One Night Only (2 page)

“What are you reading?”

I smiled. “Astronomy.” I held up the text.

“You like stars?”

“When you can see them.”

“How about tonight, after you get off?”

“How about tonight, after I get off,
what
?” Except I knew. I knew exactly what. It was put your lips together and blow time, wasn't it?

“We go look at some stars.”

“I've never heard fucking called that before,” I said, thankfully finding my moxie somewhere deep in my 501s.

“No, really,” he said. “I've got a roof in mind.”

I had something else in mind. I felt that connection, the way he looked at me. And it had been slow lately—the romance in my life. Not that there hadn't been comers, but there hadn't been anyone pushing my buttons the way I need them pushed.

“You can't see stars in L.A.,” I said after a moment. I wasn't going to roll over that easily. “The sky's too bright.”

“Try me.”

I gazed at him. This man had a look I liked. Oh, I'm no narcissist. I don't mean that I liked him because he looked like me. He had an underlying quality that made me think I could ask for anything and he'd give me what I wanted: A little dirty around the edges. A little beat-in. Besides, my kernels hadn't been popped for quite a while.

“Theater closes around two tonight,” I said. “Are you game for hanging out?”

He brandished half of the torn paper ticket. “I bought the ticket,” he said, “I'll ride the ride.”

 

Studying didn't work much after that. I mean, I didn't work much at studying. All I could think of was the way he'd looked at me from across the lobby. The way my knees had gone instantly weak, my pussy immediately wet. I handed out popcorn at the intermission. I made change. I poured sodas. I dug the metal shovel into the crushed ice. But my mind was on the man. I even considered ducking into the ladies' room to rub one out. Just so I wouldn't be such a bundle of nerves when the movie's
fin
finally came. But I couldn't. Couldn't leave my post, couldn't imagine leaning up against the tiled wall and touching myself—well, that's not true.
That
I could imagine. But somehow, I felt I'd be cheating. Cheating him, cheating me.

He wanted to show me the stars. In a city where all you have to do to see one is know which supermarket to visit, which hair salon to book a cut at, which bar to dive in. I couldn't remember a more romantic proposition.

When the movie ended, I did all the closing-down things I do every weekend night. Made sure the popper was off. Locked the cash box in the owner's office; said good night to the projectionist. I went outside, and there he was, waiting.

“Do you have a car?”

I nodded. “But it's not here. I live within walking distance.” I motioned, vaguely, toward Melrose.

“You'll go with me?”

“You'll take me home after?”

We smiled at each other—silent answers to spoken questions. The
after
was my way of saying yes before he'd even
propositioned me, wasn't it? The
after
told us both all we needed to know.

In L.A., in a land of high-end vehicles that are lovingly washed more often and more carefully than most people's own children, this man drove a pickup truck. Not a tricked-up, monster-tired showcase, either, but an old, rust-colored Chevy that looked as if its parts were held together with twine. He held the door for me, and I slid in. There were peanut shells on the floor. Gum wrappers in the ashtray from Doublemint. My favorite.

He drove me into the hills, to one of those vintage apartments where the extras used to live when Hollywood made the type of movies we show at our theater: wrought iron railing on the balconies, the kinds of details missing from today's stucco nightmares. The place wasn't well kept—in fact, it was a lot like his truck, a lot like himself. Good lines, but smudged around the edges.

He didn't take me inside. He grabbed an old army blanket from the bed of the truck and then took me up the back stairs. To the roof. Nine floors up.

To the stars.

We were already in the Hollywood foothills, and now we were up on the rooftop, and I could see a few lone stars twinkling overhead.

But I didn't care about the stars anymore. He spread out the blanket. He spread me out on the blanket. I let him. I let him peel off my sweatshirt, my T-shirt, my bra; felt him work the ties of my Docs, pull off my stripy socks, demolish my white knickers, kill the jeans. I was naked and he was dressed, and the stars were above us, the way the stars always are.

