First

by M. A. Grant

  ***

  ‘For the love of all that’s holy, it shouldn’t be this hard!’ I complain as I pace the kitchen.

  I grab a paper plate off the counter and fan myself with desperation. I am way too flushed for such a simple interlude.

  Dally in low-slung, ripped jeans and a tight t-shirt. I didn’t want to scare him, ruin my chances for good, so I compromised. Instead of dragging his shirt off and licking my way down his abs, I focused on his tattoo. Allowed myself the guilty pleasure of touching it, following it down his arm. And he’d watched my finger the entire time with an intensity I’ve never seen on his face before, not even when he’s working on his bike.

  But when I asked him those stupid questions, his voice was so damn collected!

  The fanning isn’t helping. I give up on it and close my eyes, thwacking the paper plate against my forehead as my frustration boils over. No new ideas are beaten into my head. I make an inarticulate snarl of rage, wishing I could have one sign that there might be hope—

  The plate is plucked from my grasp and I nearly smack myself in the face with my hand. My eyes pop open. Dally’s standing right there, grinning at me as he holds my weapon of self-flagellation. ‘Having issues, brown eyes?’

  Flinging myself against him and begging him to make love to me might be a little too aggressive. Doesn’t mean I’m not tempted. I hold out my hand. ‘Plate?’

  ‘Are you going to hit yourself with it again?’

  ‘Why? Does it turn you on?’

  He rolls his eyes and drops the plate in my hand before turning his back to me and opening up the pizza box. I flail miserably behind him, hating him and myself and my stupid, stubborn libido that makes me want him so badly I’m actually aching—

  ‘How many slices?’ he asks. When he looks back at me, I’m calm, extending my plate towards him with a faked self-possession that would make the Queen of England proud.

  ‘Just one,’ I say politely.

  He frowns. I peek around him as he selects me the largest piece and hands me back my plate. He takes three slices.

  ‘Kitchen or living room?’ he asks.

  I’m mid-step, turning to respond to him, when I walk my hip straight into the sharp corner of the stone counter. In those split seconds of initial astonishment before my body recognises what I just did, it’s funny to watch the changes in Dally’s expression. Shock gives way to sympathy to panic so seamlessly.

  He grabs my plate and throws it with his on the counter. Like a puppet snipped from its lines, I’m crumpling on myself, hand clutching my hip.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he orders.

  I tilt my head back, still hunching protectively over my injury with all the grace and tiny arms of a wounded T-Rex, and wail through the immediately rising tears, ‘Don’t you dare tell me not to cry!’

  I’m not sure whether pressing my fingers against the wound will hurt less or more. At this point, any sort of movement only sends those poor damaged nerves into louder screams of pain.

  ‘Dammit, Cat,’ Dally mutters.

  It’s an understatement to say I’m surprised when he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the living room. His grip on me is tight, comforting, and I bury my leaking eyes against his pec, sniffling a bit. By the time he sets me on the couch, the pain is an almost manageable throb. He kneels beside me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, exposing the band of my shorts. I whimper with misery when he hooks a finger under the band, the movement brushing the denim against my flesh. He glances at me, waits, and then inspects the area.

  ‘Oh, babe, you’re going to have a nasty bruise,’ he murmurs, a long finger brushing the offending area with incredible gentleness.

  Wait … babe? Not brown eyes or Cat? My eyes snap up to his face. He’s still scrutinising my injury, giving me a second to really study him. His face has softened, his practiced gruffness gone. He looks … affectionate.

  He lifts his finger from my hip and studies me. His face is close to mine, his concern evident in the lines appearing on his forehead. He reaches up and brushes some of my hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.

  ‘Will you be okay?’ he asks, hand still lingering there against my cheek.

  ‘I know something that would make it feel better,’ I say.

  The warmth evaporates. He shakes his head and his hand drops. ‘I’m not your gigolo, Cat.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to ask you that.’

  Clearly, he doesn’t believe me. I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. ‘But you could kiss it to make it feel better,’ I whisper.

