CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
We’re out the door and back onto the street when Brandon stops under a street light. The sidewalks aren’t deserted but are fairly still; it’s a summer evening in Old Town and there’s plenty still going on, but much of it is indoors around the Overlook’s corner. A few people pass us, and I try to focus on each one. I imagine them as people who know my father, who know me, and whom I need to prove wrong. I was eighteen when I left, yes. But now I’m twenty-two and have a degree. I’m ready to move on. To become more. And no matter what Mason James thinks, I can.
“What?” I ask him.
He looks momentarily uncomfortable then glances up the street, toward the restaurant, presumably toward his truck — which, until five minutes ago, I’d assumed was a car.
“Maybe we should get you an Uber.”
“Can’t you take me home?” I shouldn’t have said that because it sounds demanding and perhaps a bit whiny, but I’m not quite ready for this evening to end. It should, by all measures. But I want more time. More chances for happy accidents like what almost happened inside the club.
“I have that early meeting.”
“But it’s just past ten.”
He sighs, then looks back at me and says, “It’s not a very nice ride.”
“What?” Then I understand. “You mean your car?”
“My truck.”
“Right.”
He looks so uncomfortable. I want to take his hand and, as in the club, tell him that whatever it is, it’ll be all right.
But instead of saying anything, he walks ahead. I scramble to keep pace.
“I had something come up,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been meaning to get a new car. But I had something come up.”
I look ahead. There’s only one parking lot in sight, and just one truck in the lot. Even from here I can see the rust. The thing is dark gray, but it might once have been black or even blue. It’s difficult to tell in the scant light, but it’s not hard to see that’s the subject of Brandon’s worries.
“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
“Some stuff with Bridget. I had to help her out.”
He’s embarrassed. It breaks my heart. I want to smile, but can’t bring myself to do so lest he think I’m being patronizing.
“I told you about my friend Moochie when you asked about the Johnny Rotten picture, right?” I say.
“No.”
“And his car?”
Brandon gives a confused little shrug. “No.”
“It was a huge brown shitbox Buick. Because it was so messed up to begin with, he wasn’t picky about running into things. Like parking meters.”
I can tell I’m on thin ground, bringing up a crappy car story that makes it clear we both think his truck is crappy, too. But Brandon laughs a little.
I could tell him more — how Moochie used to Super Glue troll dolls to its hood and roof, for example — but I decide to stop while I’m ahead and keep things simple. So I grab his hand without thinking and say, “I like your truck.”
“It’s my work truck.”
“You should see my ‘work car,’” I say, which is ridiculous both because I only have one car and because it’s cluttered, but in great shape. “Come on.” And this time, I lead him. It’s a few steps before I realize I’ve been too familiar and let go of his hand, keeping close, smiling without making it too apparent how much I’m enjoying his company.
But Brandon, looking over, is quiet. It’s not vehicle shame now, though. It’s something deeper. Something animal. The smile leaves my lips, but now I want to walk even closer.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Enough time has passed that the first glass of wine, at least, should be leaving my system. But I still feel intoxicated. I want to touch Brandon, even knowing what a bad idea it is for us both. We could never be together. We’re not a good fit, and we’re from backgrounds different enough to be opposite. He’s too old for me. He works with (for!) my father. And if I embarrass myself in front of a man who might one day be my boss, I’ll only confirm all that Dad’s thinking. What everyone, I imagine, is thinking.
But by the time we climb into the truck, a tense quiet has settled between us. I’m afraid to look at Brandon. He seems afraid to look at me. I must appear angry, but the soul of Gavin’s sad song has rooted in my heart, and I’m anything but. I feel myself drawn toward Brandon. And unless I’m mistaken, I can see him fighting the same thing from his end.
I sit. I strap in. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap. I don’t know where to look, so I turn my eyes to the dashboard, the floor, the CDs in the door pocket.
“I told you it was dirty before we got in,” he says, a bit too harshly, because he must think my survey means I’m judging.
“I know.”
“I didn’t expect I’d be driving anyone.”
