by Gina Kincade
“Small town. You?”
She sips again. “Lame Deer, Montana. It’s a reservation.”
“Cheyenne reservation, right?”
She smiles and it’s not forced. It’s bright and delighted by something I said. “That’s right. I’m Cheyenne.”
“Cool.” Fuck, I wish my repertoire were a tad wordier. “I’m a mutt. Mainly Irish and German and Scottish. Maybe a little Swedish. Some other stuff too.”
She nods. “Cool.”
Oh, fuck me. We’re not usually this stilted. I mean, I know I’m not a talker, but with her I find conversation easy. Fun. But we’re talking like two junior high kids.
“Ryder?”
I gulp the rest of my beer. I know getting drunk isn’t a good decision, but I need to do something with my hands and mouth, and drinking a lot seems to be the answer. “Yeah?”
“Do you have any siblings?”
I swear to god she was going to ask something else, but I go with it. “Yeah, a sister. She’s in San Bernardino with my nephew. But I want her to move here.”
“Are you close?”
I nod. “Yeah. I like to think so, although the little stinker does keep secrets from me.”
“Like what?”
I worry I’m saying too much, something my sister might be embarrassed of, but finally Asha and I are talking with a little more fluidity, and I want to keep this up. “Like the fact that she was pregnant with my nephew. She didn’t tell me until she was nine months to term.”
Asha blinks. “Why didn’t she tell you? And I like that you called her a stinker.”
I smile then wipe it off as I talk about Zoe. “She was nineteen. In college. I guess she thought I’d be pissed that she got pregnant. I was paying for her college, and—”
“You were paying for her college?”
I nod. “Yeah, but it’s easy to save money when you’re stationed half the world away. So I paid for her college and apparently she met a guy and—well, she had Neil. Who is awesome, by the way.”
She smiles. “I’m sure he is.”
“You have siblings?”
She nods, the smile gone. “I have an older sister and a twin brother. I’m not that close to either of them.” Her voice, oh god her voice just breaks me. It’s sad and little and her pain becomes my own when she talks about the fact that she’s no longer close to her brother and sister.
“A twin brother, huh?” I wish I knew how to comfort her, but out came that instead.
She nods and looks down at her beer. “He and I—never mind.”
I put my beer and hers on the table, then gently hold her chin with my thumb and finger. “You can tell me.”
I watch as something passes through her gaze, something I never thought I’d see. There was this guy in our Army unit who was a die-hard Harry Potter fan. I mean, he reread those books daily. He talked about them all the fucking time. After his first firefight, the first time he saw one of our own die, he stopped talking about Harry Potter. Except once he talked about a Thestral, these mythological skeletal winged horses, seen by only those who have witnessed death. He shook his head and said something about how that myth was real, how he could see in others the kind of intense pain that only a few have endured.
You know it when you see it. That look Asha’s giving me. The look of a survivor. Of someone who has gone through shit only a few have ever known. Of someone who’s experienced deep pain, the kind of pain that becomes your companion because it won’t or can’t go away.
I never thought I’d see that look on her. I thought her the kind of girl who’d led a charmed life. Maybe not all that easy because, come on, she’s Native American and a woman. I’m sure she’s heard several racial and sexist comments. But the look she’s giving me is one born from trauma. And I know it has something to do with her brother. If he hurt her, I’ll gut him.
She sighs and looks away. “Let’s just say I wish I was close to him. For that part I wish I was close to my sister too. She’s older than Hon and me. Oh, that’s my brother’s name, Hon.”
“Like Han Solo?”
She laughs and I’m so relieved. So fucking relieved.
“No, silly. Hon, short for Honiahaka. It’s Cheyenne for bear.”
I shrug. “That’s a lot cooler than being named after Han Solo. But I do love Star Wars.”
