True North Page 14

  I smooth my hair with the back of my hand and try to wipe some of the dust off the rest of me. When I open the door, he’s leaning against the jamb with his shoulder, trying to look as relaxed as possible, but with a grin that betrays whatever indifference he’s going for.

  It takes me a second to comprehend that Trevor is standing on my porch, but when it hits me, I actually squeal and clap my hands together like a goof. I’m like a seal doing party tricks and he’s the mackerel treat I want to devour.

  “Hey.” An enormous grin covers his face, clearly satisfied with my ridiculous response to seeing him standing there.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I have four days off and I thought to myself, what ever will I do with my time?” He shakes his head back and forth a tiny bit and then shrugs his shoulders.

  I continue to gape at him. “So you thought Crowell, Montana, should top the list of places to visit with these precious four days off?”

  “No. What I thought was, how quickly can I get to you?” Trevor pushes his body up from leaning against the doorjamb and raises one finger up, gesturing aimlessly. “But, I have to tell you, trying to surprise someone in fucking Crowell is a complete joke.”

  “What? Why?”

  “No one knows where this place is. There are people who live in Montana who don’t know where it is. Not to mention people in LA—they really don’t have a clue. I’ve been able to get an entire European tour organized with less drama. No one flies direct into Crowell, so I had to take a flight to Denver and then get on a very sketchy two-seater plane to get to some county airport in the middle of nowhere. The pilot of this plane, and I use the term ‘pilot’ loosely, wants to spend the entire time talking to me about the time he met Elvis Presley. So much for flying commercial. I should have hired a private charter, but who knows if they even allow those here.”

  Pursing my lips together, I can’t contain my smile, even a little bit. I love the idea of him all flustered, trying to make conversation with Sam the pilot on a beat-up, loud Cessna while trying to get to me. I pull my hand up to my mouth and laugh. Before I can even ask, he starts in again.

  “I get to the county airport and convince some farmer to take me into Langston, because they said I could rent a car there. He drops me off at the rental car company, which by the way, is a desk inside of a mobile home, so there wasn’t much of a selection. After checking out my choices, I settled on the sweet ride you see behind me.” Trevor steps back and waves his hand toward the car. “A top-of-the-line Chevy Aveo. Cloth interior, stick shift, and a tape player. I think the radio only picks up country music.”

  I stop grinning and bring a mocking tone to my voice.

  “What? No Range Rover like you’re accustomed to?”

  “Nope. It was a tough decision, between this and a Prius. As much as I believe in climate change, I couldn’t bring myself to drive a Prius to surprise you. It would completely annihilate my reputation.”

  “Well, given the circumstances, I think you made a good choice.”

  “And did you know there are no maps of Crowell?” He pushes on. “The rental guy gave me directions into town, but I stopped at the local gas station figuring I can fuel up this hot ride and get a map, right? No, no. I ask the old guy behind the counter for a map and he tells me he’s the map, just tell him where I’m headed and he’ll help me out. So, I tell him your address, you know what he says? ‘You got business up at Ms. Mosely’s place, son?’ First, he called me son, which I haven’t heard in a long time and secondly, he knows your address.”

  I jump in, thinking I might be able to explain away the wicked web of connections that plague any rural community of less than a thousand people.

  “Mr. Chandler’s known my family for years. His wife taught music at the high school, their son was the same age as my dad, and their grandkids are the same age as me and my sister.”

  “Jesus, that’s practically incestuous. After I convince him I’m not a hardened criminal or anything, he gives me these totally fucked-up directions, with landmarks like, ‘next to the Wilson’s mailbox’ and ‘drive past old man Pearson’s silo.’ Like I have a clue what a silo looks like in the first place, let alone the Pearson silo.”

  By this time, I’m laughing pretty hard, holding my stomach with one hand. After I catch my breath, I lean toward him and smile.

  “Are you disappointed you came?”

  “Disappointed? No. But I thought I was crazy until I got to your doorstep.” Trevor lifts one hand to swipe it across his damp forehead. “But, now, you are—” Trevor shakes his head and smiles.