“Except Bridget,” I say.
He throws me a look. Again: almost angry. Not angry at all.
“How do I get to your place?”
I tell him.
“That’s way up in Cherry Hill.”
“Yes,” I say, because it should be obvious and already established. He knows I live with my father for now. I just got home from college. And everyone knows my father lives in Cherry Hill, or at least they should assume it, based on his income and status.
“It’s going to take us a half hour to get there.”
“About,” I say.
“And a half hour to get back.”
“Maybe you should get me a cab after all,” I say, near to snapping. It’s hard for me to move with this full, inflated feeling throughout my body, but I swivel over and unclasp the seatbelt anyway. Every movement feels dangerous, as if I’m a bomb about to go off.
Brandon pushes the truck into reverse then backs up while I’m still unbuckled. I snap it back in, the issue apparently decided, and stare out the window.
Within a few minutes, the lights of Old Town surrender to fields. Street lights vanish. I keep looking out the side window, but there’s nothing to see, not even a moon. I could look forward, but there’s nothing there, either. And I’m pretty sure Brandon is mad at me, so I don’t want to catch his eye.
It’s okay. I think I might be mad at him, too.
I look over. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He flicks his stare forward again, and we sit in the dark cab, lit only by the instrument panel.
I reach out to at least turn on the radio. But nothing happens when I start pushing knobs and buttons.
“It’s broken,” he says.
“You don’t have a radio?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it’d matter.”
“I offered to take a cab,” I say.
“I can drive you.”
“I see that. And it’s obviously pissing you off.”
“It’s not pissing me off.”
I scoff. “It so is. Don’t worry. You’ve already impressed my father. You don’t have to impress me more by doing me favors.”
“I’m not trying to impress your father.”
“Sure you are.” I pause. “And that’s fine.”
“I’m driving you home because it’s the right thing to do.”
“It’s an hour out of your way. I’m a big girl.” I keep tapping the radio. I can’t believe it doesn’t work. I hate this silence. There’s a fucking cloud in the cab. I can practically see it boiling out of us. We need noise. Anything to break the tension that for some reason came from nowhere. We were doing so well. Getting along so nicely. What the hell happened?
“I said it’s broken.”
I take my hand off the radio. “I thought maybe just the CD player was broken.”
“It’s all broken, Jesus.”
I stop and look out the window. Then I think, No, no, that’s bullshit. I don’t back down. So I glare at his profile and say, “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. No problem at all.”
“This is your choice, you know. I said I’d take a cab. I’m even saying it’s smarter for me to take a cab. But no … you wanted to take me home.”
“Which I’m willing to do. Happy to do.”
“You don’t get to make a choice and bitch about it. One or the other. Maybe you should take some fucking responsibility.”
He shakes his head. “You know what? It’s actually not that cute when you swear.”
“Very mature.”
“Oh, now I’m immature?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look. I said I’d take you home. It’s fine. Seriously. I’m not complaining.”
“You don’t have to complain. It’s obvious from the way you’re acting.”
“And you know how I feel? You know I’m annoyed, even though I say I’m not.”
“Of course I do.”
He huffs. “Maybe you should have taken a cab.”
“I said I would! I want to!”
Brandon wrenches the wheel sideways, hard. The tires screech, and a second later I feel the ride change as we go off-road. There’s a second of panic, and I’m sure we’re going into a culvert, but Brandon must have better night eyes than me because he’s jockeyed us into the small dirt parking area around a large roadside produce stand. There are still no lights. It’s distant town glow, dash lights, stars, and nothing else.
“Fine. Let’s call a cab!”
I cross my arms. “Don’t be stupid.”
“You want to call a cab? Let’s call a cab.” He pulls out his phone. “Right now. They can come get you.”
“Here,” I say.
“Of course here.”
“Fine.” It’s stupid, but I won’t lose this.
“There’s no service.” He looks at the phone then taps. I pull out my phone, but there’s no service for me in corn country either.
“Then take me back to town,” I snap. “I’ll can get a car and leave from there.”
