Quick Study

by Gretchen Galway

  Paul started jogging. But he was still fifty yards away when the man lurched forward and grabbed Bonnie’s arm, then pulled her up to his chest and put his other hand on her face.

  Adrenaline flooded Paul’s veins and he broke into a sprint.

  Chapter 6

  While Paul was cursing himself for being too slow, the man suddenly howled, clutched his groin, and fell out of Paul’s view. Only Bonnie’s curly round head, bobbing back and forth like a soccer player kicking a ball, was visible over the parked cars between them, and then she bent over and disappeared.

  Just as Paul passed through the last row of parked cars, he watched in shock as Bonnie climbed up into the lifted pickup and slammed the engine into reverse.

  The man screamed.

  “Heads up!” Bonnie cried, and backed up over the panicked, writhing man who flattened himself between the wheels, safe from being crushed, but now prostrate under his own truck.

  Bonnie revved the engine, then got out, slammed the door, and strode to her VW just as Paul reached her.

  “Bonnie!” he yelled out. “Are you OK?”

  Eyes wild, she turned to him. For a second, he didn’t think she recognized him, but then she shook her head, nodded, waved goodbye and got into her car. He could see her hands shake as she started the engine.

  “Wait—” But she hit the engine and roared into reverse, not looking at him, then ground the gears moving it back into first and screeching away.

  “Crazy bitch!” The man cried from the ground. He crawled out from under his truck, disheveled and streaked with dirt, and staggered to his feet. “Did you see that? I should fucking press charges!”

  Just then a police car pulled into the parking lot, flood light searching the rows. Remembering Bonnie’s phone calls, Paul broke into a grin and flagged it down.

  “Here’s your chance, dickwad,” Paul said.

  Watching the police approach, and more than happy to provide his eyewitness testimony, Paul was filled with a happiness so complete he thought he’d float away from the weightless joy of it.

  So this is what love feels like, he thought.

  Parked in front of her apartment building, still shaking with the trauma of the attack, Bonnie sat frozen in her seat and tried to get a grip. Making her statement at the police station had taken longer than she’d expected, and though she’d called Lorraine and Marilyn to warn them she would be home late, they would worry. But she couldn’t make herself get out of the car.

  She stared over at the folder filled with questionnaires on the seat next to her and didn’t recognize them, not even the red binder with the white label, not the transparent pink clipboard, or even the box of fine-point rollerball pens shoved alongside.

  It was as though she had sleepwalked into somebody else’s life.

  With sudden clarity, Bonnie recognized the futility of the past few years and knew, just as surely as she knew she would never be a member of the Starship Enterprise, that she would never finish her degree in the progressive fringe of interdisciplinary social sciences. Because she hated the progressive fringe of interdisciplinary social sciences. And the conservative fringe and moderate core, too. And academia itself, come to think of it, with all its smug self-referential bias and back-breaking loans and shitty pay.

  She was going to quit.

  She let her forehead rest on the steering wheel, acknowledging the failure with a numb sense of relief. Expecting tears to follow, she was surprised when she could only manage a deep sigh. Even her mother wouldn’t have wanted her to pursue a degree she hated—unless it was in law or business, maybe, with its promises of affluence and prestige—and maybe, Bonnie had to admit, maybe not even then.

  Life was too short. How could she have forgotten? Her parents had died at fifty-seven, long before their time. If this guy had raped and killed her, would her last thoughts be filled with regrets about academic paperwork?

  Or with the regrets of not truly living?

  Paul had been there. She’d been too freaked to talk to him, to ask why he’d followed her.

  The rectangular windows of her apartment building glowed into the darkness. Lorraine and Marilyn. They must have told him where to find her. She reached into her pocket and ran her thumb along the smooth edge of his card, wondering what he thought and what he would say. How much had he seen?

  The sidewalk in front of her apartment seemed unusually dark, and she hesitated to get out of her car. Damn men. Some men. The ones who could hurt you—or tried to, since Bonnie had followed her dad’s unusually serious advice to learn self-defense.

  She clicked on the reading light and dialed Paul’s number, her hands shaking as much as they had after backing the truck over her would-be rapist.

  Part of her had wanted to really drive over him—bone-crushing, wheel-to-flesh contact—not just straddle him. But thank God she hadn’t.

  “Hello?”

  Paul. How good he sounded. “It’s me,” she said. “Bonnie.” Then to her shame, began to cry.

  “Where are you?” He sounded frantic. “Did you talk to the police?”

  She took a deep breath. “I drove straight to the station and made a statement. They said they had a car on the scene.”

  He paused. “They did. I made a statement.”

  “Thank you.”

  “They took in your friend—”

  “Do not call him that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding truly chastened. “They seemed to know him from another case. They put him in the back of the squad car.”

  “My God. What an idiot.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it wasn’t my fault! I told that loser I was calling the police when he followed me out the door. I even took his picture.”

  He laughed. “Man, I—” he stopped himself. “I want to see you. Can I come over?”

