Southern Girl Series: Bohemain Girl, Neighbor Girl & Intern Girl

by Cates, Georgia

  I’m looking at her while she talks about one thing and then another and all I can think about is how her long dark hair would look if it were spread on the bed beneath her.

  I wonder if she’d press her face against the mattress while I fucked her from behind? Or would she hold it up, occasionally looking at me over her shoulder when I pulled her hair. How hard would she let me pound my cock into her before she screamed?

  I don’t know.

  But I’d like to find out.

  6

  Frankie Dawson

  “An expression of gratitude? What exactly is that?” Brooke says.

  “Porter says I'm doing a great job at Iron City, and this is his way of thanking me.”

  Dillyn grunts. “Sounds more like a date that he's not calling a date if you ask me.”

  “It’s not like that.” Or is it? Am I unwilling to admit that it is like that because then it means that I’m dating my boss?

  What if I am? Is there really any shame in that? It’s not like I’m climbing the corporate ladder. Hell, I’m not sticking around long enough to gain any kind of employment perks from it. Not like I’m knocking anyone out of a position and taking it for myself.

  “I guess we'll see if he considers it a date when he takes you home tonight.”

  “Who says he's taking me home tonight?”

  “I say. And that look on your face says you hope that I’m not wrong.”

  Damn, these girls can read me like a book.

  “Okay. He just walked in the door so everybody zip it about this being a date.” I don’t want him to think that I’m expecting anything if all he has in mind is truly an expression of gratitude.

  Porter stills and looks around after entering the door of El Barrio. I hesitate about waving him over because I want to take a moment to admire how damn good he looks dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. I never get tired of seeing him in that.

  It’s just not fair. No one should be that good-looking.

  Dillyn fans herself with her hand. “Gah! That is your boss?”

  “Yup. Fine as frog hair, ain’t he?”

  “Dayum. I would never want to leave work if I had that to look at,” Brooke says.

  I’m not surprised they think Porter is hot; we have the same taste in men.

  I wave as our eyes meet. A wide smile spreads on his face, and my stomach does this weird flippity thing.

  Oh. Fuck. Me. Running.

  “Your face just turned beet red.”

  I hold up my drink. “It's the Moscow Mule.”

  “It’s not the Moscow Mule. It’s the stunning stallion coming this way.”

  Oh God. I will kill both of them—dead, dead, dead—if they embarrass me in front of him.

  I slide over on the bench seat and he sits beside me. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  His eyes leave mine and roam down my body before making eye contact again. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you.”

  I look at my friends and both are grinning like Cheshire cats. One of Brooke’s brows lifts and I can telepathically hear what she’s saying in her head. You are sooo going to fuck him tonight. Don’t even act like you’re not.

  But I’m not.

  I can’t.

  “These are my best friends, Brooke Cochran and Dillyn Lovelace.”

  “Nice to meet you,” they say simultaneously, both grinning.

  “My pleasure.”

  Porter looks at our glasses on the table. “Looks like we have a white wine, a red wine, and a…?”

  “Moscow Mule.”

  “Believe it or not, I have never tried one of those. Do they make a good one here?”

  “This is my first one so I have nothing to compare it to, but I like it.” I push the mug toward Porter. “Try it and see what you think.”

  I watch his full pink lips wrap around the rim of the hammered copper and wonder what it would be like for those lips to touch mine.

  “It's good but I still prefer a good ole’ cold beer.”

  I don’t know what it is, but there’s something very sexy about a man drinking a beer. “I don't think they sell Iron City here.”

  “I don't order Iron City when I go to bars or restaurants. I like to try other brands. It's good to check out the competition.”

  The server returns with Porter’s beer, and he immediately begins an inspection. “They must have a new bartender. They sent this in the wrong kind of glassware.”

  I shrug. “Looks like a beer mug to me.”

  “Exactly. This isn’t intended for a Belgian IPA. They should have sent it in a wide-mouthed glass so it could retain its head.”

  “The glass matters?”

  “Not to everyone but it's a huge deal to a brewmaster. We work hard to perfect a craft beer, and then someone who doesn't know better ruins it by putting it in the wrong kind of vessel.”

  “I had no idea the glassware was so important. Are you going to send it back?”

  “And risk the next one having spit in it? No way. Bartenders do not appreciate you calling them out. I'll make do with it in a Pilsner glass.”

  Brooke watches Porter taste his beer. “I bet you can drink like a fish.”

  “I can hold my own.”

  “How many beers does it take for you to get drunk?”

  “Probably not as many as you'd think. Craft beer isn’t watered down like macro brewery beer. The alcohol content is higher so it takes fewer beers to become intoxicated. But I never drink to get drunk. I drink craft beer because I love the flavor.”

  “I’ve never found a beer I liked,” Brooke says.

  “The flavor of beer is an acquired taste and it's not for everyone. Just like wine isn’t for everyone. I hate that stuff.”

  I want Porter to know that I’ve at least tried his product. “I haven't drunk a lot of beer, but I tried Iron City’s apricot ale a few weeks ago. I really liked it.”

