Wait With Me

by Amy Daws

  “How’s the book coming?” he asks while grabbing a cookie out of the case and turning to look down at where I sit in one of the big, comfy armchairs.

  Smiling shyly, I look over at the last couple of customers seated at one of the high top tables. One is on her phone, and the other is flipping through a magazine. Both clearly uninterested in our conversation.

  Miles leans back against the countertop and bites into a cookie, his long legs crossed at the ankles, posture relaxed and friendly. I take a moment to drink in the enormous sight of him.

  Freshly showered but not freshly shaved. Still hot as ever in simple jeans and a T-shirt.

  “It’s coming along,” I reply, exhaling heavily. “This is the point in the story where I rip the couple apart and ruin everything they thought they knew about each other.”

  “Ouch,” he states, pressing his fist to his heart in mock pain. “Can’t they just be happy?”

  “What’s dramatic about happy?” I ask with a laugh. “My readers like the pain, the torture. They love when I rip stuff up and put it all back together.” I lean forward in my chair and lower my voice. “It makes the makeup sex that much hotter.”

  He chuckles softly and shakes his head. “You know, my sister texted me and asked for your full author name so she could read some of your stuff.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that right?”

  He nods. “I warned you that we were a family of readers.”

  I eye him speculatively for a moment. There’s really no reason to keep my pen name a secret from him anymore. It’s not like we’re romantically involved. I squashed any chance of that several days ago.

  Clearing my throat, I reply, “You’re going to laugh.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I prepare to reply, but pause as a voice cuts through the overhead music and announces, “Jeremiah Park, your Honda Civic is done.” The couple sitting together both get up and make their way out of the CCC, leaving Miles and me alone once again.

  Miles lifts his brows, clearly primed and ready for me to continue.

  With a deep breath, I tell the unusual tale of how Kate Smith went from being a boring old copy editor to a bestselling erotic novelist, leaving out the whole real name part, of course.

  “So my first book started off as a parody. I was actually working as a remote copy editor for a big publishing house and had no intentions of ever writing a book myself.”

  “Okay …” Miles replies, crossing his arms over his chest and listening intently.

  I do my best to ignore the way his biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt and continue. “So my ex and I had this horrible experience at a bed and breakfast.”

  “The ex who wanted you to lie to his family about what you did?” Miles asks, his jaw ticking angrily. I nod, and he clears his throat like he’s holding back some words.

  Fuck, it would be so book-hot if he was jealous right now.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “we show up at what we think is a normal bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere Colorado only to discover that we’ve walked right into a secret BDSM club.”

  Miles’s eyes are bright and blue when he exclaims, “You didn’t?”

  “We did! This is a true story!” I retort and keep going. “And somehow, they think we’re their honored guests for the evening. We think the people they were expecting never showed up. I guess. I don’t know, the details of that are still fuzzy.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “We kinda just rolled with it because we were tired and we thought, ‘all we need is a bed to crash in, who cares what this woman is doing with a dude on a leash. That’s her business.’”

  “Your ex won’t tell his family what you do, but he was open-minded to that kind of scene?”

  I bark out a laugh. “He was as high as a fucking kite! He had consumed three edibles in retaliation to the fact that I forgot to book a hotel room. I don’t know, he’s an idiot.”

  “Agreed,” Miles adds with a scowl.

  I can’t help but giggle at the serious tone in his voice. “I don’t think he even realizes what he’s seeing. Like I think he was actually seeing dogs on leashes, not human subs.”

  A full-on belly laugh erupts from Miles, and he eventually asks, “What happened?”

  My brows lift. “You mean, did we participate?”

  “Yeah,” he admits with a shameless shrug.

