The Virginia Chronicles

by Kayt Miller

  “Oh, sorry. It just slipped out.”

  “I liked it.”

  “You did?” I say so quietly I’m not sure he heard me.

  “I did.”

  “Okay.”

  “I also like your hands on me, Virginia,” he says looking back down at my hand. “But, do you know what I like more than that?”

  I know what he’s going to say, but I shake my head.

  “Your lips on me.”

  That’s what I thought he was going to say.

  Baker takes my plate out of my hand and the milk from between my thighs. He does that slowly watching himself do it. I know I should feel nervous, but I’m not. I’d say I was excited more than anything. He’s right about anticipation. “Kiss me, Virginia.”

  I move up towards him as he lowers his head down to me. I kiss his lips softly then pull away. “There. How’s that?”

  Growling, Baker slides both hands around my waist and lifts me up and over to his lap. Straddling him, I squeak as I feel my bare center hit his pajama pants. He uses his palms to slide my body until I fit perfectly against him. “Now,” he says with a husky voice. “Kiss me again, Virginia.”

  “Bossy,” I mutter. But, I do it. I run my fingers through his hair and lean down. When our lips meet, I feel his hands move from my back to beneath my breasts. I arch my back when he touches the side of each one. I didn’t realize I was doing it until I feel his fingers brush over my hard nipples and a groan escapes Baker’s mouth into mine.

  I feel myself breathing harder with each touch; so much so I can’t control it. Pulling away from his lips, I moan out his name, “Baker. Don’t stop.”

  Without a word, he slides his hands beneath my shirt. “Fuck. You’re not wearing panties.”

  It wasn’t a question. I squirm in his lap. I feel his erection beneath me, and these sensations are overwhelming. I’m not sure what I want more, his hand or his…“Lift your arms.”

  I lift them and feel the huge shirt fly off. “Holy hell,” Baker groans. “You’re fucking glorious, Virginia.”

  I look down and watch him use his hands to squeeze and manipulate my breasts. I arch my back further. I can’t help it. When I look down and see my complete nakedness against his clothed lower half, I start to slide off of him to get to the shirt. “No. Sit still.”

  “But, I’m naked.”

  “I’m well aware, Virginia.”

  Using his hands, he brings me back to the spot where my center meets his. “Unless you want to stop. If you do, I’ll stop. I don’t want to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I know. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I should tell him about my virginity problem, but I don’t want to right now. I just want to feel him touching me. This is only for one night. I need to enjoy my time with him. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  I don’t know how to say it so I’ll just say it. “Am I your girlfriend?”

  He blinks at me with surprise. “No. Why would you think that?”

  I feel the heat of humiliation burning up my neck, “You told Cope I was your girlfriend.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Now, combine humiliation with anger, and you’ve got, “Yeah. You did. You said something like, ‘I’m going to tell people you assaulted my girlfriend’ blah, blah, blah.”

  “You must have misheard. You aren’t my girlfriend. We’re friends.”

  I nearly choke. “Do you usually have your friends over to sit on your lap naked?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Oh. My. God. I’m such an idiot. “Close your eyes,” I snap.

  “Huh?”

  “Close your eyes, Baker. I need to get up, and I don’t want you to look at me. You’ve seen enough.”

  “Virginia.”

  “Shut them!” I shout.

  “Fine.” I watch him close his eyes and flop his head back on the sofa. I slide off of his lap and race to the shirt. I slide it over my head as I make my way back upstairs. As fast as I can, I find my clothes. I slip on the bra under the t-shirt. I turn the panties inside out and slide those on along with the skirt. Forgetting about the socks, I slide the shoes on wincing. I was wrong; the shoes are a painful nightmare, just like tonight.

  I turn to make my way back downstairs, but the exit to the bathroom is blocked by a big, dumb, asshat. “Please move.”

  “No.”

  “Baker,” I say looking up at him. His expression changes the minute he sees my face. “Please move.”

