Chapter 23
“Are you listening to me?” Olivia asks across our table at The Flying Pig.
I drag my mind out of this lust-filled haze to meet her emerald eyes. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I was asking if you want to carpool to the ranch after dinner to visit Maisey. I know it’s not one of your lesson days with Reid and Izzy, but if you don’t have anything else going on, I’d be happy to share my Maisey-time with you.” She winks.
“That sounds good. The temperature will be a lot more pleasant after the sun goes down.” I try to sound enthused, but my mind is miles away.
Olivia’s feline eyes cut through me like an X-ray. “What’s going on with you lately?
“Hmm? Nothing. My mind wanders to my internship every minute of the day. I’m supposed to be enjoying my first summer off in forever, but I wish I was already entrenched in work, you know?”
“I do. You know I’m a prima-workaholic. Once you’re comfortable with the horses, and have some hands-on experience under your belt, you’ll be golden.”
Olivia has a way of brightening your day, and I’m grateful for her especially on days like today when my hormones are trying to catapult me into Connor’s pants. Spending time at the ranch will be a good distraction anyway because Connor is away on a three-day trip, and I miss him like crazy.
“Do you want to make a whole night of it and sleep over in the guest house? Steal Izzy away from her fiancé for a night and have a slumber party like the old days?” The plan forms in my head, exciting me more with each word that comes out of my mouth.
I finish my lemonade, and Lou Ann drops a refill off like magic. I’ve been obsessed with anything lemon since Connor’s mom’s lemonade first tickled my tongue. She doesn’t make it much anymore; they live a life of quiet survival with Connor’s dad’s Alzheimer’s disease.
Since moving in with Connor, I dread the nights I sleep alone in our bed. He doesn’t need to know I big-spoon his pillow, or sleep in his shirts. Those secrets will stay between me and the walls of our apartment.
Livy looks…guilty? She fidgets in her seat across from me at the pub and doesn’t meet my eyes when she responds. “That sounds amazing, but I have plans with…” She stops abruptly. Panic filled eyes shoot to mine.
I’m not one to push. I have no room to pry into other people’s lives when I’ve been hiding a hopeless crush on Connor for years.
“I’m proud of you. I hope you know how much I admire you.” She changes the subject abruptly. “I know you were struggling this spring, but you seem to be doing much better.”
She’s right. I take inventory of my plate and find I’ve eaten nearly everything without consciously lifting each bite to my mouth, forcing myself to chew and swallow.
Between the twenty-four seven showing of Connor Dicks Down Delilah my imagination’s concocted, and distracting myself from said film, I ate my entire lunch without a thought. My pork green chili is dregs in the bottom of the bowl.
“Thanks Liv.”
“Let’s blow this pop stand and go to the glitter factory. Lucky Spurs Ranch has a special blend of horsehair and hay bits with our names on it.”
I allow myself to check my phone once we’re on the road. Olivia is performing a one-woman Broadway show in the driver’s seat, so I’m safe to indulge my masochism.
Studmuffin: You should’ve seen this huge ass elk today. It was as big as my truck!
Studmuffin: Thanks for picking up those drinks I like from the market.
Studmuffin: Our song was on the radio today.
I close my eyes and let the notes and lyrics of our song crash over me like a wave.
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather. As long as old women sit and talk about old men.
Maybe it’s strange two little kids latched on to a country ballad about endless devotion. But it spoke to us. It tugged on my heartstrings in an inexplicable way and wove itself into the fabric of my being. I’ll eternally think of my life with Connor every time I hear our song.
Me: Must’ve been a big elk. Pics or it didn’t happen.
Me: And you’re welcome. They were in the cooler by the register so I grabbed as many as I could carry.
Me: Forever and ever, right Connor?
Studmuffin: Right, doll. Forever and ever, amen.
Me: I miss you.
Three dots bounce on my screen and my heart stops beating, waiting for his reply. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But I do miss him, terribly.
The dots stop dancing. The pavement gives way to dirt road and the bumps beneath the tires reminding me what I should be focusing on. My education. My career.
I may not ever have the love of my life—so this dream will have to be enough.
“You useless piece of shit!” The good for nothing gigantic blue dildo thuds against the wall before sadly wiggling around on the floor. I didn’t turn it off before my orgasm-denied temper tantrum. My purple pal never let me down like this.
Unsatisfied and pissed off, I turn the damn thing off and throw it into my underwear drawer.
I cover my sweat dampened skin with a light dress and throw my pillow ruffled hair into a top knot. A few muttered curses and my sandals accompany me out the door and into the blazing summer sun.
Do you know why summer is the most miserable, godforsaken season of the year? While children are frolicking around in swimsuits, and adults are enjoying the bright Rocky Mountain sunshine, I’m taking cold showers and leaving half-moon scars in the palms of my hands from how tight I clench my fists.
