Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3) Page 19

  “So,” Harlan said as the door closed behind her. He kissed Jennifer on the forehead, then pulled back and smiled into her eyes. “Remind me. Where were we?”

  23

  Not Letting Go

  She tried to think of what to say. All she could come up with was the truth.

  “I always have … too many thoughts,” she tried to explain, aware that her hair was messy, and she was wearing a not-closed-enough hotel robe and absolutely nothing else except some body lotion, and he was still completely dressed. Jeans. Belt. Plaid flannel shirt, the kind that felt so wonderfully soft under your fingertips, and probably another shirt under that. Boots, the Western kind. So many clothes. All she could really see of him was his face. That mouth.

  Those hands.

  And she was almost naked. Like she was throwing herself at him. Which, of course, she had been.

  “Go on,” he said, not making any moves. In fact, he sat back, which was odd. Surely, it was odd. “Too many thoughts. Which doesn’t exactly surprise me, by the way.”

  “Yeah.” She shoved a hand through her hair, messing it up some more. She was still so tired, and possibly drunk enough on a glass and a half of wine, that every motion felt languid, her movements delayed by a half-second as her sluggish brain tried to process, and she didn’t have nearly enough control over her thoughts. “I’m a multitasker. It’s my life. My job, money, chores, Dyma, her school, my grandpa, my mom …” She could feel the tears welling up. Too many conflicting feelings, too close to the surface. “She was sick, and then she died, so there was just … a lot, you know?” Well, this was seductive. “But you can’t worry too much,” she went on anyway, “because there are all these things on your list. Groceries, and dinner, and laundry, and bills, and a job that’s more details, and how all those things affect each other, how you’re going to juggle them and not drop any balls. I go from one thing to the next, all day long, and it’s fine. But if I don’t have a list, if I don’t have a plan, I’m sort of … unmoored. I’m not sure what to do about Dyma here, or even whether I need to do anything. And I don’t know what to do about you. About this. How to get myself back into the … zone, or whatever. Or how to get you there.” She tried to laugh, although she still felt weepy. “Also, I realize that I’m the worst seducee ever.”

  “Except that you weren’t getting seduced,” he said.

  “I wasn’t?” She blinked at him. “It sure felt like it.”

  He groaned. “Stop doing that thing with your eyes, or I’ll be a liar. I mean, we weren’t doing anything you didn’t want. I thought that was the point. Hey, I even wore a shirt with a collar to take you out to dinner. I’ll take you out to dinner right now, if that’s what you want. But then I come in here and you’re in this robe in front of the fire, telling me how relaxed you are, lying back on the couch, letting me feel how you’re naked under there, and it’s been all these days with you …”

  “What thing with my eyes? I don’t do things with my eyes.”

  “You bet you do. You blink them at me. Slowly. And they’re gold.” He spread out a big hand. “Anyway. We’re off track. We’re not talking about this, or about your skin or the way you look at me or the way you gasp a little when I kiss you or that body you’ve got, because I’m not seducing. You’re telling me about your list. About your life.”

  She said, “Part of me wants to keep doing that. To keep my mouth moving. My brain moving. Letting go feels so … so dangerous.” Once again, she could only come up with the truth. “I’m thinking, though … I’m here with you in this pretty wonderful place, and you’re pretty wonderful, too, so maybe I should stop thinking for once and go with this. See where it takes me. So … do you want to take off your boots? You’re so dressed, and I’m so … not. I could help you do it. Want me to?”

  She was out there now. She couldn’t be more out there. It felt like a dangerous place to be. Surely, now, he’d just kiss her, save her from all this blundering around, and let her go back to feeling carried away.

  It had felt so good to surrender.

  Whatever Mark had said, she wasn’t actually bad at sex. She knew how to give oral sex, for one thing, and she was good at it. She was a people pleaser all the way, which meant she was fine once she actually got there. She didn’t know how to get there from here, though. Not once she’d blurted out the details of her life. Including bills and chores and her dead mother.