  Moving his body back, I exit the bathroom. “Let me give you a ride home.”

  “No thanks. I got an Uber.”

  Following me down the steps, he says, “You don’t know my address.”

  “I’m meeting it. Just like we did earlier.”

  “Virginia, come on,” he whines.

  “Thanks for, uh, everything. See ya.”

  I make it to the front door, open it, step out onto a huge front porch, and march down the steps and his long brick path to the street. Not knowing where I am, I’ve got two choices, right or left. I choose to turn left. I know he’s watching me, but I made it look like I knew what I was doing when I don’t.

  I stomp down the block and come to a four-way intersection. I listen for traffic, so I know which way to go. When I don’t hear any, I take a right. “My phone!” I grab my phone and bring up my map application. When I see where I am, I realize that I’ve got to back the way I came––past Baker’s house. “Great,” I grumble.

  With my head held high, I walk back. As I pass his house, I see he’s sitting in his car at the end of his driveway. Rolling down his window, “I wondered when you’d figure it out.”

  I ignore him and walk around the back of his car and down the street. I don’t need to look back to know he’s following me, but this time, I’m standing my ground. I will not get into the car with Baker Stark.

  On Lincolnway, I find a CyRide stop with a bench and sit down. It’s Saturday night, so there will be a bus by soon enough. It may not stop if Baker leaves his car parked in the designated bus spot. “Move your car, Baker. The bus needs the spot.”

  “Not until you get into the car.”

  Sighing, I look at him. I look into his eyes, “Baker. I need you to leave. I want to take the bus to conserve what little pride I have left.”

  “What are you talking about? We were just messing around. No big deal.”

  “To you, that’s probably true. To me, it was a big deal. Now, go. The bus is coming.” And I want to get home to lick my wounds.

  I see him peer into his rearview mirror. “Fine. I’ll pull up to make sure you’re safely on the bus.”

  I don’t say anything. I watch CyRide get closer. When the doors open, I step up and realize that I’ve got a problem. I don’t have my wallet, which holds my money and the bus pass. “Shit,” I say looking at the bedraggled bus driver. “I forgot my pass, and I’m out of money.”

  The driver rolls her eyes. I’m sure she hears that story all day long, “You’ll need to step off the bus.”

  “I will. Can you just pretend I’m getting on the bus, so that guy in the black car leaves?”

  “He bothering you?” she says picking up the walkie-talkie.

  “No. It’s my ex. He wants me back, and I’m not going back.” Yeah. I lied.

  She pulls the doors shut and the lights in the front of the bus flicker off. We watch as Baker drives away and around the corner. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Have a good night.”

  “You too.” I step off the bus and onto the sidewalk for the long trek home.

  Chapter 29

  Baker

  “So what happened with you and the sexy schoolmarm?”

  “Schoolmarm?” I say chuckling. “You say the weirdest shit, Tig.” Shrugging he rotates to the next machine. We’re in the weight room at the hockey arena doing a circuit even though we’re both wiped
from practice. We’ve lost the last three games, so coach made us skate laps until we practically crawled off the ice.

  It’s my turn on the Lat Pulldown machine so as I get ready for another set of reps; I answer Tig’s questions. “Nothing happened. I took her home. End of story.”

  Tig looks at me from his spot on the Pec Deck equipment like he knows I’m full of shit. “You’re full of shit. In your text, you said you were taking her to your place and that Peach didn’t need to worry.”

  “I let go of the bar above me and run my hands over my face. “I took her to my place. I made a pizza; things got heavy, then she went home.”

  “You mean she walked home.”

  “No! I tried to give her a ride, but she insisted on taking the bus.” So stubborn.

  “Well, she didn’t take the bus. She walked.”

  “The fuck she did. I watched her get on CyRide with my own eyes,” I say pointing at my eyes.

  “Apparently, she didn’t have any money or her pass, so she walked.”

  Fuck! “How do you know any of this?”

  “I was at their place when she got home.”

