Lunchtime Chronicles: Jolly Rancher

by London, S.

  I have to admit, it’s a pretty solid sales pitch. Doesn’t mean I’m any less pissed off when I see confusion marring Amanda’s face. She’s actually considering riding off with Du-Haul dude and his air mattress? I’ve had enough of this shit.

  “Fuck you, Keanu.” I grab Amanda by the arm and pull her back to me. If she thinks this guy treats her like a princess, I’ll show her what it means to be my queen.

  “Choose, Amanda. Him or me?”

  Chapter Two

  Amanda “Messy Mandy” Murphy

  I hum along with Jennifer Hudson, the same soundtrack as before, the unreasonable volume a welcomed companion. Y’all know I love music. The right song always clears my head, opening a window to the level-headed thinking that is the hallmark of my genius. Currently, I’m questioning what impulsive techno garbage landed me in the passenger seat of Diesel Conrad’s Hummer EV, a dick on wheels.

  Seriously, who buys a prototype vehicle?

  A grinch with a crash dummy death wish, that’s who. Nevertheless, the plush black leather heated seats hug my curves tighter than the guest preacher on friendship Sunday.

  Before an audible sigh of comfort can escape, I clamp my pleasure behind tight lips, remembering—I’m still mad.

  Damn Keanu and Du-Haul’s budget pricing. I’m boycotting both as soon as my vacation ends.

  And Kwanzaa is over.

  And, my New Year’s buzz wears off.

  Instead of bathing butt naked in a tub of eggnog with mistletoe on my nipples, I’m spending my first vacation day with the mean one. Please understand, I dream of ass-spanking Christmas cowboys as much as the next woman. But why should my very Mandy holiday be ruined by a Terminator-sized grinch?

  Angling my head, I stare at him. Without the hat, his chestnut brown hair is flat against his temples, the top is longer in a messy array of thick waves. My fingers itch to yank out a few strands. His forehead, like his shoulders, is broad above an arrogant nose, unusually full lips, and a chiseled jaw. I never noticed the long sable lashes, useless on a grinch, hiding those evergreen irises.

  When he glances at me , those eyes are arresting. But a sister maintains her cool. He doesn’t need to know my lady parts like his man parts.

  Diesel swallows.

  My mouth waters at the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the ripples of that thick neck. Continuing south, I trace his defined pecs filling out the plaid flannel shirt, the fine curls of chest hair at the collar, and corded muscles of his bare forearms. Warm bronzed skin covers his wrists, it’s perfect in its imperfection of healed scars. The sexy smattering of light hairs covering his knuckles accentuates his masculinity. All that steely hard muscle wasted on a big brooding bah humbug. Shaking my head, I train my sights on the fading horizon.

  Exhaling, I push the ping of attraction for him aside. Not that it matters.

  The interior of the cab smells of him—crisp fallen snow and the wild outdoors. Did I mention, the problem with my nose? I keep leaning over the center console to get a whiff of him. Oh, that’s good.

  Closing my eyes, I imagine his thick fingers skillfully steering this beast of a machine over ice slicked highways while cupping my ass. Inside my jeans, the skin tingles were his callused palm slapped my cheeks. Like the two are connected, my sex pulses and contracts in remembrance. The heat, the weight, the feel of him has me squirming in my seat. On the sly, I part my thighs, letting the air conditioning quiet my purring kitty. I’m definitely wearing hot pants, if you catch my meaning.

  As if he can sense my predicament, Diesel looks directly at me, those iridescent green eyes taking in my flared nostrils, parted lips, and spread thighs.

  I smile, not giving anything away. “What’s up?” I say a little too shrilled.

  “What are you doing, Amanda?” he asks, suspicion clouding his voice.

  Dayum, his voice is midnight booty call smooth. Like the 1970’s Soul Train scramble board, I re-arrange the question in my head. Did he say, what are you dicking, Amanda?

  You, Grinchy poo.

  No. N-O. That can’t be right.

  Or... could it?

  For a woman missing out on a steady supply of ding a ling, sexual subtlety can be tricky. Don’t laugh. Cock-anemia, a condition of not getting enough cock, is rampant up in these streets.