  She’d make the worst call girl in existence.

  He said, “I do want you to. But I have to say something first.”

  That wasn’t what she’d had in mind, unless it was, “That you light me up, because you’re so gorgeous.” Which she could tell it wasn’t.

  What he actually said was, “You realize that I’m not a staying-around guy.”

  “Uh … sorry?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Well, I hope not,” she said. “Or I’m making even more of a mistake.”

  He laughed a little, but his eyes still looked worried. He said, “But I’ve never come that close, either. I’m kind of a … good-time guy. I have to tell you that, because I realize I may have given you the wrong idea, taking you to meet my family and all. Such as they are. And you being more, well … normal. Like a PTA mom.”

  Oh, this was great. She was so glad she’d introduced honest conversation into the picture. “I’m a PTA mom,” she said slowly. “You know what? I think I prefer the seducing idea.”

  “No,” he said. “Being a PTA mom is great. It’s just … you’re wholesome. And of course I don’t mean you’re not sexy. Haven’t I just been telling you that? I couldn’t have walked out this door just then if you’d paid me.”

  She sat up all the way. That all sounded wonderful. Except not. “I’m a little confused. It seems like you’re telling me something else. Something like, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

  Some more with the concerned look. Was she asking him to be concerned? She was not. “I just don’t want you to be hurt,” he said, which was the kind of thing men said just before they hurt you. “You think I’m that wolf you saw, loyal and strong and all, and I’m not. There’s Owen, looking like he’s ready to take out a mortgage right now, because Owen is that guy. I don’t even own a house. The Devils are my third team. And I don’t exactly …” He took a breath, ran his hand through his hair, and said, “See, I don’t even know how to have this conversation.”

  All right. She was mad. Probably at herself, but still. She was mad.

  She slid off the couch, picked up her glass of wine, and said, “Was I asking you to marry me? What part of ‘Let’s just do this’ didn’t you get? And, yes, I realize I said it all wrong. Geez, can’t I even … Mark was right. I don’t know how to flirt. Why did I tell you all that? I know why. Because I’ve never had a one-night stand. I’m thirty-four, I’ve been single all my life, and I’ve never even done this before. And I don’t know how. I’m so tired of being embarrassed, though. So tired of feeling like I’m not enough. I can’t stand to have you feeling sorry for me, and I can’t stand to think about how I’m going to feel tomorrow. So you know what? I’m just going to go get in my hot tub and pretend this didn’t happen. I don’t need your pity. If I’ve got a … a problem, I’ll take care of it myself. Give myself an alternate reality. You know the three things I’m great at? Masturbation, fantasy, and fellatio. My sexual skills. None of which involve talking.”

  She didn’t cry. She might cry later, but she wasn’t crying now. She just said, “And I’m not a PTA mom. My boobs were too big and perky, I was too young and cute, and their husbands stared at me too much. You don’t get my life at all.”

  She didn’t think about it any more. She couldn’t. She just turned her back on him, opened the tie to her robe, shrugged her shoulders, and felt the thing slide down her body and hit the floor. She didn’t turn around, because she couldn’t look at him and say this. “And I’m tired of being ashamed of my body,” she told him with the very last of her courage. “I’m
not twenty-one anymore, I eat chocolate when I’m stressed, and Spanx don’t work when you’re naked. And I don’t care.”

  And then she left.

  Whoa.

  He gave her a minute. Or more like—he took a minute. And then he headed out after her.

  She was out there in the cold dark, lying in the steaming hot tub, her head back against the edge, looking up at the sky. Probably trying not to cry.

  He squatted down beside her, got a hand on her head, smoothed her hair back, and said, “Hey.”

  She didn’t look at him. She said, “Could you just … not? Don’t be nice. I’m so embarrassed.” As he watched, a tear made it over her lower lid and slid down the side of her face, and he saw the convulsive movement of her throat as she swallowed.

