by K. Bromberg
The first room is an eerie graveyard. Tombstones, body parts sticking out of dirt, and a low layer of smoke set the stage for us as my eyes flicker everywhere and anywhere to try and see what or who will jump out at us.
We make it through the room, but the minute we hit the next one full of strobe lights and zombies frozen in place, I know I should have peed before we did this.
As we reach the middle of the room, a zombie—that looks like he is plastic—jumps to life and scares the shit out of us. Then and only then that I get a clue what we are doing here.
Reznor’s screech at the top of his lungs when the character lunges at us is deafening. His body is fraught with tension, and he takes me by total surprise when he pushes me ahead of him and buries his forehead against my shoulder to hide his eyes.
“Walk, Des. Just please fucking walk,” he orders as his hands shake and his body pushes against mine to go faster.
My own adrenaline is charging through me, so I don’t question why he is throwing me into the fire when he’s supposed to be the tough guy. But with each and every room we enter, his reaction is so extreme I can’t help but laugh at some of them. Jumping behind me. Screaming at the character to get the fuck away from him. The grip of his hands on my body. The command in his voice as he tells me what to do.
And just when I think the poor guy is going to have a heart attack, we push into the last room to find that we have successfully made it through the haunted house.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears harshly as he all but jogs as far as he can from the exit, hands behind his head, feet moving one way and then the other as he tries to shake off the rush of fear that’s coursing through him.
As I stand to the side and give him the space he needs, I wonder what the point of this whole exercise was. And what it is he’s trying to tell me with it.
He blows out a huge breath and looks back at me—there’s a line of sweat on his brow and his face is pale.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine. In a few minutes.” A pace one way, then the other. “I hate those fucking things.”
This time when he strides toward me, he grabs my hand without asking, forcing me to follow him.
“What—?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Whoa—okay.”
He’s silent as he proceeds to buy what appears to be one of each item from the concession stand, much to the teenage girl’s chagrin who is making googly eyes at him as she waits on him. It’s not until we’re seated at a picnic table on the far end of the lot, where the light is dim and the crowd is sparse, that he finally looks at me.
“Have you figured it out yet?” he asks as he takes a bite of nachos.
“Yes, but…”
“But what? I’m a big, bad cop who most days deals with monsters for a living, but put me in a haunted house and I scream like a little girl?”
I laugh and take a chip of my own. “Something like that.”
He smiles and then it fades as his eyes grow serious. “We all have fears, Desi. Even the strongest of us have fears. It’s okay to have one—or many. It doesn’t make you weaker...it makes you human.”
His words hit home. The compassion in his voice more so as I open my mouth to respond and then shut it, fearful that the tears burning in my eyes will fall.
“Do you know what it’s like to feel like you’re one hundred percent vulnerable? To wake up in your own bed and know you are at the complete mercy of someone else? Then the utter terror of that person leaving and knowing they are still out there, and might possibly still come back? The jumping at every shadow and being suspicious of every new person you meet who seems overly friendly? And more than anything, questioning yourself: your judgment, whether you brought this on yourself...and how you reacted nowhere near how you thought you would in that situation?” The words fall out in a rush as thoughts, feelings, doubts I’ve had for weeks finally materialize.
“Feels good to finally say it, doesn’t it?” he asks with his head angled to the side and a finger tracing lightly over the top of my hand.
I avert my eyes, suddenly shy, even though I’m never shy, and allow the smile to slide on my lips. “Yeah, it does.”
The carnival-like atmosphere carries on around us but for the moment, it just feels like it’s him and me—no one else matters.
And there go the flutters again.
Crap.
“It’s normal, you know,” he says.
“Not for me, it isn’t,” I respond, referring to the aftereffects of the prowler and the damn fluttering.
“Let me guess—tough girl, life of the party who loves the limelight and has no problem being the one who makes people at ease, the one everyone depends on when things go to shit.”
I laugh, surprised by how much he has me pegged. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
He falls quiet for a moment but his eyes question and ponder something for a beat. “I thought you were okay with that.”
“God, yes,” I say with a little more enthusiasm than I should. “That sounded bad. I just mean—dogs are more loyal than most men.”
“So instead of the crazy cat lady named Jana who lives in the corner house, you’re the dedicated dog lady who lives in the yellow clapboard.”
“Pretty much.” I laugh. “And perfectly fine with it.”
“You might change your opinion someday,” he says, and I swear to God that look in his eyes right now, the one that’s part amused, part serious—but wholly invested in every single response I give—could very well make me change my answer.
The thought stuns me. Unnerves me. Makes me panic because I don’t think that way.
“So when are you heading back to San Francisco?” I ask the question because I need to remind myself he’ll be gone soon. That I can’t fall prey to the flutters and the swoons because he will be gone soon and that’s...that’s exactly how I like it.
But my mind stutters over those six words. Over my normal response that now doesn’t feel so normal. Because that’s exactly how I’ve liked it.