  “Minding my business.” I lift my chin, gesturing to the highway. “Eyes on the road, Grinchy.”

  He glares in response. “That mouth is writing a big bill for that ass to cash.”

  I cock my brow, mustering up a ton of sass. “Another spanking, Grinchy?”

  His grip twists around the wheel until his knuckles blanch of color. Oh shit, that’s sexy. All I comprehend is his deep timber repeating that he wants to spank me.

  “Keep talking. I got your tab.”

  “Yasss. When you gonna cash-in, boo?”

  Why am I antagonizing him. Clearly, I’m getting caught up in our fun.

  I send a message to my vagina, which has no chill being this close to the one who smacks asses. Don’t open your lips, heifer. I mean it. Simmer down.

  You know you want me wet for that man meat he keeps teasing you with, she claps back.

  Nope. Craving more of his touch pisses me off. Get it together, Mandy.

  Why did my sister recommend my services anyway? Maxi and I don’t share clothes or crossovers where men are concerned.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my twin, but that girl is all about number one.

  As a realtor, client referrals pay the bills for me, Big Mama, and Uncle Earl. Finding Diesel’s mom, Danai, a single-family home for her menagerie of animals was cool, but her son is certifiable.

  Diesel doesn’t crack jokes.

  Diesel doesn’t laugh out loud.

  Diesel doesn’t do fun.

  Basically, we’re opposites. I decide to ignore him for the duration of the trip.

  As he zooms past yet another string of cars, throwing my body against the door panel, the beat of the wheels working to grip snow covered asphalt creates a rhythm. Turning the knob on the radio, I crank up the ApplePlay. I force myself to think about anything beyond the ass-spanking cowboy.

  I really do love music. I’m almost drifting off when I feel his elbow nudge mine. We’re sharing the console, the touch is slight, but the impact is devastating.

  Diesel’s nearness sucks up all my oxygen. Seriously, I’m licking my lips, air hungry for my next breath. “Can you please stop breathing like that?”

  His gaze, hard and irritated, breaks from the road to regard me. “Through my nose?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tab’s running, Amanda.”

  I don’t disguise my attitude. “I ain’t scared.”

  The windshield wipers sweep an arc of Interstate-66 wintery back spray aside just in time for me to read the green and white miler maker sign for Haymarket before it disappears behind a curtain of snow. This town of Elfton, Virginia was farther west than my adventures. Rolling my eyes, I lean forward, intent on cranking the sound system to the max.

  “Get your hand off my knob.”

  Funny, Maxi never mentioned Diesel offering to redden her identical apple bottom. Does he see something unique about my assets? I digressed. Back to hating. I shoot daggers at him.

  “Oh, Grinchy poo. I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Sit there and—“

  “Let me guess, be quiet,” I mock.

  Y’all know a woman of a certain age does not appreciate anyone telling her to be quiet. Now, imagine that woman is me.

  “No,” he drawls. “Keep them thighs spread. I like your scent.”

  For a moment, I’m speechless. But then I say, “Oh, you nasty.”

  Ah yeah, the kitty kat claws at my panties. These babies are coming off tonight.

  Eyes back on the road, he gives a humorless chuckle. “I’m driving Miss Crazy.”

  That red velvet voice tickles some place other than my funny bone. Honestly, this much sex appeal from one man... is hot as
hell.

  “Hey, you came looking for me. Seems you like this little bit of lightning in a bottle.”

  “A damn liquor bottle,” he mutters under his breath.

  Jabbing my thumb in the opposite direction, I say, “You know the way back to Baltimore.”

  Y’all know I ain’t getting out of this truck. He twists those broad shoulders, his smirk visible.

  “You missing Keanu and your fans?”

  I am curious to see this ranch. He’s not going to talk at me sideways.

  “I will bite you,” I utter in warning. He flashes his side fangs in invitation. Impossible man.

  “Who’s working the Lunchtime Dish while you neglect your duties for Christmas?” he snarks.

  That’s the name of my online gossip column. I talk all about my peeps-sports, entertainment, politics, love, and relationships. If it’s hot and full of flavor, I’m spilling the tea.

