by Viv Daniels
“Out here, like this, there’s no curtain. There’s no hiding. You are who you are and anyone could just wander past and find out the truth.”
I let out a tiny little whimper.
“I owe you one more orgasm, Hannah,” Boone said, his hands sliding up under the silk and between my legs. “How would you like it? With my fingers?”
Yes. Oh, yes. My legs parted as he pressed his hand against the crotch of my panties.
“With my mouth?” He kissed me again, but I knew it was just a prelude.
Yes, yes. Please.
“Or what if—” He slid on top of me now, settling his hips between my thighs, “—we just did it right here, like this?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. A significantly large part of me wanted to be all damn the torpedoes and who cares about tomorrow and whatever else, but this wasn’t a secluded beach at the end of a hidden dirt road out on a tiny island. This was a Canton city park.
“Not here,” I whispered. He stopped grinding his hips against me. “We can’t do it here.”
“You sure?”
I nodded and sat up, pulling my dress back into place and reaching around to rehook my bra. “I want to, Boone, but I’m just not comfortable.”
“Okay.” He sat up, too, looking disappointed, but still hopeful. “Somewhere else, then?”
I brightened. “Your place?”
He hesitated. “My place is far,” he said at last. “And not very nice.”
Was he ashamed of it? “I don’t need anything nice,” I pointed out, gesturing to the flatbed.
“Hey!” he said, stroking the metal sides. “My truck is my baby.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What about your place?” he suggested.
“My mom is home!”
He shrugged and tugged me close. “Maybe she’ll think your date went really well.”
“Blecch.” I shuddered. “You just killed the mood.”
Boone laughed. “So the guy was a toad, huh?”
“Why?” I asked. “Jealous?”
“Yes,” he replied, as if it were obvious. “Some guy gets to take you out, sit across the table from you—”
“Order me food I’m allergic to,” I added.
“Ew, really?” Boone asked.
“Nuts.”
“Noted. So he was a toad.”
“The toadiest,” I assured him. “Why do you think I needed to get out of there?”
Boone sat back against the side of the truck, his face contemplative. “If he hadn’t been, would you have called me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if you had had a perfectly nice date, or if you hadn’t had a date at all, or if you didn’t need my help to ‘get out of there,’ would you have called me?”
I stared at him.
“I bet you wouldn’t have.” A note of cruel humor had entered his voice, and he was shaking his head, in disappointment or self-recrimination, I couldn’t be sure. “I was your walk on the wild side.”
“Well, you certainly were that,” I nearly cried. “That was the best sex of my life.” As for what else it had been, I wasn’t sure.
His eyes widened, and whatever he’d been about to say next, it wasn’t, “Thank you.” But that’s what he said, and he almost sounded surprised.
“You’re welcome.” I crossed my arms over my chest. It was probably the strangest compliment I’d ever given, but it was the truth. We sat there for another moment, neither of us speaking. The breeze picked up, but the only thing making me cold was the fact I wasn’t in his arms anymore.
“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” Boone said, his voice raw. “What about you?”
I breathed in and out. Honestly? I’d been thinking about vivisections a lot of the week. And how fast it would take blood to dry and turn brown if it was painted on a wall. And whether it was scarier if the viewer saw the carnage or just like, a scrap of skin pinned at the edge of the screen with the focus on the heroine’s horrified face.
But I’d just sound insane if I said something like that to Boone.
“Okay.” His face fell. “It was a one-night stand. That was the plan.”
“No!” I reached out to him. “I mean, yeah, that was supposed to be the plan. Another of my terrible plans. And I agree with you, it was awesome. And I do want to do it again, just…” I shrugged and looked around the darkened park “…not here.”
“Then where? Do you want to go to a motel—”
I shook my head. “No, I…” I sighed, all the exhaustion of the evening, of the last few days of furious writing, of this whole crazy week suddenly crashing down on me.
“You want to go home.” Boone put a gentle hand on my knee, and when I looked up into his blue-green eyes, all I saw was understanding. “That’s okay.”
“Next time,” I said. “I promise.”
He gave my knee a playful squeeze. “Can’t wait.”
Eleven
“Han-nah is slum-ming,” Caitlin singsonged at me from across the rack of clothes.
I ducked my head and blushed. “Hush, Caitlin, it’s not like that.” My friend had dragged me to the mall, where we were drinking coffee frappes and checking out the new offerings at Nordstrom. And I’d just confessed to her that I’d been hooking up with a handyman named Boone.
“Oh, really?” Caitlin crossed her arms. “Because I’m sure you two have so much in common?”
“Well…” We both liked having sex with each other. That was something.
“Let me try again. Han-nah has a boy-toy.” Caitlin preened. “Better?”
I rolled my eyes at her and pulled out an apricot-colored shell top. Would this wash me out? “He’s no more my boy-toy than I’m his girl-toy.”
“Girl-toy sounds like you’re a blow up doll, hon.”
But boy-toy didn’t? “I don’t like the implication that I’m using him just because he’s not as rich as I am.”