  “Grimy. I’ve been working over on my neighbors’ ranch while they’re on vacation,” I say, trying to explain away all the dirt, embarrassed at the condition he found me in.

  “You look like a cowgirl. I’ve never had any dirty cowgirl fantasies, but that’s starting to change.” He bites his lip and looks me over. “Are you going to invite me in or what?”

  I nod my head giddily and wave him in. Trevor saunters over the threshold, hands still shoved in his pockets looking around before facing me directly.

  “Nice place.”

  Leaping toward him, I grab fistfuls of his shirt in my hands and press my mouth against his, tasting him again, a mix of cinnamon and sweetness on his lips. Trevor kicks the door shut with his foot and shoves my body against it. Every minute of wanting him in the last few weeks, the ache I tried to brush off because I couldn’t let myself need this, comes careening through me. Leaning my head back against the closed door, I let my lips open so he can slide his tongue against mine in a deliciously ravenous way. His hands won’t stop moving, grabbing my neck and knotting in my hair before running down to grab my waist. As his mouth pulls back from mine, tracing a wet path over my chin, I gasp.

  “I was just getting into the shower when you rang the doorbell.”

  Trevor leans back and pulls my shirt off roughly.

  “Don’t let me interrupt that. You’re very dirty. Filthy, really.” His hand moves to slip one strap of my bra off my shoulder, then pulls the cup down to expose my puckered nipple. Sliding the stiff little nub between his thumb and middle finger, he stares at it, his mouth falling open as I shove the flesh into his hand by arching my back toward him. “I’ll help you get clean.”

  Taking his hand in mine, I start to walk through the house. “That’s the living room.” I point toward it and feel him move in behind me, kissing my bare shoulder and running his hands over my stomach.

  “Yep, very nice.” He mumbles.

  “The kitchen is back there.”

  “Love kitchens. I’m sure it’s nice, too.” His mouth is against my neck.

  “This is the bedroom.” I keep walking through the room.

  “Mmhmm. Bedroom. Love it. That’s where the bed is.” One of his hands comes to cup my bare breast and the other grazes just under the waist of my jeans.

  “And this is the master bath.”

  I step away from him and lean into the shower, turning the water on. Trevor keeps one finger wrapped into the back loop of my jeans and once the water is on, he tugs me back with it. Then both his hands slip to my jeans, unbuttoning them easily, sliding them down my legs. They pool at my ankles, and I step out of them completely and turn my focus to him.

  He’s already tossed his shirt onto the floor and I brush away his hands to unbutton his pants myself, pulling everything off so he’s naked in front of me and so unbelievably hard already. Gritting his teeth together, a grunt leaves his mouth and Trevor narrows his eyes at me with a small grin.

  “I don’t care how fucked up and complicated it was to get here, because you are so totally worth it. Now strip off the rest of your clothes, you filthy little thing, so I can get you nice and clean.”

  His hands ball into fists at his sides, watching me pull off my bra and then my panties. I step into the shower with him right behind me, his hardness pressing into my backside. Inside, steam fills the air as I turn to face him
, and seeing him like this again, naked and eager for me, makes my head spin. I let the water rush over my head and push my wet hair back, buying a moment to steady everything inside me. The stance, my back arching slightly, means his hands come immediately to my knead my breasts and tease my nipples into taut lengths. When I bring my head forward, I open my eyes to find him watching my face like he’s waiting for me to signal a green light of some sort.

  Tilting my head to the side, I give him a tiny grin. “Are you planning to do more than stare at me?” When he doesn’t respond, I start to panic. Dropping my teeth into my lower lip, I bite down a little and look away. “I want you.”

  Maybe he needed to hear me say it or wanted to have my permission, but his hand comes to my chin, prodding my gaze to his. There is greediness and triumph in his expression, two things that might have been off-putting on another man’s face, but here it does nothing but make me feel wanted.

