Changing Lanes

by Vining, Season

  When I am coherent again and have the ability for speech, Lane wraps his arms around my naked body. I feel the warmth of his against mine and the scratch of his jeans against my thighs.

  “Now, do you see what I see? Do you see how amazing and absolutely stunning you are?”

  I scan my reflection and in this euphoric state, I don’t feel one bit of shame or embarrassment. I feel empowered, sexy, and beautiful. Lane’s face clearly displays pride mixed with lust. “I see,” I say, turning to kiss his lips. “I finally see.”

  “Good,” Lane answers, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. “Now can I have my pie?”

  _______________

  For the next few weeks, Lane is tied up in a big project with work. He seems a bit stressed and busy, but he makes time for me. Some nights I’ll cook dinner and lure him over for an hour or two. While our time together is always fantastic, I can tell he’s distracted. We talk about our families, tell stories from our pasts. There’s laughter and some disheartening memories too. But no matter what, I always feel happy when Lane’s around. This man brings out the best in me. He fills me with light and hope, and somehow makes me feel at home.

  “This is delicious. I’ve never had chicken and dumplings before,” Lane says through chewing.

  I grin. “I’m glad you like it, but drop the g. It’s dumplins where I come from.”

  “Dumplins.” He says slowly. “All your veneration for exorbitant vocabulary, but drop the g, huh?” His lopsided grin appears as he looks over his glasses as me.

  “Drop the g,” I insist.

  “Well, I don’t care what you call it. It’s fantastic. The ultimate comfort food. You’ve got to show me how to make it.” He spoons another bite into his mouth.

  “All I can say is it starts with a stick of butter. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Lane drops his spoon and grabs his chest. “Not if the dumplins kill me first!”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  He finishes his meal quickly while I’m only halfway through mine. Lane wipes his mouth on a napkin, and swallows down the last of his water. “Can I help you clean up?” he asks, placing his dishes in the sink.

  I look down at my bowl and back to him. “I’m still eating.”

  “Oh,” he says, running both hands through his hair. The muscles of his arms flex as he locks his hands behind his neck and blows out a breath. “Right. I’m sorry. I’ve just got so much to do and a major conference call to prep for tomorrow.”

  I stand and move toward him, pressing up on my tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips. At first he barely responds. I can feel the tension in the way he moves. But within seconds that tension slips away and he is completely invested in me.

  “Or you could stay,” I say, kissing along his jawline. “I could help you relax.” The words are practically a purr in his ear. When Lane doesn’t respond, I pull away and grab his favorite beer from the fridge. Snapping the cap off I toss it in the recycle bin and hand the bottle to him with instructions. “Take this and have a seat on the sofa. I’ll get the dishes and be right in.”

  He gives me a strange look, but nods and heads into the other room with his drink. I load the dishwasher as fast as possible, the whole time getting more and more nervous about what I’m about to do. Sure I’ve given blowjobs before, but not to this man, not to Lane Holder.

  I feel a bit guilty that we haven’t had sex yet. I’m sure he’s not used to waiting this long. But something in me just isn’t ready. I know it’s completely my deal and he’s been incredibly patient, never pushing. But I want to make him happy. I want to bring him all the pleasure that he brings me. I want to do this right.

  Drying my hands on the kitchen towel, I stand up tall and summon as much confidence as possible. “Just go in there, drop to your knees, and do it. You’ll be fine. Even a bad blowjob is still a blowjob. Right?” Taking a deep breath, I exhale and exit the kitchen, turning the light off.

  “I hope you’re ready for—” I stop when I round the sofa and Lane is fast asleep with his arm propped on the side table, full beer still in his hand. His head is rested on a pillow, his glasses askew.

  I take the beer from his hand and put it back in the fridge. Then I grab my current read and curl up next to Lane, laying my head in his lap. He doesn’t stir at all. Chap is in his usual place, curled up on the ottoman. I decide to let them sleep for an hour since I know Lane needs to get back to work.

