CHAPTER 94
This was the second time in four weeks that I was shaving for this man. Like, really shaving, in places that a good girl didn’t allow to see the light of day.
My giant epiphany from earlier, the one where Sex With Cole Masten would heal all of my problems? That thought process had lost steam, sputtered out and was hovering on the brink of death. I shouldn’t go over there. I should bail. Sit on my couch with my mother, eat banana pudding, and watch sweet little Jacob give his last rose to that skank who jerked him off on their Mystery Date even though ex-nun Anita was obviously so much better for him. Yep, I could definitely bail. I mean, what would be the consequences? He’d think poorly of me? That box was already checked. And now that I sat my butt down and thought about it, why was I primping for a night with a man I didn’t like? And who didn’t really like me?
Oh, right. Because he was Cole Masten. Because he’d poured gasoline on the fire of my arousal with his last performance, and there wasn’t another man alive who would be able to recreate that. Because, even though I liked to pretend I hadn’t seen it, pieces of the real Cole had peeked at me. Moments with Cocky. Moments with me. Moments where I saw a man better than the myth. And I wanted, before he hopped on his big jet and returned to California, before he moved on with his life and forgot all about Summer Jenkins, another taste of that man. Even if it ruined me for life. It had to be incredible to be my damnation. Otherwise it would just be another lay, easily forgettable, easily moved on from. Funny how that worked. Sex with him was my drug, and the better the high, the more I would crave it when it was gone. That night, I was succumbing to my addiction, and would take the hit despite the consequences.
So there would not be banana pudding, or The Bachelor, or a crossword puzzle with Mama. Nope. I rinsed the razor out under the bathtub’s tap and fully committed, in my mind, to the decision.
“I need your help.” I spoke rapidly into the house phone, my nerves at a level that couldn’t possibly be good for my mental health.
“I knew it!” Ben chirped. “You’re finally taking my advice and taking those waves straight. Please tell me you are spending all that movie star cash and flying me down there to use the straightener myself.”
I paused, my hand on a duffel bag, stuffed in the back of my closet, that I hadn’t used since high school. “No.”
“Shit,” he said glumly. “Needing fashion advice?” His voice took on a more hopeful lilt.
“Sort of…” I yanked at the bag’s handle, and half the items in the closet fell out. “I’m going over to Cole’s house tonight for sex, and I don’t know whether I should pack an overnight bag.”
Total silence. Quite possibly the quietest my adorable little Ben has been all year. “Repeat that?” he finally asked.
“Shut up and help me,” I groaned, pulling a pair of vintage Nikes out of the bag and examining them dubiously.
There was a long pause, then he spoke, “Is this a relationship hookup or just sex? In other words, are there feelings behind this?”
“No. I mean, intense dislike. If you count that as a feeling.”
“Ooh… hate sex.” He sighed dramatically. “I’d give my right nut for hate sex with that man.”
I grimaced. “Focus Ben.”
“Can you leave a bag in the car and grab it if he invited you to stay the night?”
“No.” There was no way on God’s Green Earth that I was driving my truck to Cole’s and leaving it parked out front all evening or—worse—all night long. If I did, every soul in Quincy would hear about our activities by tomorrow morning’s coffee brew.
“Then don’t pack a bag. Stick a toothbrush and change of underwear in your purse. Everything else you can wing until tomorrow.” He paused. “What are you telling Mama Jenkins?”
I laughed. “Mama Jenkins has all but pushed my butt out the door in his direction. She seems to think Cole is her only shot at grandchildren. She found the condoms I bought and threw them in the trash.” I’d been so embarrassed when I’d opened the lid and saw the small gold box. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that condoms did more than stop pregnancy. Instead, I gingerly removed the box, wiped it off, and hid it in my rain boots. Apparently my underwear drawer no longer counted as an acceptable hiding place.
“What happened to virginal vaginas being one of her requisites for marriage?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off my flip-flops and laughed. “I think she gave up on that scenario when she walked into the house and heard Scott’s hyena orgasm.”
“Who?”