  “I’ve been sitting in my car in front of my apartment for a half hour. I think I’m afraid to get out of it.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He clicked off and Bonnie closed her eyes, too stirred up to analyze the blurry mixture of lust and affection she felt for him, and when ten minutes later he came humming down the street in his Prius, she got out of the car to meet him.

  “Thanks again—” she began, but he had his arms around her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “I was useless. I was sitting there doing jack squat, just watching. I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you or something.”

  Bonnie didn’t think she would want a man’s hands around her, but he felt warm and strong and good. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”

  He released her and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Sorry to grab you. That can’t be what you want right now.” His face was hard. “I could kill that bastard.”

  Bonnie managed a smile. “I almost did.”

  He took her in his arms again and tucked her head under his chin. His heart beat through his chest under her ear, soothing at first, until her body became aware of the rest of him, his hard thigh along hers, the earthy smell of his leather jacket. Then he pulled away.

  “Look at me, grabbing you again,” he said. “What a prick. And you said you were hungry.”

  “It’s late. Everything will be closed.”

  “Everything?”

  She gave him a look. “I’m not up for your place tonight.”

  “You don’t have a kitchen?”

  “I don’t cook.”

  He laughed. “I can give it a shot. Come on. Your old lady friends are probably freaking out.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve got to go in.”

  They walked together across the street to her building, and after she unlocked the gate and they passed inside, he tucked her hand in his and walked down the hall to her door like love-sick fourteen-year-olds.

  “You’re back!” Marilyn cried out from her recliner. “Lorraine! You can get off the computer now.”

 
“Oh, honey,” Lorraine said, rounding the corner and throwing her thin arms around her. “I’ve been reading all about post-traumatic stress disorder. I think you might have it.”

  “Oh, shush up,” Marilyn said. “She just got home. Leave her the hell alone.”

  Bonnie looked at Paul, frowning. “How did they know? I just told them I’d met an old friend.”

  “They called me.”

  “How’d they—” She put her hands on her hips. “Only use your cards for business, eh?”

  “And you, Bonnie,” he said. “And you.”

  “Aw, now that’s sweet,” Lorraine said.

  “Uh-huh,” Marilyn said. “And now he can go. Bonnie needs to crawl in bed. Alone. She’s had enough of men for one night.”

  “Now how would you know?” Lorraine asked. “Shouldn’t that be up to her?”

  Bonnie stifled a laugh. Paul just shrugged and walked into the kitchen, opening cabinets. “I will go,” he said with dignity, “but first I’ll make Bonnie something to eat. If that’s all right with you two ladies.”

  Marilyn wiggled herself ahead of him and pulled out a blue and yellow rectangular box. “This is what she needs.”

  “But I can make—” Paul began.

  “Trust me,” Marilyn said. “Nothing fancy tonight.” Then gave him a head-to-toe look that almost made Bonnie laugh.

  Having three people fuss over her filled Bonnie with a soft, fuzzy feeling, and she went back to her bedroom to change into her favorite oversized pajamas and wait for her macaroni and cheese, secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t going to force himself on her again until she said she was ready.

  With some embarrassment, she realized that might not be very long at all.

  Chapter 7

  He called her every day for the next week after she finally gave him her cell number, but it wasn’t until Saturday that he pulled up in front of her apartment building to take her out for an official date.

  “You deserve better than macaroni and cheese out of a box.” He took her hand and led her out to his car. He’d dressed up for her in slacks and a sweater, which would have looked sweetly conservative it he weren’t wearing the familiar leather jacket and a pair of old Doc Martens. She wanted to nibble him.

  “So we’ll get it in a restaurant?”

  He squeezed her hand and opened the door for her. She waited for him to kiss her, but he just helped her into the car, then went around to his side. “Hope Berkeley isn’t too far,” he said. “It’s got my favorite pizza.”

  She wasn’t paying attention. Who cared what they ate? She tugged her shirt lower and glanced at her face in the mirror. Not too much makeup for close contact, but enough to entice. Licking her lips, she flipped up the visor and reached over with her left hand to trace the long muscle in his thigh.

  “Whoa,” he said patting her hand, then holding it there. He smiled at her. Not a sexy smile, but an aren’t-you-cute kind of smile.

  Very annoying.

  She pulled her hand away and glared at the freeway. Berkeley was at least fifteen minutes away, and they’d have to park, wait for a table, order, wait, eat, wait, look for the car, drive, wait, wait, and wait.

  She reached over and stuck her hand down his pants. He swerved over the yellow line and jerked upright.

  “Hey!” he cried. “Careful!”

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “I’ll drive faster.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don't think you're listening. I'm hungry now.”

  He glanced at her and grinned, but still wasn't taking her seriously. Gripping her exploring fingers tighter, he turned his attention back to the road. “Soon.”

  Soon wasn't going to do. “Forget the pizza. Go to your place.”

  “But—” he began, then saw the look on her face and finally lost the smile. He merged right.

  “You know,” she said, “for a rich computer genius, you're kind of slow.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to make his way off the freeway. “I am so sorry.”

  “I might forgive you this time, but you really do need to learn your lesson.”

  “I do. I really do.”

