“No, no, they definitely don’t. Nobody wants to hear that he was the smartest, hottest man in the entire galaxy, and he took me to the edge a thousand times before—”
“Easy Pebbles, Bam-Bam might whip out his brontosaurus burger right here and—”
“Oh for God’s sake, are you ever going to let that go? The outfit wasn’t that slutty, geez. I’m sure you’ve seen much worse,” she argues.
“First of all, not from someone like you. Secondly, I like ‘Pebbles.’ It’s perfect for you,” I admit.
“What does that even mean, Dre, ‘someone like me,’ huh?”
“It means, good girls, classy girls, girls worth working for, don’t need to work so hard,” I explain. “What you already have works; you don’t need to try to make it work.”
“I don’t get you,” Kathryn says, staring at me like I’m a math problem with no solution. “One minute you’re kind and sensitive, the next minute, you’re chauvinistic, vague, and arrogant.”
“That’s me, a man of many faces—a mystery, an anomaly, a puzzle—”
“A walking thesaurus,” she laughs. “Easy there, your head might explode.
As we get in line for the carousel, I watch her as she watches the ride. Her eyes light up at an adorable little blonde girl, who’s squealing each time the horse rises and falls. Kathryn’s smile is infectious; I have this undeniable urge to make her smile like that—at me.
I feel a switch; I’m fighting something more than the urge to Bang and Bail. I feel like I could watch her all day long. I want to know what she thinks about, what her dreams are, what her childhood was like …
Son-of-a-bitch, I do not need this right now. There is no place in my life for feelings like this. Shit, I was doing so well, until she floated into my life, like an angel out of nowhere. Really? Am I about to bust out in tune, serenade her at the fair? God, get ahold of yourself, man.
Kathryn seriously takes forever choosing “the perfect horse.” She circles the carousel four times, before deciding on a white horse with a pink mane and golden reigns. “I couldn’t decide between this one and that yellow one,” she points, frowning between the two. “I want to ride both of them,” she says, climbing up on the white horse.
“Then we’ll ride it twice,” I offer, solving her dilemma. Kathryn smiles and kicks her feet back and forth. She’s so tiny; her feet don’t even hit the leather stirrups or the metals ones. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Let’s play a game,” I say. “This time, this ride, count how many times your horse goes up and down.”
“Okay … but why?” she asks.
“You’ll see … just wait,” I instruct. “Next time, count how many times the yellow horse goes around in circles.” She nods, and the ride slowly begins to move. Kathryn’s horse starts easing its way up and further away from me as my horse remains in place.
Smiling, she waves, and says, “three … four …” I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s beautiful, but adorable, sexy, but sophisticated, smart, but yet fun. I’m treading on very dangerous ground here, but have no intentions of trying to get out. Not one part of me wants to bail—bang yeah—bail, no. My purpose has switched; the change is in motion. Shit that was fast. All I want, all I can see is Kathryn Howell.
The ride comes to a stop, and she giggles and says, “26 times. It went up and down 26 times.” Quickly, she runs to the yellow horse and jumps on.
I walk over to the yellow horse, and swing my leg up on the back of the horse, sliding down into the seat against her back. Slowly, I wrap my arms around her, trying to gauge her comfort-level. I don’t want to do anything she doesn’t want me to do.
I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “This is the horse I wanted.”
Kathryn turns around, grins, and says, “Then hold on tight … it’s going to be an incredible ride.”
Every time I think I’m going to weaken her knees and make her melt, she counters with something more knee-weakening and melting. I spend the entire ride trying to control the big-guy-in-my-pants. What? Like I’m going to refer to him as “little man” or “baby Dre.” Not going to happen.
With my arms around her and Kathryn sitting snugly between my legs, I feel like that adorable little blonde girl, like I’m on the greatest ride of my life. I’m pretty sure I am. Although Kathryn’s petite, it’s almost as if she was made to fit perfectly within my arms and legs. I can hear her counting, taking my game seriously. My thoughts are too heavy; I’ve got to lighten things up.
