Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3)

by Alice Clayton

  “It was his cousin,” I said, taking a piece of her toast. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I had a feeling it was something like that,” she said, barely hiding her grin.

  I’d have rolled my eyes, but they felt like they’d been dipped in sand. But mentally? Epic eye roll.

  Caroline stayed until after lunch, walking me through some final thoughts she had for the house. I showed her the attic, and told her my idea for turning it into a studio. Not having any idea I’d been an artist in my other life, she was thrilled with the idea and made me promise to show her some work next time she was in town. “Better yet, send me some pictures when you get things up and running again.” I tried to explain to her that it had been years since I’d actually painted, and that who knows what would happen when I actually got up there and started playing around, but blah-blah-blah, she wouldn’t hear it.

  Simon was flying in tonight from Mexico, and she was anxious to get back before he did. I envied her. I admit it. She had a man who adored her and no doubt ravaged her to within an inch of her life. She had that glow, so it was safe to assume. More important, she had someone who said I love you. Woke up to it, walked in the park with it, sat on the couch next to it, and heard it during the sexy times. Big, sappy sigh.

  Holding my arm in a sisterly way as we walked out to her car, she took a deep breath of ocean air before throwing her bag into the backseat. “It really is kind of magical up here. Simon and I need to start heading north more often.”

  “My door is always open, come on up whenever.”

  She pulled me in for a close hug. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Okay. You be careful too?” I said, confused.

  “Seriously, Viv. I know you think you’re in this romance novel—”

  I moaned and pushed her toward the car.

  “No really—listen. I believe in signs, and that things are meant to be, I truly do. But try and be open to anything, okay? It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.”

  “You should be writing for Hallmark.”

  “Fuck you, Viv—this shit is gold I’m giving you. Gold.”

  “This is what I get for sharing secrets,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  “Just remember what I said, okay?”

  “Be open. Got it. Drive safe.” I laughed, giving her a little salute as she got into the car. “And thanks for everything, all joking aside. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she asked, deadpan.

  “Thinking about it,” I shot back.

  She laughed, backed out of the driveway, and honked cheerily as she headed around the corner. Then she was gone.

  And I was alone. With Caroline’s words echoing in my hangover head.

  It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.

  If this were a made-for-TV movie, I’d walk toward the edge of the cliff and watch the breakers roll in, casting a strong but sad silhouette against the backdrop of steely blue. The camera would pull back slowly, taking in the beautiful but empty house.

  I went into the kitchen to make a peanut butter sandwich.

  But those words worked on me all day. And damn if they didn’t work my belly into a mess of knots.

  chapter fifteen

  I paced. I plotted. I plotzed.

  I padded in circles around the house, adjusting Post-its on the wall where Caroline had left notes for the contractor, making sure they were at ninety-degree angles and flush with the others in their row.

  After Caroline left, I couldn’t stop thinking about her parting words. Damn her and her witchy ways.

  I stared down the dolls in the dining room that Jessica still hadn’t taken home, and fired off a text that said that if she didn’t come and get the psychotic army they would be marched lemminglike toward the cliffs. She responded with a very specific finger gesture.

  I organized the Johnny Mathis albums, which had been relocated from the fireplace to the built-ins on either side. I arranged them by style (Christmas and otherwise) and then by date, making them easily accessible whether you were searching by time line or by season. Alphabetical when possible. Did I Dewey decimal myself in order to keep my brain occupied? Perhaps. But Dewey brought to mind a very particular person who was determined to cross-reference himself right out of the stacks, smack dab into the romance section.

  There was a sudden crack of thunder, and when I looked out the picture window I saw lightning stab the sea. Great. The rain that had been promised all week was finally rolling in. The wind was picking up, assaulting the hanging baskets of ferns on the back porch.

