by Penny Reid
If her words hadn’t surprised me, the way her gaze moved over my face would have. Almost like she was nervous. Like I made her nervous.
Maybe because she knows I’ve seen her scars.
“Uh, can’t complain.” I nodded good-naturedly, smiling, hoping to dispel some of her anxiety. Her attention dropped to my mouth and her eyes became hazy. Or hungry. Maybe both.
Her hungry look didn’t give me the earlier sucker punch, or the slap in the face. Just the sexy stroke to my groin.
Well . . . shit.
Unsure what to do with that development, I cleared my throat and indicated with my head toward Hank. “This is Hank.”
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Unsmiling, Hank inclined his head, his tone tight.
With visible reluctance, her gaze cut to his and narrowed infinitesimally. I got the sense she was waiting for him to do or say something.
When he didn’t, her expression relaxed and she looked to me; if I was reading her right she looked appreciative. “You prepared him?”
I lifted my shoulders, feeling proud of myself for some reason. “Maybe.”
The side of her mouth curved and I held my breath, wondering if she would actually smile.
But then Duke gripped her by the upper arm and tugged. “Hello? I’m not done talking to you.”
“Don’t touch me,” Shelly hissed, twisting out of his grip.
“I’ll do whatever the hell—”
I slipped around Shelly, careful not to touch her, and stepped between them. “Hey Duke. Nice weather we’re having.”
“Back off, Beau.” Duke glared at me, the muscle at his temple jumping.
“Don’t want to talk about the weather?” I grinned, adding, “Because my brother Billy loves talking about the weather.”
Like the other times I’d stepped between Shelly and a man with wounded pride, I felt her behind me. I thought I’d given her enough space, but I must’ve misjudged because she was directly behind me, her breath on my neck like the first time with Drill weeks ago. It sent shards of sensation racing over my skin. And when she inhaled, her chest pressed against my back.
I was aware of her, and the awareness was incredibly distracting.
Duke sobered at the mention of Billy, rocking backward on his heels. He seemed to be considering his options, and I understood that. When a man’s pride is all he has worth defending, it makes him reckless.
Finally, after a tense moment, he stepped back and grabbed his beer. “Fine. I was finished with her anyway.” His eyes flickered over my shoulder to Shelly.
I tensed, because if I was reading Duke right, then an insult was on the tip of his tongue, and not a clever one either. One of the obscene variety. And if he said it, then I was going to have to punch him.
What? Why? Why do you have to punch him?
Because.
Not a good reason.
You’d do it for anyone.
No. I’m not sure that is strictly true.
For Shelly.
You are out of your damn mind. She’s not yours, you’re not hers.
Maybe . . . she could be?
Again, out of your damn mind. Remember Cletus? YOUR BROTHER?
Thankfully, at the last minute he bit it back, smirking as he sauntered away.
I was rattled. And muddled. Not by Duke or the threat of violence, though I was rattled and muddled by my own instincts.
I covered my confusion by glaring at the crowd gathered, silently communicating that the show was over as I turned to face her. Folks dispersed, and Hank—currently behind Shelly—motioned to the bartender to place our order.
Moving to allow space between us, I lifted my eyes to hers. They looked less cold than was typical, glowing as they searched mine. But her entire body was rigid.
Fighting the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, I instead pulled it through my hair.
“We’re not at the shop,” she said with her trademark lack of emotion.
“So?”
“So . . .” She took a half step forward, invading my space. “Don’t do that.” Her tone was almost soft.
“Do what?”
“Warn guys off.”
I flinched, feeling my brows come together. “You liked how he was treating you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She licked her lips, glancing at the bar, and then back to me. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“My what?”
“Girlfriend.” A crease formed between her eyebrows. “When we met, you said you were seeing someone.”
“Oh. No. That ended. Actually, it never really started.”
“Oh.” Either it was my imagination, or that news seemed to please her.
Probably your imagination.
“So—”
“Either way, I don’t need your help.” Her voice was still gentle. Well, gentle for Shelly Sullivan.
And I wasn’t sure what to do with her gentleness, or her words. I stared at her, trying to read her mind. Getting a read on this woman was the ultimate effort in futility. She was locked up tight, still looking at me from behind a sheet of ice.
Maybe not as hostile as before, but just as guarded.
“Fine.” I nodded once, trying not to be irritated.
She inspected my face. “Are you mad?”
“No,” I responded immediately. Her question surprised me; when had she ever cared if I was mad?
Hank came to stand next to us. “Here’s your beer, Beau. I’m going to take Duane and Jess’s drinks back to the table. Y’all coming?”
“In a minute.” I accepted the beer and indicated that he should go on without me.
Hank turned a tight smile to Shelly. She glared at him, one of her eyebrows lifting slightly higher than the other.
“Well, okay then,” he said, turned, and left.
As soon as Hank was out of earshot, Shelly grit her teeth, her gaze sliding away. “I’m not good with people.”
