Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  “No!”

  “Y-e-s. I didn’t think you could do that. I didn’t think you could take a beautiful name and just give it to another child, not when the baby who had the name first died. I didn’t think anyone could do that.” Liz heard the way she sounded and tried to regain control.

  All was quiet for a long time. The moon passed two fingers further across the sky. Liz and John sat shoulder to shoulder in stilted silence.

  “So . . . why was your day shit?”

  John, recovering from what he’d just heard, took a deep breath. He didn’t think he could put it into words without the bourbon to loosen his tongue, and he had yet to take a sip from the bottle. But she’d shared with him; he owed it to her to share his miserable day with her. They deserved to share. They were two of a kind, really. Two miserable creatures sitting in the dark on a rickety covered porch, wasting time looking at the moon. Hell, they’d gotten so close in the past few minutes, it was as if they’d known each other forever.

  “My best friend died last Thursday.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, you and me both.”

  She turned toward him, this time her breast brushing against his arm. “That’s shitty.”

  “Yes, it is. And here’s the best part. He got cremated and I didn’t even know it. His bitch wife took him out of the nursing home and had him cremated without telling me . . . without telling anyone. He’s dead and scattered all over some park, maybe, or worse yet, in a mayonnaise jar on her back porch, and I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

  Liz nodded. He felt a little better. Sharing wasn’t so bad, after all. Must be his feminine side doing the talking now.

  “That’s shit,” she added, making him feel comfortable enough to say something more.

  “For the past seven years he’s been paralyzed because he took a bullet meant for me. I wasn’t wearing a vest, Dutch . . . that’s his name . . . Dutch was. I got hit in the shoulder and he pushed me out of the way and a second bullet came from another direction and got him in the neck.”

  “God!” she breathed.

  Confession was indeed good for the soul. John felt the heavy lead weight lift from his guts. His chest loosened, too, and he took a deep breath of the cool night air. Liz’s perfume mingled with the salty scent of the ocean. Smelled nice. He wondered, absently, how she would taste.

  No, bad time. Here she was, mourning her child. He couldn’t make a move on her. It just wasn’t right.

  But she looked up at him. One tear slid down her cheek and John’s firm resolve melted. He reached for her and pulled her close. She didn’t resist. She closed her eyes and he kissed her on the lips. Just once. He pulled away, half expecting her to slap him silly.

  When she didn’t, he felt a small smile tug at his lips.

  “So, who won?”

  Her eyebrows met and lowered. “Won what?”

  “Our shittiest day contest.”

  She let out a laugh. “I don’t know. It’s pretty close.”

  John turned to her. “Yeah, it is pretty close, but . . . it’s also getting really cold out here. Maybe you should go inside.”

  Liz returned his gaze. “Not without you.”

  Chapter 17

  John pushed up against the wall until he stood. Reaching down a hand, he helped Liz to her feet. Did she mean what she’d said, or had he misinterpreted—damn, had she suggested she wanted to go inside with him?

  As he stood there deliberating, Liz tugged at his hand and led him to the kitchen door.

  He looked at her, not wanting to make a foolish mistake and ruin a potentially good moment. Her lips were set firmly, her eyes narrowed as she reached for the doorknob. He had his answer when she pushed open his door and dragged him inside.

  Oh, yeah. John knew the signs and his luck was about to change.

  “Which way?” The words were so breathless and soft, John had to lean down to hear them.

  “To the right.”

  Liz hooked her finger through a loop on his jeans. “Hurry.”

  So he did.

  They stumbled through the darkened office and into his bedroom. Making no excuses for its less than House Beautiful appearance, he shut the door firmly and paused. She took a few seconds to scan the room in the dark then pulled John toward her.

  He felt the tips of her breasts as they rubbed against his chest. Her excitement caught him, rushed through him with a thrill he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

  “What next?” he asked.