Suddenly, I jump up, standing on the back of the horse and start singing, “You spin me right round, baby, right round” as everyone stares and laughs. I’m horribly off key and loud as hell, but surprisingly not feeling the rush of embarrassment at all. This is who I want to be now.
Kathryn flips a leg around, sitting sidesaddle, and belts out, “Like a record baby …” We continue singing, destroying Dead or Alive’s hit, until the merry-go-round attendant comes over the speaker, admonishing us, instructing us to remain seated.
Once the carousel comes to a “complete and final stop,” I help Kathryn down off of her yellow horse, and she says, “Redundant much? ‘Complete and final stop.’ That’s stupid.”
As we step down off the platform, I take her hand in mine, interlocking her tiny fingers with mine. Kathryn doesn’t protest, but says, “Dead or Alive’s got nothing on us.”
“Hell no they don’t! We can sing about spinning while spinning,” I proclaim.
Sitting on a bench near the kiddie rides, Kathryn asks me, “So what’s the game?” She pulls her knees up and tucks them under her chin. She’s so small, I wonder if she’d fit in my pocket.
“Easy game, your horse went up and down 26 times; you have to tell me 26 things about yourself,” I announce.
“Oohh … I love it. Love talking about myself,” she giggles, adjusting her body to face me. “Hey wait, that’s why you sat on one of those stationary horses! No fair!”
“I can’t help it if you aren’t any good at this game,” I say, smirking at her.
“Whatever. Fine. Number one, my favorite color is yellow,” she states.
“Boring! I want good stuff. Not favorites,” I complain.
“Two. I hate coffee. Three. I don’t use profanity,” she reveals.
“Wait? What? You don’t cuss?” I ask, realizing that she must think I have the most vulgar mouth in the world.
“Not really. When it’s a must, I do. But normally, I just try not to,” she explains.
“But why?” This bit of information is crazy to me.
“I had a college professor who said that swearing breeds ignorance and lack of class. I thought about it for a while, and decided he was probably right. So, I’ve tried to quit,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “I do ‘think cuss’ though … a lot. I’ve got a potty brain.”
“Think cuss? What the fu—what the heck does ‘think cuss’ even mean?” I ask, correcting my language.
“Just because I don’t verbalize it, doesn’t mean I don’t think it,” she elaborates. “Four. My middle name is Denise.”
“Come on, Kathryn, give me the good stuff, not the stuff I can read on your Facebook page,” I pry. “Don’t be a coward.”
“Me? The coward? You sat on an invalid horse,” she points out.
“Touché. touché”
“Five. I’ve been in love once, maybe one and half times.” My eyebrows rise, questioning her on the half, but she doesn’t reveal anything further. “Six. I haven’t had sex in over 14 months—not that I’m counting.”
“Fourteen—”
Cutting me off, she continues, “Seven. My middle toes are my longest toes.”
I glance down, laughing that she has those silly knee socks and tennis shoes on. I reach down, grab her foot, and take off her shoes and socks. She’s right; her middle toes are her longest toes. I’ve never seen that before. I have to admit; it’s pretty ridiculous. Absent-mindedly, I start massaging her feet. Kathryn’
s eyes widen in surprise, but she makes no effort to remove her foot from my lap.
Winking at me, she says, “Eight. I have two tattoos.” I eye her carefully, looking for visible ink. Not finding any, my penis hardens. Shit.
“Nine. I want to write a book someday about my parents’ marriage.”
A book? Now that’s interesting. About her parents? That’s something I could never do—nor want to do. I sit listening to her continue to pepper me with little facts and tidbits about her life. With each number, I get more and more intrigued and interested in her. I listen intently to her likes, dislikes, funny idiosyncrasies, and I cannot get enough.
“And finally, number 26 … um … um … you’re the hottest guy who’s ever spoken to me,” she confesses, looking away from me.
“That doesn’t count! It’s about me,” I say, wiping my shoulder, feigning arrogance until she looks at me again. “That does not say one thing about you,” I argue.