  “Women tend to like that one. It's a bit on the sweeter side. I bet you’ll love the sweet potato cream stout for the fall.”

  Dillyn slaps her hand on the table. “Sweet potato cream stout? You've got to be shitting me. Sounds like something you’d serve at Thanksgiving.”

  “It will most certainly be served at Thanksgiving. People will begin formulating recipes using it as one of the ingredients the minute it hits the shelves. You wouldn't believe the cupcake recipes people send us that use our beer as one of the main ingredients.”

  “Have you ever tried any of the recipes?” Brooke asks.

  “I haven’t—I can't cook worth a damn—but our office manager, Molly, tries them out regularly. She always brings samples. My favorite so far has been chocolate stout cupcakes.”

  “Chocolate stout cupcakes. Now that’s the kind of beer I could consume.”

  We chat for a while, and I check the time as we finish off the last of our drinks. “Concert starts in fifty minutes. I don't think we have time for another.”

  Porter looks at his watch. “I don't think so either. Not if we want to get there in time to grab a drink and find our seats before the lights go down.”

  “Where are your seats?” Brooke asks.

  “Fourth row.” I squelch my grin.

  She lifts a brow. “Fourth row, which section?”

  “The exact one you're thinking.”

  She playfully kicks me under the table. “You lucky bitch.”

  I point at Porter. “All this guy’s doing.”

  “Fourth mutha-fucking row. What kind of job performance is she giving you at the brewery to earn seats that close to the stage?”

  I cannot believe Brooke just asked him that.

  “O…kay. We’re done here.” Brooke’s mouth is getting a little too loose. That means it’s time to fly, so I lift my hand to gain the server’s attention. “We're ready for our check please.”

  “Everything on one ticket?”

  “Yes,” Porter quickly answers. “I’ve got this.”

  “I told you I was paying
for the drinks.”

  He winks and smiles. “Maybe next time.”

  Next time?

  He signs the receipt and places the bill facedown on the table. “I texted my driver. He'll be here in three minutes.”

  Dillyn’s full attention has been captured. “You have a driver?”

  “He's not mine personally. Iron City uses a driving service for events. I've made friends with one of the guys and I reach out to him on an as-needed basis to drive me when I know I'll be having drinks. You're welcome to ride with us.”

  “That's really nice of you, but I've already planned for that one glass of wine to be it for me tonight. We have to drive back to Tuscaloosa after the concert.”

  We say our goodbyes since we aren’t likely to run into one another at the amphitheater.

  “It was great meeting you, Porter. And thank you for the drinks.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m glad we were able to get together before the show.” I've missed these girls like crazy.

  “We miss you, Frankie. Being apart doesn't feel right. You need to come to Tuscaloosa more often.”

  “Maybe I can come next weekend.”

  “Please try.” Brooke presses her mouth to my ear when we hug. “He wants you, and you are a dumbass if you don't go home with him tonight.”

  He’s standing right there. We can't have this conversation. “Okay. Drive carefully.”

  I hug Dillyn, and she does the same thing. “He's really cute. And nice. I like him a lot. You should go for it—that summer fling we talked about.”

  “Call or text when you get to Tuscaloosa so I’ll know you made it back safely.”

  “Will do.”

  A black Suburban pulls up to the curb at the very moment we are parting ways with Brooke and Dillyn. “I’d call that perfect timing.”

  “Ken is very punctual. It's one of the reasons I always hire him.”

  It's a short ride to the amphitheater, but I can't get Brooke’s and Dillyn’s words out of my head.

  He wants you, and you are a dumbass if you don't go home with him tonight.

  Does Porter want me? Would going home with him even be an option tonight?

  He's really cute. And nice. I like him a lot. You should go for it—that summer fling we talked about.

  Yes. He is very cute and nice, and I like him a lot too. Would he be open to having a summer fling with me?

  Because I’m starting to become more and more open to it myself.

  * * *

  We’re in our seats with drinks in hand when the lights go down. The band comes on stage and I am up and out of my seat when they open with “Only the Young.” I am in my element, dancing and singing every word.

  Every. Word.

  Zero. Shame.

  “I hope you don't embarrass easily. Because I'm probably going to sing every one of these songs.”

  “Have at it. That's why we're here—to have a good time.”

  The band is in between songs, and I stop to get a drink of cold beer. “Wow. I didn't realize beer tasted so good when you're hot.”

  “It's a definite thirst quencher.”

  “I can already tell that I'm going to need another one of these.”

  Porter joggles his tallboy. “I’m almost empty. I can make a beer run. Want one or two?”

  “Are you double fisting?”

  “Definitely. I hate to miss half of the show standing in line for drinks.”

  I feel bad that this will be his second time to go for beer. “I’ll make the run next time.”

  “No way. I don't want you to miss a minute of this show.”

  “Well, that's hardly fair for you to stand in line every time.”

  “It would kill me if you were standing in the beer line when they play your favorite song.”

  “It would kill me too.” I have to hear them play “Faithfully.” No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

  Porter leaves and returns with four tallboys straight out of the ice chest. “Oh my God. They’re so cold.”