  I’m dressed in rags, my bare feet covered in dirt. Looking up, I realize I’m surrounded by an angry mob. They shout “Witch! Witch!” as I’m shoved from behind. My eyes dart from face to face, trying to find a friend in the crowd, but they are all hostile. Stumbling to the center of the crowd, I find a wooden contraption with huge screws and a metal crank.

  “Stop!” I scream. “I’m not a witch! They’re just scented candles from Amazon.”

  The crowd roars as I am forced to my knees, my head shoved into the wooden mechanism. A thick plank presses against the back of my head and another against the front. There is a hole where my face sticks through.

  Panic surges in me as I realize this is a killing device, something medieval. “Please,” I beg, but no one hears my cries. A man dressed in black, wearing a cape over his face cranks the lever once. The boards tighten against my skull. The crowd continues their chant as the man turns the crank again. The pain in the back of my head is blinding and I know that I’ve got to escape or I’ll die. The man in black reaches for the lever again and I raise my arms, throwing my fists behind me as hard as I can.

  “Owww,” Lane howls, jolting me awake from my dream and back into reality. I sit up and spin to face him as he presses both hands over his crotch. “Oh my god! What did I do?”

  Chap is off the ottoman, checking on his owner. “You punched me in the dick,” Lane grunts out, his face red, every muscle in his body pulled tight in agony.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, placing a hand over his.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  I yank my hand away and sit back on my knees. Watching this man writhe in pain is terrible. Knowing that I’m responsible for it is excruciating. It is a few minutes before Lane can relax again. He rights his glasses and looks over at me and I sit watching, waiting.

  “So, I fall asleep and you get even by punching me in the most sacred of areas?”

  “Sacred?” I ask, my brain caught off guard by the terminology. “I mean, it’s not like you’re the Dali Lama. While yours is… special, I’m sure his area is actually sacred.”

  Lane gives me an exhausted look and drops his head back against the pillow. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re trying to damage my future children.”

  I crawl into his lap now, straddling his body. “Is this okay?” I ask. He nods and rests his hands on my waist. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep and was having the weirdest dream. I was just fighting back.”

  He shakes his head and gives me a half smile. “With those fists of fury, I’m sure you won.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know, your screaming woke me up.” I rest my hands on his hard chest and place a kiss on his lips. “I’m so sorry I went all Chuck Norris on your manhood.”

  Lane chuckles now. “It’s okay. I think I’ll live.” He covers a yawn and looks around the room. “What time is it?”

  I slide my phone from my back pocket and check the screen. “Just after 10.”

  “I have to go.”

  I poke my bottom lip out and give him sad eyes. Lane leans forward, capturing my lip between his teeth before running his tongue across it. I open up for him and soon we are making out like two teenagers in the back of Daddy’s car. With no warning, Lane pins me down on the sofa, hovering over me. His lips are pink from our kisses.

  “You are very good at distraction, Stella Locke. But I have to go.” One hand sweeps the hair from my face and he places the softest kiss on my lips.

  Lane hops up and holds out a hand. I take it and he pulls me
from the sofa and into his arms. Being wrapped up against him is one of my favorite things of all time. I want to build a fort with a wine rack, snacks, and stacks of books to just live here.

  “Come on, Chap,” Lane says, giving me one final squeeze before letting go. “I doubt I’ll see you tomorrow. But I promise to make it up to you.”

  And then he is gone from my home. The soft click of the door closing behind him echoes through the room and I want him back so bad it overwhelms me. Lane Holder has certainly got a hold on me.

  16

  IT’S A LONG work week, helping Becca do inventory every day. By Thursday I’ve counted so many books I’m starting to resent them. I’ve got paper cuts on my hands and sticky notes on every shelf in the storage room. I’m only halfway done. I’ve hung out with Marley a few times since the hen party. I’m not sure if she’s still processing or if we need to intervene, but I’ve decided to give her a little more time. I check on her every day and usually get a rundown of meetings and appointments while she avoids anything personal. She still sounds like her usual, energetic self—just a tad off from the Marley I know.