“Actually Dre, you’re wrong. It says a lot about me,” Kathryn says sadly, dropping her eyes from my gaze.
At that point, my body takes over; I have no control over my actions. Pulling Kathryn closer to me, wrapping her one foot around me, I lean over and lift her chin, forcing her to look me in the eyes. When she does, my stomach flutters. Her eyes are stunning, dark and full of mystery, but also full of worry and hope.
I take a deep breath, and say, “Then those other guys don’t know what they’re missing.”
Kathryn smiles and closes her eyes. It’s beautiful the way she looks, almost as if she’s absorbing the compliment, letting it wash over her. When she opens her eyes again, I pull her close to me, and kiss her, lightly on the lips, praying for an invitation to deepen the kiss. Kathryn’s mouth opens more as my tongue finds hers. Pure bliss. I could never touch her again and know that I just experienced Heaven.
Kathryn wraps her arms around my neck, and teases the hair at the nape of my neck, sending chills down my spine and fire to my groin. I begin to kiss her jawline, working my way down her neck. She gasps as my tongue flicks the flesh behind her ear.
“And now, we’re done,” Kathryn says, standing abruptly. “Number 27. I’m not a big fan of public displays of affection.”
Kathryn bobs up and down on her toes, shaking her hands and arms back and forth. She looks like she’s warming up for a race. “I gotta hand it to you, Dre, that was one pretty good kiss,” she compliments. Kathryn bends over to put her shoe and sock on, and I’m awarded with an excellent view of her ass.
I stand up, wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her entire body back against mine, and whisper, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Kathryn’s breath catches. Then shoves back against me, and says, “Whatever Mick Jagger.”
“Mick—” I release her immediately, stepping back in astonishment. “Mick Jagger? Did you just confuse B.T.O. with Mick Jagger?” I turn from her, pretending to be disappointed.
Realizing her mistake, she says, “Oh my God, you’re right. B.T.O! How could I forget?”
“Seriously, you do something like that again, and you won’t ‘get no satisfaction,’ Miss Howell,” I threaten.
Laughing, Kathryn nods and says, “I’m terribly sorry … I’ve … I’ve seen the errors of my ways.”
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who’s Jose?” I ask.
“Jose? How do you know—”
“The day your battery died, you were leaving him a message,” I remind her.
“Oh, he’s a high school boy, who wants to be a writer. I’ve been helping him with his writing for about a year now. It’s kind of fun,” she explains with a glint in her eyes.
Kathryn and I start walking to the exit of the fair, when she says, “So what was the deal with counting the times the horse went around the merry-go-round? What does the six mean?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot! You get to ask me six questions,” I declare. “Go easy on me.”
Kathryn smiles and says, “Ooooh this game just got a lot better. Alright, what’s ‘Dre’ short for?”
“What a waste of a question!” I respond. “It’s not short for anything. My name’s just Dre.” I lie. “Wow that sucks for you—wasting a question like that. Next question.”
“Have you ever been in love?” she asks, looking away from me as she does so.
“Seriously, I’m almost 28-years-old. What? You think I’m a loser, that nobody’d ever love someone like me?” I joke.
“No, I didn’t say that. I was just checking. So, with whom?” she probes.
“Really? You’re gonna waste question number three on her name?” I ask.
Waverly Harrington was my first love, but lately I’ve come to realize that maybe it wasn’t love at all—more like convenience. I thought that since everyone in the world wanted her that she must be worth all the time, effort, and love I could muster up. I was wrong. So wrong. Unfortunately, it took three years to figure it out.
When I finally ended it, Waverly looked at me said, “You have no idea how sorry you’re going to be.” Waverly turned on her heels and walked out of my life. I haven’t seen or heard from her since. Thank God.
“No! You’re right. Hold on … Let me think. Okay, number three, what was the best day of your life?”
“Now that’s a good question. Now you’re thinking,” I compliment. This game will go much better with questions of opinion rather than questions of factual material. “Well … truthfully … I haven’t had it yet.”
