Junk Love, page 26
“What do you want for Christmas? Besides a compass.”
Your hands on my body. “I’ll have to think about that,” she laughed, and draped her arms over his shoulders. “What do you want for Christmas?”
“Hold on. You thought of something.”
Holly shook her head.
“I have ways of making people talk.” His dark eyebrows dropped, mock-threatening.
“Trained at Guantanamo?”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Reverse psychology!” She smirked. “I am all over you, mister.”
His smile went limp as if her all over him sounded fantastic.
Oh, help. She filled her lungs with cool air, but the scent of leather and soap and him came with it. “What happened to you not showering?”
Jacob brushed his fingertips below her chin. “I have a proposal.”
Not a marriage proposal. Calm down. “What’s that?”
When his lips coupled with hers, she was back at the ranch one teenage summer with her mouth around the sweetest summer peach. The memory would have been a better match if she’d sat on an electric fence.
He hovered just past the smile she was trying to contain in case he wanted to kiss her again. If a massive meteor ended it all right now, she was good.
Bullshit. The kiss was like the first bite after a long fast: perfect and satisfying for a moment but waking an insatiable beast. Why, in the name of all that was holy, did she have that talk with him? If they broke up, she’d regret not having sex with him. Losing him would hurt like hell regardless.
“Safer out here.” His close, playful grin made the aching worse. “I’m not an outdoor sex guy.”
What was he saying? She found her game face. “That might be a deal breaker. What’s your policy on tents?”
“Tent I could do. Remind me to take us camping someday.”
“Take us camping someday.”
“You are a huge help.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What would you say to a little reconnaissance mission?” The silkiness of her white cashmere sweater couldn’t compete with the bliss of his calloused hand sliding underneath. “Tell me when to stop.”
“Nope.” Holly told her head to move, and it responded, pivoting on her neck.
“Good call.” His hand pulled away from her belly.
She held it there. “I might not tell you to stop.”
“What about ‘hashtag vagina goals’?”
“You’re all sorts of kryptonite. Did I tell you how hot I thought you were when we met?”
“Sorry I’ve let myself go,” he said, grinning in the moonlight. “Weren’t you with What’s-His-Face?”
“Don’t judge.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Speaking of…” His warm fingers slipped under the waistband of her low-rise jeans. “This six-pack you have going. Fair game? Always wanted one, but I like food too much.”
“I don’t have a six-pack.”
“Right here.” He traced the ridge of muscle forming her Adonis belt from her hip toward her crotch. “You even have a ‘V.’”
“I do not.” Her heart was flying, pushing blood through her veins like a treadmill on way too high. She put her hand on his and braced it there, bracing herself there.
“Too far?”
She pulled his hand onto her breast over her bra.
He chuckled. “If I have to…”
“Ass,” she smirked.
“I’ll get there.” His fingertips touched her skin, taking her breath despite the stupid padded push-up blocking his palm. He closed his fingers around her like a farmer considering whether a beloved tomato was ripe enough to separate from its vine. Her breast was dying to be dinner, but all she could do was grab his jaw and shut his mouth with hers. Cradling her neck, he kissed her back.
Once she mustered the brainpower to unzip her jacket, she tossed it off, and his hand trailed down to her lap. His lips were gone. She blinked.
His bright smile kept her from going in for another kiss. “You okay?”
Holly nodded, breathing fire. “I hope you don’t do this with all your suspects. What I want for Christmas is your hands on my body. That’s my confession, what I was thinking. But that’s so five minutes ago.” She fingered his waistband. “Now I want to go back to your house and get naked.”
A switch had flipped, knocking Jacob’s smile offline and disconnecting his features from the grid of sociability. His intense eyes dropped from hers as he bent to her neck.
Instead of kissing it, he whistled.
Squealing at the stream of air, she leaped off his lap. As he continued, looking up at her, she registered the first bars of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”
“Not a fan of being serenaded?” His voice was deeper than usual.
“That wasn’t a serenade. That was a sneak attack. You know I’m ticklish.”
“You’re right.” Standing, he lifted her onto the stump.
“What’s this for?”
“Lady should be up high for a proper serenade.”
“This just makes us even.”
“Even’s good.” He kissed her. “See?” They kissed again, holding hands.
“It’s okay, I guess.” She rubbed her thumb over his hand. “I have another confession.”
“Sure you’re not Catholic?”
“Positive.” Holly slipped off her sweater and dropped it, cold but thrilled in just her bra.
“Um…” Jacob backed up a step.
“Women’s fashion isn’t fair to men. It’s all lies: the makeup, the Spanx, the push-up bras…”
“I’ve seen you without makeup. Spanx would be pointless.”
“This, though.” She slid her thumbs under the straps of her bra and pulled forward like a geezer with suspenders. “I’ve got to be honest. These are not my boobs.” Locking eyes with him, Holly unclasped her bra, held it dangling beside her, then let it fall. “These are my boobs. Sorry.”
