The Summerland

by T. L. Schaefer

  The ticket-taker on the ride was a gap-toothed farm boy wearing a plastic sticker naming him Mike. He took one look at Bill and, with a carny’s instinct for survival, offered them a ride on the house.

  Arden plopped down on the hard plastic seat, the huge grin she wore splitting her face in two. The Tilt-a-Whirl had always been her favorite. She’d ditched her purse in one of the storage lockers long ago, so all she had to do was hang on and relish the ride. Her anticipation of a rollicking good time only intensified as Bill sauntered to the cab, casually occupying the outside seat.

  * * * *

  The first fistfight Bill broke up resulted in only a bloody nose and a spilled tub of beer. Even the second was short of a full-scale brawl, and he counted his blessings. On Fair nights only a few of his deputies were armed, mostly because they broke up so many close-contact scuffles. Department-issue weapons were “safed” by a thong on the holster and the actual safety switch on the gun, but he’d found it was better to be cautious than having one of his deputies stare down the wrong end of his own gun.

  Somewhere in between acting as a referee to the local troublemakers and attempting to con Arden into taking a ride through the Tunnel of Love he realized an amazing fact. He was really, truly enjoying himself. He tried to remember the last time he’d come to his hometown county fair and just had a good time. He figured it was somewhere around thirteen, before he was too “cool” to enjoy himself, before girls became an all-consuming passion.

  The band playing in the pavilion was pretty damned good, and he got to impress both himself and Arden with his prowess in the Texas Two-Step. The Tilt-A-Whirl had definitely been the highlight of the evening thus far.

  He’d positioned himself on the outside of the cab, a strategic move designed to protect Arden from his body weight as the car spun around and serve an ulterior purpose. Each time the tiny capsule spun around they were stuck together like so much peanut butter and bread. It was a wholly satisfying feeling.

  The fact that Arden seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself just added to his overall feeling of joviality.

  Even their stroll down the midway was a good time, if a little embarrassing. He’d been mortified to discover that Arden was true to her word.

  He and Arden had stood side-by-side in the target-shooting booth, aiming their pellet guns at the white square of paper with the little red star. With deputies and townsfolk gathered around, she’d proceeded to kill his reputation as an ace shot and kick his ass. The prize she’d chosen to give him hadn’t soothed his ego one little bit. Then he’d taken one look at her laughing face, heard the good-natured ribbing from his friends, and felt a warm, fuzzy click he hadn’t felt since his childhood. The feeling that everything was right in the world.

  * * * *

  A half-moon rode the sky, playing hide and seek with the thready clouds streaking the sky. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the night and watching the bustling activity of the midway two hundred feet below them. A thinning cloud of dust hung, motionless, a faint smudge against the thin, watery light of the moon. They’d traversed the dusty lane that climbed, switchback after switchback up the mountain looming over the fairgrounds, and the higher they climbed the further back in time they seemed to go. When they finally reached the turnout overlooking the Mariposa Creek valley, the activity and lights spread out before them like a glittering jewel box, startling in its direct contrast to the quiet timelessness of the mountain at their backs.

  Arden sighed and leaned back into the butter-soft leather of the convertible’s bench seat, enjoying the quiet splendor of sitting next to a man whose company she truly enjoyed. And, she thought with a wicked little grin, the kick-ass car didn’t hurt one bit.

  Running a hand along the sumptuous tuck-and-roll upholstery, she idly asked, “So, what’s with the car? I mean, it suits you, but it looks a little Hollywood for a cowboy sheriff, if you know what I mean.”

  Bill turned sideways on the seat, cocking one long leg at the knee as he stretched his arms out along the body of the car. He simply looked at her for a moment, then answered in all seriousness.

  “This ‘Hollywood’ car is a 1970 Plymouth ‘Cuda convertible. It’s powered by a 440 straight 6, has 25,000 miles on it and is as original as the day it rolled off the assembly line. Less than 550 were made that year and only 12 had this engine package. My grandfather Pappy bought it brand new in a “late-life” crisis and babied it like it was his only child. I’m pretty sure it’s the last surviving member of the Barracuda species that hasn’t been remade from top to bottom and rodded out.” He paused in his diatribe, gauging Arden’s response to his defense of a car that could finance an Ivy-League education.