  “Nobodi.”

  “Figures,” he grunts. Is he knocking my side hustle? I’ve always paid attention to other people’s business. That’s how you keep them out of yours.

  “Oh,” I seethe. “For your information, Nobodi is my male counterpart and the host of Nobodi Gives A F*ck.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Through pursed lips, I say, “Don’t knock my creative expression. I should’ve let Keanu beat your ass.”

  Diesel’s brows slam together. Aw, that scowl looks painful. He lifts his foot off the accelerator. The truck’s rpm decreases. For once in this two-hour trek, a flurry of drivers speed by, each glaring in the window like, who the hell is behind the wheel. There’s a beat of silence before we both burst out laughing.

  “Say what now?”

  “Okay, not my best clap back.” I wave my hand, dismissing the comment. “But somebody needs to knock some sense into your grumpy, Christmas-hating ass.”

  “Huh.” He smirks. “You want me on my knees?”

  I grin. “For starters.”

  “It’ll take someone bigger than you.”

  Oh, I want to smack that grin off his face. Maybe suck those lips before sliding my hands down Mount Diesel, burying my nose in that nest of curls, and then opening my mouth-

  “Hey, woman,” he bellows, “your breathing is labored. What’s wrong now?”

  He did it to me again. Got me under his dick-nopsis.

  “You know what, Mr. Conrad. Let’s stick to business for the duration of this trip,” I point out. “What’s the deal with this ranch you’re dragging me to?”

  “My father owned it.” He shrugs, not making eye contact. “I don’t want it.”

  I face him, genuinely interested. “You’re selling it, why?”

  “I don’t want it,” he repeats, with a cracked glass cadence.

  That’s not a real answer. Clients who ditch properties after emotionally charged events-divorces or funerals-equal bad online reviews for realtors.

  “I’m gonna need a little more information.”

  “You don’t,” he snaps.

  Placing one finger over my mouth, I wonder if I should enlighten him... this joy ride to Timbuktu is a favor.

  “Here’s a public service announcement. I need more than, I don’t want it, before I will sell your daddy’s house. I mean, my dad gives me the same Target skull cap and mittens every Christmas. I have every set.”

  His grip relaxes on the wheel. “You choose to hang on. I can let go. My father disappeared when I was twelve. By the time he came back, talking about a relationship... I was almost a man.”

  “And the ranch?”

  “He invited me out. My answer was no... every time.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Mom and I worked. Feeding, mucking, breeding horses until both our bodies ached so bad we became numb to pain. We got a break, sold our first quarter horse, Hollander. The rest is iced water under the bridge. Got the message he passed. With your help, I got mom settled in her place. Now, I have a ranch to offload.”

  My mom died giving birth to us. While my dad served in the military, Big Mama and Uncle have been there for Maxi and me. The pain of a parent choosing to sever ties had to hurt the Grinch, but we have another problem.

  I stare wide-eyed at him. “So, you’ve never visited this place you’re trying to sell?”

  One dark brow arches. “Nope.”

  I slap the dashboard. “Diesel. I swear if you got me all the way out here for a Beverly Hillbillies shack, I’m going to— “

  “Get rode hard and put to bed wet.”

  What the? Every conversation with this nut leads to sex. That’s kind of funny. Nut. Sex. Get it?

  We exit the interstate, taking the backroads. The properties are few and the land is vast. “Can we have a conversation without you throwing your dick in my face?”

  “Throat.”

  “What?” I frown.

  “Your throat gloving my cock.”

  That sounds nasty as hell when he says it. Before I can defend my tastebuds, he stomps on the brakes, sending the truck into a fishtail. When the movement stops, my dizzy brain takes a few seconds to slow down.

  “Which cereal box did you swipe that driver’s license from?”

  “Close your mouth and open those big browns. I can’t drive through a downed tree, Amanda.”

  I gasp in embarrassment. I hadn’t noticed the blocked road. Diesel is out of the truck assessing the situation. We’ve been driving for hours in worsening weather. Turning back isn’t an option. Diesel must agree, because he opens the rear door, grabbing my A’Diva tote and a camel-colored satchel. I follow suit, stepping onto the packed snow.