He stared in the moonlight. “Damn.”
From the trail, leaves rustled beneath quick footsteps.
Jacob turned, his left hand flying to his waist. Holly jumped down and snatched up her sweater. Tinkling metal joined the rapid footfalls as she clutched her cashmere to her chest, getting jabbed by the pine needles clinging to it.
A Rottweiler ran into the grove of trees and straight at Jacob, who offered open palms. It sniffed him and trotted to Holly. She put a low hand out, too, and the dog gave her a long snarfle. Her other arm went into her jacket with Jacob’s guidance.
“Molly!” a voice called.
Holly slipped her second arm in, spinning to keep her back to the trail.
“Molly!” the woman called louder.
Holly struggled with her zipper. Jacob searched the ground, and the dog scampered toward the voice.
“There you are. Come on.” Footsteps headed away.
Jacob wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they just listened.
Then he offered her bra. “Want to get naked again and put this on?”
She found the zipper, but he took her hands, shaking his head.
“Bad idea. Have to ticket you for lewdness if a witness showed up. Class B Misdemeanor.”
“You wouldn’t have my back?”
“Can’t risk losing my job.”
His coltish eyes were infinitely lovable.
“I have my wife and kids to think about,” he smiled.
“Current or future?” She looped her sweater around her bra.
“Future.” He hugged her shoulders. “Might be you.” Papery leaves crinkled under their feet as they rediscovered the nature trail.
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
“If you got pregnant, we’d have to get married.”
“There’s good.” She pointed to a shrub. “Nice and private.”
“Respect the process, Samson. I know you like everything fast—”
“Not everything.” Holly smirked.
He chuckled. “Are you Samson or Delilah? Repeat after me.”
“‘Repeat after me.’”
Jacob squeezed her hand. “I, Samson…”
“‘I, Samson…’”
“Don’t want this mook’s hands all over my gorgeous body.”
“Aren’t oaths supposed to be truthful?”
“Looking for blind obedience here.”
“Not really my thing.”
* * *
The trail dropped them onto the asphalt uphill from Jacob’s house. Between his hot hand and the frigid air free-ranging under her jacket, popping her nipples against the leathery material, the night was a stupid kind of young.
“Want to watch old movies and stay up all night?”
“Dammit, woman. I’m taking my blue balls and going home.”
“Fine.” Holly smiled, disappointed and grateful. They thumped down the hill past charming houses.
“I figured out what you’re doing.”
“Trying to seduce you? Because if you don’t touch me, or look at me, or get within a five-mile radius, I can be good. Mostly.”
He shook his head. “Different thing.”
“Giving you wildly mixed signals?”
“Knowing’s half the battle, but no.”
“What?”
“Sabotaging my vote. Get me sleep-deprived so I forget to vote tomorrow.”
“See how red my hands are?” Walking backward down the slope, she put them up.
Jacob kissed her palm. “Tastes guilty.”
“I might as well come clean. Have you heard of the ‘Him Too’ movement? Promise not to tell anybody.”
“You have my word.”
“Patriotic women across the country are giving their bodies to conservative men tonight to keep them away from the polls. I was relieved when I got you as my assignment. You’re not entirely disgusting.”
“That’s my girl.” He squeezed her hand, surrounding it in electric warmth.
In a house with big windows, a light behind a darkened room cast a silhouette of a man with a baby on his shoulder. She wanted that so much. She wanted that to be Jacob so much. And it seemed close, like if the hill was a little steeper and she could get some momentum, she could fly to that place.
“About your Christmas list.” He brought their hands to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. “Before I volunteer for the ‘Him Too’ movement, we need some rules of engagement.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not stepping foot in my house tonight. I grab your purse, you leave. Agreed?”
“My heels are there, too.”
“And your heels.”
Holly sighed. “I see how it is. Let a boy get to second base—”
He stopped in front of her. “Hi.” The hill put them closer to eye level. When he braced his hands on her hips, his thumbs on her abdomen sent fire through her veins. “Do I have your attention?”
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re getting in your car when we get to my place, yes?”
“Deal.”
“And you’re not going to let me tear your clothes off in my driveway.”
“Aww.”
He looked stern—sort of.
“Fine. No.” She didn’t mean to grin so hugely, but she couldn’t help it. “You have a wife and kids to think about.”
CORA
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
“You okay?” Wes was sitting, not helping, and not being lectured about not helping.
“Mm-hm.” Cora held aside the serving bowl of mashed potatoes to see where she had scuffed the dotted rug. She nudged its upturned corner with her foot.
The dusky central window in the nook behind her dad reflected her crazy hair and her mother following her with dinner rolls. She took the tall, upholstered chair near her father; her mom sat by Wes.
“Pass the potatoes?” Wes asked.
As she did, the red-eyed raven looked askance at her from the gold Tree of Life, Stoclet Frieze print. Unfurling the cloth napkin, she kept her eyes down for a stealth prayer. But it was only Help.