  Liz stretched against him as she clasped her hands around his neck. Every inch of her burned through his clothes. He was about to suggest they get naked when he felt her tug his T-shirt from his jeans. Good start.

  “Don’t talk.”

  He helped a little as she pulled it over his head. She grabbed his hands and put them down at his sides.

  “Let me.”

  With one hand he went for her waist. “Can’t I touch?”

  Liz, feline smile at her lips, shook her head, sending the lush red curls bouncing.

  He let go, after running his hand up to her breast. She batted it away. Her smile widened, becoming a Cheshire grin that sent a shiver coursing through him.

  The belt went next, then the snap and, too slowly for the tension he felt building, she lowered the zipper. Her eyes lit as he sprang loose.

  “Take ’em off,” she ordered. John obeyed, helpless to control his laughter and protest at the same time. It seemed the logical thing to do, anyway. He stepped out of his deck shoes, ripped off his socks and peeled away the jeans before abandoning them at the foot of the bed.

  A second of feeling foolish vanished as he watched her assess his body. While she said nothing, she ran her hands gently over his chest and biceps, marking with her fingertip the missing chest hair, down the flat of his stomach and stopped there. An eyebrow went up in question.

  “Hmmm. Looks like someone ripped open a sofa.”

  Liz licked the tip of her tongue across her lips and John felt himself swell. He couldn’t just stand there, but when he reached for her again, she placed her hand against his chest and pushed. He fell back onto his bed and wished she’d join him. Soon.

  But Liz stopped him from reaching for her and stood, looking at him with a smile that made him ache. Slowly, she removed a thin bracelet from her right wrist, placing it on top of his dresser. She returned to the foot of the bed and raised the bottom of her sweater, exposing a lacy wisp of bra that barely held her breasts, her round, perfect breasts in place.

  John fought the urge to grab himself. If she didn’t move faster, he’d come anyway, but with exceptional control, he kept his hands at the back of his head and enjoyed the show.

  With a flick, the sweater flew across the bed, but she kept her bra on. Next, she unfastened her slacks and let them pool at her feet, revealing the tiniest scrap of lace between her legs.

  John’s entire body bucked with want.

  She was incredible. The woman teased him with subtle touches to her own body, first outlining her hips, tugging at the elastic that seemed unnecessary at best, then going up to release the fastening of her bra. He sucked in his breath when the lace fell away, revealing perfect, upturned nipples.

  Then she stepped out of that other bit of lace and stood naked before him. The only light in the room came from outside. The moon, bright and strong, made it easy to see everything in black and white and gray. John didn’t mind. He was nearly out of his.

  Liz took a few steps over to the bed and put one knee on the end. John raised himself up on his elbows to enjoy the view as she began a sinuous climb toward him. A panther, grace and beauty and want—that was Liz.

  A groan escaped him, making her stop in her tracks, her breasts just about even with his arousal. He didn’t know how much longer he could just watch, watch and not touch. She slid the rest of the way up his body, flesh touching flesh, until her mouth descended on his and he lost any desire to fight.

  “Condom?” she whispered in his e
ar.

  He fumbled at the drawer of his nightstand, reaching and stretching beneath Liz’s heat, finally producing a packet which she took from him and opened.

  The condom and Liz’s hands at last caressed him right where he wanted to feel her touch. Her heat. Her liquid satin.

  Liz, her eyes shut, a glistening of sweat between her breasts, impaled herself on him. The exquisite shock lasted only seconds before she began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster still.

  In the fury of her ride, John at last clasped her around the waist, helping her, urging her, surrendering all thoughts but one.

  She screamed out his name just before he shouted hers.

  John eased out of the stupor of sated sleep. The weight of Liz’s upper body on his chest made him grin into the darkness. Wow. Incredible. What an incredible woman.

  He tried to check the time and couldn’t find the clock. It must have fallen from the table when he’d opened the drawer. Damn. The room was darker than it had been before, so the moon had passed through the night sky beyond his window. Pity. He’d have liked to see Liz as she slept on his chest.