  He freezes. A hardness creeps in around his mouth. ‘If I do this, you don’t push me about your idiotic scheme anymore?’

  ‘I can’t promise that.’ I don’t shrink under his glare. ‘But I’d leave you alone for tonight.’

  He scoffs at my offer.

  I need to sweeten the deal. ‘You work tomorrow,’ I remind him. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to just sit down with dinner and be able to relax?’

  His lips tighten. Before I can try to convince him further, he’s pulling down the band of my shorts. His breath is warm against my skin. The tickle of his beard sends goose bumps rising on my arms. His kiss is soft, the barest brush over the still sensitive area. I shift a tiny bit, moisture pooling at the juncture of my thighs.

  And like that, he’s pulling back, face back to his normal, neutral boredom. ‘Better?’

  I can’t even squeak out a response. Not that he cares. He’s already heading back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with our plates. He lifts my legs, sits down, and settles them back in his lap. Just like normal.

  Too bad the tingling where his lips touched my skin warns me that normal may no longer exist.

  ***

  It takes me another hour to convince Cat to go shower and head to bed early. She’s holding true to her word, not flinging out sexual innuendos or blatant requests for me to join her under the sheets. It probably doesn’t hurt that her hip had the holy hell knocked out of it. She’s got such pale skin that it’s going to bruise a deep purple. She’s still wincing when she tells me good night and closes her bedroom door.

  It’s not too late so I suit up in my running gear. On my way out, I knock on her door. ‘I’m going for a run.’

  ‘Do you have your phone?’ she calls to me through the wood.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘See you in the morning.’

  And like that, I’m free.

  The house is near the college. Even though it’s a weeknight, people are still on the streets, wandering in pairs or small groups. I blast my music and start running, no clear direction in mind. Anywhere that takes me away from the memory of that kiss.

  A mile in, I’m still seeing her parted lips and wide eyes as I lift my mouth from her hip. If she’d closed the distance between us in that moment, I would have taken her right there, to hell with the consequences.

  I swear and speed up, trying to outpace something I can’t escape. I crossed a line and then I tried to rationalise it. I’m well on my way to lung collapse when my music turns into Jake’s ringtone.

  I slow down and answer. ‘How’s Texas?’ I pant.

  ‘You sound like shit. And what the hell did you do to my sister?’

  My knees buckle a little.

  Jake chuckles. ‘She said you distracted her and she walked into the counter. Is she okay?’

  Thank God. ‘She’ll be fine. Bruised, but that’s it.’

  ‘Man, I trust you to keep her out of trouble for one week and she’s already a victim of counter warfare.’

  I laugh weakly along with him. He updates me on his progress. Officer’s training sucks, but Jake’s got the right attitude for it. The overprotective brother rises in no time. He’s worried about me moving out so soon.

  ‘Who will Cat hang out with while I’m at work?’

  ‘I dunno, Jake. Is she even staying local?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘Do you think she’s met someone?’


  ‘I doubt that. You scare off every man who ever shows an interest.’

  He says the exact thing I’m thinking. ‘Except for maybe you. Not that you would show an interest.’ He laughs again, clearly dismissive. ‘You and Cat … that’s a picture …’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Why the fuck is that?’

  ‘Come on, Dallas. I mean, you’re you.’

  I bristle, but can’t deny most people would make the same initial judgement. Cat’s the blonde vision of the American Dream, a successful business major about to graduate. I’m a mechanic with more ties to my tattoos than my family. What could I possibly offer her?

  ‘Sorry, man,’ Jake says when I’m silent. ‘I didn’t mean to be such a dick. You’re a good guy. I just meant—’

  ‘I know what you meant. Don’t worry about it.’

  Jake clears his throat. ‘I’ll see you in a few days.’

  ‘Right, man. Good luck.’

  We hang up before it can get any more awkward. My music blares back on. I don’t want to run anymore. I’m exhausted and I want to go home and crash before work. But Jake’s words linger.

  I trust you to keep her out of trouble …

  I can go a little longer.

