Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  I’m a gentleman, my mom and dad raised me to be one.

  But I’m also just a man.

  A man who hasn’t been with a woman in almost a year.

  And I’m trying my fucking hardest to keep myself in check.

  But when the credits begin to roll on the screen and Charlotte rests her hand on my thigh, her fingers moving slightly, I’m a goner. When my breath gets caught in my chest, she turns her gaze from the television to me.

  “Sorry,” she says quietly, looking down at her hand, and I swear to God, her eyes get caught on the bulge in my pants. It’s like she physically stroked me and I’m back to baseball stats, closing my eyes to breathe. But that’s a lost cause, because with each deep inhale I’m coating my insides with the scent of her… sweet, spicy, musky… delicious.

  Soft lips graze the edge of my mouth and I jerk, my eyes flying open to meet Charlotte’s, who is now less than an inch from my face. “I’ve wanted to do that since you licked the Nutella off my mouth at the crepe truck.”

  It’s a quiet, honest confession that goes all through me.

  The feel of her lips is still on the small spot at the edge of my mouth and I want more.

  Reaching up, I wrap a loose strand of her hair around my finger, stroking her cheek with the pad of my thumb. So soft. “What else have you wanted to do?” I ask.

  She pauses for a second, searching my face, and then leans in, placing her lips directly over mine. At first, it’s a chaste kiss… our lips hover over each other’s, making occasional contact. Then, I can’t stand it anymore, the need to taste her overwhelms me and I go for it, swiping my tongue along her lips.

  When she groans and gives me access to her mouth, I feel adrenaline push through my veins.

  It’s like I just hit a pop fly and I’m running for my life around the bases.

  Charlotte’s hands come up to grip the front of my t-shirt, balling it into her fists, and the next thing I know she’s straddling my lap, grinding herself against me. It takes every ounce of restraint to not flip her onto her back and have my way with her, but instead, I grip her ass and let her use me for her pleasure.

  With her hands now roaming through my hair, our kiss increases in intensity and Charlotte’s soft little moans continue. When I squeeze harder on her ass, kneading the voluptuous mounds, she breaks away from our kiss, leaning her forehead into mine. “Oh, my God,” she breathes, her hips still making slow movements against my dick that’s trapped inside my jeans, begging for release.

  “We should…” I start, trying to find the right words, because as much as I want this… want her… I also want to do this right.

  “Slow down,” Charlotte finishes for me, breathless. “I know.”

  We share the same air, our noses and foreheads touching as we try to come down from the momentary high.

  “I want to take you on a date,” I tell her, pulling her closer to me. “And I want a lot of other things, but I really want to take my time with you.”

  I feel her smile against my cheek. “I like that.”

  “I like you,” I admit, my hands making lazy trips up and down her back.

  “Stay the night?” she asks. “Just to sleep.”

  “We’ll see,” I tell her, already knowing the answer to that when she turns around and presses her back to my chest, using me as a pillow.

  Draping my arm around her, we use the television to distract us from what we really want to be doing. At some point during the night, I wake up to a warm body covering mine. I’m wedged further down into the couch, and Charlotte has flipped over, her leg tossed over mine.

  It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never just slept in the same bed as a woman, and even though we’re still on the couch, it’s close enough. Brushing her hair off her forehead, I place a kiss there, wrapping my arms around her to make sure she doesn’t fall off and I go back to sleep.

  Chapter 12 - Charlotte

  Waking up on the couch isn’t unusual for me. Sometimes, after a late night—or early morning rather—in the studio, I’ll come in here and flip on Netflix to help me get my mind off of songs and lyrics.

  But last night was different.

  This morning feels different.

  Bo was here. I can still smell his spicy, clean manly goodness. It’s all over the pillow beneath me… and me. That was probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.

