by Sybil Bartel
“Never.” Too late.
A half hour later, we were fucking like rabbits. The last coherent thought I had was this girl’s done this before.
I woke up hungover but that wasn’t the surprising part. The surprising part was the blonde straddled across my legs, hands on my chest, kissing my neck...naked. She sat up. Christ, what a rack.
“Good morning.” She smiled lazily.
“Hey.” Damn, she was hot.
She held a condom up. “You ready to wake up?”
Oh yeah, she’d done this before. “I’m up.” Christ, I was up.
She smiled again, sheathed me and went for it. Goddamn if she didn’t go for her own. Not a drunk mess like last night, I’d like to think I gave as good as I got. The sounds she made, her dirty little mouth, I pretty much surmised she was happy.
An hour later I ordered us room service.
“I’m gonna shower.” When I stood up, I felt last night’s alcohol.
She was instantly in front of me, looking all sexified. She leaned in and kissed my chest. “I could come with you,” she purred.
Damn, again? I palmed one of her breasts then kissed her, hard. She moaned in my mouth and I pulled back just to fuck with her. “No.”
I showered, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Something told me she wouldn’t be easy to shake. I didn’t even know her name. Hot Chick. Worked for me.
I came out of the shower to room service and Hot Chick wearing my shirt. She set the food on the table while I threw on my jeans.
“Oooh, I am so hungry.” She smiled at me, all cheerful.
I didn’t smile back. “That’s the only shirt I brought, don’t get it dirty.”
“Weren’t planning on staying?” she asked sweetly, like she was the reason I was here.
“Something like that.” The food smelled good. I was fucking starving.
“Like all the ink.” She winked at me over a forkful of fruit.
I finished a bite of omelet and looked up at her. She really was pretty. Annoying, but pretty. Blond hair, big brown eyes, nice smile, she had a colorful butterfly inked on the top of her shoulder. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s your name?”
She smiled like she wasn’t insulted. “Gemma.”
Ah, G not J. Whatever, I was close.
“So why are you in a hotel in Gainesville?”
Good fucking question. “To get laid.”
She laughed. “Mission accomplished. What are you doing the rest of the day?”
“Why?”
“Wanna get high? Go look at butterflies?”
Jesus. I knew she was trouble. “Don’t you have class?”
“Nope, not a student.” Her smile was too sweet.
I thought a minute. What the fuck else was I gonna do? “Butterflies, huh?”
“Yep, it’s practically across the street, we can walk from here.”
“I have a car.”
“Don’t need it.”
I hadn’t smoked pot since high school. I picked up my coffee, watching her over the rim. “I need clothes.”
She gave one of those little laughs that was supposed to be seductive. “Me too.”
“Why? Where do you live?” What did she need clothes for? She could just go home.
“Around.” She picked up her toast.
Oh shit. I glanced at her left hand. Nothing. She looked young as hell but that didn’t mean anything. “Are you married?”
“No, are you?”
I snorted. “So where do you live?”
“Where do you live?”
“Clothes it is.” Fuck, I didn’t care where she lived.
“Clothes, then butterflies.”
I drove us to a mall after breakfast. It was weird doing familiar life things with an unfamiliar person. Gemma was chatty as hell, mundane shit, so I didn’t have to speak much, which was perfect. Dragging me into a chain store I hated, she told me which jeans and which shirt to buy. Checked out and tired, I let it happen. She added a few items of her own to the pile and conned me into buying them for her. Shit, she was a goddess in bed, what did I care?
We went back to the hotel, fucked, changed and got high. Really high. I thought she was fucking with me about the butterflies but she led us to a butterfly exhibit. Like a giant outdoor three-story cage, there were millions of butterflies. It was a total trip. They landed on you, ate from your hand and flew off again, all color and light and freedom. I could’ve stayed there hours, sitting, watching. All I kept thinking was caged freedom. I was caged freedom, they were caged freedom. They could do what they wanted but only within the confines of the cage. My life was my cage. Sex was my freedom.