  Sighing, I take a seat on a stack of boxes and check my vibrating phone. It’s a text from Lane. We’ve both been so busy with work, we haven’t seen each other since Sunday.

  Hey, BABE. I’m heading downtown for lunch. Want to meet at the Farmer’s Market on sixth?

  Yes. Get me out of this cave of books! Damn. Never thought I’d say that.

  See you in a few.

  I drop my phone back into my apron pocket and mark the shelf where I stopped counting with a bright pink sticky note. Ducking my head into Becca’s office, I tell her I’m stepping out for lunch. She barely looks up from her paperwork to wave me off. Grabbing my jacket and wallet from behind the front counter, I push through the front door and onto the sidewalk.

  The air is so crisp I take a deep breath, filling my lungs and blowing it out like a drag from the most satisfying cigarette. A light breeze whips around me taking dried leaves across the street to settle on the diner’s welcome mat. I shove my hands in my pockets and turn toward Sixth Street.

  “Oh, shooky pooky!” I shout, pressing a hand over my racing heart. Lane laughs. It’s a whole-hearted kind of laugh that shows off his dimple and sends my pulse flying for a completely different reason.

  “Shooky pooky?” he asks, wrapping me in his arms and placing a kiss on my forehead. “That’s a new one.”

  “And there’s plenty more where that came from,” I promise. “There’s fork-face, ham sammich, and my personal favorite, mother plucking fiddle fart.”

  He laughs again, grabs my hand and pulls me down the sidewalk. “Come on, you foul-mouthed heathen. I’m going to buy you lunch.”

  “How is it that we live next door to each other and I haven’t seen this face in three days?” I ask, coming to a stop and pulling him down for a kiss.

  “I don’t know,” Lane answers. “We’re both busy with work, I guess. Chap misses you.”

  “I miss that little furball too,” I say, moving along the sidewalk again. “I can come over tonight. Oh, wait! No I can’t. Tonight is my yoga class with Reagan.”

  Lane grins. “Yoga? This sounds promising.”

  “Well, it’s another new experience. I have a whole list of things I want to try.”

  “Do tell,” he says.

  “There’s an impressive lineup of classes offered at the Community Center in Hamilton Bay. I intend to try them all. Pottery. Painting. Even a writing class. Can you imagine? I mean, I love to read, but I don’t even know if I’d be a good writer. Lord knows I have plenty of stories to tell.”

  “What would you want to write? Romance novels like the ones you read?” Lane asks, swinging our hands between us.

  “I don’t think so. That seems like a big task for someone just starting out.”

  “You never know until you try. It could come naturally to you.”

  I shrug. “There’s also knitting and Salsa dancing. You want to partner?”

  Lane makes a face. “I’d be willing to try anything once,” he says. “Besides, the thought of you partnered up with some hot Latin guy gives me anxiety.” He hits me with the lopsided grin and I laugh.

  “Aww, would you be jealous of me gyrating on another man?”

  “You save all your gyrating for me.”

  “The last one is gardening, but I can’t do that until spring. I’d love to grow my own vegetables and herbs in the backyard. Living next door to my own personal chef could have it’s advantages.”

  “I live to serve,” Lane says, pausing to bow.

  When we turn the corner onto Sixth, I see the temporary farmer’s market set up in the street. There are at least ten booths selling fruits and vegetables, plants, and even some homemade goat cheese. I sample a few items before Lane leads me to a food truck parked at the end of the block.

  “Is this where we’re lunching?” I ask.

  “Best tacos in a hundred mile radius,” he says. “And their roasted tomatillo salsa is so good. It’s like the perfect balance of sweet and tang. Tastes like beach tacos in Mexico.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say.

  “Hmm,” Lane says, bending down to kiss my lips before dragging them to my ear. “I’ll have to take you one day. I’d love to see you in a skimpy little bikini on the sand.”

  I blush as he straightens up and drops the sexy purr from his voice. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Oh, just about anything. Order me whatever you’re having.”