I eye her carefully to see if my answer is going to fly. It does. I’m impressed with her willingness and restraint to not pry into my personal life. Most girls jump at the opportunity to delve into a man’s privacy. Kathryn respects my boundaries. I like that. No, I love that.
“I hope I haven’t had mine either,” she admits, nodding in agreement. “If so, the rest of my life is really gonna suck.”
We both laugh, and she bumps into me, like we’re old middle school friends. If Kathryn and I had been friends since high school, then I could pretty much guarantee that my life would have turned out differently.
“Number four. Did you grow up in Charleston?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say, hoping to avoid any further questions of where I’m from.
“I knew it! You’re some paranormal angel or alien put here to help people in Charleston with their groceries and broken door hinges,” she says, excitedly.
“Holy crap! It was a secret. Please don’t tell anyone, okay, Pebbles?” I laugh, shaking my head at how goofy and carefree she is. Kathryn Howell doesn’t try to be the most beautiful, perfect woman I’ve ever known; she just is.
“Number five. Where do you see yourself in ten years?” she asks.
“Hmmmm … another good question … well … I really don’t know. I want to be alive. Maybe married,” I speculate. “But above all that stuff, I just want to be happy.” I cannot believe I just said that. How could I just admit such personal thoughts and feelings to her?
“Me too, Dre, me too,” Kathryn agrees. “Number six. Hmmmm … I’m gonna need some time to think about the last question. Let me think for awhile.”
Kathryn and I drive back to her apartment. The car ride is quiet. She stares out the window for a long time. Breaking the silence, she says, “Can you please drop me off at my friend’s house?”
“What? Why?” I ask.
“Well, remember the rules … numbers two and five from that first dinner we had?” she asks. I laugh, remembering them vividly. Kathryn put a strict rule out in the open that she was not sleeping with me.
Continuing, she says, “Well, I don’t trust myself—and I don’t trust you. Something tells me that if you take me to my apartment that those rules will be null and void.”
“Pebbles, are you thinking about sleeping with me?” I ask, feeling every inch of my body rise up and pay attention.
“Dre, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I came out of work, and you were lounging on the hood of my car in those tat
tered jeans and t-shirt, Kathryn admits, bluntly.
“Let’s just get that straight right now,” she states. “But just because I’m thinking about it … a lot … doesn’t mean that it’s happening … yet.”
“Yet? You said, ‘yet.’ Damn, I knew I should’ve worn those jeans tonight,” I joke. I would never tell her this, but I actually have two pairs of jeans. I thought the ones I had on were the nicer ones.
“Probably should’ve worn them, might’ve made all the difference,” Kathryn says, laughing.
“So you want me to take you to your friend’s? What if I just promise to not touch you?” I offer.
“Right, almost believable … Anyway, I’m not worried about you, Dre. I’m worried about me jumping you as soon as we get to my apartment,” she clarifies. Son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to need more than a cold shower when I get home; I’m going to need an ice bath.
“Plus, I’m going to end up over there tonight anyway. A girl doesn’t go on a date like the one we just had without dissecting every word that was said, every touch of the hand, and every kiss,” Kathryn explains. “Sydney and I have a lot to analyze.”
“You really don’t have much of a filter, do you?” I ask, chuckling at her straightforwardness.
“What’s the point? Playing games doesn’t get anyone anywhere,” she says.
As I put the car into park, I turn to look at her. Kathryn unbuckles her seatbelt and turns toward me. I don’t have to slide toward her or pull her to me, because she leans over the counsel and kisses me. Kathryn starts slowly and softly, but begins to hungrily explore my mouth with her tongue. Her scent and taste are intoxicating; I adjust in my seat, relieving some of the pressure of the growing strain against the zipper of my pants. We stay entwined in each other’s arms, kissing, tasting, and savoring each other. It feels like high school, nah like middle school, making out like this, knowing it’s going no further, but wishing with every fiber in my being that it will.
Finally, Kathryn releases herself from my embrace and leans back against the car door. Breathing heavily with a flush on her face, she says, “I know number six.”
Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) Page 6