by Pauline West
“I don’t care, anyway. I don’t want to know anything, about you and Madison or Muffy or whatever-”
“Muffy, that’s pretty good,” Ry said, laughing. “She does look like a Muffy. Or whatever, whoever, huh? You couldn’t care less, right?”
“You say that like you don’t believe me,” I said.
“Trust me. I know enough about girls to know when somebody wants me,” Ry said, arching a thick eyebrow.
A corner of me caught fire. The fucking asshole!
I remembered Beren’s story about the strippers. About champagne and cocaine, and who knows what else. How could I keep conveniently forgetting these things? He made me so horny I was stupid.
“Girls? I’m not just some girl, I’m me,” I spat, even though I knew it wasn’t true. There wasn’t anything about me that was special or different. We’re all just some girl to everybody- except for the people who love us.
“You’re missing the point,” Ry said. Impulsively, he reached for my wrists.
“Let me go!”
“Listen, Lily,” he said. He grabbed my wrist as his other hand fitted flat to my pelvis, urging me back towards him. For a moment our bodies touched. The connection I felt to him- the magnetism- was undeniable. It felt so right to be close to him. As if that was where I belonged.
He was hard against me. “Kiss me, and tell me you don’t feel anything,” he whispered. “If you don’t, I’ll leave you alone.”
I backed up, turning around to face him, but Ry followed me and I bumped up against the counter again. Right back where we’d started.
We were so close I felt energy racing between us, almost crackling in the air. His eyes searched for mine, forcing me to look into his eyes.
They were blue like my own, but darker, stormier. The stark black contrast of his long eyelashes and thick eyebrows against them made my breath catch in my throat. That face and that body? He was a mortal god.
Ry grazed my cheek with the back of his hand.
“You’re blushing,” he said, quietly.
I stammered. “I don’t-”
He kissed me then, his arms instantly around me, and I felt myself dip back as if my legs had gone out from under me. Ry’s mouth was full and soft on my own, tender, insistent.
Our mouths opened hungrily and our tongues met, dancing hard. Tasting, learning.
I’d meant to push him away, but instead I was grabbing him back wildly. My hands fitted against his chest, the hard divots of muscle there. I could feel Ry’s heartbeat against my thumbs, his muscled ribs, the top of his abs as he took a deep breath that stole my own.
I melted further into him, dissolving into the kiss.
He murmured into me as an empty cookie tray behind us clattered down to the floor, but his hands only gripped my shoulders the harder, as if he’d never let me go.
His thumbs rested beside my breasts, and I was electrically aware of them. Their heat, their cruel, firm strength. I ached for him to touch me, to crush my breasts in his palms and suck at my skin. Then, as if he’d read my mind, he lifted one hand.
But instead of touching my breasts, Ry stroked the side of my face, my jaw, and began to press me back, exposing my neck. Feeling dizzily vulnerable, I automatically tried to resist him, but he nuzzled my throat insistently, opening his mouth against me.
His mouth and tongue were so warm and strong that I moaned as he traced lower with his lips, burying his face into me, his hands nesting at my waist, memorizing my shape with his touch as his mouth drew close to my neckline, nuzzling the fabric ever so slowly to one side. I felt the heat of his breath slip into my shirt, brushing teasingly over the top of my painfully aroused breasts.
Suddenly, the cookie timer shrieked, and I flew back, gasping. My hand went to my neckline, where the fabric was still warm from him. We stood there, staring at each other like wild animals in heat.
Ry gave me that sly, maddening grin of his, ever so slightly arching his eyebrows.
Knowingly.
I hated that he was right about me! That he could look at me and understand everything I wanted before I even knew it myself!
He was exactly the kind of guy I’d hated all my life. A spoiled rich jock who thought he had everything figured out because it had always been handed to him-
I slammed off the cookie timer, exasperated and hot.
“Oh, get out of here!” I said. But Ry was still standing there with that hunting look in his eyes when I turned around again, now holding the tray of hot cookies.