She smiles again. “Anyway, my sister, Lona, is older than Hon and me. And I guess because Hon and I were so close, she might have felt like a third-wheel. But she especially felt like that when she was in college and she came out. My parents didn’t take it well, and she assumed Hon and I were like my parents. But I always thought it was cool she’s a lesbian. We’re kind of becoming friends now, but she’s still guarded. She has a girlfriend. They’re getting serious. Talking about marriage. But Hon and I—can I just say I wish I was close to him, but we’re not. We were once, but we’re not now. And that’s all I want to say about it.”
I cradle her cheeks between my rough hands, so moved that she’s letting me in a little and so moved by her obvious pain. “Yeah, baby. If that’s all you want to say, that’s all you’re going to say. I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to.”
Which is a wickedly good reminder to myself to not be a douche to her.
She takes a big inhalation, holding it. “Ryder, I don’t think I’ll ever feel forced by you to do…anything.” She’s stepping closer. And closer. “In fact, I—I—I feel the opposite of forced to do…anything.”
I swallow.
I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her. Fuck almighty, I want to kiss her.
I want to “see where things go.” I want her to mean that she’s feeling free with me, free with her body, and she wants me to take her to my bed.
She’s moving even closer, and I’m a tad frozen. If I do kiss her, then how do I stop? I mean, that’s what a woman like Asha would want. She might want to make out. Just make out. Not have sex. She’s probably not even thinking of sex. While I’m already imagining her under me, being deep inside her, her legs on my shoulders and I’m pumping into her so hard and fast.
Okay, I can stop myself. I mean, I’ve never had to before because the women I’ve known always wanted sex and just sex. Well, there were a few who thought I had to love them from the way I fucked them. But that’s beside the point. This is different. I’m different now. I’m going to just make out with Asha. Yeah, I can do this.
But I swear to god, I hear Steve whimper.
Asha
I might have, yet again, forced Ryder to kiss me, which doesn’t make me feel very good. But when his lips respond and start to move, brushing across me in an intoxicating, beer-flavored kiss, I realize I’ll get over those feelings. His tongue skims across the seam of my lips and I open for him. He groans and finally, what I have been hoping for all freaking day long, is happening.
Ryder wraps his big arms around me and pulls me close, the kiss getting hotter, faster, his tongue pushing against mine. He’s coming unhinged and I love it. He’s pulling me even nearer, although I can’t get any closer. All of my body is against his, and he’s growing hard. It’s fascinating feeling that part of him respond to the kiss. His erection pressed against my belly is augmenting my own desire, which I’ve had since the second I saw him walk through his doorway.
I couldn’t believe Ryder took me out, that we had dinner and a movie, that he gave me his jacket, which I’m still wearing but want him to take off. I kind of thought I knew what kind of a man Ryder was. He didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who would take a girl out, show her a good time and want to talk afterwards. He seemed to be the kind of man who would want sex. Just sex. And I was fine with that. I’m more than fine with that. I’m on board—toot, toot!—with that idea.
I think my first time should be with a guy who knows what he’s doing. Who won’t ask me a lot of questions, although Ryder does. Which is making me rethink my plan. But I did like the idea of finally having sex with a man I’m a
ctually attracted to and not having to talk about my past, which is surely a buzzkill. I mean, a lot of people say there’s no stigma associated with rape victims. Ha! What a farce. Even my sister, when she found out, started to treat me differently. Always a tad stoic and icy, she became overly chatty and concerned. I mean, I didn’t mind the concern, but I did when I thought it was pity.
It got worse as she held my hand when the police interviewed me. She had just asked several of the belittling questions that the detective later would, like what I was wearing, how much I had to drink before I had a beer laced with Flunitrazepam, and if I’d ever been sexually active with Anthony before that night. Almost but not quite alluding to the fact that I must have had a hand in Anthony drugging me and putting his fingers all over my body and inside of me when I was unconscious. But when the detective asked those same questions, Lona went ape-shit crazy and had to be physically removed.
I get it. I know it’s tough for my loved ones to deal with the fact that I was hurt. It’s why, I think, my brother doesn’t talk to me now, because he thinks he’s to blame. I mean, Anthony was not only my best friend but his too. We were the three musketeers in college. Until we weren’t.
I can’t keep thinking about my past. Not now.