  He could have said so many things, but he didn’t think talking was going to do the job.

  “Well, hell,” he said, and got his boots and socks off. After that, he ripped off the rest of his clothes, slid in opposite her, let the heat enfold him, and said, “You don’t want to talk? Then you can listen. You’re beautiful, and, yeah, you’re seriously sexy. I’m also going to ask you what the hell you’re talking about. What was that part about spanking? Because you bet a guy could look at your ass and think about that. A guy could look at your ass and have a whole sweet fantasy about it, to tell you the truth. If I’m not supposed to do that, you shouldn’t have said it.”

  She didn’t have her head tipped back anymore. She was just staring at him. “What? I’m talking about Spanx.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “So am I. It’s working for me, too. Not to mention that other sexual skill of yours. Though I’ve got to tell you, that wasn’t the main thing I had in mind tonight. I was thinking that I want to see your eyes close. I want to hold your thighs, shove them apart real slow, and not let you go. I want to feel you tightening up around me, and I want to know your toes are curling when I hit the right spot. When I do it right, because, Jennifer, I am going to do it right. I’m going to do it until you beg.” He got his feet up there on the bench, against her thighs, and did a little squeezing, because he wanted her to feel him there. “Oh, yeah. The begging’s going to be nice.”

  She was still staring at him like he was a Martian. “That was not sexy, what I said,” she told him. “That was the last thing from sexy.”

  He, slid down a little lower and took a good look at her breasts, half-submerged in the steaming water. “Well, yeah. It was. You getting all fired up like that, yelling at me? You bet it was. And when you dropped your robe?” He sighed. “You’ve got a bruise back there, yeah. You’ve also got one hell of an ass, and if we’re going there—I want my hands all over it.” After that, he smiled at her, keeping it slow. “So, hey. How about coming over here and putting your tongue in my mouth?”

  24

  A Throwaway Thing

  “No,” she said.

  She hadn’t known she’d say it until the word came out of her mouth. She wanted to take it back. But she didn’t.

  His smile faded. “Jennifer,” he finally said. “I meant that.”

  “No,” she said again. “I can’t. You are feeling sorry for me. This is like the spa treatment. You’re trying to give me a good time, because as we know, I confided. Ugh. I can’t believe I confided. It’d make you feel better, because you haven’t been able to help enough today, and you’re a good person. Which is noble. It is. But I can’t help you do it. Not this way. I can’t.”

  For once, he wasn’t looking charming. He was looking like he didn’t know how to be charming.

  “I have to live with this,” she told him. “And I can’t. I always told Dyma …” She had to blink back the tears and take a deep breath before she went on. “Not to sleep with anybody who didn’t think he was the luckiest guy in the world to get the chance. It’d be an easy thing for you. A throwaway thing. I get it. But I can’t be a throwaway thing anymore.”

  She stood up, got hit by a wave of cold air on her superheated skin, scrambled out of the hot tub without nearly enough grace, and reached for her robe. Now he’d seen every bit of her, but that was all right, too. That was fine.

  She wasn’t unsure anymore, and she was always unsure. That had to mean this was right, even though it felt lousy. “I’m going to take a shower,” she told him. “And then order some dinner and go to bed. I realize you’re paying, but I’m going to tell myself that I didn’t ask you to. You wanted company, and I’ve given you company.”

  “You have,” he said. His face was shut down now. “You should do what you want.”

  “It’s your birthday,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m a big boy,” he said. “Go.”

  He didn’t hang around. Once he was sure she’d be locked into her bathroom, he climbed out of the hot tub, pulled his clothes over his wet body as best he could, let himself out of the suite, and headed back to his room.

  Nowhere he hadn’t been before. An anonymous hotel room. A shower. A room-service order.

  His phone rang.

  He picked it up, his heart pounding.

  Annabelle.

  He took a breath, pushed the button, and said, “Hey, Bug. Using it already, huh?”

  “I can’t talk long,” she said. “I’m in the shed.”