“Goddamn it,” I said.
I dropped the tray and flew into his arms again.
Ry laughed out loud like a kid, the sound instantly muffled as we kissed. He pressed me hungrily back into the counter, devouring me with kisses. I felt everything in him surging against me- his jeans swelling enormously between my thighs-
“Oh, oh, I have to go out there,” I said, trying to pull back, “I have to take out the cookies-”
“Fuck the cookies,” Ry said. He smiled wolfishly.
“No, it’s my job.” I couldn’t help but smile back, realizing he didn’t know anything about me yet. It’s always been important to me to do my job, no matter what it is, as well as I can.
Anything worth doing is worth doing well. I really believe that. I smoothed down my hair and quickly arranged the cookies on the platter Butler had brought me. As I went through the door, I realized Ry was still following me. Like a puppy dog.
A wolfish puppy dog.
“Get back in there, where are you going?” I murmured into his neck. “Look at us, we can’t both come out at the same time, they’ll know we-”
“Sheesh, get in, get out, which is it?” Ry said. He paused me sweetly with a kiss, squeezing my waist, and then gave me a little push forwards. The sweet, boyish smile on his face made me beam as I walked out towards the sitting room, where I could hear the murmuring of older men.
They glanced sideways as I came into the room, still grinning.
“Well what have we here?” one of them said.
“Oh my, warm cookies. Thank you, babydoll,” another said.
Smiling, I placed the platter gently on the antique sideboard next to the carafes of bourbon as I’d been instructed, and left the room.
When I came back into the kitchen to start up the next batch, Ry was sitting on the counter eating cookie dough. Next to him were two glasses of bourbon, neat, in beautiful crystal tumblers.
“Oh, gosh,” I said, as Ry handed me mine.
We clinked glasses.
“‘Oh gosh’, aren’t you sweet,” Ry said, his eyes crinkling at me over the top of his glass.
“I didn’t expect this. It’s going to go right to my head, and then you’re responsible for me. Mm! It’s lovely stuff.” I sipped again, savoring the sweet, slow fire as it slipped through me.
“Try it with this,” Ry said. He fed me a bite of cookie dough. The sweetness of butter and sugar was delicious with the boozey burn.
“Mm,” I said.
He brushed a crumb from my lips and licked it, smiling at me.
“I like your tattoo,” I said.
“Oh,” Ry shrugged reflexively, as if to hide the tattoo beneath the hem of his shirtsleeve. As if he were embarrassed.
“You don’t have to say,” I said. Ry Calhoun, embarrassed. I loved it.
“No, it’s fine, it’s just- my parents think it’s trashy. I got it a few years ago.” Ry’s eyes swept the kitchen thoughtfully. He looked at me again. This time his eyes were bright. “I was in the air force.”
He lifted the edge of his shirt so I could see a beautiful spread-winged woman perched on a medical cross. It was simple and beautiful, stark black against his tanned shoulder.
The tattoo was clearly important to him. How could his parents think less of him for having it?
The image of the woman was framed in lettering, and I traced gently the words, reading them aloud. “This I do, so that others may live. USAF.”
I looked at Ry.
“That’s a medical cross… you were in pararescue? That’s like 911 for Seals and Rangers,” I said.
Ry pulled his sleeve down again. “How do you know that?”
“My dad’s into that stuff. He was a Navy Seal Medic when he was younger. Now he’s a fireman. Decided to switch elements.” I was talking too much, trying to make Ry smile again. Finally I fell quiet. After a beat I slid down, putting the next batch of frozen cookie dough circles onto the tray. Ry watched me work, and after a moment he slipped down next to me.
“I can’t stop touching you,” Ry said, nuzzling me. “You’re so soft.”
I closed the oven and leaned back into it, looking at him quietly. I liked him so much I felt dizzy. I couldn't trust my own words.
