“It’s got a lot of tricks, but it doesn’t talk.”
“Jackson, honestly, this is just too weird.”
He stroked her arm, pulling her toward him. It should feel awkward—the stopped sex, her distraction, his erection. It was a mess of an afternoon, but somehow, somehow it was okay. He made it okay with his largesse, with his kindness.
He pulled the blanket up over his groin. “I’m a man, Monica. Full grown. Not a kid or an asshole who will have sex with a woman who isn’t really interested. Just ignore it—it will go away.”
Was it any wonder she liked this man? Any wonder that every minute they spent together sent her spinning toward someplace new—someplace she’d never been before? She was giddy and sick and … falling in love.
“Have you left this hotel room?”
“Today? No.”
“You can’t hide from your mom forever.”
“I’m working!”
His lifted eyebrow denounced her as a liar. She was waiting to hear back from her editor on the work she’d already submitted, and he knew that.
“Fine,” she sighed. “But … what’s there to say to her? Honestly, what will change if we talk?”
“You don’t know until you try, right? I think you’d be crazy not to be worried about talking to your mom. It’s okay to be nervous. Or scared, or whatever it is that’s distracting you from my awesome sexual powers.”
And that was the moment—that was when she knew. It was as though all the dams burst and she was flooded with knowledge. It was done. Over.
I love him. I really love him.
And instead of freaking her out, it blew her open. And she realized that every other feeling she had for any other man in her life was dirty compared to what she felt for him. It was in fact the purest thing she’d ever felt for anyone.
Loving Jackson was the best thing she’d ever done. Ever.
Immediately she doubted it, because that was her nature. Because she’d been conditioned not to believe that good things could happen to her. There was a chance that this was just another coping mechanism for dealing with her mom. Instead of press tours and drugs and bad sex, was she filling the holes in her life that her mother left behind with Jackson and good sex?
She tested the edges of that theory and found it to be false. What she felt for Jackson was totally and utterly free of her mother. It was about her. About who she was and who she wanted to be.
How … amazing! Liberating. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops.
Delighted by her discovery, she squeezed his face, beloved and handsome.
“You all right?” he asked, his lips pursed.
I can never tell him, she realized, turning cold. She dropped her hands. I can’t. He won’t … understand it. Or accept it. She imagined his face, the way he would close it down—become polite.
Oh God.
She would tell him she loved him and he would be polite. Because she would be one more set of expectations on his shoulders—her emotions would be something he would try to handle, try to make right.
He would try and fix it.
And that would be awful.
“You okay?” he asked. “You’ve gone pale.”
She realized she had her hand over her heart, as if she could protect it from the hurt coming her way. Because it was coming, and it was going to be bad.
“I’m fine,” she said, grappling with both this new heavy love and the equally heavy heartache loving him brought.
But the realization that she loved him couldn’t come without notice, without commemoration. Because she’d never loved anyone before. Not really. And the fact that she could, that she’d grown up enough and grown past her mistakes enough to be vulnerable in the face of another person—that deserved commemoration.
She deserved some commemoration.
It took no effort to push away thoughts of her mother; Simone had already been sidelined by these new realizations. And instead she concentrated on him. On the way he made her feel. How whole and desirable and perfectly flawed.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked with a smile—a slightly confused smile, but a smile, nonetheless.
“I’m thinking about how good you make me feel.” She ran her hand down her breast, over her nipple. As he watched, she pulled her nipple, twisting it in a way she’d never realized she liked until he’d done it.
She pulled aside the quilt and his erection, which had flagged momentarily, revived, and she ran her fingers down it, tracing the veins from the top down to the base.
“I love your dick.”
“It feels warmly towards you, too.” Unable to wait another minute, she leaned over and slipped him into her mouth. He tasted like latex and her and she loved it. She pressed her nose into his skin, taking him as deep into her throat as she could.
“Ah, God, Monica,” he breathed, brushing aside her hair so he could watch.
“Tell me,” she said, lifting away from him, looking up at him, breathing over him. “Tell me how I make you feel.” She kissed him once, hard, before putting him back in her mouth. She would settle for this, settle for the dirty words spilling out of his lips about how sexy she was, how exciting. She pushed him in so deep, she felt tears burn in her eyes. Part of her, from the old days, the old her, told her to be ashamed, but she couldn’t muster up that emotion.
Loving him made all of this right. Made all of it okay.
He pulled on her hair, lifting her off of him. His kiss was wild, wet. His control was breaking and she loved it, loved being on the receiving end of a passion slipping out of its restraints.
“On your stomach,” he whispered and pushed her down onto the mattress. She was drenched between her legs, wanton and hungry, and she lay across the bed as he’d demanded, the sheets rubbing her nipples. She spread her legs a little so he could see what was waiting for him.
He groaned just before he covered her and she felt tiny under him. He lifted her hips and in one smooth thrust buried himself deep inside of her, deeper than ever. He pierced her heart.
She braced herself as best she could, curling up and into him, using everything she had to pull him along with her, to break that control.