  “Yeah? Did you miss me, baby? ‘Cause I sure as hell missed you.” Smiling deviously, he backs us against the slate tile–covered wall. When his hands land at my hips, nudging me up, I resist. If I let him push me up and onto him, we will fall on our asses in this slippery shower and that will ruin everything. Trevor drops his forehead to mine.

  “Katie, I need you this way. My head’s been all screwed up for weeks thinking about how much I wanted you over me again.” I mumble a protest and try to wrap one leg around him, urging with my hips for him to take me that way. The less-likely-to-break-a-bone way, for God’s sake. He grabs under my other leg and digs his fingers into the flesh on the back of my thigh. “Trust me. I got this.”

  Fine. The local hospital is only twenty minutes away; hopefully one of us will still be able to drive. I surrender by clasping my hands together behind his neck. Once he lifts me, I slide down to wrap my legs tightly around his hips so our bodies come together, and, Christ, he was right: going this route is worth whatever injuries we might sustain. Then he shifts to find the right stance, seating himself somehow deeper, and I realize there isn’t any chance in hell he’s going to let us fall. When he starts to move, methodically at first, the tiles are rough against the bare skin of my back but pleasure obliterates the rest when he loosens up and really lets go, his body against mine in short, hard thrusts that hit every spot where I need him.

  Watching him move my body up and down over him, all of his lean muscle working to keep us upright, is a wicked thrill. I let one of my hands fall between us. The added pressure of my fingers is enough to drive my orgasm to the surface, along with his, as he takes a few final thrusts and then comes apart, his groans filling the shower, echoing off the walls of the room. As he slows and then stops moving, he lets my legs slide down from around his waist and holds us still. He wraps his arms around my neck, and our faces nestle together, cheek to cheek. I let my arms fall around his waist and drag my fingernails up and down his back.

  Everything feels so intimate; perhaps it’s the warm relaxing steam or the fact that we’re in my shower at my house and not just a hotel room where who knows how many people have had sex. Here, in my home, I know exactly how many people have had sex on these premises. By my rough calculations, the total number just shot up by fifty percent.

  I want to say something. Something that sounds just right, but I don’t know what it should be. Instead of trying to find the words, Trevor steps back and does something else entirely. He grabs a bottle of shampoo and starts to wash my hair, drawing his fingers in to massage my scalp, then kneads the muscles in my shoulders and my neck. When I finishing rinsing the suds out, I open my eyes to see him watching me.

  “I told you I’d get you nice and clean.” With eyes full of patient warmth, he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. Then he gives me one of the pouty smirks I adore and steps out to dry off.

  By the time I finish drying my hair, I realize what just happened. Acting like a silly teenager, getting caught up in the moment and all that crap. I hold my breath and hope I haven’t made a catastrophically stupid mistake. The kind they make depressing cable TV movies about.

  We can thank a guy named Nate for the fact I shouldn’t end up pregnant, though. One of my few liaisons since James died was about a year ago, with a freelance photographer who spent a month in Crowell shooting a piece about kayaking for Outdoor magazine. Nate had a scruffy barely-there beard, stupidly pretty green eyes, and he could wear a North Face puffy coat like nobody’s business. I nearly spilled my coffee when I first saw him, ambling across Main Street to Deaton’s Café. Then I followed him in there and ordered a piece of pie, even though I had just finished eating three of Rita’s homemade cinnamon rolls.

  He said hello, I tried to remember how to flirt, he asked for directions to the Hall Preserve trailhead, I offered to show him the way. A few weeks later, I was under him in his motel room bed and he was gallantly convincing me that he would be back in a couple of months. I visited Doc Calvin and started on the pill again, thinking that decision might be a mental endorsement of how I was ready to move on with my life.

  Nate didn’t come back.

  I wasn’t particularly disappointed because Nate gave me something huge—no pun intended. He reminded me that eventually I would want to have unprotected sex with someone on a routine basis. So, thank you, Nate. Because that’s what I just did.