  When I hear Casey laughing in the kitchen, I jump up from the couch and walk quietly in that direction, pulling up short when I see my little sister perched on the island. She’s full-on belly laughing, but that’s not what stops me in my tracks. That honor belongs to the man—yeah, man—standing in my kitchen wearing the white t-shirt and faded blue jeans he showed up in my house in last night.

  He’s barefoot.

  His hair is tousled from sleep.

  And he’s wielding a spatula, using it like a baseball bat to re-enact something for my sister.

  With the stack of pancakes on the plate beside the stove, paired with the growing heap of bacon and the large glass of green… something… I’d expect my kitchen to be in complete disarray. But everything is nice and tidy. The dishes soaking in the sink.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Casey says in a knowing tone, shooting me a conspiratorial smirk. “Did you know we had a boy sleepover last night?” She points to Bo, faking shock and awe.

  Bo laughs, giving me a wide, sparkling white smile, not looking the least bit embarrassed or out of place. “Good morning, sunshine.”

  I smile back at them and give a small wave.

  “You should totally take a selfie,” Casey teases. “Woke up like dis.”

  I roll my eyes and fluff my hair, which I’m sure looks like a wreck. It was already messy before Bo came over. And then we… well, I guess we made out? Dry humped? I haven’t done that since I was a teenager. Giving a light chuckle at the thought, I ease my way into the kitchen, wondering what this new-found territory means for us.

  When Bo leans over and places a soft kiss on my cheek, whispering, “Beautiful,” I melt.

  Apparently, we’re doing this.

  Whatever this is.

  I’m here for it.

  “Bacon, huh?” I ask, returning the kiss with a hug, needing to feel him close to me and breathe him in one more time. “I took you more for an egg white omelet kind of guy.”

  “How very stereotypical of you,” he teases when we break the hug and he goes back to his task at hand. “But truthful, which is why I have this.”

  The green thing I noticed in the glass beside the stove is now in Bo’s hand. I cringe. “What’s that?”

  “Well, the only vegetables you had in your fridge or freezer was frozen spinach, which worked out quite nicely. So, it’s coconut milk, banana, frozen spinach, and a spoonful of peanut butter.”

  Casey jumps off the counter and walks over to place an empty glass in the sink. “It’s actually really freakin’ good.”

  “As for the bacon,” Bo continues, “I haven’t had the pleasure of indulging in real bacon since the last time I was at home. Normally, it’s turkey bacon for me. Gotta watch my girlish figure.”

  With his back to us, Casey and I exchange a wide-eye understanding that there is nothing girly about Bo Bennett. I also squint my eyes at her, as if silently telling her to not even go there. I share everything with my sister, but not men… and definitely not Bo. It’s not lost on me that he’s actually closer to her age than mine, but that’s irrelevant, because he’s mine.

  There’s a five year difference between us, but age has never been a big deal for me. Usually, the guys I date are older. I tend to go for someone who’s more mature, but Bo’s nothing like other guys I’ve dated, regardless of their age.

  He’s mature and committed. He’s honest and chivalrous, which according to my mom is a lost trait. But it’s not lost on Bo. Last night, I was ready to go all the way. I wanted him in my bed. I wanted to feel him… everywhere. And I could tell he did
too, but there was also this barrier, something that let me know we wouldn’t get there, not last night.

  And I’m okay with that.

  Contrary to popular belief, I’m not the typical musician who’s sleeping with bandmates and groupies. At twenty-nine, I’ve had three serious relationships. And I’m not saying I’m virginal, I’ve done the one-night stand thing in the past, but that’s not me, not at this point in my life.

  I’m smarter, wiser, and less tolerant of people’s bullshit.

  “Breakfast is served,” Bo states, handing me a plate of bacon and pancakes.

  “Smells amazing,” I tell him, walking over to the breakfast nook and taking a seat. Casey and Bo sit on either side of me and we fall into comfortable conversation, playing an old Carradine Family Favorite, Fave Five. It’s a game we used to play any time we sat down at the dinner table. My mom said we didn’t spend enough time as a family, so what little time we had—which was usually dinner—we had to use wisely.

