by Joya Ryan
You’d look right with them. Not like how you’d look with me. Which is why we don’t tell a soul that we’re together.
Not together.
Well…kind of together.
I sure as shit feel like I’m together with you.
Even though that’s a stupid notion.
I know better, Shay. I’ve known better from the start. But all I can focus on is you talking to those boys that look like they want to do all the things I get to do to you. Well, they can fuck off. Because I’ll be the one taking you home tonight. I guaran-fucking-tee it.
You walk back my way holding your pad up. You stop at the other side of the bar top and read off.
“May I please get four Bud Lights and a basket of fries?”
“You can’t serve them.”
“I know, but if you pour them, I can go drop the fries in the back.”
You’re talking to me like my tongue hasn’t tasted every inch of you.
“Did you ID them?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“I know them all. Lane and Joe were seniors when I was a freshman. They’re almost twenty-two.”
A snarl rises in my chest but I stop it from reaching my mouth. Of course, you know them. Of course, they want you.
Your brows knit together and you’re looking at my face like there’s writing on it.
“Is there something wrong?” you ask softly.
My back teeth snap together. “Why would something be wrong?”
You glance around, then lean closer. No one can hear you, baby. But you still had to check.
“You’re treating me like—”
“Like I don’t know what it’s like to be inside you?”
You swallow hard.
“Yes,” you whisper.
I’m not about to tell you that my feelings are hurt because you haven’t called in five days. One, because I’m a grown ass man and not a teenage drama queen. But also because my feelings aren’t hurt, I’m fucking frustrated. I want you, all the damn time, but these rules, the sneaking around, I don’t know what the hell to think.
Which sounds like something you said to me last week.
Fuck a duck, I’m an asshole.
“I’m just giving you space. I’m not going to reach out to you if—”
“I get it,” I say, cutting you off. “You should go drop the fries.”
You nod and walk away, back behind the counter and into the kitchen in the back.
I grab the four long neck beers and take them over to the table.
“Thanks, man,” the young guy says.
I nod and walk away. I don’t have anything to say, and yet, I want to.
“Shay is starting the fries.”
“Awesome,” the second young guy says, taking a drink of his beer.
“She said she went to school with you?” I ask. What in the hell am I doing? Why am I talking? Why do I care?
“Yeah, she was beneath us—”
“Not beneath,” second guy chuckles.
My fists tighten.
“Nah,” first guy agrees. “She’s sweet, but quiet.”
“That’s a nice way for saying prude,” second guy jumps in again and I’m ready to clock him. I hate the way he’s talking about you, and yet, not really. Because you are a good girl, baby. Nothing wrong with that. And this jackass is just wishing he ever had a shot with you. He doesn’t.
“Shut up, Lane, she’s nice,” guy one says.
“You’re only saying that because you’ll be at the same college as her come fall.”
Oxygen sticks to the inside of my lungs.
“You’re going to Las Vegas for school too?” I ask.
“Yeah, just finished my sophomore year. Home on break now. Shay got into the same school I’m at. Only she got the partial scholarship. She’s really smart.”
I know. I don’t need him to tell me about you. I know you’re smart and incredible and now, thanks to my random, useless conversation, I know this guy is going to be going to school with you. Which reminds me how much life you have ahead of you and how many dreams you want to pursue. All of which don’t belong in Mojave. You and your mind and your loveliness are too big for this town. And you’ll be surrounded by college guys with goals of a diploma and dentist’s practice or whatever the fuck dudes like this dream of. Either way, you belong with guys like that. Guys your age. Guys your level. Not a recovered addict race car driver.
“Welcome home,” I say to the guy and leave the table, taking my spot back behind the bar.
You walk out. Your hand grazes my ass as you pass by me.
Discrete, baby.
And damn me for liking it. Liking whatever the hell we have going here. Liking that your hands flutter over me and not any of those guys at the table. No matter how much better they are for you.
I glance at you over my shoulder as you continue your slow pass behind me and out to the other side of the counter. All this shit going through my head is too much. Your eyes are locked on mine. Big and blue and everything else doesn’t matter. Because your eyes are on me. I’ve got you in my sights and when I get my hands on you next, I’m going to show you what a guy like me can offer…
And I won’t stop until you beg.
A “ding” goes off from the kitchen. The fries are done. You’re walking away from me, making your rounds to the tables that are starting to fill up with people coming in. Like flocking seagulls to the ocean, only in the desert, it’s thirsty locals.
I go back to the kitchen to pull the fries out of the oil and drop them in a red basket lined with paper. Walking back to the front, I set them on the counter. You’ll have to come get them. Mostly because I want to pull you away from all the tables full of men you’re rounding, and partly because I want to see you come toward me. Pretending for a second that you’re all mine and we’re not some dirty secret.
Fuck that…I’m your dirty secret.
Because you’re the pure one, baby.
You’re my secret for your own good.
Don’t ever forget that.
You scribble on your pad of paper and raise your eyebrow at the fries. Then at me. Oh, no, I’m not taking these to that table. Get your sweet ass over here and do it.