High as shit, I looked at Gemma sitting next to me and for a moment, I was looking at Carly—sweet, innocent, beautiful Carly. She never did anything to me and I shit on her every chance I got. That wasn’t love. I didn’t love her. I couldn’t love her. I was fucking a butterfly not a hummingbird. Hummingbird. Why had I been so mad at Carly? I couldn’t remember. Fuck, I was high. Carly was beautiful, more beautiful than any butterfly. Why was I here and not there? Why had I left Carly? I never even read her story. Oh shit. Her fucking story! I pulled my phone out and opened the email. Lightning Strike by Carly Sullivan.
“What’s that?” Gemma looked over my shoulder.
“Story.”
“I can see that. Is it any good?”
“No fucking clue.” I started reading.
“C’mon, I have an idea.” Gemma pulled me to my feet.
It was a perfect winter day, bright sunlight and crisp air, warm in the sun, cool in the shade. Gemma found us a spot on the lawn in front of the museum and parked us in the sun. I stretched out in the grass, trying to remember the last time I’d done this. I couldn’t. I wasn’t a lie-in-the-grass man. I’d smoked grass but I didn’t lie in it. There was something wrong with that but I couldn’t figure out what.
Gemma pulled a tablet out of her purse. “Email me that story.”
“How much shit do you have in that bag?” I thought of a magic purse full of food.
“Enough.” She told me her email address.
I forwarded it, then thought what the fuck is wrong with me? That was Carly’s story. Jesus, I was high. I was supposed to protect Carly. Wasn’t I? Wait...what was I thinking? Magic purses, no, magic carpets. Not carpet, grass. A big grassy lawn and I was lying on it. Fuck.
Gemma curled up next to me and I kissed her neck. My hand traveled up her shirt. “Wanna have sex?” I whispered, tracing the edge of her bra.
She giggled. “Yeah, but not here. I thought you wanted to read?” She pushed my hand down.
Read? “Read what?” My hand traveled back to her bra. Oh man, I wanted to sink inside Carly.
She waved her tablet around. “Your story.”
My hand stilled. This was Gemma, not Carly. The story. Carly’s story. I lay in the grass, inhaled to try and clear my mind, then laced my fingers under my head.
Gemma rested her head on my shoulder and held the tablet up for us. “Read. If I turn the pages too quick, let me know.”
So we read.
And I wished like hell we hadn’t.
The story was about a fifteen-year-old girl who’s brutally raped by her track coach. Carly was all over the story. The description of the character was different but I fucking knew it was her. I was sick. I was enraged. I wanted to kill the coach and I wanted to cry. The writing was powerful. You didn’t want to read on, but you couldn’t stop yourself. The girl does everything she can to hide what happened, thinking it was her fault, pushing through her tragedy with smiles and overt happiness while dying on the inside. Halfway through, I couldn’t take anymore.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I muttered.
“I need a drink.” Gemma shut her tablet down. “Do you know her? The author?”
“Yeah.” I’d been such a prick. Jesus, I’d asked her to have sex with me. I rubbed my hands over my face.
“Please te
ll me this isn’t a true story.”
“I have no idea.” But I did. I knew it in my gut. It was true, every fucking word. Obviously Carly knew that morning I hadn’t read it. If I had, I never would’ve been at her place. Never. I didn’t fuck with people like that. I was broken enough.
“Let’s go get drunk.” Gemma stood.
“Amen.” Sounded perfect. Drunk and high, then maybe then I could forget the poison that was life.
Chapter Sixteen
Failings
Gemma and I wound up at another college bar. I grew wearier with each passing minute. I couldn’t wait to ditch her. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the pot, fuck, maybe it was life, but I wanted away from her. A dumb, drunk jock, clueless that I was sitting right next to Gemma, tried to hit on her. Not that I minded, but shit, dude, have more self respect than to go for sloppy seconds. Turned out, the prick worked it to my advantage. When he didn’t take no for an answer, Gemma looked at me and mouthed help me.
