CHAPTER SIX COEN
CHAPTER SIX
COEN
I strip down, kneeling between her legs to roll the condom on.
I actually don’t know what the fuck I’m doing by falling into bed with her one day after meeting, but I do know that for the first time in a while, I don’t feel like I’m watching my life on a TV screen.
My entire body is prickling, awake and alive.
Hell, I’ve got sweat on my back and butterflies in my stomach.
This is real, and I’m right in the action instead of standing in a haze off to the side, watching myself like I’m a puppet on strings.
She’s beautiful and real. Her soft gray eyes follow my every move, lips parted, as I roll the condom on.
Her perfect pussy is wet—soaked, in fact—and when I slide inside her, I think I see God for a second.
Our bodies settle. One of her ankles curls around my back.
I’d like to take her home to Nashville.
I don’t know why that thought popped into my head right now. I push it back and pull out halfway, angling so she feels every inch.
The way she responds blows my mind, like it’s the best sex she’s ever had, which I doubt, but it strokes my ego harder than my dick. Slowly, so she can adjust, because she’s tight, I start fucking her with even strokes. It’s been a while, and I don’t want to disappoint.
I think she’ll probably fuck me up for anyone else. That’s a heavy thought for someone I just met yesterday. Maybe that’s just my desperation for solid ground. Whatever it is, I’ll think about it tomorrow. For now, she’s the only thing I’d like to feel.
We fuck, the bed hitting the wall. I’m lost in her, in her big blue eyes, in the way her breasts heave and she bites her lip as I thrust in.
I wish I could do more to impress her, but I’m right on the edge faster than I intend.
She does this thing where she tightens, her spine rising off the bed, nails scraping along my back.
I come, pulling out at the last minute. The room goes so quiet, I swear I hear the cows and birds outside the window. Slowly, I ease onto my back beside her.
“Sorry,” I say after a minute.
She blows out a long breath. “You should not be sorry. That was amazing.”
“You were amazing,” I say.
She laughs and then goes quiet. “Do you regret it?” she whispers.
“No. We’re both adults.”
She nods, chewing her lip. “I know, but you’re supposed to be here all summer.”
“I can be one and done and act professional.”
I get up, stripping off the condom and finding my sweatpants from the drawer.
She pushes herself up and slides beneath the sheets, pulling them over her breasts.
Her eyes follow me as I disappear into the bathroom to wash up When I come back, she gives me a smile that makes my stomach jerk pleasantly.
“You want something to eat?”
“I think there’s sandwiches on the floor. I packed extra.”
Our eyes lock, and she bites her lower lip. I’m not sure what to say, because all my canons are firing, my palms sweating. I really like her, more than I should. How am I supposed to think straight when she’s looking at me with those damn eyes?
I’m not so tired right now.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll go get those.”
I leave the bedroom and pick up the basket.
The only thing that hit the actual floor was the chips, but there’s still sandwiches and a thermos.
Grabbing some water from the fridge, I bring it into the bedroom and set it out, feeling like a male bird offering grass or something.
She inspects the sandwiches and then nods in approval.
“They look alright.”
I sit against the pillows. “I don’t think we should really tell anyone.”
“You ashamed?”
I shake my head. “No, but I kinda think your dad might kick my ass.”
She has some sandwich. “He might. It sounds like Jamie might too.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
Neither of us speak for a few minutes. We just eat.
I think about how many sandwiches I ate growing up in this lonely part of the state.
My entire summer was comprised of them. Being raised by a single mom, we didn’t have a lot of money, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were a cheap, daily staple.
Chicken salad is a hell of a lot better, but it chokes me up with something I have difficulty swallowing.
She dusts off her hands. I do the same.
“I should go,” she says.
She sits up, but I put my hand on her thigh to keep her from rising. Our eyes meet, and there it is again, a soft warmth that feels like it could be home.
“You can stay,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to risk anyone seeing me leave in the morning.”
There’s a long silence.
“I don’t want you to think I’m just doing this because that’s what I do,” I say finally.
She cocks her head. “It’s not?”
“No. At least, it hasn't been for a while.”
“So why’d you do it?”
I think about it, running my finger over the callous on my palm. “For the same reason I would have done it if I wasn’t me.”
“Just to feel good?”
I look into her steely eyes. “No, because I saw you, and it kinda made my stomach jump. You’re something… I like the way you are. Maybe I should’ve held off.”