  I curled my knees underneath me on the couch, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and huddling inward. I’d changed into my pajamas when I realized I wanted nothing more than a good sulk tonight. But the white V-neck T-shirt and cotton panties weren’t keeping me very warm. Luckily I knew where to find a giant pair of tube socks, and I’d pulled them up past my knees, tugging them up even farther now to fend off the chill.

  My eyes roamed the room and stopped on the fireplace. Hey, Contractor Joe told me the chimney was sound and safe to use. Hey, there’s a bunch of wood there that looks dry and brittle. Hey, Viv, make a fire.

  So I did.

  I grew up camping, so I can make a fire with three sticks and a string. I opened the flue, crumpled up some newspapers, and shoved them underneath the old iron grate, which could hold a fire large enough to roast a beast. I stacked kindling, breaking off some of the smaller bits of bark to make a little fire nest, making sure there was enough room for the air to get through.

  That’s what novice fire builders forget about. For the fire to burn long and bright and stay hot, you need a little space. A little room to breathe. But not too much space, or the fire will go out.

  Shaking my head as deep thoughts began to poke through again, I struck a match and lit the paper below the grate. The kindling above began to catch, crackling and popping. Laying two larger logs on top, and continuing to feed twigs and snapped-off pieces below, within minutes I had a large blaze going, sending out its warmth and beginning to take the chill off the room. Keeping the area clear in front of the fire, I set the screen to the side so I could enjoy the view.

  I curled back onto the couch, watching as the fire grew, illuminating the approaching dusk with a radiant glow. Embers gleamed brightly underneath the blaze, ruby red and cheery orange.

  But I wasn’t cheery. My stomach was still in knots. No one else seemed to see the romance novel that I was still convinced I was starring in. Or they did, but they didn’t think the cowboy was the hero. Was I still convinced?

  Dammit. Double dammit.

  Confusion whirled with anger and frustration. Resignation?

  But when I saw Hank’s truck speed around the corner of the house and stop next to the barn?

  Pure, unadulterated lust took center stage.

  I thought about nothing at all as I crashed through the house and out the back door, crossing the yard with a single intent.

  Must. Have. Now.

  He’d already stripped down, the shirt tossed casually aside as you do when you have hay to pitch, and the sight of his suntanned skin and muscles for days made me quicken my pace.

  The chickens knew better than to get in my way; they cleared a path straight through to the barn as I walked so fast my boobs jiggled. They’ll do that when you’re a double D and you left your bra on the floor upstairs. See, it’s all how it’s supposed to be! Did I randomly forget my bra earlier that day, or did some unknown hand guide me, eliminating bra clasps for frantic fingers to fumble over?

  Predestined. Preordained. There just better not be any premature what-have-you, ’cuz this shit was going down. And God willing, so was he.

  I entered the barn, striking what I thought was a particularly fetching pose with one
hand poised over my head, the other on my waist, leaning against the doorway, hips jutted forward, back arched, girls pitched forth like an offering.

  He was pitching hay down from the loft. So strong, so virile, sweat already gleaming on his stunning hand-of-God-etched back, his hips narrowing into a waist I wanted to wrap my legs around and ride off into a sexual sunset.

  Speaking of sunset, it cut through the impending clouds, golden and glowing across the barn floor, highlighting the scattering of hay, the rustic planks, the brown poop.

  Um, what?

  It’s a barn. That’s where the poop lives.

  Well, I could breathe through my nose. And pretty soon I’d be panting, so no matter. I returned my gaze to Hank.

  Yeah, concentrate on him. His hands sliding up and down the handle, gripping the shaft and turning into the upstroke. Aw yeah.

  I waited for him to turn around and see me, to see me and leap down from the hayloft, his eyes burning hot and wild, his blood racing throughout his body and concentrating into one big, thick, hard, throbbing missile of seed.

  Quiet. He’s going to turn any minute.

  But he didn’t. So I did what any heroine would do in that situation.

  “Ahem.”

  Nothing.

  “Ahem.”

  Paul and Paula turned. Hank? He kept on pitching hay.