  “Favorite band,” Casey says.

  “Is that a loaded question?” Bo asks, side-eyeing me.

  “Nope, give us your knee-jerk response,” Casey says before taking another bite of pancakes.

  “Queen.”

  Casey snorts, “How about this decade?”

  “Lola and Flight of Feelings,” he muses, smiling down at his plate. When Casey catches my eye above his head, she quirks her eyebrow at me, silently asking, “did you hear that?” I’ll admit, it’s impressive, not many people realize my band even has a name, so kudos to him for doing his homework. I’d like to reward him for that answer.

  “Favorite Ninja Turtle,” Bo shoots back, eating a piece of bacon like it’s fucking gold… savoring each bite, and making me wish I was the fucking bacon.

  Get a grip, Charlotte.

  Without thinking, and totally oblivious to my inner, dirty thoughts, Casey replies, “Donatello because he wears purple.”

  “Raphael,” I add, trying to get my head out of the gutter. “He’s pretty badass.”

  Bo nods his head in agreement, a thoughtful expression on his face like we’re discussing politics or world hunger. “I’m more of a Leonardo guy myself. He’s wise, calm, and a brutal trainer.”

  “You’ve put way too much thought into that one,” Casey teases.

  “Favorite ice cream,” I say, making it an easy one.

  Casey shakes her head, “that’s like asking me to pick my favorite child.”

  “Of which you don’t have,” I deadpan.

  “But if I did.”

  The table goes quiet for a second and then Casey rebounds with a response. “Fine, if you’re making me choose, Cherry Garcia.”

  “Rocky Road,” Bo says. “Hands down. When I go off the rails… I do it in a blaze of glory.”

  “All or nothing,” I tell him, licking syrup off the tip of my finger, knowing exactly what I’m doing and getting the exact response I was going for.

  Bo swallows hard, his eyes focused on my mouth. “Balls to the wall,” he murmurs absentmindedly.

  “Okay, no balls talk at the table,” Casey chides. As she stands up, her chair scrapes the tile and breaks the momentary trance Bo was in. I watch as he shakes his head and then clears his throat.

  “I have to go home and shower, then put in a couple hours at the gym, but then I’ll be back to pick you up… say seven o’clock?” he asks, changing the subject as he starts to clear the table.

  “Sounds great,” I reply, taking the plates from his hand. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

  “No, I’ll wash up the dishes,” Bo argues, trying to take the plates back from me, but I don’t let him.

  “I’m going to shower,” Casey calls out, exiting the kitchen and tossing a wave over her shoulder. “See you later, Bo.”

  “Later,” Bo calls back.

  “No one ever cooks for me,” I tell him, standing on my toes, loving that I have to do that with him if I want to look him in the eyes. “So, I’ll clean up.” Placing a soft, slow kiss on his lips, I win the tug-of-war.

  “Well, you did feed me dinner and breakfast,” Bo counters, our mouths still in touching distance, his breath smelling of sweet syrup and yummy bacon. I could have him for seconds.

  I let out a content sigh against him, smiling lazily. “I’ll think of a way you can repay me.”

  After Bo leaves, I walk dreamily through the house, loving the way his presence lingers even after he’s gone and also pinching myself to make sure the last twenty-four hours is real. After the whole Cody DiMarco incident, I wasn’t sure if Bo would stick around, figuring I was too much for his structured life. So, the fact that he called me last night and took the chance on me is giving me all the feelings.

  And he’s taking me on a date.

  A real, honest-to-goodness date.

  I can’t remember the last time I went on one.

  Casey helps me get ready, picking out my outfit, claiming if she left me to my own devices I’d walk out of the house looking like a rocker chic.

  Duh.

  But the ensemble she helped me piece together is a nice change. It’s a little Charlotte and a little Lola. The yellow sundress is feminine, helping me feel girly and pretty. While the combat boots are badass and helping me keep my edge. My trusty leather jacket pulls the outfit together and when I look at myself in the mirror, I feel like I’m ready for anything.