“Monica,” he breathed against her neck, across her cheek. He braced a hand by her face and she sucked his thumb into her mouth and bit it. Hard. Wanting him wild. Wanting him to be changed, if by nothing else then by this magic they shared.
He braced his thighs wide and lifted her hips, holding her as he thrust heavy and fast into her.
“Come on,” he breathed. “Come with me.”
She slipped a hand between her legs, using her fingers to catch up, to stay with him.
“Yes!” she cried as it all started to coalesce. The love and pain amplified by the fact that this was all he wanted from her, this was all they would really share. And it was so good she could almost convince herself it was enough.
Crying out against her pillow, she exploded, broken by her love.
Chapter 21
Monday morning, Monica was ready to venture out into the world, emboldened by her secret love. Proud of herself for being brave enough to feel it, if not express it. It made her feel new. Powerful.
It kind of made her feel like singing.
Only to be brought up short by the sight of her mother and Turtle Man sitting near the windows in the hotel lobby, reading the newspaper in sunlight so perfect, so bright and solid, it looked fake. Like they were on a movie set.
In a heartbeat, anger eroded her pride. And she knew hiding out in her room had not brought her any closer to dealing with her fury and resentment toward her mother. Just the sight of her slammed shut all her doors and locked all her windows, sealing her inside her head with all her demons—all her worst instincts.
As she approached their little sunlit scene, she caught the scent of Shalimar and it produced a whiteout in her head. “This is harassment, you get that, right?”
Simone looked down at the stack of papers in her lap
. “It’s the news.”
“Don’t be cute, Simone. This is bullshit.”
“Join us,” Simone said. “We’ll discuss it.”
“No,” she said. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Your mother has a lot of things she’d like to say to you,” Turtle Man said, and Monica spun.
“I don’t care who the hell you are,” she breathed at the man, standing at the edge of the rug, as though the hardwood floor had a repellant property. “But you don’t know me. And you don’t know her. Not really. So stay out of it.”
“You blew off our meeting,” Simone said.
“Well, you blew off my childhood, so I guess we’re even.” Monica took a lot of comfort in being awful. Being awful made her feel strong around her mother, as if those purple eyes would never see her, really see her.
Simone carefully folded the paper, running her thumb along the crease. “I think we should meet. I think … there are a lot of things we need to say.”
“I’m not very interested in what you have to say. I think I’ve made it pretty clear. You can hang out in this town and hang out in my hotel and talk to my friends, but it’s not going to change anything. We’re not going to talk.”
“What about London?” Simone asked. “Greece, France? You don’t have questions about those years anymore?”
The red roosters, the blue room. The dreams of croissants and the tears on her face.
“It won’t change anything. We can talk about it, I can ask you all these questions, but it won’t change me. The damage … the damage is done.”
“Oh.” Simone swallowed. Her hand reached out and then fell back to her lap. “You’re not damaged,” she said.
“How the hell would you even know?” Monica asked and then stopped. She held up her hand, forcing herself to calm down before her head started spinning. “Why are you here, honestly? What do you want?”
“I want …” She glanced at Turtle Man who nodded, as if giving her permission or supporting her, and Monica wanted to gag. “I want you to be happy, and I think maybe … if we talk …”
“It’s too late, Mom. Too late.”
The inevitability of it all suddenly crushed her. The rock of her reality was an immoveable force. Loving Jackson when he didn’t love her back wasn’t new. Or special. This was what she did. She loved people who could never really love her back. It was the lesson she’d learned from her mother, repeating itself. Monica stormed out of the Peabody like she was being chased out of her own skin, with nowhere to go. Homeless all over again. It was as if all the work she’d done in the last years, to be her own woman, to bury that child she’d been, was gone. And the wild child was back.
Or maybe she never really left.
“Businesses have seen a twenty percent increase in revenue,” Brian said. It was Monday morning again, four days until the Okra Festival started on Friday morning, and the town was electric. Walking down the street felt good. Cora’s Café was full of smiling faces and miraculously, for the first time since Jackson had taken over the job as mayor, this budget meeting didn’t suck. “The Peabody is sold out for the next month of weekends and Cora has started taking reservations,” Brian continued.
“The Okra Festival has gotten more attention than it’s ever gotten. Businesses as far as Masonville have reserved booths,” Jackson said, thrilled about that fact, if for no other reason than that it would make good television. “The chili cook-off actually has five entrants. A restaurant from Memphis is coming to challenge Cora.”
Brian laughed. “Well, good luck to them. I’ve had some of Cora’s chili and there’s no way it’s getting beaten.”
“We’ve had to reorganize some of the events,” Jackson said, flipping through the calendar, “for the live taping. The parade and street festival will start Friday morning, eight a.m., instead of Saturday.”
“When does the crew arrive?”
“Thursday night. We’ll have the pageant that night, too. We’ve sent out fliers and the schedule will be in the newspaper on Wednesday.”
“Well, then, let’s keep our fingers crossed that the Okra Festival goes off without a hitch.”