But you’re clearly feisty tonight and I’m ready to play. You stare at me and I can read your mind. You want to have a little silent duel? Game on, baby.
I put one hand on each side of the fries and wait. Leaning slightly over the bar to glare your way. You look at my biceps for a long time. I wonder if you’re getting wet because you’re looking at me like you want to ride me. Like you want my arms to bend you over and fuck you right here.
Maybe that’s my wishful thinking.
Then you glance at my chest, then my neck…I recognize that look. You’re thinking about where you want to put your mouth. I’ve seen this hunger in you before. Like when you stood on my doorstep and stared me down before hitting your knees.
I’m hard and so damn ready that I have no idea how I’ll make it through the hour. Mic needs to get here quickly so I can alleviate this tension between you and me.
And by alleviate, I mean fuck you so hard and deep that you’ll feel me for a week after.
You walk slowly back toward the bar, toward me.
You don’t say a word, just keep your eyes on mine and get the food.
You grab the basket and take it to the table.
Nothing.
You said nothing.
And it’s driving me wild. This quiet game of, “Guess what’s going through your mind,” is one I want to win. Because I want your attention. I want to know what you’re thinking and hoping to God you have some space in those genius thoughts to toss one my way.
Because you’re smart and fun and so damn beautiful it’s physically hurting my hands not to touch you right now.
“Hey, bro,” a familiar voice rang out and pulled me from the trance your perfect fitting jeans has me in.
“Hey,” I say to Trade
walking through the front door, hand laced with Quinn’s. As if I need to be reminded of their nauseating love.
“Wanna come join us?” he yells, grabbing a table on the far side of the bar. The pool table and fifty feet are between us.
“I’m covering for Mic,” I say back, pouring more beers into mugs and getting them to the guys sitting down at the bar.
“Well, when you’re done,” Trade said.
I nod. As if I’m in a hurry to get out of here. As long as you’re working and I finally have gotten to see you, I’m sticking around, baby.
Don’t think I’m not aware that this is a terrible idea, though. Being around you makes me want to crawl out of my skin to touch you. Which means I could blow our cover. A cover I’m not certain anymore is worth keeping.
Yes, it is.
That’s my mind just getting foggy with this need to be near you.
I know why we’re doing this. I know why we’re a secret to each other. It’s for the sake of everyone else in our lives. But your reasons are different than mine. I wouldn’t lose much from claiming you. Other than some sideways looks, hatred, and possibly being ostracized from my family because of your age. It doesn’t look good. I get it. But my presence would damage you more than anything else. I can handle people’s shit; I don’t want them to project anything negative onto you. You don’t deserve that. Especially not because of me.
This sucks.
There should be a more mature way to say this, but there’s not. This just sucks, Shay. I want you. Now. All the time. More than that, I want you to want me. I don’t want to give a shit about anything beyond that simple fact.
I tilt my neck to the side, then the other side, the slight popping of my joints humming down my spine. Tension is radiating. My bones are heavy and my blood is pumping. Jonesing. That’s what this feels like. The need for a fix. Only I could give a rat’s ass about drugs. I want you.
You are my drug.
My body is calling out for you.
My black T-shirt is strangling my chest. At least it feels that way. Maybe it’s because I can’t stop catching glimpses of your eyes, your ass, your mouth, as you weave around the various tables.
You’re heading to me again.
I can’t stop—I won’t stop—from touching you this time. Thirty feet away.
I’m going to wrap you up.
Ten feet away.
Kiss you right here in front of everyone. Fuck the rest. Fuck the reasons I just mapped out in my brain. I’m going to taste you here, now, tonight.
Three feet away—
“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” Mic chanted as she blew through the front bar door and straight toward me behind the bar.
A bucket of cold water would have been less jarring than my damn sister knocking me from my trance of intentions.
You give a slight wave to Mic, then set down the drink order you’d just taken on the bar for me and walk off. Mic’s timing is fucking terrible. Mic is looking at me; Trade is too. Only Trade is now motioning for me to come sit with him and Quinn.
You’re off at another table, your perfect ass swaying and sweet laugh humming through the bar. It’s all I want to hear. But it’s loud and crowded and clanking of drinks, random conversations, and the smell of beer and fried food is distracting from you. I only want to hear, see, and smell you.
I want you to myself so much I can nearly taste it.
Great, now all I can think of is tasting you too.
“Thanks for covering,” Mic said, not looking at me, just taking her place behind the bar and grabbing the drink orders to start filling them.
I pull my stare away from you and it’s difficult. I face my sister.
“Anytime,” I say. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
She frowns but doesn’t stop making drinks to look at me. “Just running late.”
“Uh-huh. That why you smell like a man?”
Mic’s head shoots up to stare at me in shock, then she looks down the front of herself as if she can see the smell.
“I do not.” She sniffs her shirt discretely, but I see her do it. So, there’s a guy.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I say.
“Fine, I’ll dish if you do. Wanna tell me why you’re extra assholish lately? Woman, right?”
