21
Girls Night Out and Hangover Sex
[Midge]
A break follows Liam’s first game, and after the men leave, I help another mom distribute watermelon and juice boxes for a snack. Returning to the blankets, I find Edie and Ivy in a serious conversation.
“I think Gage is having an affair.” I gasp at Ivy’s revelation.
“How can you say such a thing?” Edie asks. I agree. I’ve seen Gage Everly kiss his wife. It’s a porn scene. He couldn’t possibly want someone else.
“It’s bound to happen, right? I mean, he’s a rock star,” Ivy says sadly, shrugging in dismissal.
“That’s not an excuse,” Edie snips. Our eyes meet, and I see the sisterhood. We’ve both been cheated on. What is it with men? Can they not keep it contained? Committed?
“I don’t believe it.” I try to reassure her with a smile and a rub of her arm. She shrugs under my touch, not pulling away but resolved to a sad reality.
“He’s been acting so strange. Late-night phone calls. The other night, he completely forgot he had to watch the kids, or so he says. He had Petty set to watch them after I left, only I was running late and Petty arrived early.”
“Not Petty,” Edie shrieks with a sharp laugh. She covers her mouth in horror.
“Why? What’s wrong with him?” I question.
“He redefines man whore. He can’t take care of himself, let alone three children,” Edie clarifies.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. Gage pursued me so hard when we were younger, and he promised me so many things. Maybe he’s had a change of heart.”
“No,” I say, holding her upper arm, hoping to comfort her. “I’ve seen him with you. The way he looks at you. The way he kisses you.” I blush, but Ivy doesn’t bat a lash. “He loves you.”
“It has to be something else, honey,” Edie adds. “Maybe he’s planning a surprise for you.”
Ivy adamantly shakes her head. “He isn’t. He isn’t good at those things. He’d tell me long before he could surprise me.” She smiles weakly at the thought.
“This happens when men turn thirty, right? Some kind of midlife crisis or something.” Her innocent eyes beg us to support her.
“Thirty-five,” Edie and I say in unison and then laugh. She high-fives me. Growing serious, Edie reaches for Ivy’s hand. “Honey, you’re both just busy. Three kids. The therapy school. Another album for the band. You have a lot going on.”
Ivy swipes at the corner of her eye. “I guess so.” Edie wraps her arm around Ivy, holding her husband’s niece close to her chest.
This reminds me. I’m dating her mother’s ex-lover, a man who professed his love repeatedly to Kit, and she rejected him. Why?
“I’m sorry I didn’t know about Hank,” I interject, not certain what exactly I’m apologizing for. “I didn’t know he loved your mom.”
Ivy’s eyes widen, dismissing me with a wave. “They had a strange relationship. Love-hate. She hated how she loved him so much and couldn’t admit it. He hated how he loved her so much because she never accepted him. She was scared after my dad, always telling me and my brother we didn’t need men when we had her as our mama.”
“You have a brother?” I blurt, not recalling having heard of him. Edie and Ivy exchange a look before Ivy says under her breath, “I’m tired of hiding him.”
Sitting up straighter, she looks at me. “Yes, I have a brother. His picture hangs in the entry to the therapy school.” I recall the black and white of Kit Carrigan laughing with her arm around a young man in a wheelchair.
“Is that why you started the school?”
Ivy shakes her head. “I did it for me. I needed something, to be more than Gage Everly’s wife, more than a mother. Lawson was the inspiration for my degree in music therapy. He’s very important to me.”
“Lawson? That’s your brother’s name?”
Ivy nods. “He’s three years younger than me.”
I have so many questions, but Ivy turns away from me to watch the game. Edie catches my eye, willing me to understand. Now isn’t the time for answers. Instead, I shift gears. “So girls’ night out. I vote margaritas.”
+ + +
I’m pushing my luck with margarita number four but being out with other women has been a treat. I didn’t socialize with the girls at work often, always feeling a little bit too old for them. Besides, I had a husband and kids at home when some of them didn’t. When it was only me and the boys, the pressure to get home as quickly as I could each night didn’t afford me the opportunity to mingle with colleagues. Having new friends is refreshing, as are limes and tequila.
