Authors: Kimberly Belle
12
Ella Mae Andrews, October 1993
ELLA MAE SHOULD
have felt ashamed. After what Dean Sullivan had just done to her in her own kitchen, contorting her body every which way and heating her up from the inside out until she begged him for it—twice!—she should have felt embarrassed and regretful and goddamn ashamed.
But she didn’t.
She glanced over at Dean, slumped casually in the driver’s seat, thumbs tapping the wheel in time to the R.E.M. tune on the radio. Dean didn’t look like he felt any of those things, either. As a matter of fact, he looked pretty damn proud of himself.
“Take a left up at the intersection.”
Dean simply nodded.
Maybe that canary in his mouth was making it hard for him to talk, because fifteen minutes ago he wasn’t so quiet. At first, Ella Mae had been shocked by and more than a little self-conscious of his graphic descriptions of how he wanted her to stand and all the places he wanted to put his fingers and his mouth, but before long she was talking back and screaming like a porn star.
Porn. What Dean and Ella Mae just did was pornographic. The kind of sex that required a good hamstring stretch beforehand. The kind of sex that was likely illegal in a handful of states. After seven years of mostly missionary with Ray—in the dark and under the covers—Ella Mae’s body came alive under Dean’s hands, contorting and responding in a way she didn’t know was possible.
But now, Lee Highway’s wastelands had given way to Mount Carmel’s businesses and fast-food shacks, and Dean still hadn’t said more than two words. What did his silence mean?
“Bear left here, and it’s the second house on the right.”
Dean responded only by turning the wheel with the heel of a hand, and Ella Mae chanced another glance. His cocky grin had dimmed, and the skin around his eyes was creased with an emotion she couldn’t place. She gave herself a mental eye roll. Of course she couldn’t place it; she barely knew the man.
But she knew what he looked like naked.
“Dean, what happened back there at the house, I...” Ella Mae cleared her throat and started again, swallowing down the panic beating in her throat. Was he having second thoughts? Did he have regrets? The possibility sent something unpleasant skittering over her skin. “I don’t...”
Dean pulled into Shelley’s gravel drive and parked, pivoting his upper body to face her full-on. “You don’t what?”
“I don’t know what happened back there, with us.”
“I do.” His voice was teasing, his tone lighthearted, and Ella Mae relaxed just a tad. “I have every second of it burned onto my retinas. Would you like me to give you a quick recap?”
Now she did roll her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my common sense. I don’t normally lose control.”
“That’s too bad.” He gave her a lewd grin, igniting a spark in her belly. “Because when you lose control, you’re incredibly sexy.”
Ella Mae was flattered, but she forced herself to remain focused. “I’m trying to be serious here. I’ve never cheated before. Ever. Have you?”
One of Dean’s brows shot skyward but he didn’t answer, a response Ella Mae took as an affirmative.
“Well, I haven’t. For the past seven years, I’ve been faithful to Ray. Completely faithful. And then you come along, and I go and lose my mind.”
Ella Mae waited for the wave of remorse and regret that should have rolled in on the tail of her message, but it didn’t come. It didn’t come because Dean was looking at her in that way again, that way that made her nerve endings tingle and her body temperature shoot up a good ten degrees. Maybe that was the problem. All that internal heat was scrambling her brain.
Dean’s hand skipped across the gear shift and landed, butterfly soft, just above her knee. Ella Mae’s gaze dropped to Dean’s long fingers, sliding up the inside of her leg, ducking under her white tennis skirt. Her thighs parted as if by magic, without conscious command. Open sesame.
“I make you lose your mind?” he said.
Her answer was barely a whisper. “You make me certifiable.”
“Good.” His pinky crept higher.
Ella Mae bit her lip to keep from moaning.
“Do you like losing your mind?”
Ella Mae nodded.
“And would you like me to make you even crazier?”
A finger brushed over her sweet spot, and she threw back her head. “Oh, God, yes.”
Dean’s touch disappeared—poof!—and Ella Mae felt its absence like a sharp slap. She didn’t care that she’d almost let Dean feel her up in broad daylight. She didn’t care that they’d almost been caught by Shelley, coming up the drive. Ella Mae didn’t even care that she didn’t care.
The only thing she cared about was getting Dean’s touch back.