Her mother offered the green beans.
“Thanks.” Cora spooned them onto her gilded plate. Silverware clinked against china.
Wes prodded his Cornish game hen. “How much trouble will I get in if I pick this thing up and make it dance?”
Laughing helped. “Five bucks if you do,” she said. “And sing. Let me get my phone first.”
“What song? Ooh! Ba-by chick, doo doooo doo-duh-doo, ba-by chick doo doooo doo-duh-doo, ba-by—”
“That’s enough, Wes.” Only the corner of their dad’s mouth smiled.
“Mom.” Wes turned to her. “You’ve outdone yourself as usual. I don’t think I can eat little ladybird, though.”
“Once you cut into it—here.” She moved her plate to the side and lifted his. “Let me—”
“Terry! For heaven’s sake, you’re not going to cut the boy’s food for him?”
“My bad.” Pulling his plate back, Wes plunged his fork into a potato pile while their mom sank into her seat.
Their dad salted his dismembered chicken and scrutinized Cora. “I know your attorney thinks today was a win, but I hope you know you have nothing to hide. The psychiatrist at the Sego hospital saw right away you weren’t mentally ill.”
“A lot of people take antidepressants, too,” her mother said.
The fragrant flaky roll absorbed the pat of butter as it left the knife.
“It’s no different than the drug test.” Her dad studied her. “Aren’t you concerned at all that Naomi’s father isn’t volunteering to UA?”
“He probably smokes pot.”
“Wes!” Cora said.
“Everybody does.”
Their mom recoiled. “You don’t.”
Wes shook his head, skewering green beans.
Before Cora could decide whether it would be helpful to share that Aiden had completed treatment and was now an active member of a 12-step recovery community, her father said, “It galls me that Child Welfare had him supervising you,” sawing white breast meat. “You need a custody order. That petition is ludicrous. He shouldn’t have sole custody—you should. Be careful. He might try to get custody when you’re vulnerable.”
“Aiden isn’t trying to take Naomi from me, Dad. He’s trying to help.”
“He can’t be trusted.”
“Dad.” She set her fork on the plate’s deep blue rim. “I know he made mistakes. I did, too. If you got to know him…”
He shook his head, chewing.
“His parents asked if we could come for Thanksgiving dinner. It would be so great if—”
“Who you choose to have in your family is your business.” Her dad pointed at her with his empty fork. “He will not be part of mine.”
Holly
Friday, November 11, 2016
“What do you think, Girlfriend? Would you two get along?” Holly showed her phone screen to the Maine Coon sprawled across her lap.
The mega cat rubbed her whiskers against the corner, pushing back her upper lip and exposing sharp teeth.
“No eating the puppy.”
The cat’s tawny eyes stared; she was making no promises.
In the photo, the puppy’s big dark eyes were magnified in black fur diamonds, and her coppery tan ears perked up and sloped out. Her head was cocked, pointing one ear higher. Holly beamed at the picture once more before opening her Bible app.
Thank god she was done with Deuteronomy. Ecclesiastes had to be better; she was excited to start her dad’s favorite book. Resuming the requisite rubbing of Girlfriend, Holly settled deeper into Jacob’s espresso-brown leather sofa. Rachel Maddow’s lips were moving on TV, but she’d muted her. Girlfriend purred like a motor idling.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
Isn’t that a ‘60s song?
Was this a new season? She did look like she belonged there: her charcoal leggings complemented the dark gray edges of Jacob’s rug, and her cranberry zip-up matched the rug’s deep red center. The season of Jacob? Of starting her family? Or just a season of Jacob, another boyfriend in her long line of boyfriends? Seasons end.
A text from Cora popped up:
Thanks for checking in. We got what we asked for, but I’m still at my parents’ house.
She typed:
If you see Nessie, tell her to eat a bag of
As she scrolled for an eggplant emoji, Holly had second thoughts, so she deleted it, typing instead:
Stay strong!
She almost added, “I’ll be praying,” because she had. She’d been praying for Cora and also for herself, for faith. But she preferred to keep that private like when she’d applied to colleges—her friends didn’t need to know about the rejections.
I should pray for Mom.
Holly stared at the coffee table. Where the hell did that come from? Her phone in her lap answered: the text about Thanksgiving. That’s why Nanette was on her mind. She went back to reading, picking up the last line she’d read:
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
Was it time to make amends with her mother? It wasn’t that she didn’t love her; she just didn’t trust her. And the thought of being like her makes me want to run to a deserted island. When keys scraped in the front door, she was laughing at herself, picturing a failed attempt at running on water.
Jacob’s feet plodded inside in a moment, so her guilt for not getting up to open the door was short-lived.
“Hi!” she called.
“Sorry that took so long.” His footfalls rang through the house.
“I’d come help,” she said, lounging her head against the sofa. “But I’m trapped under your Girlfriend.”
“Cat!” Plastic bags rustled in the kitchen. “Get off my girlfriend.”