An hour later, the result equals slow recognition of being propped over my toilet with a thick hand on my back as my body convulses, expelling four said margaritas. My hair is pulled back to the nape of my neck as my stomach roils, and I throw up again.
“It’s okay, baby.” A smoky voice does nothing to calm me, and I realize I’m crying as well as vomiting. “Get it out.”
Hank’s soothing tone makes me whimper. I don’t remember him arriving at the bar, and more importantly, what is he doing here?
“Sweet cheese, leave me to die.”
“You’re not dying, lady.” He chuckles, smoothing his hand down my back. I have a strange sense of still wearing his too large shirt and my underwear. Nothing else. Lord, what have I done? Another bout of nausea rocks me, and I gag over the bowl, spitting in hopes something will happen. Hank’s lying; I’m dying.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed I can’t party like a rock star or like I’m still twenty-three. “Oh God, Hank, I’m so sorry,” I say, remembering he’s a recovering alcoholic, and I’m drunk. Tears still wash down my face, and I lower my head to the seat.
Hank folds his body to the floor, propping his back against the cabinet. He gently tugs me so I curl between his legs and lay against his chest. A heavy hand plays with my hair, combing it back from my face and brushing it down my back.
“I’m sorry,” I weakly repeat. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Lady, this ain’t nothing compared to what I’ve seen or done. Just relax. We’ll stay right here as long as you need.” My eyes close at his gentle touch, but that makes the world spin.
“What time is it?” I note the darkness, but my eyes drag closed again.
“After midnight.”
“Cripes, the boys—”
“Know their mom isn’t feeling well, and I’m staying to take care of her.” I sniffle, a choking sob exhaling with a heavy breath.
“You’re kind of good to me.” Tears begin to flow again with the thought.
“Want to be better than good,” he mutters, his chest vibrating as he speaks. His heart beats a steady rhythm under my ear, and my lids grow heavy.
“You could be somebody’s someone,” I whisper, growing comfortable on his chest. He says something, but I don’t hear him.
When I wake next, I’m in bed with my robe wrapped around me, wearing a tank top and my underwear. I’m on top of my duvet with three pillows under my head. I feel a kink in my neck and a headache like Ronin’s marching band strutting over my brain.
“Holy God,” I moan, holding my forehead and squeezing my eyes shut against the brightness of morning. My head rolls to face the clock, and I curse again. Mother of all things holy, my head. Noticing the time, I swing my legs off the bed and shakily press myself upward. Voices from downstairs alert me the boys are awake, and I need to explain myself. My legs tremble when I stand. Reaching for the wall, I think I can fake it, but I race to the bathroom. Expelling the last of anything left in my stomach, I stand to see a pallid face cleaned of makeup and my hair piled on my head. I don’t recall washing my face or twisting up my hair. I look like death.
Making my way down the stairs, I stop when I hear one voice in particular.
“Don’t you worry about your mom. She’ll be fine. Just a little under the weather.” His smoky, early morning voice warms my heart, and my knees collapse. I crumple to the stairs and sit.
“Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” Elston teases, and I hear Hank chuckle.
“Who gets ham? Want mustard?” Is he making them lunch? “Chips?” he questions.
“Only one crunchy, Mom says. We have to have a fruit.”
“Good plan,” Hank adds after Liam sets him straight on my lunch rules.
“Ronin, what do you want?” My head tips to the wall as I listen to Hank handle my boys and their morning routine. In fact, he might be handling it better than I do. I’m usually racing around, picking up clothing and barking out schedules. When I worked at Bigle, the morning chaos was even worse. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been toying with going out on my own and working for myself. I could set my schedule to fit my needs, not the other way around.
When the kids leave for school, the kitchen grows quiet, and I close my eyes with the peace.
“You’re alive,” Hank teases as he stands at the bottom steps, holding a plate with two halves of toast and a small glass of something resembling a smoothie.
“I think I’ll live.” My voice cracks, hoarse from crying and throwing up. Brushing my teeth has done wonders for my spirits. “But I’m tired. I need to shower and get to work.” I don’t move, though.