  “It’s also a helluva make-out car. Care to try your luck?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, propositioning her with a depraved smile fit to tempt an angel.

  Arden laughed. It was a light, musical sound that pealed through the heavy night air like bells. She stopped short, astonished by the sound. It had been a long, long time since she’d laughed just for the sheer delight of it, without the weight of the world settled firmly on her shoulders. With a look akin to joy on her face she looked across the seat to her companion and caught her breath. Gone was happy-go-lucky country boy who’d blushed like an adolescent when she’d won him a stuffed bunny on the midway.

  In his place sat pure man. Pure man with an elemental hunger burning in his eyes, a coiled ferocity in his body. He moved slowly across the seat, taking his time, capturing and holding her eyes as he slid, inch by inch until he sat next to her, caging her in a luxurious prison of leather. Even then he made no move to touch her, he just sat there, his eyes shining with a promise of greed and passion and just a little violence until she quivered under his gaze. No one had ever looked at her like that, like the sun rose and set on her. It was more potent than any aphrodisiac.

  In the glow of that wicked gaze, Arden felt herself shift, surrender to the unadulterated woman within. Leaning forward to run her hands up the smooth cotton of his shirt, she gloried in the feel of the cloth and the slick, cold snaps as they glided under her fingertips. Still he sat, waiting for her to decide, waiting for her to confirm what had been inevitable from the day she walked into the Sheriff’s Department. Her hands crept up to his face, tracing it’s absolute, fierce lines with trembling fingers, then she leaned forward, into him, and changed both of their lives.

  “I’ve been thinking about this since the first morning I saw you standing in the squad room.” His mouth settled over hers, warm and soft, the moustache he’d begun to grow tickling the bow of her upper lip as he began to taste her, neither insistent nor probing, just strong and sure and devastatingly masculine.

  She leaned up into his embrace, straining to close the distance between them with an eagerness that was almost frightening in its intensity. The first brush of his lips teased her, brought her that much closer to filling the throbbing hollowness that beat inside her, but left her aching for more, more right now, right this second. Yet still he kept the pace slow, sedate, almost chaste, as if she were a particularly fine wine to be sipped, not slurped in hasty greed.

  Taking a deep mental breath, she reined in the pure lust rocketing through her system, ignored the romance and pull of the moon floating so serenely above them, and concentrated instead on enjoying the tastes and sensations being offered to her so generously. As she did, he relaxed against her, telling her without words how her abandoned response to his kiss had wound him up tighter than a spring.

  Bill felt the subtle shift in Arden’s body and took instinctive advantage of it, relaxing against her, his body simmering with the tingling sensation that came from just touching her. He shifted, pulling her more firmly into his embrace as he settled her legs over his own, almost pulling her into his lap on the roomy leather seat. Keeping his hand on one impossibly long, toned thigh, he twined the other through her unbound hair, glorying in its silky, sensuous feel. He muttered meaningless sounds, continuing to feather k
isses over her mouth, her cheeks, her and temple. Right now just tasting her, feeling her, was enough. Just having her here, on top of his mountain, on this most perfect of nights made everything seem destined, seem right. But God, how he ached. And then her quick, clever tongue found its way into his mouth and time stopped.

  Arden shivered from head to toe as the taste of him rolled over her like a slow wave. Budweiser, stogie and the faint aftertaste of corndog and cotton candy should have stopped the need, the want, compelled her to end this intimate embrace. Instead it aroused her even further. He tasted just like Bill Ashton should taste, solid, down home and more than a little dangerous. She planted one hand in his unruly hair, pulling his mouth down to her as her other hand strayed to the snaps on his shirt.

  The sound of the first snap coming undone was gunshot-loud in the thick silence enveloping the car, overpowering even the symphony of crickets. He stiffened, then sunk his teeth into Arden’s lower lip, holding her a willing captive as she slipped a hand inside his shirt, exploring the shape of his body one snap at a time.