  I snag us a picnic table in the sun while Lane orders our food. While I wait, I ponder all these talks of future plans and how Lane just assumes that we’ll be together. While my heart wants to jump into this relationship with everything, my head warns me to be cautious—guard myself.

  Service is speedy and Lane joins me just minutes after ordering. “Carnitas tacos with tomatillo salsa and fresh cotija cheese. Simple, but delicious,” he says while placing the food down in front of me. He holds up a red squeeze bottle. “Hot sauce?” he asks.

  “Always,” I answer, sliding my tacos toward him. He hits me with a little and I wave for him to continue. Lane puts a bit more and I motion again. Finally, I’m satisfied with my hot sauce and dive right in. “Oh my god, this is ‘slap ya momma’ good,” I say with a moan.

  “Slap your momma?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Or as my dad would say, ‘Don’t get none on your forehead, because your tongue will beat your brain to death.’”

  Lane laughs and shakes his head. “Well, I guess that’s a compliment. But trust me, I’ll never lead you wrong, babe.” I grin at the adopted nickname and take another bite. The meat is savory, the tomatillo adds some great flavor and the hot sauce tingles on my tongue. “Though that much hot sauce would melt my face off.”

  “Yes, well you Yankees aren’t known for your strong stomachs. Are you?” I tease.

  Lane grins and covers his mouth as he chews. “Shots fired, Stella Locke.”

  I point a finger gun at him. “Locked and loaded, sir. I do have to admit, I don’t think I’m prepared for the winters here. You’ll find me frozen to death, hovered over the radiator, a book in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.”

  He swallows his food and wipes at his mouth with a paper napkin. “A, I’d never let that happen. B, winters up here are pretty intense, but you’ve got me to help you through. And C, Marley and the girls can help with wardrobe essentials. The key is preparation. If you want, I can check out your pipes this weekend.”

  I grin. “So you want to check out my pipes, huh?”

  “They don’t call me ‘The Plumber’ for nothing.” There’s a beat of silence and we both crack up. “Damn. Why am I so bad at that?” Lane asks.

  “Well, it’s only fair. You can’t be….” I wave a hand over him, “all that and the master of puns too. The universe just balanced you out.”

  “So I’m all that, huh?”

  I smile at him and shake my h
ead, refusing to answer.

  “Saturday is supposed to be an unusually warm day. I’m thinking of taking the bike out. You want to come?”

  I stop mid-chew and stare at him. “Do I want to ride on the back of your completely restored 1955 Harley Davidson Panhead? Absofuckinlutely.”

  We make plans to spend the day together Saturday and I’m giddy to think about holding onto Lane on the back of that bike. When I finish my second taco, I swallow down half of my water and close my eyes, pointing my face up at the sun. It’s so nice here. The sun is not a harsh thing that feels suffocating, it’s the perfect balance to the chilled air.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lane asks.

  I open my eyes and drop them to his face. Such a handsome face. It is a face that I wouldn’t mind looking at for the rest of my life. “Us,” I admit. “I’m thinking about us and how we talk about things in the future like there’s some kind of guarantee that we’ll be together. I mean, we haven’t even had sex yet. What if I’m terrible and you change your mind?”

  Lane’s neutral expression morphs into something more serious, contemplative. He reaches across the table and takes both of my hands. “Stella, there are no guarantees in life. I can’t guarantee you anything except my intentions. And those are to be with you.” I open my mouth, but don’t know what to say. Lane continues. “I want to cook for you. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you. I want to introduce you to my Granny and let you teach me how to work on my bike’s engine. I want to pour you wine and listen to you talk about your books. But mostly? I want you to want those things too.”

  My pulse races with his declaration. There’s a desperate longing to believe him and suddenly, the gate around my heart breaks down. It crumbles to pieces and is swept away by the complete honesty of this man and his old soul. Sometimes things aren’t too good to be true. Sometimes they are just too good.

  “I do want those things,” I say. Lane gives me a perfect smile, his blue eyes like crystals in the sunlight. I want to climb over this table, crawl into his lap and make sure he knows that I feel the same way.