I bit my lips instead, savoring the taste of the bourbon. It steadied me.
“You know one of the things I like about you?” Ry said, huskily. “I look at you, at the way you are with other people, and I know you’re like me. You feel like you don’t belong. It’s like you and I were born in some other country, Lily. One no one else knows about.”
I caught my breath in a little rush. My blood quickened.
It can be like a drug, to feel understood. I pressed against him, feeling my head swim, and we kissed again, deeply. I sighed against Ry’s chest, running my hand over his tattoo as if I could feel it. Holding the symbol as if it were Ry’s heart in my hand, and I wondered what he’d seen over there that could steal the smile off his face that way.
I leaned back and shook out my black hair, running my fingers through to untangle it, and for a moment it tumbled glossily down over my shoulders.
As I reached back to put it up again into a fresh ponytail, Ry grabbed my wrist. “Don’t,” he said.
“What?” I said.
He gave me that strange, mysterious little flick of a smile again. Slowly, he let me go, and ran his hand along my cheek, then through my hair. “Wow. Look at you,” he said.
I loved the way his grip had felt around my wrist; I was hot all over for him.
“What?” I said for the millionth time, laughing.
“You're gorgeous, Lily,” he said.
“You're crazy!”
“And you know why,” Ry murmured, wrapping his arms around me. “Listen, I want you to know something. Anything you need? Money, jobs or anything, I can help you. I used to date this starving artist, and she was always needing-”
Stung, I shrank back. “Whoa. What are you saying?”
“Just that I’d like to help you out, if I can-”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions about me.” Almost without realizing what I was doing, I tossed my bourbon angrily at his shirt. “I don’t want someone to take care of me, I want someone to be with me!” I said. I hadn't even realized I felt that way until I’d said it.
“But I’d like that, too,” Ry said, softly. Shocked, he looked down at his wet shirt and then back at me, his eyes laughing. “Lily, I think I’m hit.”
I turned away, shaking my head. “This was crazy. You and me- this can’t happen again.’
“Why not?” Ry grabbed me from behind.
“I don’t like the way I feel when I’m with you,” I said, trying to pull away.
“How do you feel?” Ry spun me in his arms, forcing me to look at him.
“Like everything’s out of control. I’m afraid you’ll hurt me. I’m sorry, I just-” And then I saw one of the men I’d served earlier standing in the doorway, his mouth open. My face went hot. “Excuse me,” I said, rushing past him.
Then I glanced back.
Mistake.
I was just in time to see Ry smirk at the old dude who’d been standing there peeping at us- and Ry actually winked at the guy!
Like he was proud that he’d hurt me!
“Lily, wait!” Ry said, as soon as he realized I’d seen. The fucking traitor. I turned and walked away without another word. There was something satisfying about hearing the timer burst into hysterical shrieks behind me as I made my escape.
Hysterical. That was exactly how I felt inside.
But driving the van back to Divine, my black jeans rubbed insistently between my legs, and I couldn’t stop remembering Ry’s kisses… his stroking touch...
The van was old, and I felt it humming all the way up through the old upholstery to the inseam of my jeans. My inseam rubbed against me insistently as I drove. No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the sensation. It began to roll up through me like a hot wave, building and rolling.
Oh shit, oh no...
I lurched to a stop at the light, and the old van rattled so bad when I put it into neutral that I honked the horn. I glanced over all sweaty-faced at the old couple sitting in the car next to me. They were staring.
“Sorry!” I mouthed down at them, all awkward, waving one-handed, like some psycho beauty queen.
The light changed to green and I lurched forward again. Great, I thought, wiping my eyes. Now they’ll probably call the cops, and I’ve got booze on my breath, and I’ll probably start coming again as the cop walks up to the window. Great, everything’s just great.
And oh, let’s see, what else. Ryland Calhoun is an asshole?
Worse still, what if that was what I liked best about him?