I haven’t thought about it in so long, but considering having sex with Ryder is triggering all these memories and feelings. I’m confused if I want to have sex or not.
Maybe it’s best to not be normal. Maybe I should go back to my apartment and try to create distance between Ryder and me and never think about sex again. Or only pine for it while reading one of my books. Because that’s safe. I know what will happen. I won’t have to worry about telling someone about my past, of another person I care for trying to figure out why Anthony would do what he did while also implying it was my fault.
My roommate in college said, because I was so much of a tomboy, that’s why Anthony sexually assaulted me. Another friend, because it seemed the whole goddamned world knew about the incident, said it was because I was so smart, and men want to hurt smart women. Yet another friend said it was because I had a cheerful disposition. And that’s why a man who I thought was my best friend would do the things he did to me.
The thing is, the whys never matter. And they don’t make any fucking sense. Come on. Their argument is just because I was me, I was somehow singled out to be sexually assaulted? I never wanted to be hurt like that. I never wanted to come to in a hospital with a nurse hovering in my line of sight and tell me that I needed a rape kit. I never wanted my sister to get arrested because she went crazy in a police station. I never wanted my brother to stop talking to me. And although I am a cheerful person who does like a little attention now and then, I’m by no means an attention getter who would be willing to put myself through that much shit just so people could look at me with pity. Or be the talk of gossip.
The real point of finding answers to the why questions is to feel a sense of control. But can we control hurricanes, tornadoes, death? As a physician, I know in no uncertain terms that no matter how hard I fight, how hard my team fights, there is no control over certain elements of life. None. And that’s frightening, yes. But it’s reality, and why not stop trying to analyze it to death and just live your life to the fullest?
God, I’m so distracted right now. Not quite into this kiss, even though Ryder’s doing everything just right.
Yeah, this is a bad idea.
Ryder leans away, huffing for air, which somehow does stir desire through me. “What’s life really like on a reservation?”
I can’t help but laugh. God, I like him. Which is too bad because what I want from him has nothing to do with like. But I can’t help it. I love his change of subject.
I shrug. “There’s a lot of poverty, it’s true, but there’s also a sense of community I’ve never felt anywhere else. What’s Indiana like?”
He holds me by my hips, in the way I’m growing accustomed to and liking a whole lot. Straightening a little, he’s towering over me. “Flat.”
I smile. “That’s it?”
He shrugs. “It’s not a bad place, but I’m glad I’m not living there now.”
“Ah.” I nod. “You like Wyoming?”
“So far. You?”
I nod again. “Yeah, actually I really like it.” He’s still hard, but his breathing is slowing and his face is relaxing. That’s when I realize how he’s been awake for more than twenty hours and is more than likely desperately tired. “Oh my god, you need to sleep, don’t you?”
“Who needs sleep?”
I smile. He makes me smile, and I like that about him too.
Then it hits me. I might be on the fence about having sex at this moment, but there is something I’ve always craved to do with a man. Something romantic and so fucking normal. And I’m going to summon the courage to ask for it.
“You do, Ryder.”
He holds me a little tighter. “Nah.”
“Yeah, you do. And it’s my turn to pick you up and put you in bed.”
He laughs. It’s a loud rumble of pure joy. I’ve never heard him laugh like that and something wonderful glows in my heart.
“How are you going to pick me up?” He arches a dark brow, looking, somehow, even more menacing yet playful. Only he could pull off a feat like that.
I step away from his warmth and his hands on me, sizing him up. I nod, conceding. “Okay, I probably can’t pick you up, but I can drag you by your arms to your bedroom. I’ll need help getting you into bed. Got a hoist, by chance?”
He laughs, really laughs in such a happy way.
“Or…” I have to swallow my nerves down and ask for what I want. “Or I could entice you to bed by promising to sleep with you.” Well, I hadn’t thought that through very well, now had I? I want to sleep with a man, with him. I want to cuddle and be close and fall asleep in his arms. But, men like Ryder don’t want to sleep with women. They want to fuck women. Right?