  She started, shocked and more than a little thrilled by the vulnerable position he’d placed her in. Then he traced the delicate skin he’d trapped between his teeth with his hot, slick tongue, eyes on hers, his kiss more intimate and carnal than anything she’d experienced in her life. Those magnificent eyes flashed to a fiery, passionate blue, then his mouth was on hers again, fully, wholly, and she forgot everything except the need, the want.

  Her body arched into his as her hand abandoned his chest and latched around his neck, dragging him closer as she unconsciously, passionately poured everything she was, everything she could be into the sizzling, primal embrace. When he filled his hand with her breast, the moan that sounded in the back of her throat was nothing less than animal. She craved this ultimate, intimate joining, and it didn’t matter that her sister was missing and maybe dead or that she was in the front seat of a car at the local make-out point. All she knew was that everything about this moment in time felt right, felt good, and that nothing was going to stop it.

  Bill quite simply couldn’t take any more. He brought his head up, gasping for air like a man drowning, his palm burning where it cupped the soft curve of her breast. He could feel the heat of her even through her tee shirt and bra, could smell her heady, clean scent, could hear the combination of their not-so-steady breathing through the roaring in his ears.

  He reached for sanity, dimly realizing that if he didn’t stop this right here, right now, they were going to finish it like a pair of teenagers, in the front seat of his car. He slowly, deliciously removed his hand from her heaving chest, running a thumb across her hardened nipple as he did. Tearing his gaze away from her body’s response to his touch he looked into her burning eyes.

  “I want you, and I want you right here, right now.” He rasped, “But I won’t do that to either of us. We both deserve more than sex in the front seat of my car.” He ran his hand through her hair, sliding it through his fingers. “We both deserve a helluva lot more. We deserve to make love all night long. So what do you say Arden? Come home with me tonight, let’s finish what we’ve started, finish it right.”

  He knew, just by looking, that a part of her mind was telling her to do the sensible, “right” thing.

  She looked up at him, her chameleon eyes luminous and wondering in the scattered moonlight. “What if I said no? Would you head back down this mountain and take me to my room and end the night like that?”

  Bill shifted uncomfortably, knowing that he would do just that, if she asked. “You know I would.”

  The words that came out of her mouth next were probably the most surprising he’d ever heard.

  “Then no it is. No, I don’t want to go to your home, and no, I don’t want to go back to my room.” She opened the car door, sliding off of his lap, keeping her back to him as she exited the car. “I’m sure an industrious guy like you has a blanket in the trunk, now don’t you?”

  Then she turned to face him, putting the car door between them, and the look on her face and in her eyes sent each and every drop of blood in his body directly to his groin. She looked like a woman who got exactly what she wanted, exactly when she wanted it, and right now he was it—on a platter.

  Strangling on his affirmative answer, he crawled out of the car, popped the trunk, and extricated a sleeping bag and blanket from the emergency road kit stashed behind the spare tire. He looked up to see Arden, straight-laced, businesslike, military-to-the-core Arden Jones, holding her hand out to him like a nymph, the thin moonlight catching and reflecting in her hair as it swirled around her shoulders like a dream.

  He took her hand and followed her lead as she floated, straight as an arrow, to one of the few springs on the mountain that ran year-round. He snuck a quick look at her face, wondering how in the hell she’d known about this place, this personal sanctuary of his. Her face was as beautiful, as enigmatic as a goddess’ as she released his hand and knelt to trail her fingers through the lukewarm clarity of the spring. Bill quickly shook his head, trying to dislodge the torrid cobwebs that stretched across every part of his brain, then shook out the sleeping bag and blanket.

  He could feel her behind him, sense her turbulent aura of frustrated sexuality before he even turned around. He stood there for just a moment, soaking in the waves of want, need her body exuded, then abruptly turned, gathering her into his arms with a craving just short of pain.

  The kiss they shared was molten, flowing between them with a hunger and voracity too honest to be feigned, too complex to be described.