  I lift my hair and hold the frigid can against the back of my sweaty neck. “Ohhh… that feels so good.”

  I enjoy my moment of coolness against my skin before opening my eyes to see Porter staring at my mouth, his lips slightly parted. “What is it?”

  He grins before looking away and shaking his head. “Nothing.”

  “Wheel in the Sky” begins, and it triggers one of my favorite childhood memories. “My dad loves this song. He used to put me on his shoulders and dance around the kitchen while my mom cooked dinner.”

  “It must have been fun growing up with parents who were so young.”

  “You have older parents?”

  “They’re in their sixties.”

  “My parents were young and fun, but we struggled for a lot of years. I bet with your parents being older, they were financially stable and you never had to worry about your bills getting paid.”

  “My dad is a financial advisor and my mom is a college professor. So, no. There was never any worry about how bills were going to be paid.”

  “That must have been nice.”

  “I never thought about it being nice or otherwise. It was just the way things were.”

  “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” begins, and my hips have a mind of their own. “Ooh, this is a good one.”

  “One of their best.”

  With knees bent, my hips sway back and forth with every beat. “I swear I was born in the wrong generation. I should have grown up when this kind of music was current. Everyone who knows me says that I am an old soul.”

  “I tend to agree. And not just because of your choice in music. You’re very mature for your age.”

  “Do you still see me as a kid at twenty-one?”

  “I don’t see you as a kid. Not even a little.” He’s unsmiling, eyes locked on mine. If we were somewhere else—just the two of us—I think this is the point where he’d lean in to kiss me. Maybe.

  “Excuse us. Excuse us.”

  Mutha. Humper.

  Porter and I sit in our seats to make room for the two girls needing to get by. And just like that… the moment we were having is ruined.

  Journey plays one hit after another. They don’t miss a single one of my favorites. I’m sad when they play “Faithfully”—the final song of the encore—but I’m also happy because it’s my all-time favorite. “I’ve seen my mom and dad dance to this song a thousand times.”

  Porter takes my beer from my hand and puts it under my seat. “Dance with me.”

  “Here? In the aisle?” There’s not enough room.

  “Yeah. Right here, right now.” Porter steps behind me and wraps one arm around my waist to pull my body close to his. He uses his free hand to push my hair off my neck and presses his mouth to my ear. “Just like this.”

  Oh. Fuck.

  His breath on my skin makes the entire right side of my body erupt in chills. And the rest of me erupts in tingles—the sexually thrilling kind. The sort that makes you feel your panties getting wet.

  He presses his face against the side of my head and wraps both arms around my body. And I let him. Hell, I even take a step back so that my back—and ass—are pressed firmly to his front.

  I lace my fingers through his and we sway slowly together. Anyone looking at us would likely assume we’re a couple deeply in love. And for a moment I pretend we are.

  Maybe it’s the song—or maybe it’s the four beers I’ve had since we got here—but I’m feeling brave. Nothing about being in Porter’s arms right now makes me nervous. Everything about this feels right.

  I relish the feel of his arms around me, our bodies pressed against one another, and the warmth of his breath on my skin. But mostly, I love the way I feel dancing with him to my favorite Journey song. Feels romantic.

  The song ends and so does our dance. I mourn when it finishes, but the night isn’t over. And I have high hopes that this dance is only postponed until later.

  The amphith
eater illuminates when the lighting is brightened, and Porter releases his hold on me. “I think that means we shouldn’t expect another encore.”

  All good things come to an end. “I think you’re right.”

  “Fighting this crowd to get out of here should be fun.” Porter reaches for my hand. “Stay close.”

  No worries. That won’t be a problem.

  We weave in and out of the crowd, sometimes pressed together. Other times our arms stretched to the point that I’m certain we’ll be torn apart. But we somehow manage to stay together on the way to our designated meeting spot with Ken. “It’s going to take us forever to get out of here.”

  “I don’t mind. Gives us time to talk.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for bringing me. It was a wonderful concert. Seriously one of the best I’ve ever been to.”

  “I think it could be my favorite.”

  We make small talk during the thirty-minute ride to my house. Talking across the backseat with a complete stranger in the front hearing every word we say is uncomfortable. And frustrating. I want to continue what we were doing during that final song of the concert. I want to move closer to him. See if he’ll reach out for my hand. Pull me against him. Press his mouth to my ear and whisper things the driver can’t hear.

  But none of those things happen.

  Shit. Have we gone back to being two professionals in the workplace? Being boss and intern?

  God, I hope not. I liked where things were going an hour ago.

  The SUV pulls to a stop in my driveway and I don’t want to get out of the car. Not without something more. “I had a wonderful time.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I’m thinking of every possible excuse to stay with him, but nothing comes to mind. “Thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I guess I’ll see you on Monday.” I pull the handle to open the door.

  “Wait.” That one word makes my heart speed.

  Porter gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. “No way I’m letting you out of this car without seeing you to the door.”

  “My daddy would appreciate that.” Or maybe not. He would probably be quite pissed off if he knew I was with Porter right now.