by Brent, Cora
“You’re naked,” I said.
“You’re not,” he accused and kissed me as hungrily as ever.
He broke the kiss and ran his palms over my tightly contained breasts. “What are you trying to do, turn on the whole neighborhood?”
“No,” I answered, arching into his touch. “Just you.”
He pushed his hardness against my thigh. “For that you never even had to try, Angie.”
We stared at one another, breathing heavily. Marco pressed a single finger between my legs as I squirmed. Then he laughed and slapped me lightly on the rear end.
“I’ll be ready in a minute,” he said and winked before heading to his bedroom.
I picked up the cooler, my heart pounding. I’d never had it like this before, where every touch made me want him more. Where no matter how many times we screwed and came and screwed once more I was always ready for it again.
“Let’s go,” he said brusquely, having dressed swiftly in a pair of jeans and an Aerosmith shirt.
“Well, where are we going anyway?”
Marco smiled lazily and my knees wanted to buckle. “You wanted to go for a ride, Angela. So I’m taking you for a ride.” He jerked his head, his hand on the door to the garage. “Come on.”
Marco pulled the garage open as I ran my hands over the bike. As I touched the seat I blushed a little, remembering when that leather had last been between my thighs.
“Here.” Marco tossed me a red helmet. He rifled around by the work bench, finally withdrawing a black leather jacket which he draped around my shoulders.
“But it’s warm out,” I objected.
“Cooler on the highway. And you’ll be safer. We take a spill and you’ll be glad to have that leather scraping along the asphalt instead of your skin.”
Reluctantly I slid my arms into the jacket as Marco opened the small compartment behind the seat and stowed the cooler and a few beers. He wheeled the bike carefully into the driveway. When he straightened he glanced my way and whistled.
“Look at Angie Durant, all trussed up like a biker’s badass old lady.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now?”
I slipped the helmet over my curls. “Shut up and get on the bike.”
Marco pulled the garage closed, letting it drop the last two feet with a thud. He slid on a pair of sunglasses, swung his right leg over the side and revved the motorcycle to life.
I stared at him for a few seconds, jolted by the memory of my own fantasy. This was it. He was it.
After carefully settling on the bike behind him, Marco waited while my arms tentatively circled his waist.
“Tighter!” he yelled.
As I clutched him he rode hard down the driveway, down Polaris Lane and toward the center of town. I rather wondered how many necks swiveled with surprise as we peeled past. Once the sight of Marco Bendetti riding around with a girl stuck to him was common, but that was a long time ago.
And anyway, I’d never been one of those girls.
As we reached the clear highway I rested my head on Marco’s strong shoulder, enjoying his warmth, his scent. He stared straight ahead, at times driving so fast and reckless it tightened a knot of fear in my gut. But it was exhilarating nonetheless. I’d always coveted the open road when the unease in my soul longed for something I could never name. I would get in my car and drive blindly, ending up wherever I ended up. But this, tightly holding onto Marco Bendetti as we hurtled through western Massachusetts, was a unique sense of abandon.
As we headed north the scenery became more remote. I had no idea how long Marco was planning on riding. For all I knew we were headed across several state lines and bound for Canada. Just as I began to consider trying to get his attention in some way, Marco pulled over on the next exit.
We were far into the dense greenery of the country. After a few miles Marco pulled onto a rugged side road. I didn’t see another soul as we drove further into the woods. Finally, as if it were a dream, a lazy creek appeared out of nowhere. Marco slowed the bike and rolled to a stop, climbing off.
I pulled the helmet off, looking around. “You’ve been here before?”
Marco nodded. “Yeah.”
A dense carpet of grass stretched on the banks of the creek. The song of sparrows rang from the trees around us. I looked back. Marco was fiddling with the storage compartment. He pulled out a beer and cracked the tab but didn’t drink. He leaned against the bike and stared at the ground, his face serious.
I shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across the seat. “Something wrong?”