  Meanwhile, Trevor has found my bed and collapsed on it. He’s dead to the world, mouth wide open, practically snoring. I crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, watching him undisturbed until I move my legs and wake him.

  “Hi.” His voice comes out buried in fatigue.

  “You must be exhausted. I was worried you were dead for a second.”

  “It’s been a long day, more driving than I’ve done in a while.” Trevor reaches up and touches my hair.

  I’m not sure how to bring it up, but I have to. The elephant in the room is begging for attention, practically carrying a sign that says “You are old enough to know better” and dancing around with a tambourine.

  “So, we just . . . you know . . .” I stammer out and point toward the master bath.

  Trevor looks at me, confused, and shakes his head.

  “Yeah? What’s wrong?”

  “I mean, I’ve got things covered on my end, but we didn’t use anything else. You know, no six-dollar condoms.”

  Looking down at the comforter, I start to pick at a stray string that has come loose. His eyes close and then he groans.

  “Ah shit. I didn’t even think about it. Jesus, it felt so natural to take you like that. I’m sorry, it just never crossed my mind. I wanted you so bad.”

  Scrubbing his hands over his face, he takes a long look at me. “I’m clean, you know. Nothing you need to be worried about. So if you’re good, then we’re fine.”

  “Yes, nothing to worry about from me. And I’ve got the rest handled.”

  “I’m not with anybody else, either. You?”

  The same loose string has drawn his attention now and he wraps it around his finger. I shake my head no and push his hand away so I can tug on the string. It was my distraction first, so I should get to claim it.

  “We’re doing this, then, right? You and me? Just us?”

  I bite my lip and smile, nodding up and down at him. Despite how we have said so many intensely dirty things to each other before, these few sentences make me shy. He blinks slowly, still sluggish from his nap, and the way he looks intently at me is almost too much to bear. I stretch my body out next to him, with my face nestled close to his.

  Eventually, he closes his eyes again and soon his breathing is puttering in and out, short little puffs that make me want to cover every little inch of his face in tiny kisses.

  After a few hours, we roll ourselves out of bed and realize we’re both starving. As much as I don’t want to leave the house, I know we’ll need more food than I have in the fridge.

  I offer to head into town to grab some groceries and let him sleep some more, but he insists on coming with me, claiming he wants to
see the metropolis of Crowell before sundown. Somehow, I think he believes we might have gunfighters, rabble-rousing saloons, and hitching posts full of horses lining the streets. He seems a touch disappointed when the grocery store is just like any regular A&P, instead of a charming general store full of penny candy and buckskin hats.

  Trevor pushes the cart, stopping a few times to kiss the side of my face while I lead him through the aisles. Grateful that the grocery store is practically empty, we luckily don’t run into Lacey, Herm, Rita, or any number of other people in town who have known me since I was still wearing footie pajamas. Explaining him to anyone in Crowell falls just under mucking out horse stalls while wearing high heels on the list of things I’d like to do today.

  In the car on the way home, I have a flash of James while watching Trevor lean back in the passenger seat. Noticing him out of the corner of my eye, I watch him take in the landscape.

  “That’s where it happened.” I gesture toward the side of the road.

  Trevor turns and looks behind us. “Where the white cross is? On the side of the road?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have to drive by it every day?”

  “There’s only one way to get home, and that’s on this road.”

  Trevor turns again and looks over his shoulder at the spot I indicated, turning back slowly after a moment. I feel him looking at me but refuse to look away from the road, even for a second. Reaching over, he grabs my hand from where it rests on my leg, wrapping his fingers into mine and squeezing slightly. I look down and for a split second, it’s James’s hand in mine, rougher than Trevor’s but just as warm.

  15

  In the morning, I’m drinking my coffee on the steps of the front porch, waiting patiently for Trevor to wake up. This is the best time of day, when the sun is just high enough to cast a brilliant yellow glow on the landscape. It’s everything I can do to avoid dragging him out of bed and showing him what morning should look like, instead of the dirty brown smog that covers every morning in LA.