“Okay,” he answers quicker than I thought he would and his face has grown serious.
He grabs my hand and walks me through his apartment, turning off lights as we go. He turns off the hallway one, but then flicks it back on.
“You like the hall light on, door open, right?”
God, my heart, my freaking heart is just pinging and zipping and, in general, beating wildly from his consideration. He remembered what I like and doesn’t seem to think I’m weird. I nod, having to swallow yet again. This time what I’m swallowing is hard and makes me wonder if I’m going to cry at his thoughtfulness.
He takes me straight to his bathroom. In a nearly empty drawer, he pulls out a toothbrush, still in its wrapper. Next to it is a child-sized toothbrush.
“I got these for my sister and Neil, if they ever visited,” he says, handing me the adult one.
I’m starting to realize that what they say about assumptions is true. I’m an ass for thinking I knew what kind of man he was. He’s kind and sweet and considerate.
Maybe the kind of man who not only could handle my virginity but also be understanding if I told him why physical intimacy intimidates me. And why, until him, I’ve never wanted to do anything about sex. Why he both scares me and intrigues me on a level I’ve never experienced before.
Oh, but some of that is too much to say.
Or is it?
We brush our teeth in silence, after he asked me if his brand of toothpaste was okay. See? Considerate. I mean, I’d bet I’m not alone that when seeing a man like Ryder, all big and tough, the kind of guy who looks natural on an old motorcycle, to think he’s a womanizer.
But I don’t know who he is, and I’m worried that I might give him more than just my virginity. I might give him my heart if I’m not careful.
Ryder
I’m going to sleep with Asha. Holy fuck.
Okay, need to think of what to wear with her because I usually sleep nude. Do I wear boxers tonight for PJs? They would be the most comfortable—other than bare-ass naked, which I doubt sh
e’d go for—but parts of me could peek out at her while I’m sleeping. And let’s face it, I know I’m going to get hard while I’m sleeping next to her. I’m already hard and I just brushed my teeth, something not at all erotic. But here we are, Bone Ranger and I, worrying about what to wear while she’s in the bathroom cleaning up and going to wear one of my t-shirts. I also gave her some sweat pants, but she wrinkled her nose and said she didn’t like to wear pants to bed.
Bone Ranger was very happy to hear that. Very happy, indeed.
But me? Am I happy? Hell, yes. And I’m kind of miserable because although I’m exhausted I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. But sleeping with her is such a good idea. It’s romantic, right? Chicks dig stuff like that.
I’m pretty sure I’ll dig it too.
Here’s the crazy thing, though. I’ve never slept with a woman before. I never wanted to give the wrong impression. So I’d vanish in the middle of the night. I didn’t want to get asked to do something like cuddle. But I want to cuddle with Asha. I want her close and to lay her head on my chest and that whole sappy experience. And unlike fucking, I have no clue how to create that sappy experience. I’ll be awkward when I pride myself on my moves in the bedroom. But this move will be all new.
And what the fuck do I wear?
Okay, it’s official. I’ve turned into a chick.
Ah, fuck it. Who cares? I like Asha, and I’m not going to mess this up by being worried about my manhood. A buddy might ask if I’m pussy whipped, to which I’d have to say no, but I want to be. Yeah, I really want to be.
I decide to take off my shirt, keep my boxer briefs on, because they’ll keep Bone Ranger in check, and wear some PJ pants that my sister bought for me. They’re kind of Christmas-looking, but they’re the only pajama-like thing I’ve got.
Just as I’m cinching up the drawstring around my waist, Asha comes out. I get it now, why men drop to their knees, why I’ve turned into a chick, why I want to snuggle when I hate that word. She’s so fucking gorgeous. No glasses, her hair down and kind of wild, the way I love it, and in my gray Indiana University t-shirt. Nothing else, just my shirt which she’s swimming in and comes down to her mid-thighs and forearms. But she’s got nothing else on. Okay, she might be wearing her bra and panties, but Bone Ranger is taking over, assuring me she’s naked under that cotton.