6. Dallas
Six
Dallas
M y back aches as I walk across the parking lot after work, and my throat is dry from all that talking.
A few hours ago, when I held Shelley in my arms, I felt bulletproof.
Like sunshine flowed in my veins; like I’d live forever, with never a single bodily complaint again. Not even a cold or a paper cut.
Now I feel a thousand years old. My body is crumbling under the weight of my own stupidity.
The rain has eased off in the last few hours, but it’s still falling in a gentle mist. The scent of warm, wet stone fills the air, and the scraggly trees at the edge of the parking lot look perkier already.
Can’t believe I screwed things up so quickly. Can’t believe I lost my head like that, suddenly overcome with shame and panic, all because I don’t have tons of experience with women. What a mess.
Shelley is mad at me, of course. She’s been glaring daggers at me across the studio all afternoon, her green eyes sparking with defiance, her delicate shoulders set.
And I don’t blame her for a single second, because if you told me yesterday that I’d kiss Shelley breathless then leave her alone in a parking lot in the rain, I’d have laughed and called you insane.
Because who would ever do such a thing?
This guy. Fuck.
I looked for her after my last segment to apologize, but she was long gone.
Her station already tidied, her make up supplies packed away.
No sign of her curly red hair in the crowds milling across the studio floor.
Like Shelley was always a figment of my imagination, some kind of fairy nymph, and I broke the spell of her presence by being such a jerk.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself, cutting down a row of shiny vehicles, all glossy and wet from the rain. Newly washed.
Overhead, the clouds look bruised.
My truck is parked near the end of the center row, down by the treeline.
With my hands shoved in my pockets and my head ducked, satchel banging against my hip as I walk, I’m too lost in my own cranky world to notice the person leaning against the hood at first. Then when I finally look up, my heart stutters and my feet slam to a halt.
“Shelley?”
The make up girl has an open umbrella clutched in one hand, her knuckles white from gripping so hard. The other hand squeezes the handle of her backpack. So much tension thrums through her slender body.
“Dallas,” she says, voice crisp.
“Uh.” I glance around helplessly, but there are no clues for how to proceed around me. No handy billboard which reads, Tell her about tomorrow’s weather! Women love that! “Do you… do you need a ride home?”
I’ve noticed before that Shelley catches the bus to work, but maybe she doesn’t want to wait at the bus stop in the rain. So maybe this is a weird, grumpy olive branch she’s offering me, a chance to atone for my dreadful manners. That would be wonderful.
But Shelley snorts. “No. No, Dallas, I do not need a ride home. I need an explanation.”
Shoot.
That’s what I was afraid of.
“Are you sure?” I joke weakly, tipping my face up to the mizzling rain. Suddenly I desperately need to cool down, cooking beneath my suit. “Because a ride, I can definitely do.”
Shelley exhales, and for a moment I think she’s really going to yell.
That I’ve truly pushed the sweetest woman alive too far, all with my bumbling ineptitude.
But then she tilts her head and looks at me, evaluating with those moss green eyes, and her gaze is not filled with irritation or reproach. It’s pure empathy.
My neck itches. What is happening?
“I have a theory,” Shelley says, finally letting go of the stranglehold on her backpack to push a damp lock of hair from her eyes. Even with the umbrella, the rain is fine enough to gust sideways into her shelter. “And you’re a man of science, aren’t you, Dallas?”
“Meteorology and Geosciences,” I agree automatically. “With a special research interest in changing climate patterns as a result of the warming surface temperatures of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Uh-huh.” Shelley’s mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile. My cracked chest glows warm with sudden hope. Is this… is this not wholly broken, then? Can I make things up to her? “Well then, perhaps you’d like to help test my theory.”
I’m already nodding. Anything for Shelley. Anything in the world. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.
“How?” I ask.
“Drive me somewhere private,” Shelley says. “ Real private.”
Oh, god. Arousal slams into my lower belly like a freight train, but somehow I keep standing upright and fish out my keys. It might not be that kind of theory.
“Hop in, then. We’re not driving anywhere until you’re safely seated and buckled.”
“Yes, sir.” Shelley gives a fake little salute and sidles around the truck, turning just in time to miss the flood of heat to my cheeks.
Sir?
I… didn’t mind that. I didn’t mind that at all.
God, I hope it’s that kind of theory.
“What are all the gadgets in the back?” Shelley asks half a mile later as we drive away from the studio, further out of the city.
Toward the back roads and dusty canyons.
Clumps of trees whip past on either side, and specks of rain fly in through the open truck windows.
Neither of us care—it’s worth it for the fresh air.
“They’re for taking measurements. Stuff to do with climate patterns and the weather.”
Shelley whistles, craning around to peer through the rear window at the mounds of boxed up gear lashed beneath a tarp. “You must really trust your neighbors. I bet that stuff’s expensive.”
I laugh. “Yes and no. It’s specialized, sure, but it’s all ancient and second hand. More for my own use as a hobby. For my work, I use the studio’s equipment. It’s more accurate, more up to date, and if it gets damaged, someone else foots the bill.”
“But you prefer the older kit,” Shelley notes, reading between the lines.
I shrug, both hands sensibly at ten and two on the wheel. The wind blows into the truck and flaps my shirt against my chest, my suit jacket abandoned on the back seat and my sleeves rolled. “Yeah, I guess so. Feels more romantic somehow. Nostalgic.”
“From when you were younger?”
I laugh, because some of that kit is way older than me.
“More like from when my dad was younger. Half of that kit was his. We used to take it out together on the weekends, trying to make sense of the crazy weather around here. This region is a real hotch-potch, sandwiched between the lakes and the mountains like this, with snowy winters and that stretch of arid desert.”
