Reckless Point (BBW New Adult)

by Brent, Cora

  RECKLESS POINT

  By Cora Brent

  Copyright 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to living people or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ***

  Reckless Point

  Angela Durant always chafed under the limitations of Cross Point Village, her fading New England hometown. After getting out and finding success in the Boston business world, she had become used to taking the safe roads in life.

  Until now.

  Jolted when her boyfriend betrays her for something skinner in humiliating fashion, Angela retreats to Cross Point for a long summer weekend.

  That's where she connects with Marco, the biker bad boy from high school yesteryear.

  Sexy, volatile and utterly uninterested in playing anything 'safe', Marco is intent on getting curvy Angela to loosen her inhibitions.

  But reckless desire has consequences.

  And what began as casual lust can turn deep and complicated.

  There, in the heart of everything she always wanted to escape, Angela might find the life she never knew she'd always been searching for...

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  More than one great writer was made famous by spitting out wordy reflections on the elusive concept of ‘home’. There was no end of clichés attached to the idea; the place where you hung your hat, where your heart was, and perhaps, if the cobwebs of the past were too suffocating, where you couldn’t go again.

  You might make endless wishes upon the clear country constellations that you’ll be the one who makes it out, thumbing your nose at all the sorry souls squatting in the same place they were born. But then when the wider world offers fewer comforts than you supposed, you’ll long for the daily certainty of that life you shunned. The secret envy you nurse won’t be spoken about or even consciously recognized. You miss it all; the serene street of your childhood, the echo of familiar voices and all the known places of memory as in the moment before you sink into an unremembered dream you wonder why it was you left. And, ever so briefly, your heart aches.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It might be a problem when your boyfriend enjoys looking at himself naked more than he likes looking at you.

  Privately I only tossed the word ‘boyfriend’ around lightly when thinking about Brian. He was smart, he was good looking, and he was about as interesting as my parents’ colonial replica end tables. Plus I could tell from all the slack-jawed drool which rolled off his finely crafted chin that my figure wasn’t really doing it for him. I knew I wasn’t disfigured or even unattractive, but Brian Hannity evidently craved a sort of supermodel tightness that no amount of living room squats was going to produce in my back end.

  “You know,” he would say, “that new gym just opened up by the office.”

  “Really?” I would answer, playing dumb and resenting his insinuation that if I only had a tightly aerobicized ass he would be deeply in love with me. “Perhaps I’ll take up handball.”

  The thing with Brian started six months earlier, the night of the company Christmas party. I’d been at Cranston’s for nearly the entire three years which had passed since I threw my Amherst cap in the air on an oppressively hot day in 1986. I considered myself lucky that the Boston brokerage had been willing to hire a history major and life had been good to me since then. After a series of hard earned promotions I was making decent money. My apartment was small but squarely in Beacon Hill which appealed to my appreciation of days gone by. I kept clay pots full of petunias on my back patio, never letting the fact that they kept dying dissuade me from stubbornly buying more. My father was a whiz in the garden and I figured one of these days my genetic green thumb would kick in and quit accidentally killing pretty things.

  The Christmas party was a grand annual obligation overseen by the CEO of Cranston Securities, Michael Cranston. He had invested heavily in a dingy theater establishment down by the ball park. Michael fancied himself Hollywood’s lost opportunity and now that he was fifty and rich he was going to realize his dreams of Shakespearean dinner theater. Even if it gave everyone else indigestion.

  Anyway, Harvard man Brian Hannity was always polite and professional but it wasn’t until we were stuck at the same table during Michael Cranston’s holiday production of Othello that we connected. If you’ve ever heard of Shakespeare you can imagine how ill-suited grand Elizabethan speeches are to such a mismatched enterprise as dinner theater. I mean, who can really enjoy an unevenly reheated Salisbury steak while chewing through Desdemona’s death throws?

  After a lot of mutual eyebrow raising and quiet smirking, I imagined Brian Hannity glanced at me some time during the second act and figured ‘Yeah, you’ll do.’ So, I accepted his hand on my knee with a serene smile and two hours later showed him my bedroom.

  The sex was truthfully not fantastic. While I wasn’t terribly experienced, I did recognize that Brian had certain phobias which were difficult to reconcile with passion. Like how he would slide the damn condom off not six seconds after he was done grimacing through his orgasm. Then, before I even had time to close my legs, he was taking a flying leap into the bathroom to hold the rubber up to the vanity light as he squeezed the length of it, breathing a sigh of relief that there were no punctures or holes or anything else which might result in something unexpected. And so I would pull the covers up to my neck, watching Brian admire his lean muscles in the mirror for a few moments while I tried not to feel left behind. Like a used tissue. Or a footprint.

  Once he’d had his fill of self-admiration, Brian would strut naked over to the small television set in my dark bedroom and say something oddly casual, like, “What channel is Falcon Crest on?”

  My office best friend, Lanie, had warned me it was poor judgment to screw where you earned. That was a sentiment I really should have taken to heart.