Fuck that. I wasn’t getting involved, he wasn’t hitting on me.
Gemma rolled her eyes at me then spun around in her seat and laid into the guy. “I told you, I’m here with someone.”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest. With her back turned, I got up and walked out. It felt great. A taxi was conveniently waiting so I got in and told the driver the name of a club across campus. I had a moment of panic, wondering if Gemma had paid attention to my room number at the hotel. Shit. I called the front desk and had them switch my room and leave a new key for me with the night clerk. Player 101, never leave a trail.
I paid the taxi driver and sauntered into the club, aimless and drunk. I spent exactly five minutes alone. Picking up women was easy. I’d thought about it a few times over the years, wondering why. I’d never decided if my luck was a reflection on women and their poor choices or if it was actually me that appealed to them in some way. I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t Myles either. Physique, I held my own, but features? I don’t know. Shaved head, green eyes, six-two, and lots of ink, most of it impulsive. I was this side of rugged was all I could say.
Instinct told me it boiled down to attitude. If you acted like you had it, you had it. I was stubborn as fuck and the alpha male routine worked for me. I told women what they wanted, mainly me, and they fell for it. I’m not saying I was always successful—I’d had more than my share of rejection—but as I got older, it got easier.
Tonight was a brunette. Pixie cut, ink, probably too smart for me, but she was putting them back at the bar and fell for my bullshit. I told her we were gonna dance, she shrugged and followed me to the dance floor.
I wound up taking her back to the hotel. She wasn’t a Gemma, but I was too drunk to care. The best part? She was gone when I woke up in the morning. After I showered, I turned on my cell phone for the first time in two days. I had countless emails and voice messages for the shop. Not that I cared, but it was like a dead bug in the middle of your living room floor. I couldn’t just leave it there. I answered the emails and returned a few phone calls. The texts were next. I thought about deleting them but like a fool I didn’t.
Neil: You fuck a staff member again you’re out
Myles: Neil said u fucked up. He’s pissed. WTF is wrong with u?
Myles: Where r u???
Myles: Turn your fucking phone on
There were a few more texts from the two other guys in the band wondering why I’d been skipping practice. I texted back saying I was out of town. I didn’t know what Myles had told them and I wasn’t ready to deal with it. To be honest, I was regretting the band thing. In twelve years, nothing had grounded me like playing live. It was the highest high and the rawest I let myself get. Exposed, nothing but me and a bass and what I could do with my hands. You couldn’t hide, you couldn’t blame anyone for your mistakes and you could fucking lose yourself in the safety of an audience that’d be gone in an hour. Controlled chaos, it was my fucking drug of choice.
Two minutes after the texts went through, my cell rang. Myles. Obviously he’d told the band if they heard from me to tell him. I answered. “What?”
“Where are you?” There was no emotion in his voice.
“Away.”
He sighed. “I don’t want to be in the band without you.”
I didn’t say anything. I was thinking. This was my way back in. Despite everything I’d said to him, Myles was handing me my life back on a silver platter. I was trying to decide how destructive I felt.
“We have a show scheduled tomorrow night at 701. Play the show. I’m not asking for a commitment beyond that, just play, with me.”
I was going to regret this either way, so I did what I wanted to do. “Fine.”
“Thanks,” Myles breathed out like he was relieved.
He was always so fucking humble it made me feel like shit. “Don’t thank me. Later.”
“Wait. One last thing. I don’t know what’s going on but you might want to call Carly. Hank said she came to the club twice looking for you, he said she’s pretty upset.”
“She doesn’t know me.” But now I knew her. And her secret.
Myles sighed. “She was looking for you.”
“There is nothing going on between us. I don’t even have her fucking number.”
“Does she know there’s nothing going on?”
Jesus Christ. What the fuck was this? I didn’t need him up my ass and I certainly didn’t need him to tell me how to live my life. “See you tomorrow.” I hung up.
