chapter 4 | house no.1
June, 1983
The air in his father’s station wagon is sticky. I can feel my legs adhering to the vinyl seats as John drives out of the subdivision. Even the air feels liquid as it flows through the open windows. It’s crazy hot for early June. My hair blows into my eyes and sticks to my neck.
John smiles wickedly as he accelerates away from my house. His hand leaves the steering wheel to turn up the radio. Then he casually places it on my bare, sweaty thigh—just below the frayed edge of my cut-offs. The flapping wind and his searching fingers make me giddy. I like it. Too much. I push his hand down toward my knee.
His chuckle is lost in the wind as he turns onto the highway, spinning the tires in the roadside dirt.
“I thought we were going to the movie!” I yell through the fresh assault of wet wind. We are driving away from town.
He chuckles again. I can’t hear him, but his hand vibrates on my thigh.
“Baby, I’ve got something else in mind,” he grins.
There is no question what he has in mind. No question at all. But we’ve discussed this before. The answer is no. I lift his hand off my thigh and place it on the seat between us.
He glances at me as a semi-truck screams past us in the opposing lane. The station wagon drifts towards the shoulder.
“John! Look out!” I yell, my heart in my throat as the wagon bumps violently on the dirt.
He casually corrects and grins, eyes toward me again. Jerk. Sexy jerk.
“Scared?” He is incorrigible.
“No,” I yell. “I like thinking I’m going to die!”
He crawls his fingers across the vinyl and back onto my thigh, but in a somewhat less distracting spot.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’m in control.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” I say. I reach over and gently squeeze his sweat-dampened thigh. Two can play at that game. The effect is almost instantaneous.
A bead of sweat forms on his upper lip. He groans. My pinky strokes the inseam of his shorts. Perhaps no isn’t the answer.
Two minutes later he flicks his indicator and turns onto a dirt road. It’s almost dark, but he drives without lights. I hold onto the door handle as we bump through the tunnel of wide-limbed oaks and maples. Their shadows stare down at us and I shiver from excitement and a hint of fear. We’re like stupid kids driving the wrong way in a horror movie.
John grins at me like he hears my thoughts.
He brakes and pulls into a clearing, stopping beside a fence. A sign on the chain link warns: Department of National Defense. No Trespassing. My ears are still ringing from the howl of the wind through the windows. In front of us a metal tower stands, a flashing red light strobes from its peak high above us. It looks like a radio tower, or an airport beacon, or something super-secret I shouldn’t be looking at.
John pulls the keys from the ignition and throws them in the ashtray. Then he opens the door and hops out.
I don’t move. What is he up to now? I am not going over, under, or through that fence. You don’t trespass on military property. You don’t disobey their rules. Not when they put food on your table.
The back of the station wagon opens and I hear the obvious chuk-fizz of a beer can. Great. Underage drinking and trespassing.
The wagon shifts from John’s weight as he sits down in the back.
“You can sit there if you want, but the view’s much better from this side,” John says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. I turn to look. Deep pink sky and streetlights sparkle from behind him.
Curious, I undo my seatbelt and heave the door open.
The view from behind the car is breath taking—but then, my breath is a little on the short side already. Runway lights line the valley below, and huge hangars look like tiny boxes on the airbase. A plane flashes and roars as it takes off away from us. On the other side of the valley a tiny copy of the tower behind us is silhouetted in the fading sunlight. The whole scene seems to shimmer in the sweltering heat.
John stands up and pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it into the back of the car.
“Shit, it’s hot,” he says.
He reaches into the cooler and hands me a beer, already dripping with condensation. An icy drop splashes on my leg as I sit beside him. The evening is so hot, I barely notice the drop. He sits back down and drapes his arm around my shoulders, eyes on me, not the view. His eyes are hungry for more than just beer. I pop open my beer and take a sip, extremely self-conscious. More drops fall onto my leg. They trickle down toward my inner thigh. The feeling isn’t unpleasant.
No. The answer is no. The answer is no. The answer is . . .
John leans over and licks the beer from my upper lip. I jerk back awkwardly, spilling beer on his chest.
I look at it in horror. I’m such a klutz! John barely flinches. Smiling impishly, he takes the beer from my hand. In one swift motion he pitches it into the grass, flips around and pushes me backward onto the floor of the wagon. I shriek. His hands pin mine above my head.
“You, young lady, are going to have to clean that up,” he says, eyes flashing.
My heart is playing xylophone on the inside of my ribs.
“John . . .”
Things are rapidly slipping out of control. It’s dangerous, exciting, and crazy . . . and for once I don’t care.
His lips trace my jaw. I make a last, pitiful attempt at pulling my hands from his, but he’s too strong.
The answer is . . .
“John . . .” I whisper.
He switches so both of my hands are in one of his. Still I can’t move—but I’m not really trying to move. Why would I move? The shadowy view of his bare chest above me, here in this crazy, beautiful place is addictive and raw and hot. His free hand slips beneath my top. My heart and my stomach melt in his heat.
“J . . . ”
I’m silenced by his lips. And I like it. I like it a lot.
He stands up, one last time, and unzips his fly. The sound seems to echo through the car and over the hill to the town below. I know I should stop him. I know I should reach forward, push him away, brake this speeding car and pull to the shoulder. His face is a question, asking with his quirky, panting breaths.
I should shake my head—stop this before it goes too far. But my brain is foggy with need and want and longing. I don’t want to be reasonable, responsible, and smart. I want to be reckless. Screw the consequences!
The answer is . . .
I smile my silent answer and reach for him. He lifts my shirt, baring me to the sultry summer air.
His hands are on my breasts, my cheeks, my thighs . . .
. . . and suddenly I’m sweat-soaked and panting and naked beneath his nakedness. The world is spinning and he should slow down. This is crazy and reckless and I should tell him to stop! I should tell him, but his hand is there, and we are here and this is good, but no, he has to stop.
He has to . . . stop. He has to . . . Has to . . .
Slick and hot, full and exploding with pain and emotion and need and oh God, and . . . Oh GOD!
Oh.
God.
Oh.
We lay naked in the darkness, the dirt from the carpeted floor stuck to our backs, the red tower light flashing on our skin, and the condom still wrapped in his shorts pocket.