  Day 2 — Morning

  My eyes burn a little when I open them to sunlight streaming through my blinds. Dally got in from his run at some god-awful hour. I woke up at the sound of my door closing from his nightly check and listened to him continue down the hall to his room; his door closed and didn’t open again, which means he’ll be showering this morning.

  I stretch carefully. My hip is sore, but not a mass of burning pain like it was last night. Jake called to let me know how his training was going. He had been amused by my idiotic injury and by Dally’s playing white knight. I know he wouldn’t have been as good-tempered if I’d shared everything Dally had done last night.

  Speaking of …

  I don’t know if he’s already gone to work, but figure checking the kitchen would be a safe bet. No one there. Bathroom is the next stop. I’m brushing my teeth when there are footsteps in the hall. Dally’s tatted hand sneaks around the doorframe and raps against the wall.

  ‘Good to come in, brown eyes?’

  I reach out with my foot and push the door open wider in invitation. He gives me a weary grin as he steps into the room. ‘How’d you sleep?’

  I shrug as he prepares his toothbrush. When he moves away from the sink, I finish up and move out of his way, sitting on the edge of the tub watching him.

  ‘How about you?’ I ask.

  It’s always pretty to watch him shrug from behind. His tattoos ripple with the movement. I lick my lips when I remember the flashes of other muscles moving in my dreams last night.

  Dally makes a grumpy noise and I look up. He’s glaring at me in the mirror. I hold up my hands. ‘Sorry. But the deal was only good for last night.’

  He finishes brushing his teeth and turns to me. ‘Come here.’

  ‘Why?’

  His eyebrow raises and he crosses his arms over his chest. ‘You are such a pain in the ass. Come on, Cat.’

  I stand.

  He points at my hip. ‘Let me see.’

  Under his watchful gaze, I lift up my shirt and pull down the edge of my boxer shorts. The area’s still pretty red, but not too swollen.

  Dally nods approvingly. ‘It’s not looking too bad.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  He rubs a hand over his face, brushing hair off his forehead. ‘Seven, I think.’

  ‘Do you have time for breakfast?’

  He nods. ‘Meet in the kitchen?’

  I take advantage of the moment, dashing back to my room and changing. Dally’s already in the kitchen by the time I emerge. A mixing bowl and whisk are on the counter.

  ‘Pancakes okay?’ he calls over his shoulder as he drags out the necessary skillet.

  ‘Sounds good.’ I hop up on a stool and drag the bowl closer. ‘Want me to mix?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I make us a double batch; Dally’s always hungry the morning after his late night runs. Once I’m done whisking the mix together, he takes the bowl and turns his focus to the stove. I sit back and continue to admire the view of him in his boxer briefs. He tucks a hand into the waistband, focusing wholly on flipping the pancakes at the right moment. His legs are strong, his hips narrow. Soooo distracting …

  Too soon the plates are full. He takes up a seat across from me and we dig in. I’m busy licking syrup off my fork when Dally asks casually, ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Hopefully finding a fuck buddy.’ I laugh when he chokes on his bite. ‘What, did I say something surprising?’

  He chugs some milk before he speaks. His voice is still raspy though when he says, ‘I had hoped your sanity would return last night.’

  ‘Nope.’ He does not look pleased by my cheery response. ‘My sanity was sort of stretched to the limit last night because I dreamed you and I—’

  He’s up off the stool, dumping his plate in the sink and talking rapidly—and loudly—over me. ‘I’ve got a short shift today. Hopefully I’ll be back this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, call if you want me to bring you lunch. I don’t have anything to do,’ I say as he hurries past me.

  He’s in the doorway, escape almost complete, when he looks at me. ‘Sounds good. I’m going to shower. I’ll be out in a minute, okay?’

  I wave him away, already lost in my thoughts and pulling out my phone for research. Today’s my planning day. I’ve been looking up tons of information on virginity. Medical details of what the physical act will do to my body, as well as firsthand accounts random people decided to overshare on the Net. One thing has been made clear from my research though: I have no freaking clue what I’m doing.