She’s quiet for a while, and I wish I had better words. Again, if I had the chance to type everything out, I could write her a book on why I fell into bed. But because it’s coming from my lips, I’m at a loss for words.
“But you are Coen Taylor,” she says finally. “And I might live out here, in the middle of nowhere, but I know about people with your kind of jobs.”
I don’t have to ask what she means. I’ve seen it with my friends time and time again. Hell, it’s worse than she thinks it is from reading her grocery check-out magazines.
“Being on the road is hard,” I say finally. “That's why I’m out here in the first place. After a while, it starts to fuck with you.”
She sighs. “I always thought I’d like to travel somewhere that isn’t Wyoming or New York State.”
“Do you?”
She nods, picking at the blanket. “I’d be happy with anywhere. Don’t even need to go so far as places like Thailand, or Johannesburg, or any of the other places I used to read about. Hell, even places like where you lived, like Nashville, sound wild to me.”
“Nashville can be pretty wild,” I say, smiling.
She smiles back, but it’s a little sad. “Do you like it though?”
That’s hard to say. I’ve never really seen Nashville, not the way people with regular jobs have, where they get to visit the theaters or enjoy the restaurants at night.
I’ve never lived in the suburbs or the city apartments.
My career path wasn’t like that. I wrote a song not long after meeting Jamie, and he showed it to a producer at West Creek.
They asked me to write a different one for an up and coming country musician named Dax Williams. That one, Western Midnight Blues, hit the top of the country music charts for two months straight.
I was booked for fifteen years, and it’s still going.
I never finished writing that first song.
Maybe I should.
“Yeah, I think I like Nashville.” I force the words out, unsure what my real thoughts are.
“You seem a little jaded.” Her voice is soft.
“Yeah,” I say.
She shifts, still holding the sheet over her body, moving to face me. “Do you like doing what you do?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh.” She pulls back.
“Sorry, it’s not that. I love it, can’t do without it. But I hate it because…it took my life away. Why anyone wants to be fucking famous is beyond me.”
She reaches out and touches my knee. Heat travels in her wake and, despite our conversation, I spark like a rusty lighter deep inside.
“I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Champagne problems. Sorry.”
“No, I…I don’t understand, but I see what you’re saying. You had to ask and meet me to know things about me, but I just had to look you up online. You must miss being private.”
That’s a touchy subject. I nod, running my hand over my face.
“Will you stay if I set the alarm for early before anyone else is up?” I ask.
She touches my face. “I’m not a Band-Aid for what hurts, Coen.”
“I know. I just don’t want you to go.”
The gears in her head turn. Finally, she nods. “Alright. Go get my phone from my pocket.”
I do, and I give her my charger. She sets the alarm, then disappears into the bathroom.
When she comes out, she’s still naked. I should offer her my shirt, but I don’t want to cover up that masterpiece.
I hold out my arm, and she comes over, climbing shyly into my lap.
Her fingers graze my neck. She’s so close, I could kiss her beautiful mouth right now.
“I feel like you have a lot of stories behind those eyes,” she says.
Gently, I touch her throat, where a blue vein flickers. “So do you.”
“Not many.”
“Just because they’re different from mine doesn’t make them mean less. Isn’t that what folk music is all about? Writing about everyday life?”
“I guess so.”
“The heart of folk and country music is in the struggles of ordinary people.”
She’s quiet.
“I don’t mean ordinary in a bad way. It’s a compliment.”
She smiles again, nose scrunching. “I know what you meant. You’re pretty eloquent when you feel comfortable.”
I’m not, but I appreciate it.
“You’re easy to talk to,” I say.
We’re both real quiet for a long time. The window is open a crack, and the sounds of nighttime on the ranch seep through.
I thought I would feel at home, then I didn’t, and now I’m wondering if that’s less about being exhausted and more about losing touch.
I was a different man when I lived out here.
Now, I worry if I look in the mirror, I won’t recognize myself.
I guess, I keep looking away.
“We should sleep,” she whispers. “If we’re getting up early.”
“Yeah.”
She slips down and snuggles up beneath the covers.
I shift close and let her curl up against my chest, wrapping my arms around her body.
It doesn’t feel like we met yesterday—I glance at the clock.
The day before yesterday, actually. I can’t tell if that makes me a little pathetic, a little stereotypical.
There’s a lot I turn over in my brain most nights. But tonight, I don’t feel the ghosts of all my responsibilities hovering over me. It’s just two people, two heartbeats. I close my eyes and pretend my name isn’t Coen Taylor until I believe it and fall asleep.