“Fine!” He throws the truck into gear again, but this time the thing just shudders forward and stalls. He moves back to park and turns the key. Then: “Shit!”
“What?”
“It’s stalled out. The battery cable keeps coming loose.”
“So go fix it,” I say.
“It comes off while I’m driving! It’s not charged.” He glares at me like it’s my fault. “Trust me. This has happened before.”
I can’t imagine that’s how it works. Not only would his truck have to be a huge piece of shit, but so would the battery itself. As would Brandon, for failing to man up and fix it once he noticed the problem.
“I don’t guess you have a spare battery,” I say, my arms again crossed.
“Who carries a spare battery?”
“People who know their main battery might go dead.”
“Batteries are expensive!” But after saying it, he looks like he knows he shouldn’t have.
“That’s so dumb. You buy it if you need it.”
He shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re impossible. Have you ever had to fix anything? Have you ever had to buy anything with your own money?”
“Yes!”
“You have no idea what it’s like. No idea at all. People like you … ”
“What about ‘people like me’?” Then, when I see he won’t answer, I pull out my phone.
“Calling Daddy?”
“I’m calling Triple-A.”
Brandon pulls out his own phone and starts tapping on it in an exaggerated manner. He holds it to his ear. “Oh, me too. Hello? Who’s there? No fucking service!”
“And this is my fault?”
He looks over, eyes boring into mine, and shakes his head. “If I hadn’t stopped the truck, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I match him, staring back, leaning in slightly. “It’s not my fault you can’t stop your truck without it dying.”
We stare for a few tense seconds, eye to eye. And then something snaps, and he comes at me, his breath hot and hard. His lips claim mine, and I kiss him back, hard.
My internal signals are confused in an intense emotional soup: I’m furious, frustrated, aroused, attracted, hateful, longing, hot tempered — soaking wet.
I can barely form words, so I don’t.
I let him take me and paw at his chest, at his back, at his belt.
I’m pressed against the door as he climbs over the console, his movements clumsy and rushed. There’s nothing in his eyes but raw need. There’s nothing in his kiss but lust and urgency. My tongue fights back, taking him in, grasping the skin of his neck, sliding my hands under his shirt as I reach over his shoulders to his back, feeling the muscle there.
Fabric is in my way, so I pull my hands back and reach for his buttons as he paws my breasts through my dress. Then his mouth is on my neck, kissing up the side, to under my ear. I feel crushed, and he’s halfway bent on the console, but he must see it because one hand goes up to the door handle and yanks it open.
I almost spill to the dirt but recover enough to sit sideways and swing my legs out, not sure where I’m meant to go. We’re all pants and grunts, like rabid animals. My breathing is thick and deep; I can feel heat coming up from the bottom of my lungs as I practically roll out. Brandon is right behind me, shambling, half falling.
My legs give way as intense pressure, denied for hours, begins to swell. I buckle down, and he pulls me up, pressing me against the truck’s side. Then we’re sliding along the body toward the back, and Brandon lowers the lift gate. He puts his hands on my hips again, but this time there’s no courtesy. Only desire.
My ass thumps onto the tailgate as Brandon’s eyes devour mine. All I see is his want, his desire, his naked need.
Then he’s up in the bed with me, and my hands dart to his belt, unbuckling, unfastening his pants, undoing his zipper, reaching inside to take what I need. My hand closes on his length as he raises my hips, shoving my dress up, reaching beneath it to hook his fingers in the sides of my panties and yank them down to my ankles.
I push Brandon’s pants down to his thighs. His hand cups my sex, his fingers sliding up and down in the wetness of my cleft.
Our eyes meet. His breath is heavy. He knee-walks forward and puts the head of his cock against me. The first push is slow, so I reach around behind him and pull him inside me, feeling full, like a bomb has finally gone off.
We go until he’s finished. In that time, I climax twice. The first time, I bite his neck. I rake my nails up his back, claiming him as my own.
Then it’s over, and he collapses still inside me.
We fall asleep in the dark, our itches and anger scratched.