“I called in for you. I think I might have some pull with the boss.” He winks as he steps up the two stairs and sits next to me.
“I don’t want to seem irresponsible. Last night proved I clearly can be.”
“Lady, we all need to let our hair down at some point. Typically, it’s not into a toilet, but—”
“Ugh. Gross. Did that happen?”
“Nope. I had it.” The comment turns my head to him. He took care of me. My hair. My face. Even my robe. It was all him, there for me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Anytime.” He leans forward for his quick kiss. “You brushed your teeth.”
“I had to. Besides, how could you kiss me otherwise?”
“I’d kiss you any way I could, little lady.” He makes me laugh, but it hurts my head, and I wince.
“Toast?” He holds out the plate.
“I think I’ll pass for now.” Setting the plate and the glass on the stair, he turns to me, scooping under my knees and around my back.
“Okay then. Back to bed for now.”
I giggle as he struggles at first, tossing me gently to situate me so he can carry me up the staircase. Setting me on my bed, he heads for my bathroom as I fall over to my side. Returning, he holds my hairbrush in his hand. He crawls behind me, prompting me to sit up, then slips his legs on either side of mine. He removes my crazily wound hair and begins to brush it. The methodic movement soothes, and I close my eyes as he strokes over the long tresses. Is there any greater pleasure than having your hair brushed by someone else? We remain quiet for several minutes. Eventually, he separates my hair into three sections and braids it.
“Sweet cheese, Hank. Why aren’t you married?” My eyes remain closed, languishing in the pleasure of him working with my hair. He chuckles softly.
“Guess it wasn’t for me,” he says, and I remember what he told me. He asked several times, but she always said no.
“She must have been crazy,” I whisper.
“Why?” His fingers still. Curiosity fills his voice.
“I can’t imagine why she would say no to you, Hank.”
“I wasn’t good.” He exhales, rubbing his hands down my shoulders.
“You’re perfect,” I quietly murmur. A brief kiss lands on my neck before he scoops the single braid to the side.
“You need to lie down again.” He’s gentle in his direction, swinging his leg around me, and I tip to my side. He climbs up behind me, stifling a yawn, and I roll to face him.
“Why’d you quit drinking? Was it because of her?”
He closes his eyes and rubs down his face, stroking at his stubbled chin. The beard has grown a bit thicker since yesterday.
“I almost killed a kid. I almost took from some family their boy when I hadn’t ever had one. The emptiness I knew they’d feel just snapped me out of it, so I went to rehab. Did the twelve steps, but sometimes, the meetings made me want to drink again. The sob stories. The heartbreak. I had to just make a clean break for myself, and that’s how I lost touch with the band. I couldn’t be around the lifestyle anymore.” He rolled his head to look at me. “But the band was already done. Kit was dead, and we were over.”
I stare at liquid silver filled with pain. I sit up and remove my robe. His gray eyes narrow at me.
“Middy, whatcha doing?”
“I want to curl into you.” My voice is low, hesitant as I reach for his t-shirt, wondering where his flannel went, and tug it off him. The shirt hardly left much to the imagination, but in broad daylight, his naked chest is a masterpiece. Symbols and swirls, colors and calligraphy cover a good portion of his upper body and down each arm. I push at him to lie back and return to my side. He shifts, so I tuck into his chest, his arms wrapping over me.
+ + +
“Feels nice.” I’m dreaming, and I purr as Hank suckles me. My tank top presses upward. My hips rock as he draws me deeper, lapping over the nipple before enveloping the achy globe into his warm mouth. “Like that.”
My hand finds his head, scratching lightly at his short hair as I separate my knees. My other hand cups my neglected breast before skimming down my stomach, heading for the promise land. I’m almost there, wondering if an orgasm is a possibility in my dream, when I feel fingers engulf my wrist, and my eyes flutter open. My hand stills on Hank’s head. His head which is literally in my hand.
I don’t need to glance down to know where his face rests. And the noise coming from his mouth warns me he isn’t stopping. He nips my nipple before heading for the other breast.