  With each website explored, I seesaw between a fear of pain that is supposed to ruin sex for the rest of my life or the comfort of hearing I ‘won’t even notice it.’ Horror stories of STIs passed along have convinced me I want my partner to have been tested. The problem is he could easily lie about it. Even before the fear of STIs, I knew condoms are a must. But what kind? And how many? And what the hell is with chocolate flavoured latex? Is it overkill to buy a box at Costco to save money in the long run?

  Major details may still be getting worked out, but the stupid details come together without problem. Unwilling to bond to a song for the remainder of my life, I have chosen to not have any music playing. As for when I want it to happen, nighttime sounds best, especially because there could be candles. All my stuffed animals and posters were packed up years ago, so there won’t be any creepy plastic eye guilt. I’ll wash my sheets and make sure my room is clean.

  I bite my lip. I’m sure there’s something I’m missing …

  Singing drifts down the hallway.

  Oh, that’s right. I still need a man.

  Dally only sings when he’s in a good mood. I perk up at that thought. If he’s in a good mood this morning, maybe he’ll reconsider his refusal. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m outside the bathroom.

  I crack the door open as quietly as I can and sneak inside. The air is hot and thick with steam. Dally’s rough baritone rises from behind the curtain, another one of his punk songs stripped down to simple melody and oozing sexuality. I edge my way toward the curtain.

  From the garbled singing, his face is buried in the stream of water. I seize my chance and sneak his towel down from the curtain rod. It’s difficult to climb up on the counter in absolute silence, but I manage it.

  His singing’s back to normal and the curtain moves when he reaches for the towel. And finds nothing.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he mutters. ‘I swear to God I put it up—’

  The curtain rips to the side. I hold up his towel and ask, ‘Looking for this?’

  ***

  I’m pretty sure I have a heart attack. Maybe two heart attacks. One from the fact that Cat almost saw me naked. The other when I realise I’m contemplating letting he
r.

  I fumble to cover myself with the shower curtain. Cat’s perched on the bathroom counter in those tempting cut-off denim shorts and a loose top, holding the towel while her eyes are glued to my waist. Thank God I didn’t pull the curtain all the way open like I normally do.

  ‘What the fucking hell?’ I bellow, reaching desperately for my towel.

  At least her eyes move away from my dick. She holds the towel just out of my grasp. I growl and try to stretch further, but between holding the shower curtain and trying not to slip, I’m doing a horrible job of it. It doesn’t help when her lips curl up into a devious smile and she places one of those delicate little feet against my abs, stretching out a long leg to hold me at a distance.

  ‘Dammit, Cat, we have rules about the bathroom,’ I snap.

  She’s waving the towel around now and giggling a little as I try to catch one of its fluttering ends out of the air. ‘And if you want the rules reinstated, we’re going to have to renegotiate the terms.’

  I know what this game is. I stare up at the ceiling, patience reaching its limit. ‘For the last time, brown eyes, we are never having sex with each other.’

  That pisses her off. She drops the towel on the counter beside her and scowls at me. ‘Dally, you are not in a position to argue with me right now.’

  If only she knew. Against my will, blood is pooling somewhere it shouldn’t. Arguing with her is both infuriating and freaking hot. She looks like a little angel, but her stubborn streak is even wider than Jake’s.

  Shit. Jake. I mentally slap myself. You are not getting turned on by Jake’s little sister. Get out of here!

  ‘Cat,’ I say as calmly as I can manage. ‘I am going to be late to work. I need my towel.’

  She bites her lower lip and despite how sexy it looks, it proves her indecision is a weakness I can exploit.

  ‘We can talk about this after my shift. Will that work for you?’

  I can tell when she’s resigned herself to the fact that that’s the best offer she’ll get. Begrudgingly, she nods and holds out the towel to me.

  Her eyes widen. ‘Wait! You’re lying!’

  She tries to rip it out of my reach, but it’s too late. I’ve already got a hold on it and jerk it from her grip. Screw drying off, I need to cover myself. God only knows what she’ll try next.