  She felt her blood run hot through her body. Her hand was still trapped under his hand on his lap and she pulled it away after squeezing the bulge of his cock once, hard, through his khakis. “I'm not convinced you're sorry enough.”

  Definitely not smiling now, he blinked at the road and seemed to be having trouble breathing. “You might have to punish me?”

  “Oh, I might.” She crossed her arms over her chest, felt the underwire of her new push-up bra poke her in the armpit, and looked down at her breasts straining against the stretchy blouse she'd worn to please him. But why should she have to suffer? Tonight was his turn. She leaned forward to unclasp her bra.

  “What are you—” A car honked at them as Paul swerved across the off-ramp.

  “None of your business. Focus on the road until we get to your place.” Loose in the unclasped bra, her breasts sagged forward in the slippery cups under her shirt. She'd have to unbutton the front to take off the bra completely. So she did, wiggling forward to slide one elbow, then the other, through the straps until the silky nylon was a rumpled pink pile in her lap.

  “Oh, Christ,” he whispered, watching her. “Thank you.”

  “Eyes on the road.” She stroked the tip of one nipple to torment him. “Or you'll have more to answer for.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said, without mockery. She felt herself get hot between her thighs.

  “Say that again.”

  “Yes, mistress. Thank you. Am I pleasing you now?”

  “For now,” she managed to say. “Just get us off this damn road to some place you can please me some more.”

  He nodded, eyes hard and fixed ahead of them, somehow looking more threatening as her willing submissive than he had when he'd tied her to his lifting bench. All that male energy was hers to control now. The power was hers. When he dropped the goofy nice-guy bit, he was as bent as she was.

  “When we get to your house,” she said, “I don't plan on doing all the work.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I might not even want to take off my clothes by myself.”

  He cleared his throat. “I'm here to please.”

  Yes, you are. “I might not even want to take your clothes off by myself. In fact, I don't feel like doing anything. It's been a long day. I'm very, very tired. All I want to do is crawl into bed.”

  “I can carry you there,” he said, his voice low.

  She sighed and stretched back in the car seat like a cat, her loose breasts peeking out from her unbuttoned blouse. The freeway was behind them now, and the car sped upwards into the oak-spotted hills on the quiet street she remembered, to the house she'd been dreaming about every night since her last visit. “If you please me, I just might let you.”

  She glanced over at him just in time to see him close his eyes briefly and suppress a shudder.

  “I'll do whatever you say,” he said.

  “I want you to go down on me.”

  He shot her a dark, hungry look and nodded.

  She crossed her arms under her exposed breasts. “For as long as I want.”

  “Pleasing you pleases me.” He turned abruptly onto his driveway and skidded into a stop next to the house. All his attention was on her now, eyes heavy-lidded and hot on hers, but he didn't move. They sat in the parked car under the porte cochere, silent except for the sounds of rapid, shallow breathing.

  “Waiting for something?” she asked. Her voice almost cracked.

  A small smile curled up one corner of his mouth. She cursed herself for showing weakness and amusing him. He shrugged, then dipped his head. “Your command.”

  Oh, baby. She licked her lips. What did she want? So many things, but first of all, to relive the best of her dreams of the past week. The best of her memories. “I'd like you to take off all my clothes and carry
me inside.”

  That surprised him. He grinned. “My pleasure.”

  When he got out and walked around the car to her side, she tilted her head back on the headrest and arched her back.

  “You are so beautiful, Bonnie.” He said it slowly, with reverence, and she shivered. “May I kiss you while I undress you?”

  “You may.”

  “Thank you.” But he didn't do it right away, just dipped his head, brushing his hair along her skin as he reached down to unfasten her seat belt. Removing the belt, the backs of his fingers traced her naked abdomen up along the bottom of her left breast, then up to her collarbone and the delicate skin under her right ear. Then he hesitated.

  “Don't stop,” she said.

  “Sorry.” His hands began to move again, sliding over her body, under her shirt and down her arms and taking the shirt with it. “You're just so beautiful. I had to worship you for a second.”

  The breath caught in her throat. She gasped. “Worship while you work.”

  “Yes, Bonnie.” He tossed her shirt and bra into the back seat. Now she was topless and breathless and struggling for control, knees primly together facing away from him into the car while he knelt down in the driveway and ran his palms up and down her slim-cut jeans.

  “You may take them off,” she said, thinking he would smirk, but he didn't.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. Dropping his gaze to the button of her jeans, he slipped his index finger the waistband, and popped it open—so slowly she ached to reach down and do it herself. Going slow made the exposure, the anticipation, the dark lust in his eyes and between her legs more intense. Too intense.

  “I would like—” she began, then forced some steel into her voice. “Go faster. I want to go inside.”

  He glanced up at her, and now he was smiling, all lopsided and too damn sure of himself for a man that was about to be licking her clitoris for the next few days. Damn if he didn't have a beautiful smile. And those sexy laugh-lines around his eyes—she could get lost in those eyes. They reached inside her and kissed her soul.

  “Bonnie?”

  She had to look away to regain control. Nothing in the rules said she couldn't take off her own damn pants. Pushing him away, she slid the jeans off and climbed out of the car. “Carry me.”