  My foot sinks into the wetness and keeps going. Instantly, I’m freezing cold. I yelp as the icy feeling spreads through my lower body.

  He grunts. “Didn’t tell you to get out of the truck.”

  Before I can protest, he has his big jacket around my shoulders and I'm in his arms. My legs lock around his waist of their own volition.

  “What the hell are you doing, Diesel?”

  “It's too cold for that shit you have on. Do you put your ass and tits on display for all your N2U dates?”

  He starts walking. The snow is deep and wet. My one-hundred and twenty added pounds doesn’t slow his pace. I’m hovering above his erection, but with each step, I bottom brush the firm head.

  “Do you rub your mystery meat in between all your realtor’s butt cheeks?”

  “You want an answer?”

  “Nope,” I rasp. “Put me down. I'm more than capable of walking on my own two feet.”

  “So you can twist and ankle in your sexy shoes. Then I’ll have to carry you moaning and groaning in the dark.”

  “The shoes are sexy, aren’t they?”

  “Amanda, stop playing with me.”

  “Who’s playing? I happen to like a man’s hand on my ass. But you, are a Grinch.”

  “You chose me.”

  I shrug. “It was more like, I rejected Keanu.”

  “You want everything I’m offering.”

  He might be right, but it’s too early in our game to agree to any terms. “I don’t even like you.”

  “You like me spanking that ass.”

  “You’re rude.”

  His hand on my ass tightens as he lifts me higher. “Doesn’t change facts.”

  And then he sniffs.

  “Why are you sniffing me? I saw all that chest hair. If you’re some type of ass spanking, biting grinch, I’m going to want some fifty shades accommodations and exclusive rights to describe your red room in detail for my column.”

  “Be still, there’s ice under this snow. We could slip.”

  “You’re deliberately touching my ass.”

  “Those jeans got my attention.” Some type of decision weights his words. “You can stop fighting. That ass is mine tonight.”

  I ignore him, choosing to focus on my rough ride. This close, I feel every flex of his muscles. His chest rubs against my nipples, sensitizing them more with each
step. “How far is this place?”

  “There.”

  Twisting my head over one shoulder, I find what he can already see. A pasture, fenced and rolling beyond my view, bows down to an array of surrounding hills. On the left is a long, sprawling ranch with a semi-circle of out buildings. The house is draped in festive lights with a warm glow in each window and smoky hiccups curling from the chimney. To the right is a snow covered red and white roofed barn with double-x doors with a two-person sleigh under an awning. The air scents of crackling wood and hay.

  It’s a scene from every Hallmark Christmas movie. The place is Norman Rockwell painting gorgeous.

  “I knew it. What is this? Santa’s workshop. Do real elves live in Elfton, VA? Is this a home for orphans?”

  “Hell no. The place should be empty.”

  “Well, it’s not.” He wants me, a lover of holidays, Hallmark, and happy endings to sell this place. NO.

  “Maybe, the caretakers are a husband and wife, and they are still here.”

  I stare at this peaceful, majestic home. It’s my winter wonderland. Only a grinch would want to sell a place this beautiful. Furious, I turn hard eyes on Diesel Conrad. “Take me back,” I hiss. “I won’t help you do this.”

  “We had a deal,” he grunts.

  “I won’t help you ruin Christmas.” I start to push against his chest.

  A hand lands on my ass and a moan escapes. “Stop that, creatin,” I snap.

  “Fine.” He nods. “I warned you.”

  Next thing I know, his mouth is on mine. Hard, firm, demanding. He pushes between my parted lips. It wasn’t a kiss, more of a possession. I’m completely responsive. I hold back nothing, my tongue gleefully joins the party, dancing a twisted tango with his. And what a festive beat it is. Tilting my head back, I welcome a deeper probing. The nips and bites add to my excitement. He knows how to use his tongue and those big hands. His right is on my breast, squeezing and pinching my nipples. They bead in response, and I groan in encouragement. In the distance, a branch cracks, or maybe it’s us melting the ice. Diesel breaks the kiss. We stare at each other, lust burning brighter than any fire.