I had forgotten, for a moment, that I hadn’t ever told Ben about Scott. Also forgotten, until right then, about the magazine article. “My ex. Have you been online today?” I hadn’t. Casey had made me swear to stay off all social media and websites. Before I left the Franks’, I read the article. It made me sick, my anticipation of each word giving it extra weight, the worst part being the quotes from local ‘anonymous sources.’ It made me hate every inch of Quincy, their low opinion of me so much harsher when printed in black and white and broadcasted to the entire nation. Don sent me home early, Cole’s head turned my way when I walked out, but I didn’t pause, didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to do anything but get into my truck, drive home, and crawl into my bed.
Momma met me at the door, and I didn’t ask why she wasn’t at work. I just dove into her open arms and sobbed. Sobbed like a little girl. She sat with me in bed, handed me tissues, and listened to my incoherent ramblings while rubbing my back. At some point, while her hand smoothed back my hair, I fell asleep. And when I woke up to the smell of chicken and vegetable soup, I wasn’t upset any more. Instead, I was pissed. At Scott, at Bobbie Jo, at Variety Freaking Magazine. I wanted to chop down ten trees, run fifty miles, take my gun to the big oak out back and empty a hundred clips. I wanted to screw and be screwed ten ways from Sunday by Cole Masten, and I wanted it immediately.
I had gone into the kitchen and kissed Momma on the cheek. Had a bite or two of soup, then excused myself into the bathroom. Used two razors and half a can of shaving cream. Stuck my box-o-condoms in my purse and dressed, pulling on the only sexy panties I owned, then a blue Tommy Hilfiger sundress that Ross had had on discount. It was then that I got stuck, my brain catching up with my libido, the simple logistics of the hookup foreign to me. That was when I’d called Ben. Ben, still in Vancouver, hadn’t yet heard my news. Either Canada didn’t give two craps about a no-name actress in Georgia, or he’d been too busy, but either way, I didn’t chase down the subject. Instead, I made excuses and hopped off the call as soon as possible, telling him I’d call him tomorrow.
Ben was right. Me showing up with an overnight bag would be weird. Really weird. As we clearly worked through in the Franks’ dining room—this was not a date. This was for one thing. One thing that I badly needed to work out the funk that was collecting in my system. My earlier thought process had merit. He would be my distraction. An earth-shattering, toe-curling distraction.
I grabbed my purse and kissed Mama goodbye. Then I opened the back door and jogged down the steps, heading to the fields, his home visible in the setting sun, lights on inside, his truck parked in front. Behind me, at the end of the Holdens’ long drive, a cluster of strange cars squatted outside the locked entry fence. We’d never locked that fence, not in the six years I’d been on the plantation. But Casey had called during my nap and warned Mama. Told her to tell me to stay put, to not talk to anyone, to avoid them. I took a deep breath and entered the fields, pushing everything out of my mind with each step farther away from the vultures.
A distraction. That was all this was.
Maybe an entire box of condoms was a little intimidating. I should have opened it and just pulled out one or two. Or three. Was this a one-sex visit? Scott and I had never had sex more than once per twenty-four hour period. But I read books, I watched Showtime, I knew that other couples were not the prudes that Scott and I were.
Not that Cole and I were a couple. It was a figurative reference.
It was stupid for me to wear flip-flops to walk there. My toes were already covered in dust, and I was only halfway there. Cole was not going to want to have sex with a girl with dirty feet. And it wasn’t like I could invite myself in and then ask to wash them off.
Rainboots. That would have matched this sundress and still kept my feet clean. Though the whole boot-removal process was a pain. And super unsexy, my hands gripping one boot while I grunted and wheezed through the contortions required to get a rubber object off a sweaty foot.
I should have eaten more. I was already hungry and those two bites of soup were tiny. When I was chicken-sitting at Cole’s, I raided his kitchen, and it was pathetic. The man appeared to live off milk, beer, and ham sandwiches.
I came to the end of the field and stopped. Before me, the Kirklands’ backyard, green grass stretching fifty yards in either direction, the white fence keeping the wildflowers at bay, the large home looming up and breaking the canvas of the night sky. And in the middle of the yard stood Cole, his hands on his hips, his white T-shirt stretched tight over a muscular chest, workout shorts on, his eyes on me. My dirty feet and I waited, stuck in place, and tried to think of something to say.