His face twisted into a wry grin. “Memories.”
“Oh,” I said, rolling my eyes and thinking of our visit to the cannon. How many other females had ridden behind him and ended up here?
Marco’s look was troubled. “Not what you’re thinking, Angela. My mom used to take us camping out here.”
“Here?” I looked around, wondering how in the hell Mary Bendetti had ever even found this place.
Marco pointed to the grass. “We’d pitch a tent right over there. Damien always hated it, bitched the whole time about asthma and mosquitoes, but I loved it. Mom loved it. We would come out once a year. It was the only break she ever took from that goddamn bar.”
Marco stopped talking and swirled the can of beer. I stepped over to him and took it from his hands, placing it on the ground and then reaching up to touch his face.
“I’m sorry,” I said simply.
Marco didn’t respond for a moment. He stayed at a distance and I was reluctant to break his spell. Then suddenly he grabbed me, holding me against him with crushing intensity. It wasn’t the fire of want which drove him, at least not at first. It was something even more basic. Just a wish to be close.
Then he pulled back, staring at me, his breath growing more rapid as he forced my arms up high. He rolled my shirt up past my breasts and over my head, undressing me. I let him.
Then I helped him pull his shirt off. I ran my hands lightly over the solid expanse of his chest, down the muscled arms lit with strange winding tattoos. On the left side of his chest, a few inches from his heart, was the scar of a small healed wound. I kissed it.
Silently Marco led me closer to the creek. He spread his jacket on the grass and eased me down. I kneeled, rolling my bra from my shoulders one side at a time. I knew it was what he wanted to see. And as I unzipped my pants and pulled them down, I cupped my own moist center.
Marco wouldn’t be held at bay any longer. He tackled me into the grass and before I could register the fact that he had abandoned his jeans he was deep inside of me.
With a sudden burst of strength I pushed him to his back, straddling him.
“Damn,” he said, smiling, still inside me. He pulled down on my hips firmly, trying to sink in more deeply. I loved being in control, squeezing and bucking his rigid lust.
I felt the climax approaching and tried to draw it out. I rose and fell, rose and fell, lingering over the precious sweet spot and making all kinds of noise about it. The pulse of the orgasm lingered for a long time and Marco waited, wanting me to get my fill.
My long hair fell forward, tickling my sensitive nipples. Marco finally pulled himself out of me, repositioning my body so that I was on my hands and knees. I felt weak, spent, and still I loved it when he plunged into me from behind, seeking and quickly finding his own moment of bliss.
As we rolled into the soft grass together, Marco buried his head between my breasts, my name on his lips. I stroked his short hair, damp with sweat, and felt a strange curl in my gut.
Marco gently kissed the hollow of my neck and I remembered my own cold words the other night on his dark porch.
“It was just fucking.”
No, it wasn’t. Not anymore.
“I didn’t know,” he murmured.
I kissed the crown of his head. “What, baby?”
“That she was sick.” Marco placed both hands across my breasts and rested his head on his hands. His face was sad and b
ewildered. “She came to see me once at that hellhole in the desert, about a year into my time.” He swallowed. “I hated that she was there. I told her I hated that she was there.”
I waited, wanting to hold him and soothe the pain in his voice but not wanting to interrupt.
“She asked me why. I’d kicked a guy’s face in, Angie. So bad he would never look like a normal man again. And yeah, there was a reason. There’s always a fucking reason. But that’s not what she was asking me in that small, hurt voice. She meant all kinds of other why’s. Why did I leave, why didn’t I call, why didn’t I ever come home?” His dark eyes fixed on me intently. “We’re alike, Angie, you and me. You’d never guessed that, did you? I wanted to get out of here too. I could fucking taste it. All this provincial Peyton Place shit, I hated it. I saw how you used to look at all of us, as if we were already memories.”
“Marco,” I started to say, but he silenced me with a kiss.
“No, it’s all right. There’s no shame in wanting something better, Angela. I set out to find it too.”