  “We did not,” I reply with a sad smile. “Since we were the honored guests, we were only there to watch. The Head Mistress was very clear about that. She ushered us into this Western-looking parlor room and seated us in frickin’ thrones, complete with sashes and crowns. Then, they basically put on a BDSM performance for us. It was frickin’ insane!”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Naturally, I go to bed that night and think, I have to write down everything that just happened or no one will believe it. So I did. It wasn’t super hard for me because I was already a copy editor and a huge reader. But I was pretty much writing it like a book, not a journal. It was complete with dialogue, descriptions, and the whole nine yards. I thought it would be really fun to take creative liberties with the story, so I kept going. Next thing I knew, I had a damn book!

  “I came up with this utterly ridiculous pen name when I was drunk one night. A crazy story deserved a crazy pen name, so I settled on…”

  I pause for dramatic effect, and Miles rolls his hand out in front of him, encouraging me to continue.

  “Mercedes Lee Loveletter.”

  I shrug and giggle, enjoying the stunned look in his eyes right before he asks, “What’s your real last name then?”

  I pause and bite my lip, quickly trying to decide how far I want to take this. It’s a quick internal debate, though, because I know without a doubt that I love being Mercedes with Miles ten times more than I’ve ever loved being Kate, especially with men like Dryston. “It’s Smith,” I reply honestly because it’s not like he’ll find me on Facebook or something. I removed my personal account a long time ago because it was too much to monitor that profile as well as my pen name.

  “Smith,” he repeats with a nod, the corners of his mouth turning down with a concealed smile. “So why Loveletter then?”

  “Well, because that was how the BDSM performance all started. This giant dominatrix removed a ball gag from her slave’s mouth so he could read a love letter he’d written to his mistress. It was really sweet actually. He even cried.”

  Miles shakes his head. “That’s how your journey began then?”

  “Yep,” I reply with an audible pop. “I self-published the story and didn’t even know it hit the New York Times until an agent emailed me to ask if I had representation.”

  “Holy shit!” Miles exclaims, clearly impressed. “That’s an incredible story.”

  “Book-worthy,” I correct with a grin. This is fun. It’s been forever since I’ve thought back through the whole saga, and Miles is lapping it up like a dog. “And it clearly gave me the itch to write because once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

  “Until your slump with this book.”

  “Until Tire Depot saved me.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “And you said this book is the last in the series?”

  I nod my head. “Yep.”

  “And then on to the next book.”

  “It’s like an itch I can’t stop scratching.”

  I exhale heavily and watch Miles’s face morph into a warm, affectionate smile as he stares down at me. He’s mesmerizing when he looks at me like that, all sweet and masculine. It’s also totally frickin’ obvious that he’s thinking of a hell of a lot more than just the story I told him.

  Damn it, men are confusing. How the hell can he look at me like that and not want to kiss me? The level of my urge to kiss him is at an all-time high.

  I decide to smash the tender moment into pieces using the giant elephant in the room. “So does this mean we don’t have to be awkward?”

  He chuckles, t
hose crinkles in his eyes framing the steely blue of his irises. “I thought you telling me the story of you and your ex waltzing into a BDSM bed and breakfast pretty much confirmed that fact.”

  “Fair enough.” I nod in confirmation. “So we’re friends, then?”

  “Friends,” he approves with a panty-melting smile.

  I pack up my computer and toss my bag over my shoulder. “Good, because, as a friend, I was wondering if you might help me with some research for my next book.”

  His brows raise. “What did you have in mind?”

  Smiling broadly, Mercedes looks like she could burst with excitement when I hand her a black helmet. “Okay, you’re going to throw your leg over but don’t let your ankles touch this area here.” I gesture down at the exhaust pipes on the side of my motorcycle. “These will burn you and hurt like hell.”

  She nods, looking very serious as she frees the top knot on her head and shakes her hair out, sending a riot of red waves cascading over her shoulders. She pushes the helmet onto her head and shoves the strands over her shoulder so they run down her back.

  I swallow slowly as I glance down at her skimpy attire. She’s wearing a pair of loose, colorful shorts with a white, flowing tank top. She looks girlie and super vulnerable, and it bothers me. I considered making her go home and put on some jeans but figured I was being overprotective as usual, and I’m really trying to work on that. Especially since we’re just friends and nothing more.