“No? I never would have guessed.” I endeavored to keep sarcasm out of my voice, tried for teasing.
I failed.
Her stare darted back to mine and sharpened in that way she had. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“What gave me away?” I covered my unease with a swallow of my beer. She was skewering me with her eyes, cutting me open.
“The tone of your voice,” she responded in a monotone. “And your words.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Right.” She nodded, her eyes fell back to the bar top and I was relieved to be out of their snare. I wondered if I’d ever grow accustomed to the weight of her attention. The rubber band around my chest had returned in full force, so did the restlessness.
This woman agitated me like no one else. Talking to her was like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. I needed to leave.
Giving her a quick nod, I moved to depart. “Well, nice seeing you.”
“Wait.” Her hand reached out and gripped my forearm.
And then she froze, staring at her hand on me like she expected something to happen. For my part, I was also stunned. I didn’t move. I watched her. A weird mixture of fear and determination played over her face.
Shelly released a shaky breath, her grip loosening but not releasing me. “Can we talk?”
“You want to talk? To me?”
“Yes.” Her gaze lifted—more fear, more determination—and held. “Please.”
My eyes widened at that. This night was just full of surprises.
Nevertheless, I nodded, leaning against the bar. “Okay.”
Her fingers slid away in a way that felt reluctant, and she twisted the coaster next to her drink until its side was perfectly parallel with the edge of the bar, saying nothing.
So I waited. I waited for a good while. I caught Kimmy Jones staring daggers at the back of Shelly’s head, bending to whisper something to Kelly Gavin and making a sour face. That surprised me. Kimmy had always seemed like a nice pe
rson. As far as I knew, she’d never met Shelly.
Women are weird, and that’s a fact.
Just as I took a gulp of my beer, Shelly said, “I'd like to have sex with you.”
I choked.
Beer threatening to come out of my nose, I brought my hand to my mouth and coughed, staring at this woman and certain—very, very certain—I’d misheard her.
She watched me, expressionless. Except, even as my eyes blurred with the tears of a good coughing fit, I detected a shift in her, a sliver of vulnerability—uncertainty—as she stared at me.
I coughed so long and so hard, the bartender eventually brought me a glass of water. I drank it, staring at Shelly.
And when I set it down, I rasped, “Excuse me?”
“You are excused.”
“No, I wasn't—” I shook my head quickly and pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “What did you just say?”
“I said, I'd like to have sex with you.”
I continued staring at her, letting my hand drop as I regarded this woman, the meaning of her words, and the lack of emotion with which she said them.
The words themselves weren’t unusual. I’d heard those words before—or something like them—from many, many women. Usually whispered in my ear while they pawed me in my car, or in a hidden corner of the community center on jam session night, or behind this very building.
But I’d never heard them like this, with the same passion one might use to suggest I try using fabric softener.
Shelly Sullivan dropped her gaze to the bar top.
“You’re joking,” I said and thought at the same time.
She shook her head.
I flinched because she wasn’t joking.
“You’re serious.” The words came out strangled.
Color stained her cheeks. Her eyes were averted but sober, and her generous lips were pressed into a determined line. “Yes.”
An involuntary sound escaped me as I gave the woman a once-over, again saying and thinking at the same time, “You're crazy.”
I winced as soon as the words were out. Immediately, I regretted them, wished them back, and cursed under my breath. I hadn’t meant to say it, because—clearly—she’d suffered at some point in her life.
She also flinched—just a little—like I'd poked a wound that still smarted.
It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but before I could she said, “Yes. That’s also true. But I'm taking medications, I think I'm less crazy now than before.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. She had me turned inside out and upside down, uncertain what to do or think or say.
Spinning the coaster on the bar top, she filled the silence. “My therapist suggested that I should ask you out. But what I really want is to have sex with you. So, that’s what I am asking for. But I’m not against dating.”
“Therapist?” I asked dumbly, trying to keep up. “You’re in therapy?”
The muscle at her jaw jumped and she nodded.
Glancing around the bar, half wondering if this was an elaborate prank, I searched my head for the right response to her request.
Uh, yeah.
Yes.
Hell. Yes.
How about right now?
Wait a minute . . . wrong head.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled. I exhaled. I opened my eyes and they caught on Duane across the room, and his often-repeated words floated through my mind, What would Darrell Winston do? Do the opposite.
And also, Cletus.
“I . . .” I started, my stomach dropping, eyes lingering on my brother for a moment longer, then moving to the woman in front of me. I didn’t prepare myself—I hadn’t been thinking—so her gaze hit me square in the chest. Two beats of my heart later, I finished my sentence. “I don’t think it would be appropriate, for us to . . . seeing as how I’m technically your boss.” And my brother Cletus thinks you two are suited.
Shelly was nodding before I’d finished my sentence, reaching into her back pocket and withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill.
“That makes sense.” She placed the bill on the bar. She turned. She left.