  With words designed to seduce, incinerate, and level, I ordered, “Turn around, please.” Aw yeah.

  He did turn. He did appraise. And how could he not? I was a vision in white, backlit perfectly by the setting sun for the ravishing of the century.

  His eyes traveled down my body, and everywhere his gaze went, my flesh sizzled.

  He tossed his pitchfork to the ground, and as he climbed down the ladder, each inch of skin revealed above his low-slung jeans was a present from the gods. He jumped the last three rungs, landing lightly on his feet with a predatory feline grace.

  He looked at me from underneath impossibly long lashes, his tongue licking his lower lip. A flash of something crossed his face. Longing? Pure carnal need? Or did it border more on . . . amusement?

  Amusement was good; simple pleasures and all that. It hinted at a deeper emotion. After all, one cannot live on lust alone.

  The onion was finally peeled, much like my clothing would soon be.

  He rested his hands on top of the buckle. “C’mere,” he said, his voice silky smooth and perfectly orchestrated to make me swoon.

  Swoon I did, and I closed the distance between me and my destiny. I left behind my perfect lighting, but the closer I got to my perfect cowboy, I couldn’t tell if the sun rose in the east or the west. I was now within inches of miles of beefcake, and I wanted to sink my teeth into every layer.

  He reached out one hand, fingertips seeking and finding my mouth, which instantly parted. He pressed his thumb against my lips, tasting of salt and earth and man. He pressed further, and I took him in. He was inside of me, finally. I suckled at his thumb, and his eyes darkened.

  “All right. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said.

  Huh?

  “You want me, don’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “Say it. Out loud.”

  Did he just quote Twilight? No matter.

  “Ah wah ooo,” I managed. Not as sexy when you’re sucking someone’s thumb. But that’s okay. This was happening.

  And now he was pushing me up into one of the stalls. My back thrust up against a hay bale. Still, with the thumb. Aw yeah.

  As I bounced off the hay, my entire field of vision was filled with Hank, and it was good. He removed his thumb, dragging his hand down the center of my body to wrap around my waist. Then he leveraged my lower body up and around him, my legs finally where they belonged. Ahhhhh. There is something about being wrapped around hot man that feels exactly right.

  His eyes stared into mine, piercing my soul and seeing my innermost thoughts and secret desires. He seemed to be mapping my face, memorizing every feature, committing it to his memory to take with him to the end of his days.

  “You look like that girl from the dancing movie. With the freaky black shit around her eyes.”

  “Um, you mean Black Swan?”

  “Yeah, that one. Natasha Portland. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I am pretty sure no one had ever told me I looked liked Natasha Portland before.

  I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want him speaking anymore. I used my feet to push against him, rocking his manliness against my secret flower, feeling this beautiful man. He got the message; a gleeful look coming over his face as he felt me, wanting and needy below his giant man hands.

  His left hand rose to my cheek, sweeping my hair off my face. Burying his hand in my hair, he grasped me firmly by the nape of the neck, angling me to deliver the First Kiss.

  He leaned in, the scent of sweat and sun and . . . hay . . . filling my nostrils.

  I’d thought my tummy would be fluttering in “please hurry up and pound me silly” excitement. But I guess when something this epic happens, your body shuts down a bit, probably getting ready to redirect energy to the sexy parts.

  Yeah, that must be why I’m not feeling anything here . . .

  He licked his lips.

  Here it comes!

  I licked mine.

  The romance of the century, ladies and gentlemen!

  And then he kissed me.

  Correction.

  Cowboy. Ate. My fucking face.

  His mouth opened wide enough to swallow me whole. His tongue slapped and slobbered. His lips, wet and mushy. His breath? Stale beer and horror show.

  My eyes? Wiiiiiiide open. Like my legs, which quickly began to shut.

  Pressing against his chest, so sweat-slicked that I couldn’t gain traction, I finally pulled his mouth from my neck, where it had begun to suck.