Shelley is quiet for a moment, but I can feel her gaze on me. It’s like the tip of a finger running down the side of my neck, light and teasing.
I shiver.
“Does your dad still love this stuff?” she asks.
I shrug, sudden melancholy weighing me down in my seat. “He does, but it’s a lot harder for him to get out and about, and when he does, he fades fast. It’s just age, you know. Inevitable. I try to take him out as much as I can, but we can’t be as spontaneous and adventurous as when I was a kid.”
A gentle hand on my leg makes me jump, but when Shelley starts to withdraw, I reach down and catch her wrist then put her hand back on my thigh. It’s warm and solid and so ridiculously comforting.
“I like it when you touch me,” I rasp.
“Do you?” Shelley sounds shy. Unsure. See, this is what I get for running away from her earlier like an idiot.
“Definitely,” I say firmly. “Please, never doubt that. Every moment I spend with you is a gift.”
There’s a shaky exhale, then her touch firms on my leg, her warmth seeping through my suit pants.
“This experiment is going well already,” she says.
My shoulders loosen. “Good.”
We wind further and further along dusty back roads, away from the built up city behind us, out into the wilds.
The occasional dwellings we pass get sparser and stranger, going from sturdy brick buildings to tumbledown shacks.
Clouds are still thick overhead, broody and gray, but the rain’s holding off out here. For now.
“Do you ever chase storms?” Shelley asks as we pull off onto an even narrower, bumpier road.
The truck rocks back and forth, throwing us around the cab, and Shelley lets go of my leg to hold on to her seat for balance.
Too bad. Outside the truck, the trees have turned to spiky bushes and cacti, and the flat ground has turned to rock.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you ever get close?”
Shelley squeaks as a dip in the road bounces her in her seat. I hide a smile, wrenching the steering wheel to guide us to a smoother patch of road.
“Sometimes.”
“Can I come with you one day?”
This time I don’t hide my grin. “Sure.”
Shelley can come with me every damn day if she likes. Anywhere I go, I want her there.
“This will do.” Guiding the truck off the path, I park up between a big, dusty boulder and a prickly pear cactus.
All around us are wide-open cloudy skies and empty wastes.
“I come here sometimes when the conditions are right for dust devils. They’re not right today, obviously, but you wanted private…
this was the first place that came to mind.
There are no folks around here for miles. Just critters.”
Shelley nods, chewing on her lip as she stares out the windshield. Her eyes are unfocused, hazy, like she’s not really taking in the view. Like she’s lost in her own world, thinking.
When the sun peeks suddenly between a gap in the clouds, the sudden wash of sunshine glints gold in Shelley’s red hair. My gut tightens, and I wait with my belt unclipped, suddenly unsure what to do with my limbs.
“So,” I say at last, jolting Shelley out of her fog. She swings around to blink at me with those big, green eyes. “What’s the theory? And what’s the experiment you’re running?”
“Oh.” Shelley wets her pink lips, suddenly nervous. Like she’s surprised I asked, despite all the build up. “Well. Um.”
“I’m a man of science,” I remind her gently when she trails off, flushing. “Like you said. So I’m interested to hear it.”
Shelley clears her throat and unclips her seat belt. “Whew. Okay.”
And one minute I’m sitting wooden in the driver’s seat, awkward but eager to hear what she has to say; the next, I’m shoving my seat back as Shelley climbs directly into my lap. She straddles me, chest to chest. Face to face.
“Christ,” I mutter, hands smoothing up Shelley’s thighs to grip her hips. She’s wearing black pants, the fabric soft and thin. “I’m not—I didn’t—”
“Is this okay?” Shelley interrupts, placing her hands on my shoulders and shaking me gently.
“ Yes .”
It’s more than okay. It’s a daydream come to life, an overwhelming storm of good sensations.
Her weight in my lap. The green apple scent of her hair. The way I can almost feel the vibration of Shelley’s voice as she speaks, her chest only a few inches from mine.
“My theory,” she says, “is that we’re both awkward and clumsy with this because we’ve never done this before, and we didn’t want to admit it. So we both messed up instead, snapping or ditching each other.”
Shelley’s blush deepens, but she holds my gaze. Steady and determined—a beautiful little warrior.
I nod, shaky. “Go on.”
“And I know these days we’re supposed to be, like, super experienced and impressive in bed and all that stuff, so maybe we’re both getting in our heads about this. Maybe we’re… maybe the stakes are so high, neither of us wants to mess up.”
All true for me so far. And as I nod along, the truth of what Shelley is saying hits me: that it’s all new for her too. She’s never done this before either. She’s untouched, inexperienced, having saved that experience for… well. For me.
Arousal floods my body, hot and urgent, and my cock is harder than iron where it presses against my suit fly. Where Shelley is perched, I can feel the answering damp heat of her core.
Yes.
Suddenly, my fears from earlier seem so ridiculous.
So misplaced. Because now that I have Shelley alone, now that she’s sitting in my lap with her arms looped around my neck, I know exactly what I want to do with her.
There’s not an ounce of doubt or hesitation in my mind.
And sure, maybe it won’t be the most polished performance, but I’ll make up for that with the boundless, primal hunger I feel for this woman.
I want to devour her.
Want to strip her naked, spread her over the dashboard, and eat her alive.
Want the glossy sheen of her arousal smeared across my chin.
And once I’ve made her come hard enough to wipe that final pinch of anxiety from her forehead, I want to sit Shelley down on my cock and urge her to ride me into oblivion.
“Interesting theory,” I say, running one palm up Shelley’s spine and grinning when she shivers. “But there’s only one way to know for sure.”