* * *
Dean flew out of the car, scooping up both puppies and cradling them against his neck while Ella Mae watched through the car’s front window. The puppies really were precious, she had to admit. Like those stuffed animal prizes the girls used to bring home from the Gray Fair, a tiny round tuft of fur filling up each of Dean’s hands. Ella Mae would get out of the car, too, but she was still composing herself. Weren’t men the ones who were supposed to need a moment?
Shelley turned and waved, and Ella Mae knew she couldn’t sit here any longer. She ran her fingers over her ponytail, smoothed down her tennis skirt and reached for the door handle. Her legs were still weak, but her heart rate was almost back to normal.
“Ella Mae!” Shelley swept her into a hug. “I’m so glad y’all are here.”
Ella Mae looked over at Dean. Only two minutes ago he’d had his hand up her skirt, about to make her even crazier. Now he had his hands full of two puppies, and he was grinning like a little boy. Grinning and ignoring Ella Mae.
She turned back to Shelley. “I see you met Dean.”
“How am I supposed to choose?” Dean said, holding the wriggling puppies up to his face. “They’re both so damn cute.”
“Take as long as you like.” Shelley looped an arm through Ella Mae’s and tugged her toward the front door. “Let’s go in the house and get caught up while he decides. How’s Ray?”
Ella Mae tore her gaze off Dean. “What? Oh, Ray’s fine. Working all the time, as usual.”
“Two kids in college will do that for you. And isn’t Gia a senior this year?”
Ella Mae nodded.
“Things are about to get a lot more expensive in your house, that’s for sure.”
Ella Mae followed her friend up the stairs to the front door, looking one last time over her shoulder for Dean. Still ignoring her.
Seriously? Ella Mae was seriously jealous of puppies?
“You know Ray,” Ella Mae said, turning back to Shelley. “For him the pharmacy isn’t only about money. It’s his life.”
Shelley led Ella Mae into the living room, parked her in a love seat by the picture window and disappeared into the kitchen for refreshments. While Shelley was gone, Ella Mae watched Dean through the glass, playing on the front lawn with the puppies. He let one of them, the white one, gnaw on a knuckle while the black puppy slept in the crook behind his left knee.
God, that man was gorgeous.
Shelley appeared with a tray of iced tea and cookies, placed it on the coffee table and handed Ella Mae a glass. “Okay. Now spill.”
“Spill what?”
Shelley sank onto the couch next to Ella Mae, her eyes going a little squinty. “Ella Mae Andrews, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Panic zinged up Ella Mae’s spine, exploding in a burst of pinpoint sweat beads across her forehead. What had Shelley seen?
“No, Shell, I really don’t know.”
Shelley hitched her chin toward the scene on her front lawn. “Dean, of course. Lordy me, that is one fine male specimen.”
Ella Mae couldn’t help but agree.
“How on earth do you get anything done with that man living next door? Please tell me he mows the lawn shirtless.”
Ella Mae didn’t know how she managed, but she pushed up a breezy laugh from real deep, from somewhere around her left big toe. “Only when it’s ninety or above.”
Shelley puffed a dreamy sigh. “You’ll call me next time that happens, right?”
Ella Mae frowned. Hell no.
That’s when Dean looked up, and Ella Mae’s skin barely had time to tingle before his eyes found hers. It’s like her body knew it was coming—that look of his—and Ella Mae responded like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
But Dean had caught the backwash of her frown, and he raised his brows, just slightly. Ella Mae smiled, and he pushed himself off the grass, cradling the puppies in the crook of his arm, and headed for the door.
And she knew by the set of his brow he was coming for her.
Shelley met Dean at the door with a smile and a glass of tea. “Well? Did you decide which puppy is the lucky one?”
“The white one.” And here he gave Ella Mae one of his naughty grins. “She’s a wild little thing. I like wild.”
Ella Mae shifted out of the ray of sunshine beating through the window. Hot. This living room was too damn hot.
Shelley gathered up the black puppy, asleep next to his squirming sister, and pointed Dean to the couch. “I’m going to give this little one back to his mama in the barn, and then I need a few minutes to draw up the paperwork. You two can entertain yourselves in the meantime, right?”
Dean glanced at Ella Mae. “Oh, I’m sure we can find something to do.”
Two seconds later, Dean and Ella Mae were alone.
“She’s cute,” Ella Mae said, gesturing to the puppy in his hand. “What are you gonna name her?”
“I don’t know.” Dean scooted closer. “I thought I’d let the girls decide.”
“Are you giving her to them tonight?”