  After a second’s hesitation, I do the only thing that doesn’t make me look like a total control freak and shake off my leather jacket. “This won’t save your legs from road rash if we crash, but I’ll feel better if you wear it.”

  She nods and grasps the heavy coat out of my hand and slips into it. It covers her shorts and hangs so far down her arms that you can’t even see the tips of her fingers. She pushes the sleeves up so she can buckle the chin strap of the helmet.

  “Let’s maybe not crash, though,” she chirps, her voice muffled inside the helmet.

  I chuckle and reach out to grab the front of my jacket, pulling her close so I can zip it all the way. Her blue eyes are staring at me intently when I look at her and reply, “I’m not planning on it.”

  She gives me a small smile, and I swear I see her nose tuck into the jacket and inhale deeply as the zipper reaches the top. She suddenly shakes her head and steps back for inspection.

  “You’re swimming in that, but it’s better than nothing.” I slide the eye shield down over her baby blues and tell her to climb aboard.

  Mercedes widens her legs before even putting a foot on the peg next to my boot. I try not to laugh because I guess I’m just glad she’s being careful. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she throws her leg over and sinks down on the seat behind me. Her warm center is snug against my backside, and I have to fight the urge to reach back and touch her bare legs.

  I don’t fight hard enough. My hand reaches back and strokes her bare thigh as I turn my head toward her and ask, “Do you have anywhere you need to be later?”

  She shakes her head, and her voice is muffled when she says, “Nope, I’m totally free.”

  “Cool,” I reply, pulling my aviators out of the storage pouch on the center console of my bike. “There’s a really great mountain that I love to ride out to, and we should be able to get there just in time for sunset.”

  Mercedes gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up as I slide my glasses on and turn on the power switch. Standing up on one foot, I press my foot down on the kick start. My bike roars to life, and I rev the throttle a few times to warm it up.

  Her hands move from my shoulders to snake around my waist, her fingers digging into my abs in a tight squeeze as she squeals her excitement.

  “You ready?” I yell over the motor, the vibrations warming my thighs as we idle.

  “Ready!” she shouts back and gives me an excited hoot. Then we’re on our way out of the Tire Depot parking lot and off to chase the sunset.

  We cruise southwest of Boulder for about thirty minutes out to Twin Sisters Peak, a place Sam and I frequently go hiking when we’re in the mood for something quick and not too challenging. We call it our hangover hike because we can do it no matter how shitty we feel.

  No roads allow access to cruise all the way up on a motorcycle, but at the top of a hill is one lookout point where hikers pull in to park, and it boasts stunning views of the Colorado sunset.

  I love Colorado in general. After Jocelyn and I broke up, my mom urged me to consider moving back to Utah, but I just didn’t feel it. Boulder had become my home. I had recently purchased a house, I liked my job and the new friends I’d made.

  I had already lost the woman I thought was the love of my life, so I didn’t want to stack another big change on top of that. Jocelyn slowly migrated her way out of my life for good, and I was okay with that. I just threw myself into fixing up my house and doing a good job for Sam’s uncle at Tire Depot.

  Mercedes’s grip tightens around my waist as I pull off onto the small lookout point. Behind us you can see the Gross Reservoir, to the left are the Aspen Meadows, and to the right is the beginning of the Twin Sisters Peak. This entire area is chock full of enormous pine trees, animals, and unblemished nature.

  As I cut the engine and drop the kickstand down, Mercedes presses down on the top of my shoulders and lifts her leg up over the seat. I instantly miss her warmth and realize that was not one of the many descriptions Mercedes gave me when she described the warmth of a woman at the Walrus Saloon.

  “God, that was incredible!” Her voice is muffled as she yanks her helmet off and shakes out her red hair. The sun slices through her strands as it sets behind the far-off hilltops. The few clouds lingering in the distance shift the sky to a stunning blend of pinks and purples. It’s the perfect weather to watch the sun set.