Jackson was past crossing his fingers. He was considering offering Sean as a sacrifice to the gods to ensure the Okra Festival went smoothly.
“You know I doubted the validity of this contest,” Brian said, gathering up his files. “But even if we don’t win the contest, with the increased tourism the town is already winning.”
It felt that way; it really did. The town had new life, but without the new factory it would fade away. Vanish as soon the parade was over.
When Brian left, Jackson turned back to his computer. Only to stare at the dark screen.
It was happening; all the work was paying off.
Soon there’d be a factory working in this town again. Jobs. A tax-base increase. The schools would be fully funded, and everyone would be okay. He imagined the future and it was bright, brighter than he’d ever dreamed.
He heard the door shut and he was dragged from that fantasy back to his office.
It was Monica standing there, her back to the wall, fire in her eyes, a different kind of fantasy altogether.
“Hey!” He jumped to his feet, happy to see her.
“Hey yourself,” she said, dropping her laptop backpack into the chair Brian had just vacated.
“What’s up? You seem … tense?” She seemed wired to blow, surrounded by thunderclouds and twisters. Dangerous.
“I am.”
“Your mom—”
“I don’t want to talk about Mom.” Monica reached over and locked the door, the click loud in the silence.
“What do you want to do?” The blood getting hot and thick in his veins knew the answer.
“Fuck the mayor.” She pulled off the ancient Duran Duran tank top she wore, revealing a utilitarian white bra. His lingerie-loving lover,obviously hadn’t gotten dressed this morning planning to seduce him, which made him wonder, briefly, distantly, what was going on.
Her denim skirt landed in a heap at her feet. She wore black panties, a tiny vee between her legs. “Sit down,” she ordered.
He had no choice; his free will had vanished. He was hers to command. He sat in his chair and wheeled away slightly from the desk, giving her distance to slip in. She pushed aside the paperwork and his keyboard and sat down on the blotter, putting one leg up on his chair, her other foot pressed against his crotch.
He wasn’t a foot fetish guy, but still, he saw stars. She tossed a condom at him.
“Like this?” he asked, meaning with the strange current between them, the anger that rolled off her in waves.
“No,” she said and hopped off her perch, turned around, and braced her hands on the desk. She waved her ass at him. “Like this.”
Something was wrong. But he was a man and he was devoutly in love with her ass, so he stood, though in the back of his head he knew better. His pants dropped faster than he thought possible. Through the cotton of her underwear he felt her, already damp, already hot.
“Hurry,” she breathed, pulling down her underwear, kicking it under his desk.
Right. Hurry. He tore open the condom with his teeth and slipped it on. He touched her hip, then reached around to find the sweet, luscious weight of her breasts, encased in white cotton. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Just … fuck me.”
She pushed back into him, the curve of her ass a terrible tease, a delicious torment. Fine. Yes. A quickie, that’s what this was. Somehow, that made it … okay. He reached down, positioned himself, and thrust deep into her.
Damp she might have been, her words hot, but she wasn’t entirely ready, and he felt her resistance and stopped. “Monica—”
“Don’t. Just let’s go … come on.” Again she pushed back against him, and he felt her loosening. Holding her hips, he thrust into her, slowly, carefully, working to get her caught up.
“No,” she snapped, looking at him over her shoulder. “Hard.”
> “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her, aware in some part of his brain that that was what she wanted. She wanted pain with her pleasure, and usually he could get into that, but not like this. Not with the scales so weirdly out of balance.
She bent her legs, taking him deep, working herself against him, and he felt the tide coming, the tide he wouldn’t be able to resist. “I need … I need hard, Jackson. Please. Hard and fast.”
He was done. Washed away. Whatever anger had pushed her here to his office for this strange and degrading fuck, it spread to him and he found himself angry with her. With one hand he pushed her head down onto his desk, holding her there, while with his other hand he held her hip in a punishing grip as he thrust high and hard into her.
She was wet now, moaning against his desk. Lifting up on her toes to take as much of him as she could, and it was so exciting and so awful at the same time, he closed his eyes. Not wanting to watch himself have sex with her like this—like they had no kindness between them. He felt her come and then he followed her over the edge.
It was anticlimactic. Over, mostly, before it even started. If he weren’t such a simple, stupid machine, he probably wouldn’t have been able to muster up the orgasm.
“That what you wanted?” He panted, pulling away, yanking off the condom with no finesse.
“Yes.” Her voice was small as she stood up. She winced, and he wanted to kick his own ass. It didn’t matter that she’d wanted it. He didn’t like his sex mixed up with that much anger.
“Well, happy to serve.”
“It wasn’t …”
“Don’t say it wasn’t like that.” Jackson jerked up his pants, unable to look at her. “It was exactly like that.”
“Okay, fine, so what if it was?” She pulled on her underwear, walked around the desk, and yanked on her clothes.
“I don’t like being used.”
She laughed. “But isn’t that the whole nature of our relationship, Jackson? We are using each other. We’re not dating. We’re not going to last past the next two weeks. We’re fucking each other to pass the time.”
Wild Child Page 26