“But you didn’t find it,” I said and then wanted to take the words back. But Marco only smiled wryly.
“No,” he agreed. “I didn’t. Mom made Damien swear not tell me about how bad off she was. She didn’t want me ripping myself apart when I couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t even be here.” His face crumpled. “He finally stopped listening and flew out to Phoenix on my release day. And I let my big brother herd me onto the first cross country flight to Boston, back to our dying mother. She was already unconscious, so doped up on pain meds she couldn’t even see me.” He paused. “She passed away three days later.”
Marco’s agony cut me. I felt my own tears coursing down my cheeks. He noticed and brushed them away gently with his thumb before settling once more with a sigh on my chest.
He had talked about something better. I knew all about it. The elusive search for a superior life. I’d seen Marco nearly every day for a long stretch of years. And even though we rarely spoke it seemed we knew everything about each other. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t think there was anything better than him. But I said nothing, afraid the words would sound hollow and insincere. And then realizing a bigger fear. That I would sound like a clingy, mewling little fool.
After a time Marco raised his head. We made love quietly, softly, next to the burbling chatter of the creek. Marco waited for me to climax languidly before finishing. As he rolled onto his stomach and stared thoughtfully into the water I touched the letters on his back. Seventeen. Perhaps he had chosen the tattoo in a fit of despair over lost youth. Because what was true for Marco was true for everyone. We could go to the place we called home. But we couldn’t go back in time. And sometimes in a way that was like being unable to go home.
We lay quietly for a long time and finally broke out Grace’s sandwiches. Marco looked puzzled as he held the tiny juice box in his large hand.
“Why the hell does your mother even have these? There’s no more school lunches to pack.”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she’s still shopping in 1980.”
He poked a hole and took a sip. “It was nice of her though.”
“Grace is a nice mommy.”
As we quietly ate our lunch I realized that though we were both still naked I felt no shame about it. I was only warmly comfortable in my own skin, a new sensation for me, one I was learning to appreciate. Marco never looked at my body with anything but undisguised desire. I knew he wanted me even if he’d only just had me.
I picked a few blades of grass out of my hair and fluffed it over my shoulders, enjoying the way it felt over my breasts. Marco lounged nearby, staring at me, and then rising to attention.
“Again?” I teased, pointing.
“Always,” he answered, taking what he wanted.
It was after four by the time we reluctantly started to dress.
“I need to check on the bar,” Marco explained.
“Can I see it?”
He pulled his shirt over his head, regarding me with surprise. “Sure, if you want.”
“I want.” I kissed him tenderly, growing serious. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
His tone was flippant. “I hope the ride was what you dreamed of.”
I frowned. “No, I mean it. This is a special place and you chose to share it with me.” My voice grew soft. “I love that you did that, Marco.”
Marco picked up the open beer can, pouring the contents into the dirt, his head down. He turned and took one last look at the creek. Then he climbed onto the bike, kicking the engine to life. “Let’s get going, Durant.”
“Right,” I sighed, pulling Marco’s helmet and jacket back on.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He drove back to Cross Point Village even faster than he had driven out of it. I held him tightly, trying to tell myself to have faith that Marco knew what he was doing. Trying to tell myself to have faith in Marco, period.
The light had grown softer by the time we reached Cross Point Junction. People headed home early, excited for the holiday. Of course all Cross Point business would be shut tomorrow. The lethargic parade through the center of town hadn’t been seen since I was a kid but there were still fireworks over at the high school. The Hennessy boys used to drive down south every year in search of the good stuff. I supposed they still did.
Marco rode slowly down Main Street, past the town hall and the cannon, past my father’s store. He turned onto Maple, riding up on the sidewalk before slowing to a stop halfway up the street.
It was the oldest of the low brick buildings on Main Street. The others had been expanded from their original modest structures to include second floor apartments but The Cave was structurally the same as the day it was built.