  “Covers on? Lights out?” Lanie would snort. “Shit, how do you stand it?”

  It’s not so bad,” I would tell her brightly. “Brian needs to…concentrate.”

  And then Lanie would look at me pityingly and sip her tea.

  Sometimes I thought maybe Lanie was right and that I should join her on one of her Saturday night prowls. I’d never had the kind of soul-rending orgasmic experience that a girl could lose herself in and forget everything but that desperate want vividly portrayed in books and movies. But I’d built a nice life in the years since leaving home. Risking it was unwise.

  Whenever I was feeling sorry for myself I would remember high school. I would remember growing up in Cross Point Village. Years had passed but everyone who stayed there seemed suspended in sort of a paisley fugue, scraping by with narrow prospects, decrepit vehicles and a lot of alcohol. My visits were infrequent because I felt
tossed back into the body of the uncertain girl I had been. Isn’t it funny how long after you’ve passed them, those times of pain and tumult, they still form the nucleus of your experience? And it was with no small amount of triumph that whenever I returned to Cross Point Village, or ‘CPV’ to the knowing locals, I wore my city status like a badge of honor. Growing up in a small town, the ability to make good on the echo that “Someday I’m getting out here,” was the true mark of achievement. It made up for years of quiet insecurity.

  “Our daughter,” my father liked to tell people, “is tremendously successful. Her mother and I could not be prouder.” And my mother would smile agreeably even though she was forever tactfully inquiring about my love life.

  My good girl rank wasn’t entirely self-inflicted. With an older brother awash in eternal fuck ups I was the saving grace for my weary parents. Even my name demanded an invisible halo.

  Angela.

  When I was in high school Juice Newton released a new version of ‘Angel of the Morning’. Certain boys would sing it when they spotted me, their mocking voices thick with innuendo. I blushed like a fury and pretended I didn’t hear. Instead I spent my adolescence with my nose in every musty page in the CPV library. Even after I departed to claim a full scholarship at Amherst it took me awhile to realize there was anything else to do in college besides read. I managed to cling to my virginity until the semester I graduated and since then I’d had the pleasure of exactly two other lovers. Including Brian.

  But still, I figured Brian was all right. He wasn’t a Prince Charming or his cousin thrice removed but he was an upright sort of guy who I didn’t mind looking at. Brian wasn’t the type you’d think would be caught fucking the receptionist in the copy room one unsuspecting Friday.

  Fourth of July was a big deal in CPV and Brian had reluctantly agreed to accompany me on a visit around the hem of the Berkshires to the place I still referred to as ‘Home’, no matter how feverishly I tried to adopt Boston. My mother was absurdly pleased by the idea that I was bringing a man to the Durant homestead for the first time. I knew sleek, well-heeled Brian from Brookline would be distinctly conspicuous in my hometown. But, and shit, this will sound awful, my biggest reason for cajoling him along was that he was evidence. Proof that I’d made good. That chubby, bespectacled Angie Durant was prosperous and thriving.

  So eat your freaking hearts out Cross Point Village and have another beer on me.

  I was also hopeful that perhaps the change of scenery would ignite a spark with Brian. I’d always nursed this ribald fantasy of boning underneath the football bleachers at Cross Point Village High. Immature? Yes. Erotic as all get out? YES!

  Then the shriek from Carol in Accounting changed everything. As her howl continued to reverberate throughout the building I was among those who rushed from behind portable gray walls to find out if one of my colleagues had expired on his desk.

  I was a little slow in my heels so by the time I reached the scene there were a good two dozen people staring into the open copy room. I craned my neck over some suited shoulders and was jarred to see Brian Hannity busily putting his pants to rights while Tami from the reception desk tried desperately to pull her band aid of a skirt over her skinny thighs.

  “OHMYGOD in the COPY room!” Carol was wailing like a demented hyena. “Where am I going to collate these spreadsheets now? WHAT am I supposed to DO?”

  “You dipshit.” Lanie crossed her arms and glared at Brian as he straightened his striped tie.

  “People, people,” said Michael Cranston, waddling up with his most convincing executive I’ll-fix-it voice. But he stopped short, gaping at the sight of Tami’s nipple poking out of her blouse like a rouged button.

  A few of the men snickered appreciatively while the handful of women looked at me with something like sympathy because of course everyone knew I was the semi-girlfriend of half the guilty party. I was finally beginning to appreciate Lanie’s warning.

  Carol had grown positively apoplectic over the interruption in her spreadsheet production. She simmered under her huge shoulder pads like a rabid rhino. And Lanie looked like she just might fly into hair-flying Dynasty mode and kick Brian Hannity through the drywall.

  Brian looked up and for an uncomfortable second our eyes met. I saw his defiance and didn’t blink, feeling almost preternaturally calm as I turned my back on the sordid tableau. I paused at my desk only long enough to retrieve my purse. My car keys were already in my hand when I heard Brian calling my name. I ignored him. He gave up easily.