I clench my jaw. Mic smiles.
“That’s what I thought,” she says confidently.
The don’t ask, don’t tell was clearly instated between us. Because I wasn’t ready to “dish” about a damn thing, especially you. You’re mine. All mine. And all the good and bad reasons aside for keeping whatever the hell we are a secret, I like that it’s mine.
Ours.
No one can reach us if they don’t know we exist, right Shay?
I grab a clean glass and fill it up with a Coke. “See you around.”
“As in, from right over at the corner table?” Mic asks, lifting her chin at Trade and Quinn waiting for me.
“Yep.”
“Well, I’m glad you have your social pants on tonight. You could use some human interaction.”
I shake my head and make my way toward Trade and Quinn. I glance at you as I walk. You’re like a lovely little bee buzzing from table to table. Little pieces of red hair dusting along your brow. You’re working hard. Your hair is slightly loose and coming out of the ponytail. I want to wrap all that hair around my fist like a rope and watch you suck me off.
I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. Not surprising, though, since you literally take my breath away. Cheesy, I know. But I don’t give a shit. You’ve already reduced me to missing you, why not a sap too?
“Hey, brother,” Trade says and kicks out the chair. I take it, my back toward the bar and you, at the moment. I don’t like it. I can’t track your movements. I try to adjust, angle myself so I can see more of the bar, but Trade and Quinn are in the prime spot to watch over everything.
Mic’s regular cook and other waitress walk in. Both older, been here a while. They wave and get settled behind the counter. Cook goes to the back. He’ll be hanging out by the deep fryer, watching the game on the mini TV hanging from the corner of the kitchen.
“Mic say why she was late?” Trade asks me. I wonder if I sound just as nosy. Probably. But we’re her big brothers so she can deal with it.
“Nope, she’s got something going on.”
“You two could just leave her alone and let her live,” Quinn says.
Trade rubs her leg under the table. His arm flexes as he goes back and forth. “We’re just looking out.”
“Poor girl probably struggles to get a date in this town with you both lurking around. She’s gorgeous and yet I’ve never seen her with a man.”
“Now look who’s being nosy,” Trade says and kisses her cheek.
“You two make me sick,” I mumble over my Coke.
“Says the guy who isn’t getting any.”
I scoff, feeling like déjà vu is setting in only in reverse. Besides, I was getting some, from you. Only that’s not how I think of it. I get you. And while I do get some of you, I want all of you. All the damn time.
I can’t follow your movements without it being obvious that I’m craning my neck to find you. This seat sucks. I glance over my shoulder and see a glimpse of you. Running from the bar to the tables. Delivering food. Your boots clank against the hardwood floor. I may not be able to follow you, but I can hear you. Listen to each step your long legs take.
The hair stands up on my neck because I can sense you. Fluttering around me in those boots, picturing what you look like striding long and tall, that red hair swaying.
“You ready for racing coming up?” Trade asks. “Car is looking good, but you…” he gives an exaggerated wince as if I look like I rolled in here off a garbage truck.
“I’m good,” I say.
“You’re tense. You feeling okay?”
Why do people keep asking me that? Tense? That’s another word for “you look like you’re holding on to y
our sanity by a thread and going to snap at any moment.” Which wouldn’t be far off from how I’m feeling.
I need my fix, baby.
Unfortunately, my family can tell when I’m “tense.” Too bad they have no idea what addiction I’m suffering from.
I’m suffering from you.
And I’m going to need you to put me out of my misery…
Click…clack…click
You’re walking around me. Like a vulture circling. Maybe I’m the falcon homing in on my prey? Either way, it’s a dance and I’m getting anxious.
Just one hit of you.
One small taste. That’s all I need to get through…
Christ, I sound like a junkie.
Trade is staring at me. Quinn is staring at him. Her brows furrow. “Are you two telecommunicating or something?” she asks.
“Like I need to know what’s in that dirty pervert’s mind,” I say.
“Ha, nothing Quinn doesn’t have firsthand experience with.” Trade smiles back.
Quinn blushes. “I can’t handle you two.”
Trade mumbles something to her that sounds like, “You can handle all of me and like it,” or whatever gooey gross innuendo he said.
I really am happy for them, but right now I’m irritable as shit and just want to feel you.
You’re like kicking a habit I didn’t even know I had.
What’s worse, you’re the most intense addiction I’ve had yet.
My knee is bouncing.
I take a drink of my Coke.
Click…clack…click…
Those sweet sounds are getting closer.
“Refill?” you ask, standing right behind me. You reach for my glass. Your perfect tits brushing my shoulder and your long ponytail skimming my neck as you grab my cup.
“Thanks,” I say. I get two fingers along your knee. The slightest touch. God, I need you.
“You two ready for another round?” you ask my brother and Quinn.
“Yes, please,” Quinn says nicely.
You turn and strut away.
That’s it.
I can’t fucking take this.
“Look who’s here,” Trade says, lifting his chin to someone behind me. I look and see Tawny Vickers, a woman I’ve nailed a few times. She was making eyes at me. Not interested.