by BB Easton
We stood there in the water, eye makeup running down both of our faces, slumped over one another, panting in a tangle of hot, wet bliss until our brains were able to process outside information again.
How long? Who knows? Time doesn’t exist in heaven. But I do know that, when I finally looked up at the house, something was different.
“Um, Hans? Was that light on before?”
“What light?” Hans’s head snapped around, and the look that flashed across his face as soon as he caught sight of that illuminated second-story window was all the answer I needed.
But the sirens in the distance confirmed it.
Hans was a fucking ninja. In the time it took me to slosh my way toward the stairs with those water-filled, steel-toed cement blocks strapped to my feet, he had already leaped out, run to the patio, shimmied into his pants and shoes, and returned, clutching the rest of our clothes and my purse in the crook of his arm like a football. Although his face was playful, Hans wasted no time in pulling me out of the water and whisking me away from that magical, twinkling fairyland.
Hand in hand, we tore through the neighbors’ backyards in the direction of my car. The sound of our shoes slapping the earth ricocheted through the darkness and silence surrounding us. I just prayed that the owners of the million-dollar yards we were destroying were adrift on a creamy burgundy sea of red wine and sleeping pills and couldn’t hear us giggling and shushing each other outside as we tromped through their perfectly manicured flower beds.
With every panicked yet elated breath I sucked in, the approaching sirens grew louder. Finally, between two houses, my little black Mustang hatchback came into view. Hans and I tiptoed around the far side of the castle it was parked in front of and peered around to see if the coast was clear.
Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I looked at Hans and held up one fist in what I hoped was the universal TV cop show signal for hold. He waited next to the house as I scampered across the front yard, remembering on the way that I hadn’t put my dress back on and was wearing nothing but a red thong, which had happily shifted back into place during that five-hundred-yard dash.
It’s fine, I told myself as I stood naked in the middle of the street, digging in my purse for my car keys. You’re so not naked. You’re basically wearing a whole bikini, just without the top part. No big deal. There are beaches in Jamaica where you’d be considered overdressed right now.
When I finally found my keys, I hit the unlock button and dived inside. I watched through the passenger window as Hans’s athletic, half-naked, six-foot-three-inch-tall silhouette sprinted across the yard toward me.
Slurping the drool back into my face, I jammed the key into the ignition just as Hans climbed in and slammed his door shut. I was just about to crank the engine and get the fuck out of there when flashing blue lights illuminated my rearview mirror.
Shit!
I spun around and saw the cop car pull up right in front of the McMansion we’d just defiled. Although I was parked at least a block away in the shadow of a huge magnolia tree, I still didn’t want to draw any attention to the suspicious ’93 Ford lurched on the curb in what was obviously an import-driving kind of neighborhood, so Hans and I decided to slide down in our seats and wait them out.
Even though we were both topless and hiding from the police, Hans flashed me a confident rock-star smile and reached over to brush my cheek with his thumb. “That was amazing.”
Looking into that dreamy face was like mainlining Xanax.
What was I so worried about again?
The sound of a car door slamming shut reminded me.
Oh, yeah. The fucking cops.
Snapping out of my love-drunk trance, I fished my dress out of the pile of clothes in Hans’s lap and shimmied it on over my head. I couldn’t quite tie the halter top from my fetal position under the steering wheel, but at least my bottom half was covered.
Hans was still slumped down in his seat too, but his eyes were glued to his side mirror. Curious to see what had him looking so serious, I climbed out of my hidey-hole and leaned across the center console. Resting my cheek on his warm, damp chest, I peered into the mirror he was studying.
The cruiser still had its headlights on, and one police officer was at the ready behind the wheel. The cop who’d been riding shotgun was now standing in the doorway of the McMansion, talking to a middle-aged man wearing a bathrobe. I couldn’t make out much from that distance, but I distinctly saw the homeowner raise an angry-looking finger and point it directly at my car.
“Go!” Hans yelled, prompting me to stomp on the clutch, crank the engine, and hit the gas at once.
I peeled out of there with my headlights still off and cringed as the cruiser’s sirens screamed to life behind me.
Shit, shit, shit!
Luckily, I’d driven through that neighborhood looking for free parking enough times to know a back way out, but I didn’t know if I could make it without getting caught.
My body operated on muscle memory alone as my consciousness completely abandoned ship and spiraled in a million different terrible directions.
Let’s see. Where to begin? Underage drinking, being in possession of false identification, trespassing, indecent exposure, disturbing the peace, speeding, evading the police…I’m going to jail. I’m going to jail wearing nothing but a halter dress and a thong. Fantastic.
I turned right onto the first street I came to, stomping on the accelerator halfway through the turn just like Harley had taught me at the track. I hadn’t raced in over a year, but evidently, I could still tail-brake a corner without spinning out.
Just pretend like you’re back at the track, B. You used to do this all the time. It was fun. You’re having fun.
Redlining in second gear, I braked hard just before the next turn to transfer some weight to my front end before cutting the wheel. As soon as I was halfway through the turn and my RPMs were just right, I punched the gas and hit the straights, shifting into third within seconds.