  “Good. Were you scared?” I ask, recalling the fact that Joce never let me take her out on my bike because she never wore anything but dresses and she said my driving made her nervous.

  “No, was I supposed to be?” Mercedes asks, her eyes wide.

  I laugh at that, pulling off my glasses and tucking them into my shirt. “No, not at all. My ex hated the bike, though. She never wanted to go out on it.”

  “Your ex is a fool. I mean, I get that motorcycles are dangerous, but it’s the danger that makes it all the more satisfying. Do you know what I mean?”

  I swallow slowly. “I think so.”

  “Ugh, why do we crave danger?” she asks, tucking the helmet under her arm and pacing back and forth in front of me. I have a feeling she’s doing that writer thing I’ve seen her do when she’s working through how to describe something. Only this time, she wants to articulate an emotion instead of describe a physical act. “I mean, what is it about the danger that draws in the human mind? Is it a sexual thing? A sexual attraction? I mean, what is it about the danger that keeps bringing us back over and over and over again?”

  Mercedes pauses and looks at me, giving me the approval to have an opinion. I shrug. “Maybe it’s the thrill of not knowing what’s to come,” I reply and throw my leg over and stand to stretch. “We get bored if things stay the same for too long.”

  I look down and see her eyes staring at the bit of skin peeking out on my abdomen. Good God, I really wish I could just fuck her. Just once. Just to know what she feels like. Her softness to my hard. I’m certain it would be incredible.

  “Do you think men feel that way about women?” she asks, her lids fluttering with nervous blinks as she looks up at me. She’s so small wearing my jacket as a dress with her flip-flops.

  “I couldn’t say for sure,” I reply, awkwardly stuffing my hands in my pockets while moving over to a big log that lines the edge of the gravel pit. I sit down on it and look back at her. “But I do think women get blamed for loving drama when men are equally as guilty. We get away with calling it macho.”

  Her flip-flops slap noisily as Mercedes makes her way over and sits beside me so we’re bo
th facing the sunset now. I glance over at her. Her cheeks are flush, and some freckles have sprouted across her nose, probably from sun exposure.

  She tucks her knees up inside my jacket and rests her chin on top of them. “Do you want to tell me what you mean by that, or do you want to say ‘word’ again?”

  I half-smile, marveling a bit over how easily she can read between the lines. I suppose that’s writer’s intuition, to see the signs.

  Exhaling heavily, I reply, “Eventually, I hope that every cryptic thing I say in my life won’t all circle back to my ex.”

  Mercedes smiles, her dimple peeking out from the collar of my jacket. “Probably, but life lessons come from hardship, so spill it, Miles.”

  I growl and run my hands through my hair, feeling the strands sticking up every which way. “I think I stayed with my ex so long because I liked the drama on some sick level. It was stupid.”

  She nods thoughtfully, processing what I’ve said before asking, “What kind of drama did you guys have?”

  I lift my eyebrows and shake my head up to the sky. “You name it, she probably did it. But the thing I hated the most was when she’d try to make me jealous.”

  I glance over just in time to see Mercedes wince in sympathy. “Yeah, jealousy is no fun. Although, I will tell you, from a purely romance writing profession point of view…my readers love a possessive man.”

  I chuckle at that. “Well, there’s being possessive, and there’s being made a fool of. Unfortunately, I think I was the latter more often.”

  She shakes her head from side to side and wrinkles her nose. “Your ex sounds horrible.”

  “So does yours.”

  “Why did we ever date them?”

  “I ask myself that all the time.”

  She pulls her legs out of my jacket and stretches them out in front of her to cross them at the ankles. She gazes out into the sky for a moment before saying, “Well, a fun way to look at our exes is that if we hadn’t dated them, then we wouldn’t be right here, sitting on this tree, and enjoying this incredible sunset.”