  She’d had it rough in California. Losing a kid—he couldn’t imaging how tough that would be. And the prick she’d been married to, what was his problem? That was a pretty sick thing to do, naming another kid the same name as a dead child. He had a feeling there was a lot more to the story, but he didn’t want to hear it now. For now, he was content to stare into the darkness and enjoy the feel of a beautiful woman in his arms.

  They’d become entangled in the covers and the room had chilled. As he reached for the blanket, Liz stirred, her breathing changing with a quick inhalation. She opened her eyes slowly, probably fighting through the alcoholic mist in her brain. Just how much had she had to drink? He wondered how she’d react when she realized where she was and who she was with. If she remembered what they’d done, he’d better protect himself.

  She surprised him with a mocking smile and snuggled against him again. Carefully he pulled up the blanket to cover them both.

  This was the time he normally left a woman. No matter how good they were in bed, how entertaining and inventive they were, he’d leave. Or they’d leave while he snored, picking their way through the debris of scattered clothing, frequently leaving important undergarments behind in their haste to get home to husbands or children or elderly parents.

  He’d never really cared. Often, he’d wish they’d go and feigned sleep as they slipped out of the apartment.

  He didn’t mind the feel of Liz’s body on his. In fact, he liked where she had her hand right now and felt his loins revive, readying for another round. Amazing thing, the male appendage. Especially his. He felt it rise, going along Liz’s hip. Did she, or was she too deeply asleep?

  Her hand tightened around him.

  Oh, boy.

  But this time, this time he wanted to be in charge. He’d followed, doing her bidding the first time. This time he wanted to touch her everywhere, taste her, suckle her breasts and explore every feminine part of her. He decided not to give her any choice.

  A nuzzle on the back of the neck. A tiny lick on the earlobe. His hand slid over her silky skin to her breast and over the sensitive nipple and rested there. Her entire body quaked in response and she moved her hand up the shaft of his erection with a sleepy hesitancy until she reached the top. A quick, hard jerk made him growl low in his throat as he rolled her beneath him and proceeded to kiss her, devouring her lips, savoring the taste of woman and bourbon he found there.

  She opened for him. He thrust into her, ignoring his original plan to be tender and gentle. If she were water, he was a man dying of thirst.

  John needed to give her pleasure. The other time, she’d controlled the action. He’d let her because he enjoyed watching her seduce him. Animal sex—well, not quite, but close to it because he had done very little sharing. This time he wanted to give her the pleasure of a long, slow battle in which they both came away winners.

  After the shit day they’d both endured, they both deserved to win.

  Some time later, after he had once again made her scream his name and they had slept briefly, Liz awoke with a start so violent that John nearly reached for the weapon tucked under the mattress.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Liz faced him, distress etched in her face and a look of horror in her eyes.

  She pulled the blanket to her chest. Her eyes drilled into his and one finger scraped into his chest.

  “This never happened, Preshin. Got it?”

  Surprised, but not exactly sure why, he nodded.

  She left the bed and with her back to him, put on her clothing. With one hand on the doorknob, she turned to face him.

  “Good.”

  Chapter 18

  Liz wasn’t moving too well behind the counter. She moved as if she were treading water in a very thick sea. She knew that Carly watched her carefully, as if trying to decide what was wrong. So far, Liz hadn’t pursued any conversation with the kid as she munched at the cereal that popped and crackled far too happily in front of her.

  Gathering up her books, Carly looked ready to leave the steamy warmth of the luncheonette. She’d muttered “thanks” to Flo and Liz.

  “Finish your juice, kiddo,” Liz said softly because it hurt to talk.

  Carly stopped, came back and gulped back the rest of her breakfast. “You okay, Liz?”

  Liz squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve got some kind of bug. I need coffee and aspirin in that order and I’ll be all right.”

  “Sure?”

  Liz pressed her fingers against her forehead for a second. “Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry about me.”