I threw on my clothes and checked out of the hotel. I drove straight to the shop and worked the rest of the day on the Super Bee. I didn’t answer my phone and I didn’t stop to eat. By six I was exhausted and starving. I picked up takeout and drove home. After grabbing the pile out of the mailbox, I sat at my dining room table, shoveling in food and tossing the junk mail.
Halfway through the pile, I stopped at a card-size envelope with just my name on front. I opened it.
The front had a picture of a motorcycle, the inside had a handwritten note: Wondering if you made it home last night. —Carly
My stomach went south.
She wrote her phone number under her name.
I shoved the food aside and read it again. She’d put this in my mailbox two days ago. Before I knew what I was doing, I dialed her number.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“It’s Graham.”
Pause. “That must’ve been a long bike ride.”
I heard the smile in her voice. She wasn’t mad. Relief flushed through me and I might’ve smiled. “Yeah, my ass is sore.”
She laughed sweetly. “I would imagine.”
It was quiet on her end. “You’re not at work?”
“Nope, night off.”
“What are you doing?” What was I doing?
“Writing,” she said hesitantly.
“You hungry?”
She paused. “Depends.”
I took the opening. “I’m jumping in the shower, I’ll pick you up in a half hour.” I hung up before she could say no. She had my number on caller ID. She could call back if she wanted to cancel.
I put the takeout in the fridge, showered and threw on clothes. Jeans and boots, I abandoned my usual T-shirt for a button-down, telling myself this wasn’t a date. Friends. I could be friends with Carly. The other night meant nothing. I’d been drinking. People said fucked-up shit when they drank. Just friends. I could do this.
I repeated the mantra all the way to her house, trying to convince myself I wasn’t desperate to see her smile.
I parked, wondering how to play this. I could ring her bell, date style, or call her and tell her to come downstairs, friend style. Undecided, I did both.
Standing outside her front door, I called her.
“Hello, Graham,” she answered, part cheerful, part mocking.
“Get your ass downstairs, I’m outside your door.”
“Yes sir!”
I’d managed to wipe the eager look off my face before
she opened the door but I wasn’t prepared for my reaction to the sight of her. She was wearing boots, jeans, a tight black sweater, and my favorite smile. Everything shit in my life disappeared. Her blond hair was loose and her innocent expression was full of humor. I wanted to touch her so bad, I was almost shaking. She caught me checking her out and heat flushed her cheeks a sexy shade of pink.
“I wasn’t sure what to wear. I didn’t know if you’d come on the bike or in the Barracuda. I figured this worked for both.” She smiled tentatively.
I was beginning to think she could wear a fucking sack and my dick would respond to the sight of her. “Barracuda, I don’t take chicks on the Ducati,” I stated, feeling more like myself.
“Why not?”
It’s mine. I bought it to ride, not show off and haul chicks around. “I ride solo.” When she frowned, I felt like shit. “It’s more fun,” I grumbled, pissed I was explaining myself.
“Hmm, I’d be willing to test that theory. Can I drive it?”
“You ride?” I asked, incredulous.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
I blinked.
Carly grinned from ear to ear. “Ah, it feels good to render the great Graham Allen speechless.”
Damn. Who fucking knew? “Don’t fool yourself, nothing great about me.” When she kept smiling at me, I shook my head. “Get in the car.”
“Yes, sir.”
I held her door and she hopped in. Christ, I was in trouble. Not only was I beyond happy to see her, she could ride. If that didn’t spell disaster I don’t know what did.
“Where are we going?”
I pulled away from the curb, mentally sighing. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” I remembered her that depends comment earlier.
“I get to pick?”
Did I have a choice? “Yeah.”
“Smokey’s. I am so in the mood for ribs!”
Of all the places she could’ve chosen, she picks a BBQ joint? Don’t get me wrong, it was good and cheap but it was also the last place you wanted to go on a date. “Smokey’s it is.” Good thing this wasn’t a date.
Twenty minutes later we were seated, ordered and drinking weak beer. I figured I had about three seconds of small talk to suffer through before the food arrived. Quick as hell, that was how Smokey’s rolled.