His eyes hold mine, the flash of surprise at my sudden change of topic there, but I appreciate that he doesn’t call me on it. He nods his head in silent acceptance. It’s as if he knows the question can’t be avoided. It’s valid, and truly, he doesn’t have any right to call me out on my fears when he can’t offer me anything. And somehow, that stings.
“Three weeks. Four. It could be sooner unless I find something here that piques my interest enough to want to stay.”
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Unless something piques his interest. Not someone. So why is he here with me? Why push for something so temporary? Because he’s horny? Because I’m convenient?
Jesus, Des. Aren’t you the first person to push someone away? Aren’t you the one putting the brakes on things with a man? So why does this bug you? Why does his blasé response sting? I feel emotionally exhausted and spent, yet not ready to return home either.
And so we sit in this awkward state where I’m hurt but shouldn’t be and he doesn’t realize it. He takes a sip from his Slurpee and we turn to watch a group of teens to the left, re-enacting their reactions to their experience in the haunted house. “Do you have any family around here?”
I look back at him but he’s still watching the kids. “Nah. My mom lives in Idaho.”
“And your dad?”
“Don’t know.” I shrug. “He left when I was one, and after that my mom always had a boyfriend for a few months on, few months off...and on and on. A constant cycle of someone moving in, getting used to a new person in our house, and then just as we settled down into a routine, they’d break up. The revolving relationship door isn’t for me.”
“Who said it has to be that way?”
I twist my lips as I try to put my thoughts to words. “Right or wrong, I think I conditioned myself to have fun, and when the fun starts to become something more, I shift gears and move on. I’m good with dating. With enjoying the m
oment. The future’s going to happen whether I worry about it or not, so why even bother?”
Reznor’s eyes are intense when he stares into mine. “Makes sense. I can respect that.” There is no judgment in his tone, and there’s something about him that makes me feel comfortable being me—makes me feel comfortable telling the truth—when most of the time I say what I need to say to play the role society feels I should. “What about you? Why aren’t you married to Mrs. Stepford?” I ask. “Don’t think the spotlight you’re shining on me isn’t going to turn toward you and ask the same question.”
But why am I asking? Do I really want to know his answer or am I just trying to get out from under the microscope that will magnify my hidden cracks and atypical shortcomings?
He takes a sip as his smile falls quiet and his eyes meet mine. “First off, Stepford is far from my type.”
“What is your type then?”
“Long-legged brunettes who love to wear bold colors, smell like wet dogs, and have a wicked kiss.”
I hate that with every word my body reacts more to him. The ache between my thighs. The flutter in my belly. The swooning in my mind.
“That was smooth,” I say to try and distract myself.
“You like that?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I was going to add who likes to groom Pussy, but thought that might be a bit crass.”
I throw my head back and laugh and think of that damn cat and love and hate her all simultaneously for getting us to meet each other.
“Well...it is groomed.”
What are you doing?
“Is that so?” he asks with a slight smile and a darkening of his eyes.
You swore off him.
“Yep.”
One more time can’t hurt that much, can it?
“I think you need to take me home and see for yourself.”
Reznor stands abruptly from the table, hand on my elbow, feet leading the way. “I thought you’d never ask,” he murmurs.
Chapter Twenty
Reznor
The car ride is silent.
Every attempt at conversation falls flat almost as if we’re afraid an extra word might spark the sexual tension eating up the air in the car.
I pull into the driveway without even giving a thought to the fact that her car is still at the high school. We’ll get it tomorrow.
Right now I plan on following through with my the second time it’s way better line. And no, the getting off watching her get off didn’t really count as a second time.
Because fuck if I haven’t thought about doing this with her since she left my bedroom the last time.
Yeah, I have a problem. A big one. And her name is Desi Whitman.
Our feet clomp up the stairs of her porch. My eyes are on her hips, her ass, thinking about those long legs being wrapped around me as she fumbles with the key in her lock.
I like that she’s nervous.
It means she cares.
It means she wants this as fucking badly as I do.
The minute the door opens and I shut it behind us, it’s like dynamite detonates. We’re on each other in an instant. Hands and lips and tongues and bodies grinding against each other as we strip off our clothes in a mad dash to see who can get undressed quicker.
Her shirt is over her head. My lips are on her neck. Her back bumps against the wall behind her. A laugh falls from our mouths seconds before my lips close over the soft peak of her nipple, making both of us moan and slow for a beat.
Dogs bark somewhere in the house.
There is no slow. There’s only desperation and greed and every pleasurably selfish sensation in between. It may have been only two weeks since the last time we had sex, but right now it feels like for-fucking-ever.
Her hands are on my pants, shoving them down so my dick can spring free. Hurried whispers. Desperate groans. Another wall but this time at my back.
Laughter murmured by lips pressed against skin.
The jingle of collars down the hall as a dog shakes his head.
My hand slides between her thighs to feel her wet just before she drops to her knees. With those big eyes of her angled up to mine, she wraps her lips around my cock, and I watch every damn inch of it disappear into that sexy mouth of hers.
Fucking Christ Almighty. The woman doesn’t have a gag reflex.
