. His touch continues, rubbing and exploring over my clothes as he lowers to a crouch. Then he removes my boots. Jeans. Panties.

  The absence of light shrouds my nudity, but I feel chillingly exposed. It’s just the cold air nipping at my skin. And maybe my battling nerves.

  With his hips out of reach, I grasp at his neck. His hair is so short on the back of his head it feels like stubble beneath the rim of the cap. I find the loose curls that fell free and try to picture his hair style. Shaved underneath and long on top? The curls are so thick and coarse, so different from Jake’s soft, stick-straight hair.

  He rests his hands on the backs of my legs and caresses upward, leaving a trail of goosebumps and fire. Pressing closer, his nose grazes my bare pussy. Closer still, and he buries his face, drawing in a slow, deep breath. Smelling me. Then he licks.

  My mind shuts off, and I just…feel. His mouth, his fingers, the diabolical swirl of his tongue inside me… My God, I shake so badly I can barely remain upright.

  His breaths come harder, faster, setting the feverish pace of mine. The leather of his fingerless gloves abrades my inner thighs as he thrusts long digits inside me, and thrusts, and thrusts, sucking and kissing with those sinful lips.

  I ache to come, and that overbearing necessity stretches and tightens my nerves to the point of frustration. He continues to lick, and I continue to reach for that blissful edge.

  He eats the fuck out of my pussy for an eternity, but the orgasm slips away.

  It’s not him. I just… I can’t get there.

  He’s not Jake.

  Rising to his feet, he places a foil wrapper in my hand. I bend my fingers around it. A condom.

  I bet he assumes this is a regular thing for me. If he only knew I’ve never held a condom, let alone rolled one on a dick.

  “You want me to do this?” I shout, fully aware he can’t hear me over the raucous music.

  He leans in, pushing his chest against mine, and bites my earlobe. That’s when I feel just how fast and labored his breathing has become. Sweet Jesus, he’s worked up, wildly turned on, and damn if that doesn’t burst my skin into flames.

  His hands move between us, releasing his fly and shoving down his jeans. Then he grips my hand, the one holding the condom, and guides it to his cock.

  A thundering ache sparks in my chest. My throat seals up, and my mouth goes dry.

  I touch him, the broad, very smooth tip of him. I follow the flared ridge, the silky length, and pause at the patch of coarse hair. It feels like dick. A hard, twitchy, fully engorged cock. What now?

  He plucks the wrapper from my hand, tears it open with his teeth, and notches it on the end of his length. Sliding his fingers around mine, he uses our combined grip to roll it on.

  Wow, that’s hot. And reassuring. It’s as if he’s trying to make me feel safe, like he’s telling me he’ll take care of me.

  This is how sex is supposed to be. Respectful. Healthy. Willing.

  He presses his lips against my cheek, and his mouth moves, saying words that are slapped away by the pounding ruckus.

  His hands grip my thighs, lifting, spreading, as he pins my back against the wall. Then he’s on me, his body shaking and hard, his hips stretching my legs wider, and his breaths panting against my neck.

  I wrap my arms around his back, my nerve endings screaming and squirming and alive. I’m alive. And ready. So fucking ready.

  His fingers squeeze my thigh, and he drives against me, rocking, grinding, seeking entry with uncontrolled, frantic thrusts. Then he finds it, my wet needy hole, and impales me in one hard, powerful thrust.

  My spine bows from the force of it, and I swear I hear a “Fuck!” roar from his lips.

  He pulls out slowly and lunges again. Over and over, he doesn’t hold back. His teeth find my shoulder. My hands scratch the back of hi
s leather jacket, cleaving to him as he stretches me, fills me, and uses me in the best way possible.

  My thighs clamp around his driving hips. My hard nipples scrape against my bra. I want him deeper. Need him faster. I buck my hips, and he bucks his, his movements fitful, slowing with erratic jerks. Then he buries himself to the root and stops.

  His body sags against me, and his relieved breaths chop at my ear.

  He came.

  It’s over.

  He lowers my feet to the dirt, quickly puts himself back together, and gathers my clothes. As he dresses me, I feel things, too many things, and I have neither the desire nor the ability to analyze them.

  After he zips and straightens my clothes, he kisses my neck, my cheek, then my mouth. That last touch is brief, just a brush of lips, but there’s something in it. Something strained. I don’t want to analyze that, either.

  He hands me my boots and steps back. His presence, his hard heat, all of him retreats into the darkness.

  “Wait!” I shove on the boots, and my eyes shift to the door as it cracks open and closes.

  I race through the barn, tripping over clothes and shoes and colliding with half-dressed bodies. It takes too long to reach the exit, and when I burst into the open air, the overwhelming blast of music disorientates me.

  I rub my eyes and search the crowd, the field, the bonfire. Where did he go? I spin in a circle, scanning the perimeter, looking for a baseball cap in the sea of Stetsons.

  He’s gone.

  Dammit, I just wanted a name. A face. A smile.

  A connection.

  But he walked away, threw the match over his shoulder, and burnt that bridge.

  What did I expect? I fucked a stranger in the dark at a field party. People do it all the time.

  But I’m not people. I’m not normal.

  I leave the party and head back to town on the motorcycle. With my ear buds in and the music cranked up, I drown myself in the lyrics of Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars.

  It’s such a remorseful song, but I can’t help it. I’m feeling things, overwhelming things that I can’t hold in.

  Maybe the sex awoke the parts of my psyche I buried on my sixteenth birthday. Maybe the stranger’s dismissal roused the shit I abandoned in Chicago. Maybe it has nothing to do with Dalton and the ravine and everything to do with the girl I left on the side of the road a year ago.