  I throw my head back and roar like a fucking lion. “Why? Why the fuck is she doing this to me?” Now I feel fucking guilty. A gentleman never lets a woman walk the fuck home. My grandmother would have my balls right about now.

  I pick my phone up off the floor and whip out a text to Virginia.

  Me: You walked home?

  V: …

  Me: Virginia? I know you’re there. You fucking walked home?

  V: Maybe.

  Me: I watched you get on the bus. I watched the bus door shut. What the fuck?

  V: I didn’t have my pass or any cash. The driver told me I needed to get off the bus.

  Me: I can’t believe you. Something bad could have happened to you. It was my responsibility to make sure you got home safely and you didn’t let me do that. Jesus, I’m pissed.

  V: Sorry.

  I can’t respond. All I’m going to do is say the wrong thing. Jesus, I’m pissed.

  Pulling me back to the conversations, Ian asks, “Doing what to you, exactly? Making you care about something other than yourself?”

  I turn and stare at my so-called friend. “I care about other people.” I do! I say defensively.

  Counting on his fingers, “You care about your grandmother.” Then he stops. “Who am I missing?”

  For some reason, that makes me laugh. Tig has a fucked up sense of humor. “I care about the guys, the team, school…you.”

  He stands up from his machine and walks over and sits down on a bench nearby. “When are you going to forgive yourself?”

  “Forgive myself? For what?”

  “It’s not your fault––the shit with your parents.”

  “I know that, dickhead. I was just a kid.”

  “Just because they’re relationship was fucked up, doesn’t mean yours will be.”

  “I know.” Wait. Do I know that?

  Sure. I suppose my view of love and relationships is a little skewed. My parents…their relationship was fucked up. All I remember of them before my dad joined the service was their constant fights––the yelling and screaming. Mom blamed dad for getting her pregnant, for the crappy apartment we were living in, and for killing her dream of being a famous something or other. It was something different every week. She never stopped yelling, and he couldn’t seem to give her the last word. It was pure hell.

  So, after 9/11, dad took the opportunity to join the service. That act accomplished two things: one, he was serving his country, and two, he was getting as far away from his wife as he could. It’s tragic that his plan to get away, for a while, ended up being forever. He was killed in Afghanistan by a roadside bomb. He was twenty-eight.

  That means I was six when he joined up and eight when he died. I only saw him a few times in those last two years but the time we had was good. I know he loved me. I know his leaving had nothing to do with me, at least consciously. Consciously, I knew he just hated my mom with a passion. Subconsciously, I probably felt responsible. I probably still do.

  After dad died, mom and I grew apart. Literally. She left me with my grandparents for weeks at a time while she went away with one rich asshole after another. She always wanted more––more money, a bigger house, shit like that. Each time she came back, she was a little different. She had a different hair color, a smaller nose, a bigger chest and she also got progressively nastier to me with each passing year. It’s the reason I haven’t seen her for eighteen months. She’s a bitch. I know what she wants because it’s all she ever wants. Money.

  It’s okay, though. I’ve been lucky. My grandmother has always been sweet and kind––at least to me. I loved living with grandma or Granna as I call her because she gave me stability. Plus, she taught me a lot about manners, being a gentleman, and working hard to achieve my goals. She came to every hockey game I ever played in back home and to every important school event. She’s amazing. I think she’d love to go to games here, but it’s too far to drive. Even far away, she watches our games online.

  On the other hand, my grandfather, who died three years ago, was stubborn as a mule and heartbroken when his son, my dad, joined the army and devastated when he died. He blamed himself because he cut my dad off, financially, when he and mom got pregnant, and dad decided to get married and work instead of going to college. Lack of money only added to the stress at our house, but I don’t blame my grandfather. I guess he did it because he wanted the best for my dad.

  “Bake?” I shake my head as I step off the treadmill. I ran five miles, and I don’t remember any of it. I look over at Tig who asks, “Food?”

  “Sure. I could eat.”