“Hank.” My voice squeaks. He still grips my wrist at my waist.
“You’re all sprawled out, sexy and pliant, moaning in some dream. How could I resist you?” He looks up at me, his tongue dragging around my nipple before he blows on the warm wetness, pinching me more erect with the cool stream of his breath. My sex clenches, and my fingers twitch. He looks down at my hand and then back up at me. “Where were you going, little lady?” he teases, his voice low, smoky, gravelly.
“Let me see,” he commands, rolling back to his side, propping up on one elbow. His lazy finger traces around my breast, begging to be massaged again. When I don’t move my hand, he tugs at my wrist, dragging it to the waistband of my underwear. “Let me see, wild thing.” The smooth tenor of his voice guides me like he did the night in the tub. I close my eyes and lower my fingers, finding the nub, hot, pulsing and ready.
“Fuck, that’s hot, baby,” he moans beside me before slipping his finger next to mine.
“I like it better when you do it,” I admit, and his mouth returns to my breast, sucking as his finger dives into me. I’m one ball of sensory overload, and within minutes, I’m writhing under his eager fingers and holding his head to keep his mouth latched onto me.
“Hank,” I warn. I can’t speak. I arch off the bed, my knees coming together to hold his hand between my thighs. He pulls back to watch as I ride the wave, moaning and mewing with a long, languid release. My arms fall to the sides as I look up at him. He slides up and scoots off the bed, quickly removing his jeans and boxers. He tugs my ankles apart and crawls over me. Holding himself, he drags the head through wet folds, ripe and anxious for him.
“I shouldn’t have come inside you last week without protection. I’m clean, totally clean, but it was a bit irresponsible of me. You’re still young enough to get pregnant.”
Sweet cheese, I don’t want to think about such things.
“But I liked watching me connecting with you, little lady. It’s quite the turn-on.” I take the risk to watch what he’s doing to me, spreading and seeping along my slit. It’s a bit intoxicating, and the scandal of doing it in broad daylight causes me to clench. I want him inside me.
He pulls back and reaches for the back pocket of his jeans. I watch as he rolls on the condom, stretching over his solid length. In the sunlight, I see for the first time how truly large he is. My mouth almost waters with the excitement that that is going to fill me. He’s gentle as he presses inward, watching as he disappears within me. As he balances on two hands over me, he groans once he’s as far as he can go. He slips a hand under my backside and pivots, rolling onto his back and forcing me to straddle him.
Staring up at my breasts, he begins to fondle them, massaging and squeezing, forcing them together.
“You have the best tits.” The compliment seems brazen in the sunshine, yet a bit of exhibitionist in me doesn’t care. I’m so lost in the movement of rocking over him, the angle somehow deeper with me above him. I gain a steady rhythm, my breath catching as our pace quickens. My fingers slip down my belly, touching the pleasure point to add to the friction. I feel something building, like a volcano forming inside me, rumbling, cresting, boiling.
“Hank,” I scream as I clutch at his hips with my knees and hammer over him, milking him into me while I come a second time. I don’t know how he does this to me. I’ve never come twice in my life, but with him, I just want to keep going, and it drags on and on and on. I’m just barely slowing down when Hank sits up, wraps an arm around my waist, and spins us again.
He’s over me, sliding his hands up my stomach and over my breasts before jumping to my hands and raising them above my head. Entwining our fingers, he holds me pinned to the bed, thrusting into me so deep, so hard, my breasts jiggle and the bed quakes.
“Goddamn, I…” His voice fades, but in my head, I complete the phrase. I love you. How difficult would the words be to say? How much meaning would they hold? A tear drips from my eye. What can I say, I guess I’m a crier.
“You okay, baby?” His voice strains to speak as he pummels into me.
“More,” I whisper without the breath to explain my meaning. He doesn’t pause at my response, but stills, pulsing inside me with the tapping rhythm I like. Drained, he collapses next to me, still buried within. He kisses my shoulder, lingering, and I cup his head.
“What did more mean?” The question startles me, and I roll my head to look at him.
“More kisses, more than okay, more of everything.” He returns his mouth to my shoulder and smiles against my skin.