  With my dark hair in curls and my makeup much lighter than what I’d wear for a concert or public appearance, I feel… softer, but in a good way.

  Bo pulls up in the drive at six fifty-eight. I don’t even make it to the backdoor before there’s a light tap. When I open it, I’m left with the same feeling from this morning… stopped in my tracks, but in a completely different way.

  He’s wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, putting on display those strong forearms I’m so attracted to. In place of his standard faded jeans are a pair of dark washed denim and where he’s normally wearing sneakers are some stylish black boots.

  I swallow.

  Hard.

  And then give him a once over one more time, for good measure.

  “I don’t know,” Bo murmurs, coming close enough to touch a strand of my hair, catching it around his finger like he did last night, making my stomach flip and coil. “Maybe it’s a bad idea to take you out…”

  I pause and lick my lips, tasting the sweet lip gloss I applied just a few minutes ago.

  “You’re too gorgeous for words,” he continues. “I kinda want to keep you all to myself.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  “But I promised you a date and I never go back on my promises.”

  Those words ring true. I believe him. I believe that he’s always true to his word.

  Bo holds my hand as we walk to the car and when we get there, just like every other time we’ve ventured out together, he opens my door and waits for me to get inside. As we approach the main road, he turns left.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, realizing he never said where he was taking me on a date, just that he was taking me on one.

  “This little restaurant one of the guys from the team told me about,” Bo says, eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, while his other is still holding mine. It makes me think he needs to touch me as badly as I need to touch him. “Do you like Thai?”

  “I love it.”

  The smile he shoots my way is pleased, reassured.

  He’s such an enigma.

  One would think, since he’s an athlete—a finely tuned one, at that—he’d be confident, possibly even cocky. On top of his abilities, he’s extremely attractive. Typically, when a man of his caliber reaches his mid-twenties, he’s self-assured, and often, self-absorbed. Years of people and women telling him how wonderful he is completely goes to his head.

  But not Bo.

  When we turn into the small parking lot of the restaurant, he parks and hops out to open my door.

  Again, the fact that we’
re here, at a no-name restaurant, not some fancy place that offers valet, speaks volumes about who Bo is as a person.

  And that’s someone I’d like to know… and someone I’d like to know me. The real me. The Charlotte that only my family gets to know. I haven’t felt this in a long time, maybe ever.

  Once we’re seated inside the restaurant, without fanfare or anyone recognizing either of us, we both decide quickly on what we’ll have and hand the menus back to the waiter. He’s the first person that’s acted like he might possibly know us. The way his eyes scan each of our faces, like he’s either memorizing them or trying to convince himself one, or both, of us is who he thinks we are is a tale-tale sign.

  Over the years, I’ve learned to pick up on all the warning signs. However, in a place like this—in my hometown, with Bo—I’m not worried.

  It’s not like living in L.A. When I was there, I felt like a prisoner in my home. Every time I stepped a foot out the door to even check the mail, there was a camera. I had prescriptions for anxiety, insomnia, acid reflux… you name it.

  The month after I bought my house and moved back to New Orleans, all my previous symptoms disappeared. It was one of the signs that let me know I was doing the right thing, making the right move for my life.

  It was the first of many.

  I’m still struggling with reclaiming my life, but I’m better at standing up for myself today than I’ve ever been. And unlike most celebrities, I’m not afraid of turning thirty. I feel like I’m just hitting my stride.

  “You sure this is okay?” Bo asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  I shake my head to clear it, taking a sip of my water. “Sorry, I was just…” I wave my hand around my head and laugh. “Just thinking about how different it is here.”

  “New Orleans?” he asks.

  “Yeah, back in L.A. I can’t go anywhere without feeling like people are watching me. When I’m home, it’s like even if people are watching me, I don’t feel like it’s a threat.”

  Bo’s brows pull together. “But in L.A. you felt threatened?”