  Arden finished the job of unsnapping Bill’s shirt with an unconscious single-mindedness that would have shaken her, had she not been so intent on one thing, and one thing only. Getting Bill Ashton naked. Now. He mirrored her narrow focus, breaking their embrace only long enough to yank her tee shirt over her head and fill his hands with the breasts hiding behind twin cups of cotton and lace.

  Arden’s breath literally froze in her chest as she stared, enthralled, at the sight of his tanned, work-roughened hands stroking one of the few areas on her body she’d ever considered delicate, feminine. Then he eased one of her nipples from behind its protective barrier and she stopped thinking completely.

  As Bill tasted her, drew her into his mouth, he knew this first time would be hard and fast, neither of them would stand for anything less. He also knew that no one had ever made him this hot, this ready, this fast. He greedily sampled her, lowering them both to the blanket, unhooking her bra as they descended.

  Returning his voracious mouth to Arden’s he fumbled with the tab on her shorts, biting back a curse as their fingers collided, tangled with each other as they sought the same goal. As one, they disengaged their fingers for a brief moment, then attacked the other’s button.

  He would later think that peeling those shorts off of Arden Jones’ long, tanned legs was another one of those defining moments of life, almost like the first time a boy hits that perfect pitch or sees the neighbor lady naked and wonders about the mystery of the opposite sex. The drawn-out, picture-perfect clarity of moments like those were what kept a man company on long, lonely nights.

  He knew, as a man trained to notice such things, that a person may remember that the sex was good or great or even magical, but orgasm was such a fundamentally mind-blowing event that you lost the little details. Those details such as the way downy-white hairs lay, silky and fine, on her upper things, or the small scar just under her pantyline that looked like a botched tattoo removal, or the way her stomach quivered under his scalding gaze. He wanted to remember each and every one of those small things, store them up like a miser for the coming winter.

  Shucking his own jeans, he lay down next to her, running an urgent, questing hand over the gentle swell of her body from the collarbone down, watching avidly as her nipples puckered, tightened as his fingers traversed the cleavage between, heading south for her belly. Gentling his touch, he stroked her lower belly, grazing the tawny curls
shielding her with the tips of his fingers, then covering her with the broad palm of his hand, his long, callused fingers searching, exploring.

  Arden arched against him, blind, deaf and dumb to everything but his touch, seeking more contact, her body and mind crying out with an aching, monstrous need. Her hands sought out and found hard, lean muscles and followed the soft-wiry hair that arrowed down his chest to the jutting proof of his need, his want for her. Her trembling fingers measured the length of him, caressing, approving him with each stroke.

  With a muttered oath he reached blindly for his jeans, groping for his wallet and the protection contained within. Arden snatched the package from him, tearing open the foil package with a ferocity approaching glee, then bent over him to dress him in that thin layer of latex.

  His blue eyes smoldering, Bill reclined and watched her cover him, then pushed her down with restrained force, levering himself over her, grasping her hands in his, pinning her to the ground, barely touching, until they were lined up perfectly, head to head, chest to chest, groin to groin. And then he sheathed himself within her in one smooth, seemingly endless thrust.

  The world moved. There was no other way Arden could explain it. That first initial thrust pushed her past anything she’d ever had with the men she’d chosen to make love to or the pleasure she’d given herself on those long, lonely nights. Every sexual feeling she’d ever had paled in comparison to the grinding, elemental need pulsing between them.

  There was nothing long and sensual and tortuous about this lovemaking, it was just as Bill has prophesized, hard and fast and utterly sexual. Both moved with a wildness, a need for each other that was as untamed as their mindless, almost violent coupling.

  Arden crested first, everything in her world flashing to a hot, searing white. Her nails dug into the fine, taut muscles of Bill’s back and buttocks as she spasmed against his chest and body in an unchecked, quivering orgasm. Just as she reached her peak she felt him begin to tense, reach for his own slice of heaven, and it redoubled her climax, leaving her shuddering and weak against him, floating free and unencumbered.