He took my hands and put them over my eyes.

“I thought you wanted me to look at the stars,” I said. Smart-ass: that's me.

“I do,” he said. “You'll see them. Trust me.”

My hands smelled like popcorn and licorice whips. I kept my eyes closed even under my fingers. I felt him moving on the blanket, felt him parting my thighs, getting in between. He kissed the insides of my legs, nipping gently. I groaned and arched, hips moving against that scratchy, khaki-colored blanket. Army surplus: I had one in the back of my own beat-up hoopdee truck. It's like they come regulation with trucks like ours.

We were nine floors up, but we were on top of the world, on top of Los Angeles. His mouth crested over my pussy, not locking on, not licking in. He was teasing me. I was shuddering.

School takes most of my time. I'm not going to be a popcorn girl forever, you know. But this—I'd forgotten about this. Bliss. That white-hot connection you get once in a double feature, that's once in a long time coming.

He moved his way down, kissing along my thighs, moving lower and lower, to the backs of my knees, my calves. I kept my hands over my eyes. But I peeked. I opened my eyes and looked through my fingers. He seemed to know exactly when I did, because he said, “No cheating. Close your eyes.” How had he guessed? Had I shifted on the rough blanket, crunching the tiny rocks beneath me? Had I breathed in deeper? I pushed the questions from my head and let myself float in the way he was making me feel: weightless. That's the first thing I noticed. As if I were flying on a magic carpet rather than an old army surplus blanket. He touched and stroked his way back up my body, not stopping in the middle this time, going higher, cradling my breasts, kissing and nipping. He reached my mouth and I was ready for him, hungry for him. I realized that I liked the way he felt—clothes on to my clothes off. I wasn't cold. That surprised me. I'm always cold. But he warmed me with his body on mine, his lips on mine. As he kissed me, really kissed me, he worked
one hand between our bodies. I felt what he was doing, ached for what he was doing.

He was out, against me, I could feel how hard and ready he was. Then he sat back, and I heard the rustle, the tear, knew he was putting on a condom. I wanted to peek once more, but I forced myself to keep still, be good.

He got back into position, and I felt the head of his cock nudge my pussy lips apart, felt him slide inside. There was nothing to compare to this. There never is. All I can says is…

“I needed this,” he sighed, his mouth against my neck. “Oh, fuck, I needed to be in you as soon as I saw you.”

Exactly that. Exactly what he said. It had been too long. Way too long. I'd forgotten what sex was for, what sex can do. A connection—a raw, powerful connection—that can make you feel…

“Look,” he said, “take your hands away and look.”

I stared up at the sky. There weren't stars. Not like you can see outside of the city. Not like you could see in my book. It was just night in L.A., too polluted and too well lit to see much of anything. There were dozens, not millions, but beautiful nonetheless. You forget to look up in a city like this. You forget to take your eyes off the road.

Did I feel let down? Did I feel…

“Close your eyes again.”

I did, shut them tight, and he fucked me. Fucked me so hard, the way I always need it, the way I crave being taken. He ground into me, thrust his cock so deep to fill me up. I groaned and bucked, realizing I didn't have to lie still, I could move with him, I could help him. Our bodies were linked—that magic crazy heat we'd felt back in the movie theater lobby had never left us. Together we burned twice as hot.

And then he crested his thumb up and over my clit, and I
shuddered. He was taking me closer, faster. Behind my clenched lids, I saw glimmers of light. Seeing stars: was this what he'd meant? I didn't care that we were in the city—that the black velvet skies shown in my book didn't exist here, that the only stars you could be secure in seeing paraded down Rodeo Drive. I bit my lip, I felt him touch me again, and came.

Seeing stars. That's what he'd called it. I understood. The power flooded through me, and back to him, and he came a beat after, as if riding the comet tail of my pleasure. Behind my shut lids, I saw ricochets of light, explosions of color. I bit my bottom lip and let the pleasure swirl through me. I waited for him to tell me when to open my eyes, but he didn't.