My cock sits at the back of her throat as her fingernails scratch ever so slightly the skin beneath my balls. She suctions tight around me and slowly slides it back out so it releases from her mouth with a popping sound. Her tongue circles around my crest, dips into the split at the end and the moan she makes—the one that tells me she likes how I taste—is enough to make me want to come right there and show her how much she’d enjoy it.
And so I face the worst dilemma known to a man. Let her suck me off with that all-powerful suction of her lips, or bury myself in her hot, wet, and tight pussy so I can prolong the pleasure and get her off in the process.
She swallows me again, my dick going as far as it can before she wraps her fingers around what’s exposed and begins working that angle too.
Sweet. Fucking. Heaven.
For a moment I let myself get lost in the sensation. My head falls back. My hand fists in her hair to help her mouth fuck me. My hips thrust forward with each bob forward of her head.
And when I know I’m almost to the point of no return, I step back abruptly and lift her off the floor. She squeals as I haul her naked ass over my shoulder and with a resolute slap to it say, “Tell me which room, sweets, or you’re going to end up getting nailed against this wall right here.”
“Yes. Please.” Her hands slide down my back and cup my ass as the scent of her pussy so close to my face is like a fix to a junkie. It owns my thoughts. “Let’s start with the wall, and move to the bed for round two.”
I let her body slide down my shoulder until her legs are wrapped around my hips and her back is resting against the wall. Her eyes are on mine—I barely see them in the moonlit room, but I feel the heat of her pussy against my waist.
“I like the way you think.”
“And I like the way you fuck,” she says seconds before I lift her hips up and push my dick into her.
Every inch of my body vibrates from wanting to come instantaneously, at how incredible she feels wrapped around my cock. Every. Single. Inch.
Her lips slant over mine and she takes control as she slides her tongue between my lips to urge me to move.
And I do.
* * *
Her room suits her. It’s bright and eccentric and a little bit of everything thrown all together, but it works.
At least that’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting, propped on a shit ton of pillows against her headboard, staring at her.
“Why don’t you come back here and lie down?”
Her hand freezes midway to whatever she was reaching for. Yes, Desi, that means I’m not leaving here. That means I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long stretch.
She turns and looks at me from where she stands looking out the window to the darkness beyond. She’s still naked, her hair a mess, but I can tell she’s already trying to figure out her next move, when that next move is going to be coming back to bed with me.
It takes her a beat and for me to pat the bed, but she slowly makes her way and slides in beside me. I feel her stiffen when I pull her close to me so her head is against my shoulder and my arm is wrapped around her back.
We sit in an awkward silence as she tries to come to terms with what this cuddling thing is. It’s almost comical how I can feel her tense every time I shift a millimeter as if she’s afraid to touch me, when minutes ago I was buried balls deep in her.
But slowly she relaxes, and her fingers begin to draw aimlessly on my arm.
“What are your tattoos of?” It’s the first time she’s spoken, and it doesn’t surprise me that it’s to shift the focus elsewhere.
Everyone has a story to tell...they are my story. I sigh. My mantra. But this is Des
i...and for some reason I want to talk when I normally don’t. For some reason, I feel compelled to tell her my story. “When I was younger, I was a real piece of work. I was out of control. Always in trouble.”
“And you’re a cop?” She laughs.
“It was the only thing that saved me. I was walking that fine line—could have gone either way, convict or cop—and I chose cop.”
“Do you mind me asking what happened?”
I lick my lips and trace my finger up and down the line of her spine. “Rough upbringing. My dad thought fists were the best form of fear, but what he didn’t understand was that it made me crave that form of attention. Eventually, I didn’t fear the bad, just the good.” I chuckle at the thought. At the memory of the sound of his voice when he’d call me “Sonny boy” and how those two words meant I was about to get my ass kicked. “I started doing petty shit. Stealing this or that. Vandalism. I fell into the wrong crowd as you’d expect, and one night I went on a ride with them, not knowing what they knew. They’d brought guns along. Held up a convenience store and the minute the shots were fired, they ran to flee while I stood there staring at the blood seeping from the clerk’s chest.”
“Jesus, Rez.”
“Yeah, well...they left without asking me to go. Thought they’d leave me there to take the fall for them since I was clearly on the CCV television the store had. I stayed all right, but I also called 9-1-1 and applied pressure to the wound to help stop the bleeding.” I can still remember the taste of fear in my mouth. Watching his blood stain between my fingers as I pressed against the wound with my T-shirt. “Obviously I didn’t cover for the kids but pointed them out. That put a target on my back so...I left. Moved a few cities north to one where I could get lost in its population, and joined the Academy.”
“That’s crazy,” she says. And she doesn’t even know the half of it.
“What about you? Why the dog grooming business?”
She snorts. “Because dogs are way more loyal than men.”
Ah, we’re back to that here?
“Is that so?” I take advantage of her head tilted to look at me and press my lips against hers. I kiss her gently, my tongue slipping between her lips and teasing her without any sense of urgency. Her body softens as I worship her mouth in a kiss that I can feel all the way to the bottom of my balls.