“‘Not as rich as you are?’” Caitlin echoed. “I think that’s putting it mildly.”
“You know what I mean.” I moved down toward the jeans.
“And you know what I mean,” Caitlin said. “It’s not like you’re dating some scholarship student at Canton, Hannah. This guy isn’t just poor. He’s like, a day laborer.”
“So what?”
“So you’re honestly going to say that’s not part of the appeal?” Caitlin eyed me. “You know I’m not some classist snob, but honestly…”
I checked out a pair of dark wash skinny jeans. “A bit of rough.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what they call it in England when you hook up with someone…” Of a lower class. “Someone who isn’t in the same social circles. That you’re going after ‘a bit of rough.’”
Caitlin shrugged. “That sounds better than ‘slumming,’ I guess.”
“It’s also more accurate,” I admitted, blushing. “Boone really isn’t like any other guy I’ve been with.”
Caitlin let out a strangled squeal and crowded around to my side of the display. “Do tell!”
“Well, there’s the truck, to start with.”
“You did it in the truck?”
“On the truck.”
“Holy shit.” Caitlin’s mouth dropped open. “You’re a guitar player and a leather jacket away from an 80’s hair band video.”
“Yeah.” I lowered my voice even more. “And he kind of…talks dirty. During.”
“Ooh, like what?”
I moved away again, suddenly sheepish. Maybe I shouldn’t be sharing this stuff. “I don’t know. He says he’s going to do stuff to me, and then he does.”
“Like what?” Caitlin frowned. “Like he’s giving you advanced warning?”
“No. Just like…it’s hard to explain. But it’s really hot.”
“It must be,” Caitlin said. “You’re as red as a lobster.”
I covered my flushed cheeks with my hands. And I hadn’t e
ven told her the other parts. Like how last night, he took my fears and turned them into some kind of sex fantasy. Or the part where he’d almost made me come just by feeling me up. Or the part where he promised me another orgasm, whenever I wanted.
“Plus, you know, he’s literally rough.”
Caitlin smiled wickedly. “Like he makes it hurt so good?”
I dropped my face into my hands and shook my head vigorously. “No, like his hands are rough. Callused. It feels…nice.”
“Nice?”
“Well, Dylan’s hands had no calluses, I can tell you that much.” You didn’t get calluses from handling beakers in a Canton bioengineering lab.
“Yeah, well, I hope Dylan goes impotent with his skanky new bitch,” said Caitlin, and sailed off to the scarf section. “They have it coming.”
I sighed and followed. Okay, I had to nip this in the bud. They were coming home soon. “You know I appreciate your support, Caitlin, but it’s hard for me when you say stuff like that. I’m trying to be friends with him.”
“Why?” she asked, incredulous. “You should write that loser off. He doesn’t deserve anything from you. You were so great for that boy, and he cheated on you.”
“It’s…complicated,” I said. “You know they were together years ago? Him and—”
“The slutbitchskank?”
“Her name is Tess.” If Caitlin couldn’t imagine why I’d ever talk to Dylan again, I was going to have a hell of a time explaining why I’d ever hang out with Tess when she got back from Colorado.
“Whatever.”
“He lost his virginity to her.”
“Who gives a shit? He was with you.”
“But he wasn’t in love with me,” I pointed out. “He loves her.” I shrugged. “I think he’s going to marry her.” Because Tess and Dylan, they had plans. Real plans, not stupid schedules like Jeffrey Connell.
Caitlin was silent for a moment. “You’re a saint, Hannah, you know that?”
I tossed my hair behind my shoulder. “Duh.”
“And I don’t want to see you get hurt again, the way Dylan hurt you.” Caitlin put a hand on my shoulder. “The last time some guy hurt you, you quit school and ran away to Europe.”
She wasn’t wrong, but it hadn’t been Dylan who’d done that. It had been Dad.
“And I can’t bear another semester without you.”
“Really?” I looked at her skeptically.
“Well, yeah,” she said. “I mean, I’m still not going to that stupid Halloween horror thing at Busch Gardens with you, but yeah. Of course.”
Dylan had hated it too, and had totally made fun of me for dressing up like the girl from The Ring when we’d gone. I bet Tess wore sexy devil costumes or something cute and normal for Halloween.
“That’s sweet,” I replied.
“And so you go, and you enjoy your bit of rough or whatever—God knows you deserve it—but don’t fool yourself that this Boone guy is something he’s not.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I know exactly what Boone is.”
But I didn’t. At all.
* * *
BOONE: Got plans tonight?
I stared at the text. If I were a proper lady, I would have said yes, even though I didn’t have plans. After all, as my mother and my cotillion instructors had said, gentlemen who have good intentions toward a lady make their plans several days in advance. They act the way Jeffrey Connell did, making advanced plans and reservations and informing the lady of her clothing requirements and showing up at the house and chatting with the parents and bringing flowers. That’s what you’re supposed to do.
For nearly a full minute, my instincts warred with my desires. Finally, I capitulated, and texted back.