For decades it had been a regional bank where all CPV’s most upstanding citizens kept their penny hoards. Well, until was wiped out by the events of 1929. Then the building stood sadly vacant for several dozen years until the late 1950s when Grandma’s Attic opened as antiquing came into vogue by rich city folk.
“Hey honey, let’s take a drive out to the sticks, purchase a colonial era writing desk for peanuts and laugh all the way home about the ignorance of these gnarled-tooth hicks.”
When Mary Bendetti bought the failing Maple Street establishment around 1970 it was an act of desperation. A widow with two young sons to support in a withering half-forgotten alcove of the nation. I supposed it was pity which moved Alan Durant to use his influence as town selectman to allow the requisite permits. He never said so, but I imagine he would have reconsidered had he known it would usher in a new era of low rent dives along the stately row. Often I’d caught him exiting the drugstore and squinting down the street as if he were hoping if he just tilted his head that way a little bit all the motorcycles and hard music and broken characters would disappear.
Marco had improved the exterior slightly with a dark blue awning over the entrance and a flashy white sign with tall black lettering. The door was open and I heard a cascade of crashing and cursing from within. I climbed off the bike and saw Marco gazing irritably into the dark interior.
“Hey,” he yelled, dashing inside. “What are you assholes doing to my place?”
I lingered uncertainly by the cracked curb as a male voice shouted an obscene greeting. Marco laughed. I looked around and quickly counted at least fifteen other bikes squatting outside the other Maple Street bars even though it was nowhere near dark.
“Come on,” Marco emerged, grabbing my hand. “I thought you wanted to see.”
“I do.” I let him pull me into The Cave and found myself in the midst of drop cloths and the heavy smell of wood lacquer.
Chris and Gavin Boyle had been cheerful and dim-witted ten years ago. Irish twins, as the story goes, ten months apart and both a year ahead of me in school. They’d thickened over time and wore identical brown mullets with greasy moustaches. Chris Boyle, I remembered, was one of the boys who’d squatted in my side yard one ancient
night and listened to Marco compliment my tits.
Gavin Boyle was the younger and vaguely more serious brother. He took a long sip from a Budweiser bottle and spoke coolly. “Keep your skirt on, Bendetti. We’ll be done on Thursday like we promised.”
Marco ran a hand over the shiny bar, yanking on it to test its solidity. “Installation looks good,” he said.
Chris knelt and pulled up a drop cloth. I averted my eyes away from his pudgy ass crack. “Floor’s done too. We just got to do the painting on Wednesday and she’ll be all ready.”
“Wednesday? What happened to tomorrow?”
Chris scowled good naturedly. “Aww, you don’t expect us to labor on our nation’s birthday?”
Gavin patted Marco on the shoulder and looked down at the fresh hardwood covering the floor. “It’ll be done, buddy. I swear on my brother’s left nut.”
“Hey,” Chris complained. Then he cocked his oafish head in my direction. “Who’s your lady?”
Marco drew an arm around my shoulders possessively. “Come on, you dickheads remember Angie.”
Gavin belched. “Angie who?”
I let out a sigh of exasperation. “Angie Durant, Gavin. You guys grew up two streets away, used to trail around after my scoundrel brother.”
“Angie Durant,” he said softly. “Well suck my balls and call me a lemon, you living back here?”
I shook my head as Marco glanced quickly at me. “Nah, just visiting.”
Chris seemed to have difficulty processing the conversation. “You move back in with your folks?”
“No Chris, I live in Boston.”
“Boston,” Gavin snorted. “Shithole full of haughty fucks.”
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, at a loss as to how to answer that.
Marco’s fingers played on my shoulder. “Hey, why don’t you guys wrap it up for the day?”
Gavin belched again. “We already have.”
“Well, then get lost.”
A nasty smile spread across Chris’s face as a light bulb flickered in his cavernous head. “You guys fucking around?”
“Aw dammit, Chris.” Gavin glared at his brother. “Sorry Angie. There’s no filter there.”