Instead, he lay down at my side. He pulled the blanket over me. He turned me to face him. Without being told, I opened my eyes. Fuck the stars, I'd rather stare into his eyes any dawn of the week.

He pressed his lips to mine. I pressed mine back. Kissing was good like this, where I could taste myself on his lips, taste the way we melted. We lay tangled in the blanket together, one of his jeans-clad legs over mine, sealed tight in an army surplus envelope. We stayed like that until the chill seeped in. Until I needed to slip my clothes back on, and he folded the khaki surplus into a tight rectangle; watched while I fastened up my laces, shook out my hair. We walked nine flights down holding hands. Nine flights in silence—quiet like the stars hidden overhead. He drove me home on nearly empty streets. I love Los Angeles before the city wakes up. On my direction, he drove me to my triplex bungalow where my nearly identical truck was parked in the drive. He chuckled when he saw the Chevy. Mine was rusted brown instead of rusted orange.

He kissed me again with his engine running. “You still smell of popcorn,” he said into my hair.

“Always,” I told him as I breathed him in. “You smell of the night air,” I said, “and stars over Los Angeles.” Stars I hadn't believed in until he'd shown me a different way to look.

I creaked open the door, crushed shells underfoot as I got out. I walked to my front door without a look behind. I could feel him watching. That was enough.

Today I'll sleep well. Until the stars come out again.

 

 

 

 

 

A
h, listen to that purr!
A red light catches me—RPMs leap into the red as she growls and rolls to a stop. It's a balmy night, and excitement stirs the breeze. Neon colors bounce off the deep blue curves of the Lotus Exige.
Tired of stealing SUVs and shit. This car has soul.

People stare at sexiness fused with speed.
And right now I'm king behind the wheel.

Green light.

Ease through the first five miles-per-hour while the lil' puke fishtails.
Punching it unleashes the supercharged 220 horses. The Lotus leaps forward, riding her traction threshold.
Breathe. Shift. Out. Tick, tick, shift. Four seconds to sixty hasn't felt this good since racing school. Eat shit, motherfucker! Cya!

Other cars are colored blocks of garbage, obstacles to give a
good time.
Brake. Control the sliding turn. Recover.

“Woo!”
She loves her new master—whoa, Kate!
The Lotus throws me against the restraints as I decelerate and sweep against the curbside.

The passenger window slides down and I yell over the street noise. “Hey, Kate!” She sees the car before she sees me and steps toward the curb.

“Derrick?
Nice car!
” She leans in and checks out the sports-trimmed interior before focusing on me with a funny expression. If I were forced to be picky, I'd say she's a little short for my taste, but one hundred percent spunk. Lively, sassy eyes; a cute little nose over full lips; long brunette fluff held in check by a brightly colored hair clip. And a tight body built for speed fucking. We've teased, played around before, but nothing beyond longing.

“Only been a year since we graduated,” she says, laughing in delight at my ride, at my boyish grin and flexed arms. “What have you been doing to earn this kind of life?”

“It's borrowed.” I cock an eyebrow, inviting her to dare me. “Care to feel how she moves?”

She only needs one quick glance back at her girlfriends to make up her mind—the same boring Friday night out with her buds, or a spin in this. There really is no choice. She gets in, short skirt showing her own lithe curves. I wait for her to caress the trim, to adjust to the idea that she's sitting in a car as hot as she is before revving the engine and pulling back into the street. She waves good-bye to her girlfriends with an energetic
whoop
as I crawl up to the speed limit.

Always start them off slow for the first few seconds.
“Hang on,” I warn her the instant before I accelerate through a turn and around a rolling impediment.

“Yes! That kicks
ass
, Derrick.” She says this even as she's
braced hard against the seat, but never even thinks to put her seat belt on. She is
so
my type: thrill junkie to the core. “Now I'm beyond curious.” She has to raise her voice against the combined wind and road noise, so I settle down into cruise speed and run up the windows.