==== Chapter ==============================================
One of the ways I figured I could escape my past was to end up with a great guy like my step dad. Steve made everyone around him somehow turn into the best version of themselves, just by being near him. I figured, if I could be with someone who was simple and honest and good, maybe I’d have a better chance of turning out that way myself.
It seemed to me that money probably ruined all of that, made people greedy and dishonest. Everybody knows that once you have money, all you want is more. It’s like cocaine. I mean, not that I would know… but I didn’t trust rich people any more than I would trust a wolf.
I’d experimented with this theory. The only guy I’ve ever had sex with was Steve’s best friend, Mark. He was the nicest guy I’d ever met, besides Steve. (And I’m not saying this was a great idea. I know what you’re thinking about me now. But I was seventeen.)
Anyway. The stuff with Mark happened by accident, sort of like when you start rolling down a hill and suddenly realize that the hill is steeper than you thought. But all of a sudden you’re going too fast to stop.
Then it’s over, and you’re all sticky and bruised and gross.
The thing with Mark happened only twice. Both times, afterwards, I had the feeling of hating something I knew you were supposed to enjoy. For some reason, that made me feel guiltier still.
Anyway, if Steve ever found out, he’d be furious with both of us. So when I told Mark I wanted to stop messing around, he agreed. He said he’d been about to tell me the same thing. Then we pretended like nothing had happened, and that was that.
And ‘that’ was the sum total of my sex life. I figured there was a chance it would always be.
But Ry Calhoun had the Midas touch.
I felt like a different woman since we’d met. He lit me up like a match dropped into gasoline. My body and mind were on fire for him. Angry as I was, I couldn’t keep myself away from Ry any more than a moth can avoid the flame.
“I fucked up with Ry,” I announced to Beren that night on the phone. “Big time. Help me fix it.”
“Oh girl. Say the magic words,” he preened.
I sighed. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.” Beren snorted. In my mind’s eye I could picture him rolling his eyes.
“You can pick out my outfit,” I said.
“What was that, darlin?” Beren said, sweetly. “I cahnn’t hear youuuu!”
“You can pick out my outfit!”
So the next morning we were on King street, checking out the shops.
“Ah, we deserve this! I have definitely been working too much,” Beren grumbled, taking my arm to steer me into a store. “I bumped into a damn chair this morning and apologized
to it.”
“Beren, I can’t afford this kind of stuff,” I said, goggle eyed. Without stepping a foot in the store I could tell that everything inside cost three digits, minimum. The golden bracelet Steve had given me as a good luck charm before moving to Charleston was the fanciest thing I owned. I’d never had anything fancy near my body.
(Except Ry Calhoun.)
“What’d we say, bitch,” he said, fondly. “I. get. to. pick. out. your. outfit! Besides, I know a guy. I got your back. If we find anything good, we get 75% off.” He beamed at me, pleased as punch.
“Oh my god, you are amazing,” I said.
“Right on cue, girl.” Beren held the door, and for just a moment I let myself fantasize about walking back into Ry’s arms as easily as I was walking into the store.
I saw my reflection pause there in the window, and almost didn’t recognize myself. The girl I saw in the glass was smiling.
“Chandler, what can we do about this?” Beren bellowed. “My lady here is a descended goddess, but she dresses like a damn soccer mom.”
“I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, what are people supposed to wear in the summer?” I said.
Chandler came down the aisle of the store. He was pale and serious looking, but devastatingly handsome in a rock star sort of way. He had a narrow nose, bright, intelligent eyes, and a sidecut that draped down over one side of his face like a bird’s wing. The effect was devastatingly glamorous.
He was wearing shrink-wrap-tight black jeans, a slim black shirt with cutoff sleeves, and old, clearly beloved black combat boots. He was years younger than Beren.
“Honey, bless your heart,” Chandler said to me, softly. He touched my shirt gently, as if checking the material for flaws. “Well, don’t worry about that,” he said, pulling his hand back slightly.