I stared at the spot she’d just vacated for less than a second, and then my feet were moving. I set my beer on the bar. I followed her through the crowd and out the door. She had long legs, and she was power-walking, so I had to jog to catch up. By the time I did, she was standing next to her brown 1971 Buick GSX and was fumbling with her keys.
“Wait a minute. Wait.” Unthinkingly, I caught her arm, sliding my hand down the length of it until she was facing me and I had her fingers wrapped in mine.
She shivered and lowered her gaze, but she didn’t move otherwise.
“Shelly.”
“Yes?”
For some reason, I was out of breath. “Are you . . .”
She gave me her eyes. “Yes?” The question was a whisper and it sounded hopeful.
Dammit.
Releasing her hand, I took a step back. “Are you working Monday?”
She stared at me. She nodded. I nodded too.
Then Shelly unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away.
11
“He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.”
― Jennifer E. Smith, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight
* * *
*Beau*
I’ve always considered myself an honorable man. That said, my dreams weren’t always honorable. And I was definitely okay with that.
Take Saturday night, for instance. I’d lain in bed, Shelly and her request on my mind, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d said yes. Almost immediately, I pushed the delectable flashes of possibility away. No good could come of lusting after a woman so entirely out of my reach. Not only did Cletus have intentions for her, but she was in therapy. On medications.
The last thing Shelly needed was to star in her coworker’s sexy fantasies.
So of course, my dreams took up the cause.
We were at the shop and it was daytime. She was being mouthy with me about something. My dreams were peculiar in that people spoke, but it was usually an impression of the words rather than specifics.
We argued. She followed me upstairs. We argued some more. I was changing, she was changing. She took off her clothes . . .
And then suddenly it was weeks ago, when she’d walked in on me at my locker. Except I was still angry about the argument. But she wasn’t angry, because we hadn’t been arguing.
She whipped off her dress like she’d done on that day. This time, I didn’t look away. I advanced—still furious—and backed her against the wall. She looked up at me, surprised but not afraid.
I pulled roughly on her braid, her mouth opened, and I kissed her. She was soft and hot. More importantly, she kissed me back. She moaned, or I did, as I slid down the straps of her bra, bending to take her breast in my mouth. Her hand was in my boxers. She circled me with her fingers, stroked. I was so hard, so damn hard.
But I wasn’t angry. I was frustrated. I wanted. And the wanting was frustration incarnate. The upstairs office wouldn’t do, not for what I wanted. So the scenery changed.
We were in a room I’d never seen, with a large leather sofa. Shelly was still in her lace underwear, standing in front of me. I wanted her to take off her bra. She did. I wanted her to sit on my lap, facing outward, straddling my legs. She did.
I put my hands on her, filling one palm with the weight of her perfect breast, rolling and tugging her nipple, then sliding the fingers of my other hand into the front of her panties. She arched, giving me a glimpse of her tits over her shoulder, rubbing her ass against my dick. I bit her neck, her back.
Pressing her forward until she was on her han
ds and knees on the carpet, I knelt behind her, cupping her backside.
But that wasn’t right.
She said my name, it sounded like a question.
I didn’t want her facing away. I wanted to see her. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to watch her come.
We were in bed, a big bed, and I was kissing my way down her body to the juncture of her thighs. My mouth watered. I could almost taste her.
She said my name, louder this time. It sounded like a question.
I looked up. She was looking at me. She trusted me.
“Wake up, Beau.”
A rough shake of my shoulder had me blinking awake, rubbing my eyes. I came face to face with a hovering Cletus.
“Good. You’re not dead. That would have been an embarrassing funeral.”
“Cletus!”
“Good Lord.” He shook his head at me, clicked his tongue. “We don’t have long before church, but if you hurry you can finish up in the bathroom.”
“What?”
“It currently stands vacant and awaits your deposit.”
“Dammit, Cletus, what are you talking about?” I grumped, irritable for several reasons and still in the clutches of my dream-fog.
Cletus’s eyebrows shot high on his forehead, he stared at me meaningfully, then turned on his heel and left my room.
I moved to sit up and winced, pain and stiffness in my groin stopping me. I glanced down, finding the sheets and my boxers tented with the world’s largest—and most obvious—hard-on.
* * *
I spent all day Sunday trying to figure out what to do—about Shelly, about Cletus—and talked myself in circles instead.
Finally, early Monday morning after not sleeping much, I sorted the facts from the fuzz.
What did I know?
First, Cletus was my brother and he’d already informed me of his intentions for Shelly. That meant she was in a box I wasn’t allowed to open.
Second, Shelly wanted to have sex with me.
And those were the facts.
Did I want to have sex with Shelly? Hell, yes. Of course I did.
Theoretically.
Then again, not at all. Could I see myself with someone like her long-term? Someone moody and unpredictable? But there was no use even asking the question. It could never happen because of Cletus.