  His eyes were filled with lust, and now confusion. “Where’d you go, baby?” he asked, licking my cheek. Like a motherfucking cat. Shudder.

  “Slow your roll there, cowboy,” I said, climbing down and tugging my T-shirt over my bottom.

  “What the fuck, dude?”

  “Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.”

  I sighed, feeling the weight of everything I had pinned on this crashing down on me. What a fucking idiot I was.

  “Cocksucker,” I swore.

  “Sounds good to me,” Hank said.

  I stared him down. Rising to my full height of five feet, two inches, I asked, “Why now? I’ve been throwing myself at you for weeks.” Shit, the things I’d done to get this guy to notice me.

  He ran his hands down his chest, then adjusted his dick. “Your tits look great in that shirt. I figured, eh. What the hell.”

  And there it was.

  Hank was not a pirate, not a rogue prince, not even a cowboy. He was not the hero, nor was he the villain.

  There were no layers to peel here. He was just a phenomenally good-looking guy who would always be attractive, even when he got a bit of a gut and that gorgeous hair started to thin. And there was nothing in the world wrong with being a hot, dumb guy. He just wasn’t ever going to get to see how fantastic my tits really were.

  So he should stick to his big, dumb, blond girls. Tiny tattooed brunettes were too much for him.

  I left him confused and alone in the barn, and headed back toward the house. The dark clouds had gathered, and my mood now mirrored the weather. As I crossed the yard the wind blew my shirt up over my torso, and I didn’t even care. I made it to the back porch just as the first fat drops of rain started falling.

  I climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier and heavier. Was it possible to have sad feet? They felt sloppy and slow, drudgy and draggy. I let the door bang shut behind me and went to the kitchen sink to rinse the spittle from my face. And neck. How had I played this so very wrong?

  I heard the first sprinkle of raindrops on the roof, and by the time I made it into the living room, the windows were a sheet of rain. I flipped on the light but the bulb
just buzzed and flickered out.

  I focused on the fireplace, on the wonderful heat emanating from the blaze, my toes curling toward the flames. They were temporarily happy, but the rest of my whole body was sad.

  It was so fired up for this manic coupling to go down, in perfect symmetry with the landscape, that now I internalized the rain, the damp, the chill. I looked left and saw the turntable I’d brought down from the attic. I looked right and saw Mathis, waiting for me. Why not embrace my inner sad sack: put on some old music, pour myself a Scotch, and let myself go full-on crash. But just one Scotch—no repeat of last night.

  Shit, if I wanted to go full-on crash I could really think about last night. Was I ready for that?

  I shuffled to the records and made my selection. The grand passionate romance that had bloomed in my imagination for months was imaginary. I was three thousand miles away from my family, who loved and cared for me whatever I did and whatever mistakes I’d made. And here I was, perched on the edge of a cliff in the rain. Alone. And all the adrenaline that had built up, making ready to celebrate with the cowboy, had crashed into bone-crushing loneliness. What had Clark said? Everyone gets lonely sometimes?

  I winced. Shit, I wasn’t ready to think about Clark yet.

  I slid the vinyl from its sleeve, set it on the turntable, and dropped the needle.

  As soon as I heard the first notes of the piano, I realized that Aunt Maude was right. You kept Johnny Mathis close by at all times. I walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a highball rather high, and went to stand before the fire. Humming the familiar tune of “Chances Are,” I clutched my Scotch to my chest and laid my head on the mantel, feeling the cool marble kiss my skin.

  I was pathetic.

  I was pitiful.

  I was . . .

  Footsteps

  . . . no longer alone?

  The footsteps behind me were slow and strong on the wooden floor. But I wasn’t scared, because I knew exactly who it was.

  The librarian.

  chapter sixteen

  I took a deep breath and slowly turned. And I mean slowly. Because as I turned, something happened. Something magical and intense, and not at all what I was expecting.