See? It’s just like riding a bike. You got this.
“Damn, baby! Where the fuck did that come from?”
It was the first thing Hans had uttered since we peeled out. I glanced over and found my rock-star boyfriend gripping the roof handle with one hand and the center console with the other, a look of shock and awe on his face. It was all the encouragement I needed. After spending a year feeling inadequate around this man, I’d finally found a way to set myself apart from the hordes of ho-bags beating down Hans’s door.
I could drive this fucking Mustang, and I could do it topless.
I redlined her again and muscled through the last turn in the neighborhood. I could still hear the sirens right behind me and see the occasional reflection of a blue light off a house or a street sign, but I’d managed to keep enough distance and turns between us that I didn’t think the police had been able to get a decent visual on me.
The next turn would make or break us though.
If I could pull out of the neighborhood and onto the highway without having to stop, we’d be home free. I could have us tucked away into the club parking lot within ten seconds. But, if I had to stop and wait for traffic…that was it.
Game over.
I downshifted to second and held my breath as we approached the intersection.
Please be clear, please be clear, please be clear…
“It’s clear! It’s clear! Go, go, go!” Hans was on the edge of his seat, looking left and right and left again, making sure I wasn’t about to kill us both.
I crushed the accelerator with all forty pounds of wet steel and leather strapped to my right foot and was rewarded with a satisfying yelp from my tires and an even more satisfying glimpse of Hans’s head being slammed backward into the headrest by the torque.
I flicked on my headlights as I raced toward the entrance of the club’s parking lot, just a little over a block away. A few hundred yards, and we’d be in the clear.
Two hundred…
One hund
red…
Hans was now turned around completely backward in his seat with both fists gripping the headrest and wide, excited eyes scanning the expanse behind us for any sign of the police cruiser. I bit my lip and held my breath as I made the final turn into the parking lot. The instant all four tires were off the highway, I killed the headlights and careened into the first available parking spot I could see.
Hans erupted into a fit of hysterics, pounding the headrest with his fists and yelling “Wooooooo!!!” as if he were Triple X greeting a sold-out stadium.
I’d never seen anybody so amped in my life.
The moment I killed the engine and turned to face him, Hans had his giant hands around my shoulders and was practically shaking me like a rag doll.
“Holy shit, baby! You lost ’em! You fucking lost ’em!” A manic grin split his face. “Where the fuck did you learn to drive like that?”
Ever distractible, I watched Hans’s eyes flick down to my still-exposed breasts mid-thought. His hand impulsively reached out to stroke one of my nipple rings. Hearing my gasp, Hans glanced back up at me and swallowed.
“That was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Before I could formulate a response, I found myself plastered against the driver’s-side door as seventy-five inches of tall, dark, and tattooed ravaged my still-swollen lips and half-naked body with everything he had. Hans was ravenous. I thrust my fingers into his wild hair and held on for dear life, not knowing where he was going to take me next. I might have been in the driver’s seat, but with Hans, I was the one along for the ride.
And what a ride it had been. In our year together, Hans had taken me places I’d never been. Given me experiences I’d only dreamed of. He’d made me pull over and look at the stars when I would have just sped on by. And that night, in that car, Hans showed me that he’d rather have a boyish, smart-ass troublemaker than all the curvaceous, red-lipped groupies in the world.
He showed me my worth.
And I would never be able to unsee it again.
August 2000
“Oh my God! Hans! Look! How fucking cool is this?”
Hans walked up behind me, carrying a stack of heavy-looking boxes. With his chin holding the top one steady, he smiled. “It’s stairs.”
“I know! You open the door like you’re gonna walk into an apartment, but all it is is stairs!”
I giggled maniacally and bounced on my toes as I held the door open for Hans to walk through. As soon as he crossed over the threshold, I breezed past him, ran up the carpeted staircase, and gasped as it opened up into the most adorable little apartment six hundred dollars a month could buy. The stairs led into the living room, which was open to the kitchen and a little dining area. The back wall had a brick fireplace and two sliding glass doors that led out onto a balcony. To the left of the stairs was a little hallway that housed the bedroom, laundry room, and bathroom.
It was just like Jason’s apartment, only half the size and with zero upgrades.
It was perfect.
I zoomed through the nine-hundred-square-foot paradise like a flea on crack, throwing open all the doors, squealing at the size of the walk-in closet, oohing and aahing over the builder-grade appliances in the tiny kitchen, and finally turning to find Hans, who was standing in the middle of the empty living room, watching me with a sweet smile on his gorgeous face.
I bounded over to him and leaped into his arms. Peppering his face with kisses, I cried, “We did it! We fucking did it! Look at this place! I can’t believe I live here! I can’t believe we live here! Hans, we live here!”
Hans chuckled and buried his face in my neck. “Fuck yeah, we do.”
Hans set me down, and I ran over and threw open the sliding glass door. “Look at this view!”
We were only on the second floor, but our balcony faced the woods behind the apartment complex instead of the parking lot and another building, like Jason’s.
I knew it was probably wrong to get an apartment in the same unit as my secret friend, but it made me feel better to know somebody close by. I mean, what if something happened while Hans was gone? What if I needed something, like entertainment or attention or alcohol? I was a young woman now. I had to look out for myself.