Dean slid the puppy to the floor, and it pawed and whined at his feet. “Hush.”
Ella Mae didn’t know if he was talking to her or the puppy.
His hand dipped to her breast, and she had to fight to keep from panting. “Dean, we can’t...not here. In Shelley’s—” his teeth nipped Ella Mae’s neck and she gasped “—house. She’ll be back any minute.”
“Then we’d better hurry.”
Somewhere in the very back corners of her mind, Ella Mae knew she was screwed. She was so goddamn screwed. Letting Dean have his way with her on Shelley’s living room love seat was not the smartest thing she’d ever done—not even close—but Dean Sullivan was like a magician. One with conjuring tricks and alchemic charms far, far beyond her human understanding. And Ella Mae was completely under his spell.
No, the bigger problem was, Ella Mae couldn’t figure out if he was using his powers for good or evil.
13
NORMALLY, THIS WOULD
be the part where I slink out. Pluck my panties and T-shirt and jeans from wherever they’re strewn about the floor, pull them on as quickly and noiselessly as possible and tiptoe out of the room, preferably while he’s still asleep. No apologies, no “I’ll call you later” or “Let’s do this again sometime,” no note saying...what exactly? Because honestly, what is there to say after you shag a near stranger silly, other than Gee, thanks? I know the rules of a one-night stand, and they call for as little talking afterward as possible.
But this is no normal one-night stand.
For one thing, it’s not night, only barely dusk, and no one’s sleeping. In fact, who can sleep with all the noise, a steady thumping that alerted us hours ago to Roadkill’s happy hour in full swing below us? Jake didn’t seem to notice when it started, and when I asked him if he needed to go, he pushed me up against the wall and kissed me, and before I knew it that thumping noise was coming from us. Again.
For another, slinking indicates shame, and I feel none of that, only the euphoria that comes after really, really spectacular sex. Hands down the best ever. Sex that bears repeating—often and a lot—which basically negates the one-night part of one-night stand. I want tonight to happen again and again. Now that I know Jake’s tricks, what those hands of his can do, I want a more-please-night stand.
I swing a leg over his, twist onto my right side on the bed. “Having your place above the bar must be very convenient for you.”
“It certainly cuts down on my commute.”
I laugh. “I meant with all the girls tossing you their panties.”
Jake rolls his head on the pillow to face me, and yowza, he’s gorgeous. “What are you talking about?”
“According to Lexi, girls all over town are throwing theirs at your front door.”
“No offense, but sometimes your sister is full of shit.”
No kidding. My mind skitters to last night, how she ran out before we’d really talked, and to today at the bank, how she ducked out the back door before I could catch her. “No offense taken.”
And then I think of something even worse, something even more distressing. Something that—knowing my sister—is highly possible. “How well do you know Lexi?”
Jake squints at the ceiling and thinks. “Well, I’ve known her about as long as I’ve lived in Rogersville. She helped me with my loan for this place, and she’s in here a couple times a week. I guess you could say I know her fairly well.”
“Half the boys in town know my sister fairly well. Can you be more specific?”
“Are you asking me if I’ve slept with your sister?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. And please don’t make me ask it again.”
His hand slips up my thigh to my waist, his thumb thrumming my hip bone. “Just in case I didn’t make this clear earlier, I’m on team Gia. Your panties are the only ones I care about at this particular moment. I like the way they look on your ass.” He pushes me onto my back and rolls on top, fingers twining through my hair. “But I’d like them even better,” he pauses to plant a row of kisses from my ear to my breastbone, “on my floor.”
“You don’t...” I gasp as his mouth dips lower, then lower again. My fingers slide through his thick hair, guiding him, feeling the rough scrape of his three-day beard on my skin. “You don’t have to go?”
Jake lifts his head, and his brow creases. “Go where?”
“I don’t know.” Lust, thick and hot in my veins, is drowning out all rational thought.
Don’t stop.
I wriggle a little underneath him. Why did he stop? “Wherever.”
“You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”
There’s something dubious and unsure in his tone that brings me back. I run my hands down the hot skin of his bare back and arch up into him, making him groan a little. “No. No, not at all. Carry on.”
He does, and I throw back my head and sigh.
“In fact,” I say between gasps, “if you leave me now I’ll have to kill you.”
After that, neither of us asks any more questions.