  Carly’s face registered her doubts.

  “And don’t think that you had anything to do with my bad mood, either, kiddo. I know what you’re thinking and I don’t mind you staying with Flo. I had some stuff to work out last night and I did. Or at least I think I did. Don’t worry, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Okay. It’s just that Mr. Preshin . . . he wasn’t doin’ too well last night. It was his idea for me to come down here. He sort of kicked me out.”

  Nodding slowly, Liz reassured her, “I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong, kiddo. Sometimes adults just do stupid things.”

  “You got that right.” With a relieved smile, Carly left for the bus.

  Liz watched the girl bounce down the street through the steamy windows of the luncheonette. The kid had too much energy. More energy than Liz could muster on a good day. Which this wasn’t.

  God! Her stomach flip-flopped when she poured out a black coffee to go. The young construction worker eyed her and asked if everything was all right.

  She couldn’t even fake a smile. Instead, she gave him a grimace meant to say it all.

  It must have said enough because he handed her a five, patted her hand, and left with a swagger.

  Obviously he’d slept well the night before.

  Liz certainly hadn’t.

  She clamped her teeth around a groan. If her grandmother had any suspicion about where she’d been and what she’d done....

  Heat flamed her cheeks as the memories flowed unbidden through her brain. His long elegant fingers, his lips, his tongue. Liz retreated to the grill, scraping away grit and crusts of egg and an edge of pork roll.

  John Preshin. That no account. That smirking, egotistical reprobate. As she dragged the spatula along the thick metal plate, the scene in the grocery store where that cheap-looking woman slapped his face played before her. It was obvious they’d slept together. Obvious to all but John that there had been something between them and he’d totally forgotten the brassy blonde.

  Her cheeks got hotter, probably because of the grill. Liz backed away from it, the spatula hanging limp in her hand.

  Was she going to be just another notch on his bedpost?

  “Did you see the signs about the prom?”

  Bridget giggled and squirmed in her seat. Carly could feel the girl
’s impatience and knew something was up.

  “Yeah, I saw ’em. What’s so special about it?”

  “Oh, nothing. Except this year, there’s going to be a live band—rumor has it that Bruce Springsteen is going to show up. Can you believe it? Bruce Springsteen?”

  Carly thought about it. “I know he’s from around here, but he’s . . . he’s a big star. Why would he come to the junior prom at Mary Immaculate of the Grotto high school? Do you know how much money he gets paid to perform?”

  Bridget winked. “Oh, yeah. He makes millions, all right. Except for one thing. Somebody told me he used to go with one of the teachers—before she was a teacher and he got married and all—and every once in awhile he comes home to visit and they get together. Five years ago he came and gave a concert in the auditorium. There are pictures of it in the showcase on the wall by the front office. Did you get a chance to look?”

  Holy cow. Bruce Springsteen? The Bruce Springsteen? Here at her high school? At the prom? Oh, man!

  She couldn’t wait to e-mail Frankie and Jason with this news.

  The halls were crowded. Carly didn’t quite know where all her classes were yet. She shouldered her way toward the computer lab, only dropping one book this time. Some guy swore, picked it up for her and waited for her to take it.

  “Welcome to Mary Mac,” he said kindly and went on his way.

  When she finally found her class and took her seat, she was still dazed. Halfway through class, the kid behind her tapped her back and slipped her a folded piece of paper which she slid into the pocket of her blazer. On the bus going home, she remembered it and dug it out. With Bridget looking over her shoulder, she read the elaborate girly handwriting.

  Hands off, jerkface.

  “What’s this for? Hands off who?” Bridget’s eyes rounded.

  “I don’t know any guys. Some guy helped me pick up my book after I ran into him in the hall. I don’t know who he is.”

  “Well,” Bridget sounded serious, “looks like you ran into his girlfriend. If it’s who I think it is, you don’t want to mess with her. She can make your life miserable.”