  “What? Why? It’s too cold out there.”

  “I know. I’m the one here. I was scared Dad would hear me.”

  He swung his feet to the floor. “Why? What did he do?”

  Shit. Why had he left like that? He should have stayed. He should have known. His dad had felt humiliated. He’d known that would make it worse.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Not like you’re thinking. He just … he threw some things, I think, after he got home. Something was breaking out there, anyway. I think he might have bet on the game, but I’m not sure. If he did, he lost. It was an upset, if you didn’t watch, because the Patriots didn’t have any pass rush at all, and their play calling was kind of bizarre, but you know how he always thinks the Patriots can’t lose. Anyway, I stayed in my room. It’s quiet now, though. I think he fell asleep. But I thought it would be better to come out here to call.”

  “Right.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to get his breathing under control. “Sorry I left you.” He dragged a hand through his still-wet hair. “What can I do?”

  “I just wondered … maybe I could live with Alison until September, until I’m eighteen, and then I could come out and be with you. What do you think? I’d miss the rest of the softball season, but maybe … maybe I could wait and go after the playoffs, in April. I could tell him I’ll play next year in Portland. Maybe that wouldn’t make him so mad.”

  “That’s a thought,” he said. “Alison, I mean, because of course you can come stay with me afterwards. Why don’t you call her? I’ll give you the number.” Her next-older sister, who lived in Minneapolis now.

  “Can you call?” she asked. “Please? It’s just … I’m cold.” And, he thought, scared to hear another “no.”

  “I’ll call,” he promised. “I’ll text you what she says. Go back inside.”

  “Harlan?” she asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why didn’t Mom ever come back? Do you think it was because of me?” He couldn’t tell whether what he was hearing was the cold, or whether she was crying.

  “What? No. How could it be because of you?”

  “The rest of you were teenagers, though. And you were in college already, but then I came along. I was only in kindergarten, and maybe she thought … maybe she thought she was almost done, but then I showed up, and that made it too hard. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t come back, you know?” Now, he could tell for sure what it was. She was crying, just a little. The same way Jennifer did it, like she couldn’t allow herself to let go, because she didn’t have anywhere safe to be while she did it. Because there was nobody to hold her. Annabelle went on, “Every day, I’d walk to the bus stop and think, ‘Maybe she’ll come home today while I�
�m at school and bring me presents. If I’m really good, she’ll be home when I get there, and she’ll give me a big hug and say how much she missed me and say I’m her little ladybug.’ Even though I knew she went with that guy, and she took her car and all her clothes. I thought, she wouldn’t go away with somebody else forever. She’d come back and be with me.”

  This helplessness. It was killing him. “She shouldn’t have left,” he told her. “Or not like that. She should’ve gotten a divorce, so she could’ve taken you. I don’t know why she didn’t, but it wasn’t you. I know that for sure. She loved you.”

  “Then why did she only send postcards?” she asked. “Why didn’t she come back and visit, even? I keep thinking … if we knew where she was, I could ask to live with her. They’d have to let me do that. She’s my mom.”

  “You want me to see if I can find her? See if we could get her permission for you to leave? Or to be an … emancipated minor, or whatever you call it?” He didn’t want to think about it, much less to do it. He had no desire to see his mom. Or he was afraid of what he’d say when he did.

  He didn’t want to hate anybody. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He didn’t want to be his dad.

  “Do you think you can?” Annbelle asked.

  “I can try,” he said. “I can hire somebody to look, anyway.”

  “OK,” she said.

  “Go back to bed,” he said. “It’s too cold. I’ll call Alison. And, Bug?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  Another promise he might not be able to keep.

  Another phone call. Alison, this time. She said, “Harlan? Why are you calling so late? Oh, geez, I forgot your birthday. Sorry. Mattie’s been sick, and …” Sounding distracted, as usual. Two kids. Job. Husband. And not enough closeness. They were scattered to the four winds, his siblings. There wasn’t any glue to hold them together.