* * *
By the time we come up for air a second time, it’s good and dark outside, and the thumping below us has escalated into a downright roar. Lexi wasn’t kidding when she said Roadkill was the place to be. Half the town must be down there, judging from the steady din of voices and laughter and music vibrating the walls and floorboards. It’s a good thing Jake lives above his own bar, because there’s not another renter on the planet who would put up with all that racket every night.
He checks the clock on the bedside table—8:23 p.m. “Dilemma time.” His voice and expression are suddenly serious.
“Oh.” I push up onto an elbow, trying to pick my clothes out of the shadows on the floor. “Okay.”
He stills me with a hand to my biceps. “Not you. Me. I’m starving.”
But I’ve already swung one leg out of the bed. There’s somewhere else I need to be, should have been hours ago. “That’s okay. I need to get home.”
“Come on. At least let me feed you first.”
I sit up, shaking my head. “I really should go. Dad and Fannie are probably waiting up, and Cal’s coming early tomorrow morning. This weekend is going to be a little crazy.”
He sits up, too, wrapping both arms around my waist and tugging me tight up against him. “Stay,” he whispers into my hair. “Just a little while longer.”
I think about Fannie and my father at the house, wondering where I went, if I’m ever coming back. I think about the protesters, wielding their vile signs and chanting their even viler slogans. I think about Cal and Lexi and Bo, all of whom are probably snuggled on their couches with a glass of wine and the remote, and who haven’t given me a second thought since the last time I talked to any of them, hours ago.
I’m homesick, I realize suddenly, only I mean that in the most literal sense of the word. I mean the thought of going home makes me physically ill—queasy and dizzy and like I can’t breathe. I don’t want to go there. Not yet. I don’t want to go back to how that place makes me feel.
Jake’s breath tickles my neck while he waits for me to decide.
But then, it’s really not a difficult decision, is it?
I twist around to face him. “Dinner better be good.”
He grins, and my belly gives a hot squeeze. Jake really does have a great smile, an amazing smile, one that’s big and open and makes his whole face shine. One that’s impossible not to return.
“So I was thinking we could go downstairs and grab a bite,” he says, “or I can bring us something up here. Up to you.”
Quite frankly, after my tequila-inspired performance at Roadkill last night, I’m not exactly anxious to show up there again, with or without a black eye. Plus, one look at Jake’s just-got-laid grin and the purple love bite below his right ear, and everybody in the place will know. People in this town are already talking enough. I’d rather not add fuel to their gossip fire.
“I vote for takeout.”
Jake squeezes my hand like it was the answer he’d hoped for, then hops out of bed and plucks his jeans off the floor. I watch as he slips them back on, admiring the way his muscles ripple and pulse as he buttons his fly and reaches for his shirt.
Who needs crack cocaine when there are men like Jake Foster walking this planet?
After he’s gone, I snatch my panties and bra from the floor and pull them on as I head into the bathroom, doing a double take at my reflection in the mirror. Good Lord. My curls are a wild tangle around my head, my lips look like they’ve been stung by a bee and there’s a streak of bright red beard burn on my neck. Oh, and the shiner. Let’s not forget the shiner. I don’t look like I’ve been well bedded. I look like I’ve been raped.
I splash water on my face and run wet fingers through my curls until they’re semipresentable, and then I flick off the lights and make my way back into the dark bedroom.
Better.
I’m just getting settled back on the bed when Jake returns, a black cast-iron pan in his hands and a bottle of wine tucked under a biceps. “Coq au vin,” he tells me with such perfect pronunciation I think he must speak French. He deposits the pan in the middle of the bed, drops the bottle onto the mattress beside it, and fetches a few things from the kitchen. A bottle opener, cloth napkins, two glasses and a pair of forks.
“No plates?” I ask. “What kind of dump is this?”
Jake shucks his shoes and sinks onto the mattress beside me. “The best kind.”
He removes the cast-iron top with a flourish. The aroma hits me, and I close my eyes and breathe it all in. The garlic and onions and chicken and wine sauce and Jake, pulling his long legs around on the bed next to me. He picks up his fork, tears off a large bite of steaming meat and blows on it before offering it to me. “Now shut up and eat.”
I do, and it’s completely and totally delicious. I reach for the fork and rip off another chunk of meat, dragging it through the sauce, not bothering to blow before stuffing it into my mouth. Jake fights a smile, watching me do it another three times while he uncorks the wine.
“Why is your restaurant in Rogersville?” I ask him between bites. “You could make so much money somewhere else. New York or L.A. or Paris. Your food is that good.”