HANNAH: No. Want to get together?
BOONE: I was thinking a movie. Or dinner?
HANNAH: What, like a date?
BOONE: Backwards, I know.
HANNAH: Ha, ha. Okay, what time?
BOONE: Let’s meet at 6:30.
That was less than three hours from now. I tried to imagine breaking the news to my mother that I had another date tonight, and this one would not be bringing me flowers or driving a Lexus or taking me to a country club. I’d been…less than forthcoming about the disaster that was Jeffrey Connell. This morning, she asked me if I’d had a good evening. I’d told her I had, which was true. The end of it, with Boone, had been quite nice, even if we hadn’t actually had sex again.
A date. With Boone. How much did I suck at one-night stands?
HANNAH: Meet where?
BOONE: Hannah, you need to get outside more.
I walked into the living room and peeked out through the sliding glass doors that led to the deck. Boone was not on the roof, but he was on the Gardners’ back patio, stripping paint off the railing. He looked up and waved. I waved back, then started typing.
HANNAH: What’s the point? Your shirt is still on.
A moment later, I saw him check his phone and break into a wide smile.
BOONE: These chemicals are gross. But if you insist…
I looked up. He pulled his shirt over his head and struck a few mock poses for me. Then he put his shirt back on and picked up his phone.
BOONE: All right. Show’s over. I have to get back to work. See you at 6:30.
I worried my bottom lip with my teeth and peered through the glass at my date. Even from here I could see wet patches on his T-shirt, and smears of dirt on his face and arms. My bit of rough.
“There you are!” Mom said as she came in from the kitchen. “Did you and Caitlin have fun at the mall?”
“Yeah,” I said, backing away from the door as if she could somehow tell I’d just ordered a man on the other side to start stripping. “I got a new pair of jeans.”
“That’s nice.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “Hannah—”
Uh-oh. I did not like that tone.
“I ran into Mandy Whitman at the grocery store earlier and she asked if you were all right. Seems she was at the country club last night, too. She said you got sick?”
Got sick? Did she mean hid in the bathroom after I found out my own mother thought I was good for nothing but getting married off to a boor?
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It passed.” After all, I’d spent eight months being a total disappointment to my father. It’s time I learned Mom felt the same way.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie. Maybe you should call Jeffrey and apologize for leaving him there. Mandy said he seemed quite disappointed afterward.”
I came over to the table and sank down on a seat. “Do you mean to tell me that Jeffrey Connell told a bunch of strangers in the restaurant that I’d left because I was sick?”
Mom blinked at me. “You’re right. That wasn’t very polite of him. He should probably have driven you home.”
“It’s also a lie!” I cried. “I left him there, Mom, because he was a complete jerkwad and if I had to spend another minute sitting with him, I was probably going to do something that would get the whole country club really talking. If I was sick, it was because he was the most nauseating boy I’ve ever been out with.”
She just looked sad. “Hannah, I don’t understand your taste in men, I really don’t.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. “But that’s not the problem.” The problem was that her taste in men seemed to focus on guys who didn’t know how to respect the women they were with. Jeffrey and his job interview of a date, Dad and his mistress… “Can we maybe just accept the idea that your setups aren’t going to work for me and give it a rest?”
“Hannah, I’m just trying to help…”
I snorted. It was either that or sob. “You want to help because you don’t think I’m good for anything else.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she snapped back, affronted.
“You told Jeffrey’s mother that I would be the perfect match for him because I had no aspirations of my own.”
At least she had the dec
ency to look shocked. “Hannah, I may have said—”
“Do you know he had our whole lives planned out? How I’d decorate his house, how many kids we’d have, where we’d get married? And he told me the whole thing like it was some kind of business plan and he was just hiring an assistant.”
“That seems remarkably crude for—”
“For what, Mom? A Yale man? A member of the country club? A guy who brings me a rose and drives a Lexus and wears blue blazers with gold buttons?”
“I was going to say a first date,” she replied, folding her hands primly on the tabletop.
“So you’d prefer he waited to trot out his master scheme until date number three?”
“Hannah—”
But I’d heard enough. I rose from the table. “Tell me right now,” I said. “Do you think my best option is to just find a rich guy to marry?”
“I don’t think you should marry someone just because he’s rich,” she replied carefully.
“That’s not what I asked. What do you see for my future, Mom? What is it you see?”
She looked up at me, confusion and fear warring on her smooth, perfect features. “I don’t know. How can I, when you haven’t figured it out?”
“So you think I’ll figure it out if I just marry the right guy?” I whispered.
“No!” She stood up. “I think maybe socializing with people who have some sort of direction in their life will make you find yours. I don’t want you to find meaning through a man! Look what happened the last time you tried that—you styled that boy like it was your job, you acted like you cared about his stupid seaweed, and then Dylan dumped you and you dropped out of school.”
“Not because of Dylan. Because I didn’t have any direction then, either. Not like—” Tess. “Dylan, or my other friends. I was spinning my wheels in college. I needed to take some time off.” And I needed to get away from my father.