Everyone has their thing, and my thing has always undoubtably been Connor. Connor’s eyes. Connor’s lips. Connor’s laugh. Connor’s touch.
But summer is a real bitch because she brings the most tempting version of my thing out to play.
You know those douchey shirts the gym bros wear? The tank tops that’ve been cut to reveal every rib, or the T-shirts with the sleeves cut off, split nearly the bottom hem. Like, why bother wearing a shirt at all when the entire world can see your useless man-nipples.
The PROBLEM is that on Connor, those shirts aren’t douchey at all. They’re like the most expensive La Perla lingerie money can buy, made specifically for my tatted-up, muscles chiseled from hard labor, golden as a god, best fucking friend.
His arms are always out to play. I have a front row seat to the gun show every time I open my eyes. Droplets of sweat drip down his ribs into his low-slung jeans. I want to trace their salty path with my tongue.
My god, what’s wrong with me? Women complain about being objectified, but my lizard brain can’t do anything but objectify my best friend.
My. Best. Friend. I’m a creep. A pervert.
But he’s so pretty I could cry!
I suppose the only saving grace is he works so much during the summer, I’m saved from being a Peeping Tina, at least during the light of day.
If I’m lucky, the mountain air cools enough once the sun goes down and Connor puts on a full shirt or a hoodie. My fingers still itch to touch him, but the visual temptation is concealed.
Connor’s intolerably attractive at his worst. My brain short circuits when he’s dressed and groomed for a normal day. The ball cap goes on and dear god…
I’ve gotten in the habit of dabbing the corners of my mouth like a nervous tic for fear I’m drooling over him.
And because lady universe is a raging bitch, she likes to compel Connor to flip that goddamn hat backwards. I’ve been known to suddenly have somewhere I need to be, or a phone call I have to take when his hat is backwards. He’s so attractive it’s categorically unfair.
My self-control only stretches so far. And apparently, that distance is the one-eighty degree turn of the brim of his cap from front to back.
I swear to god, if he ever put on a cowboy hat, I’d spontaneously ovulate. My eggs would jump the cliff down my tubes screaming PICK ME! PICK ME!
Unsatisfied, I check my phone and am crestfallen to find no text from Connor. Even with the widening distance between us, he texts me every day, and I don’t like this one bit.
A hot-cold flash of anxiety coats my skin in a sweat.
Three days. I haven’t heard from Connor in three days.
He was supposed to be home from this job three days ago.
I would’ve understood if he was too tired to drive home after his shift ended and he found somewhere to sleep.
But it’s the night of day three and he should’ve been home by now.
His absence and the cavern of distance between us is why my blue bestie is getting re-charged daily. When I’m not masturbating for distraction, I’m stress cleaning at eleven at night. Our downstairs neighbors must hate me for the noise I’m making pacing around the apartment.
My cheeks are tight from dried tear tracks, eyes are bleary from exhaustion.
I’ve texted. I’ve called. I called CJ incessantly until he answered. Quincy hasn’t heard from him either.
It’s taking everything in me not to take off on a one-woman search and rescue mission. But I have no idea where this job even took him. My head pounds with unanswered questions.
What if he’s hurt? What if he’s dead? Why didn’t I tell him I love him? What if I never see him again?
I blindly fumble around for the wall for support as I collapse onto the floor. Panic and regret consume me. My lungs refuse the gasps of air I’m struggling to pull in. Dark spots obscure my vision, and I know I’m about to pass out or have a panic attack.
The deadbolt on the front door clacks open and I jump to my feet, leaning against the wall for support.
I’ve never been so relieved as when Connor’s tattooed hand opens the door.
Our bodies have always had a sixth sense about where the other is, and his eyes find me immediately, like they always do.
“What’s wrong?” In a split second, his bag is on the floor, and he’s rushed to me.
My face falls and uncontrollable sobs wrack my tired body. I’m in his arms before I know what’s happening and he coos comfort and reassurance into my neck.
I draw back to get a good look at him to see if he’s injured in any way.
Chocolate eyes skate across my face, concern written all over his. Furrowed brows silently question what’s wrong. My brain tells my mouth to say I’m fine. That I was worried but am happy he’s home safe, but no words come out.
My heart has no words. It has a strong, steady beat, screaming his name.
The pounding of my heart’s desire is too loud to ignore, and my mouth crashes against his and I kiss him with every ounce of desire and regret I’ve suffered these past days, weeks, months, and years.
I pull away when my brain registers…he’s not kissing me back. I slap a hand over my mouth, back out of his hold, and flee. The bathroom door slams behind me, and I sink to the cold tile floor.
What have I done?