He pours, hands me a glass. “I’m not here for the money.”
“Why, then?”
He shrugs, reaching for his fork. “I don’t know. I like the scenery. I like to cook. I like the people I’m cooking for, especially when they’re as enthusiastic about my food as you are.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve already established I’ll eat just about anything, so I’m not sure you should use me as your litmus test.”
His hand scorches a trail up my bare thigh, and he drops his voice. “I prefer to use you for other things.”
I give him a playful swat on the biceps. “Be serious. No one just up and moves to Rogersville without having roots here.”
His teasing expression sobers. “I do have roots here, or at least close to here. My mom grew up in Church Hill. She met my father when he was stationed at the Holston Army Ammunition Plant. After that they lived all over the place, but we came here every Christmas and summer. This area was the closest thing I had to home.”
“Home never felt like home?”
He stabs another bite. “Dad was in the army. We never stayed long enough in one place for it to qualify.” He cocks his head, like he’s just thought of a new revelation. “Wow. This is the longest I’ve ever lived in one spot.”
“And you’re still not bored as hell?”
His eyes get big and round. “How could anyone be bored in Rogersville?”
“Because there’s nothing to do. No shopping. No museums. Back when I lived here, there wasn’t even a movie theater.”
“What about all the outdoor stuff? The hiking and biking and rafting.”
I make a face. “Too many bugs.”
“But what about the nature? You can’t deny the beauty of this place.”
I laugh. “You sound like a commercial for the Tennessee Board of Tourism.”
Jake puts down his fork and swivels his torso toward mine, adjusting his legs until they’re alongside my right thigh. “It’s more than all those things. It’s this place, my restaurant and the people who come here to eat my food. I feel connected to them somehow. They’re like family, some of them, and Roadkill feels like a place I’ve always wanted to be. I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else. Which is why I bought the whole building last year.”
I bury my nose in the pan, something vaguely unpleasant swirling in my stomach. After traipsing all over the world as a child, Jake finally finds the one place he wants to settle, the one place he thinks of as home. That it happens to be the same home I fled when my world fell apart feels like a strange kind of irony. His home will never again be mine, not after what happened here. Not even after my father’s funeral, when I plan to be on the first plane out of here.
But then again, this isn’t a relationship. Jake Foster is temporary, a mighty fine distraction while I whittle away my days here in Rogersville.
Jake nudges me with an elbow. “Okay, now you.”
I look up. “Now me, what?”
“I told you something about me, now you have to tell me something about you.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I duck my head and smile at him through my curls. “My life has been really boring.”
He laughs. “Tell me about all the places you’ve been. I know about Kenya and Thailand, but where else?”
“A better question would be, where else not? The famine in the Horn of Africa and the tsunami in Japan and the earthquake in Haiti and the refugee crisis in Ivory Coast. The list of disasters goes on and on, unfortunately.”
“Impressive.”
“And you haven’t even seen my frequent-flyer statement.”
“I’m not talking about the travel. I’m talking about all the people you’re helping.”
“Come on, Jake.” I push a laugh up my throat, shove a flippant note into my tone. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out my intentions are not purely altruistic. It’s mostly just to get away from here.”
Jake doesn’t joke or laugh, doesn’t even smile. He puts down his fork and reaches forward, tucking a stray curl behind my ear, brushing a butterfly finger across the skin of my black eye, watching me with not pity, but tenderness.
And then, slowly, slowly, he leans in and touches the bruise with his lips, as if kissing it better. The gesture undoes me, more than a little, and my throat tightens at the same time something deep inside my chest whispers and stirs.
On impulse, my voice barely a whisper, I tell him what only a few hours earlier, I managed to evade. “I fainted. My father came home this morning, and he was so changed. So thin and frail and sick I barely recognized him, would’ve passed him on the street without a second thought. And the protesters...” I shudder, shake my head. “It was just awful. I fainted and hit my head on the coffee table.”
Jake slides a hand onto my knee. “I’m so sorry, Gia.”
I nod, pity for my father comingling with pity for myself, blending into a bitter brew that seeps into my voice. “And I could just kill Bo and Lexi. They weren’t there, and they haven’t been returning my calls and texts. This afternoon, Lexi snuck out of the bank so she wouldn’t have to talk to me. I don’t think I’m going to be able to talk either of them into coming by to see Dad before he dies.”