  “Good because we need to talk about the new practice schedule.”

  “Don't remind me.” I groan. We practice Monday through Thursday because most of our games are Friday and Saturday. Right now, we skate, or practice as a team on the ice, early on Tuesdays and Thursday morning and lift sometime in the afternoon. On Monday and Wednesday, we practice in the afternoon and we lift whenever we have time in our schedule. All we have to do is check in with one of the managers so coach doesn’t kick our asses for not lifting weights.

  “So, what’s he doing now?”

  “Apparently, Dixon and MacKenzie haven’t been lifting.”

  “Of course they haven’t.” Those guys are two of the laziest assholes in the world. “All they want to do is drink and hunt for pussy.” Then rinse. Repeat.

  “Well, they sweet talked one of the managers into forging their names on the check in sheets.”

  “And?”

  “So now, starting next week, coach has specific times for us to use the weight room and he’ll be supervising.”

  “Awesome.” I have a routine. I like how I’ve scheduled my weeks.

  “Oh, and Sundays are now mandatory.”

  Sundays are usually free for us. There are times when we’ve played a shitting game the night before so coach makes us skate but for the most part, Sunday is our day. “I’m going to kill Dixon.”

  “And MacKenzie.”

  “Yeah, him too.” Fucking assholes.

  Chapter 30

  Virginia

  “Come on Virginia,” Peach whines. “I’m not going to Tig’s game alone. I have no idea what to expect at a hockey game.”

  “And I do?” I’ve never been to a hockey game in my life. Sure, Baker and I started to watch one last weekend, but I’m not going there.

  “That’s why. If we go together, we can just fake it. We don’t have to watch the match or whatever it’s called. Tig just asked me to come and, well, I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  She doesn’t want to disappoint him? What is it with Tig and Peach? I’ve never seen her like this with a guy. It’s only been a week, but she practically falls all over herself to dote on him. It’s entirely out of character. She’s always the dotee, not the doter. “Wow, he must be something in bed.”

/>   “I wouldn’t know,” she says lifting her head proudly.

  “Huh? What? You haven’t slept with him yet?” Peach is a firm believer that having sex with a potential partner needs to happen right away so she can weed out the duds.

  “Nope. He wants to wait.”

  “Huh? And you’re on board with that?”

  Shrugging, she adds, “He wants it to be special. Ooh…” she adds excitedly. “He wants to take me out. On a real date. I didn’t even have to hint around about it.” Peach walks to stand in front of me. She grasps my hands and sighs, “Virginia?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think Ian Hetherington might be The One.”

  “The One?”

  Nodding she repeats, “The One.”

  No way. “Wow! That’s, er, amazing.”

  “I know!” she practically squeals. “So, bestie, it’s Saturday night, and I know for a fact you’ve got nothing better to do. Now get your ass ready to go. Bundle up. It’s an ice rink. We’re probably going to freeze our balls off in there.”

  “Fine. I’ll go. But, I'm not talking to what’s his name.”

  “You don’t have to. This is all about my man and me.”

  “Right. Got it.”

  At the arena or rink or whatever its called, we find a place to park on a side street since the lot is full After Peach pays our admission, she instructs me to find us a couple of seats while she grabs the popcorn and something for us to drink. “Sit at the other end close to the net thing,” she says pointing to the end furthest away.

  “Fine.” I know enough about sports with nets that the goalie works there. “Fine. Great. Whatever.” I mutter to myself as I walk the length of the rink. At the furthest end, I stomp up the steps to the top row of the bleachers. If I have to be here, I might as well sit as far away from him as I can.

  There are quite a few people at the game. So far, Peach and I have the row to ourselves in this section, but the spots below are filling up fast. As soon as I’m seated, I watch as a team in red starts to emerge from a room across rink. I watch as the ISU team steps onto the ice then speed around and around the oval. I scan the names on the backs of their outfits as they warm up, but I am not looking for Baker Stark. I’m looking for Tig. For Peach.