  I puzzled over my clear head as I turned the ignition on the white BMW. Vaguely I wondered if I was just in shock, if later I would be a mess of snot and sticky hair carving into a gallon of Rocky Road with a plastic spoon. But I didn’t feel sad. Only loosely humiliated and possessed by a sharp desire to leave Brian Hannity in the rearview mirror.

  So that I could back right the fuck over him.

  Perhaps I would be better served by adopting Lanie’s ‘Bare your tits’ advice. A nameless screw sounded just heavenly.

  I heaved a sigh and stuck Madonna’s Like a Prayer into the cassette player, cranking it up. Though it was only mid-afternoon, people were already beginning to sift out of the office park in anticipation of the weekend.

  Goddamn. I’d forgotten about the weekend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My folks were expecting that I would be arriving this evening with plans to visit though the Fourth of July on Tuesday. Brian had been intending to drive out separately and stay through Sunday night. Now I was going to have to explain to them that the latter part of that plan wouldn’t be happening. My mother’s inevitable disappointment would be a particularly tough pill to swallow.

  I turned sharply around a narrow corner. Some sections of Boston were positively medieval with their contracted streets. In light of the afternoon’s events, Cross Point Village suddenly didn’t seem like such a fine vacation. My parents’ fawning attention over their only daughter was just about the last thing I felt like dealing with. But lately I’d been feeling some guilt over my rare ventures home. Tomorrow was the annual Polaris Lane block party. It was an event created by own parents many years back it had assume a life of its own. And then a few days after that was the summer firework holiday which in an American small town was practically biblical in reverence. Happy Birthday America translated directly into the opportunity to drink and make very loud noises.

  With a sigh I pulled into the parking garage. It cost a tidy sum for the privilege of parking a hundred yards from my apartment but I couldn’t imagine not having a car. When my heart’s restlessness got the better of me the road was my best friend for a few hours. I always returned from a drive to the beach or the mountains feeling more clear headed than when I left.

  My apartment was tiny and expensive but I couldn’t help but be proud of it. If I just squinted into the gaslit streets I could swear John Hancock was holed up nearby practicing his signature or the window silhouette of Julia Ward Howe was frowning over the third stanza of Battle Hymn of the Republic.

  Halfheartedly I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Dad. I’m heading out now so I’ll be there by about six. One thing, Brian’s not coming. No, he’s not coming tomorrow either. He got stuck at the office. Literally. Look, just explain to Mom, would you? Love you too. Yes, my tires have plenty of air.”

  I hung up before my mother could grab the phone away and pepper the line with a thousand and one questions. After tossing a few more things into my already bulging suitcase, I heaved it onto my shoulder and cast a fond look at my lonely apartment before locking the door.

  It usually took about two and a half hours in fair traffic to reach Cross Point Village, which sat in the corner where Massachusetts met New York and Connecticut. Given the fact that we were in the thick of a humid summer and next week was a holiday, I expected there to be more than a few travelers heading toward the mountains. Truly, there were about six hundred packed station wagons stuffed with impatient fami
lies. An angelic looking little girl grinned down at me from the back seat of her parents’ boxy Ford van and then extended her middle finger. I flipped mine in response and she stopped smiling. I could see her shrieking at her parents and pointing out the window so I gunned the engine of the BMW and sped away. I felt mildly pleased and at the same time rather disgusted with myself.

  Interstate 90 stretched across the state like a dirty tongue. I relaxed and began to settle in for the drive, pausing briefly to deposit toll fees into outstretched hands. I hadn’t been out this way since Christmas, when the entire region was covered in an icy canopy which ceased being so cozy and entertaining once the jingle bells stopped ringing. The early evening air was hot but I kept the air off and the window open, enjoying the fresh scent of summer as I left the city behind and looked ahead to the clear mountains. Boy, it was easy to forget how miserable the New England winters were when all sides were surrounded by green ease.

  I foraged through my tape collection and selected Bruce Springsteen. I always had mixed feelings when I returned to Cross Point. My earliest impressions of my hometown were that every adult had already lived there for a hundred years and would live there for a hundred more. My blood ties to CPV stretched back more generations that I cared to count. My parents, born there and married there, had never thought of leaving.

  Grace and Alan Durant began dating in the eighth grade and as these things go, eventually settled into a comfortable existence on Polaris Lane with a family business to run and a square front lawn to maintain. For a long time they thought they were going to be reproductive failures but then my older brother Tony finally came along when they were in their early thirties. Two years later my entrance into the world was a nice supplement.

  My parents were now on the graying side of sixty and had always seemed to lead a pleasant, placid existence. Their only grief in life came from Tony. My older brother came screaming out of the womb with that Up-Yours attitude which led to late night doorbell rings from any one of the handful of Cross Point Village’s finest, not to mention earsplitting phone calls from irate fathers whose nubile daughters were fair game to Tony Durant.