Hans followed me onto the balcony and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. “I love it.”
“I love you,” I cooed back.
“I wonder how long we’re gonna live here,” Hans said, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Do you ever think about that? All the places you’ll live before you die. What they’ll look like. Where they’ll be.”
“Not really. I just assumed I’d live in Atlanta forever. I like it here.”
“No way,” Hans said, releasing me to pull his pack of Newports out of his pocket. “We’re gonna live all over.”
I turned to face him, and he handed me a cigarette with an impish gleam in his eye.
“We might even move to New York if Violent Violet gets us the producers we want for our next album.”
“What? Really?”
“Maybe.” Hans grinned as he lit the cigarette dangling from my surprised mouth.
I took a drag and tried to formulate a response that would come across better than simply screaming, There is no fucking way I’m moving to New York! like I wanted to.
“That’s really exciting, baby, but”—I took another drag—“I’m applying to graduate programs right now. You know I’m trying to finish my bachelor’s degree early, and all the master’s programs I’m applying to are in Georgia.”
Hans flicked his ash over the edge of the balcony. “You can transfer. They have great schools in New York. Plus your grades are, like, perfect. They’ll have to let you in.”
“But…it’s cold there.”
“We’ll get you a big-ass coat.”
“But…what about your degree?”
Hans shrugged and exhaled a stream of smoke away from my face. “I’ll take a year off or whatever. It’s cool.”
What about my parents? I don’t want to move away from them.
There are no trees in New York. I love trees.
What if we have kids? I’ll need help, and you’re never home.
But…but we just got here.
“Hey”—Hans tilted my chin up and gave me that two-dimpled smile I loved so much—“it’s gonna be great.”
“Promise?”
“It doesn’t matter where we live. I could share a cardboard box under the Brooklyn Bridge with you and be the happiest man alive.”
I melted into a puddle of swoon juice right there on the balcony. Hans was right. He was my home now. It didn’t matter where he had to go. If he had a dream, then I was going to support him. Even if that meant moving to the cold concrete jungle of New York.
“You’re right,” I sighed. “I already lived with you and had to give it up once. I don’t think I can do it again.”
Hans beamed. “I know I can’t. That shit was horrible.”
“Right?” I laughed, stubbing my cigarette out on the metal railing and flicking it overboard. “I’m so glad—” I squealed in surprise as Hans picked me up and cradled me against his chest.
“What are you doing?”
“What I should have done downstairs. I’m carrying you over the threshold.”
I giggled as Hans slid the glass door open and waltzed through.
“Welcome home, baby,” he said, gently setting me down on the kitchen counter.
“Welcome home,” I replied, wrapping my legs around his waist. “You know,” I said, sliding my hands under his tank top, “we’ve never had sex in a kitchen before.”
Hans smirked, grabbing my hips and pressing his already-thickening cock against the seam of my little cutoff jean shorts. “Or on top of a washing machine.”
“Or in front of a fireplace,” I said, pushing the black fabric up over his defined abs.
“Or on the stairs,” Hans added, reaching between his shoulder blades to pull his shirt the res
t of the way off.
“Or in a walk-in-closet.” I giggled, lifting my arms so that he could relieve me of my tank top as well.
“Think we should hit ’em all right now?” Hans beamed, raising that one pierced eyebrow.
I unhooked my bra and tossed it onto the growing pile of clothes on the linoleum floor. “But what will we do when we run out of places?”
Hans unbuckled his belt, and I actually salivated in anticipation. “We’ll just have to move.”
Aaaaand…my saliva dried right back up.
October 2000
“So, we’re cheering for the guys in black. Got it.” I discreetly slid my phone out of my pocket for the third time that hour and illuminated the screen. Still no word from Hans.
“And what’s their name?”
I tucked my phone away and rolled my eyes at Ken. “The Falcons.”
“And who’s their quarterback?”
I pointed at the big screen TV in front of us. “The one in the tight pants with his head up that other guy’s ass.”
Ken tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “His name.”
“Uh…Chris?”
“Chris what?”
I looked around, hoping to find a clue hidden somewhere in Jason’s sparsely decorated man cave. Just as I was about to give up, Allen walked by wearing a black Falcons jersey with the answer to Ken’s question in bold red letters across his back.
“Chandler!” I shouted. “Chris Chandler. Number twelve. Boom.” I tapped my temple with my index finger and gave Ken a smug smile. “Got it all right here.”
Ken glanced over his shoulder at Allen and laughed. “Really?”
“Man”—I stretched and pretended to crack my knuckles—“all that learnin’ wiped me out. I’m gonna take a smoke break. Wanna come?”
I didn’t actually expect the Gatorade-drinking dude in the workout clothes to join me on the balcony so that I could blow secondhand smoke in his face, so I was pretty surprised when he stood up and said, “Sure.”
Not that I minded. Ken was actually really easy to talk to and smart, and he didn’t hit on me or make me feel weird like some of the other guys at Jason’s house. The Alexander brothers had practically dry-humped me against a wall the week before.