Slow and Steady Rush (8 page)

Surrendering to the madness, he shoved the banana pudding to the side and lifted her to sit on the counter, their faces level. Her knees parted, and he stepped into the void. Her heels on his butt pulled him tight against her. God, she was little, but curved and soft and all woman. He pressed into the fullness of her breasts.

Her skirt rode high, an invitation for his hands to coast up bare, silky thighs. He accepted. They moved under her skirt to her hips. The callused tips of his fingers caught on the smooth, satiny fabric of her panties. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. An involuntary groan rose from his chest before he returned the favor, curling his tongue against hers. She pulled at his shoulders, her fingernails scratching through the cotton of his shirt.

He’d kissed her for a very simple reason. He wanted to. His anger and hurt had given him the excuse. It would have been better if she’d been outraged and slapped him away, shamed him out of this attraction. Instead, she turned into a wildcat in his arms. He wanted to shove her panties to the side and tame her.

Avery growled from the door. Could the dog sense Darcy was an imminent threat to Robbie’s sanity? He broke the kiss and heaved in slow, deep breaths. She blinked languorously, her pupils dilated, as if waking from a dream. Her lips were swollen and rosy, and color slashed her cheeks. He wanted her bad. A lurch of fear rocked his stomach, and he threw up walls to protect himself.

#

Robbie’s kiss stole all logical threads of thought, hurtling her into a territory where only sensations were processed. His soft hair under her fingers, the hard planes of his chest against her breasts, the rough denim abrading her inner thighs, his hands squeezing her hips. But, mostly, his lips and tongue as they worked her into an aroused frenzy.

His mouth drew away from hers, and she floated in the tumultuous aftermath. His face was cast of stone, any sort of gentleness she’d felt in his kiss not reflected in his frigid eyes or frowning mouth. He slid his hands down her legs to pry her ankles from around his hips.

He left her to teeter on the edge of the counter, legs spread wantonly. Forces of nature held true no matter the tipping of her world on its axis, and gravity pulled her to the floor, knees wobbly and hands shaking. After roving his gaze down her body and back to her face, he turned and moved toward the door.

His sudden pivot back made her inhale sharply. In two steps, he had her bracketed between his arms, both his hands on the counter. Their bodies were so close, his heat, his desire pulsed like a living thing, yet he didn’t press into her or touch her in any way.

“I want—” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, ending on a hiss.

She wanted it too. Wanted him more than she’d ever wanted a man. She’d never felt this needy, this wild. Her legs rocked open, and she rose on her toes. She craved the touch of his hands. He could take her here or carry her to her room. It didn’t matter where he claimed her. It didn’t matter who saw them. They inhaled in synchronicity. She tilted her face to his …

“… my damn pudding.”

His tensed bicep brushed her sensitive breasts. He tucked the casserole dish under his arm like a football. Performing a militarily precise about-face, he stalked to the door. Avery cut off mid-growl, his head swiveling between them.

A potent combination of anger, lust, and humiliation jolted her body into action. His cap lay on the floor and she kicked it, launching it to the ceiling. Avery caught it on a jump and loped after Robbie. He stopped to retrieve it from his dog’s mouth and mashed it on his head. Avery received a stiff, but gentle pat. Man and dog disappeared around the corner of the house.

She stared out the screen door. A breeze rustled the roses climbing the trellis, the scent at odds with the bile climbing her throat. The spray and crunch of gravel under spinning wheels unstuck her. She picked up the nearest thing to her hand and hurled it at the screen. The overly ripe banana splattered on the floor, leaving a goopy, sweet-smelling mess.

Damn him to hell.

Chapter 6

Darcy splashed cold water on her face to cool her arousal and embarrassment. She had practically mauled the man. Why hadn’t she shoved him away? The answer was simple. She had wanted him to kiss her … and more. He had wanted more too, hadn’t he?

Granted, it had been awhile, but that had sure felt like a huge erection pressing against her. What did he think about her now? Probably that she was a slutty gossip. Tears burned, and she patted her cheeks until they were gone.

The last thing she wanted was to field questions from Ada. Pasting on an untroubled smile, she entered into the den. An old-fashioned pair of cat-eyed reading glasses perched on the tip of Ada’s nose, and a thick hardback book was spread open in her lap.

Darcy waited until she looked up. Nothing was more annoying than being interrupted out of another world. “A little light reading?”

“Decided to reread one of my favorites before I kick the bucket.” Ada tilted the book up so Darcy could see the spine.
War and Peace
.

“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Darcy said with fearful impatience. “That book is so depressing. Why not read something lighter?”

“Reading about others’ tragedies makes the ones I’ve faced more manageable. Smaller.” No pity or sadness resonated from her grandmother’s voice, only a matter-of-factness that Darcy closely associated with Ada.

Darcy wandered to the window where gnats swarmed, wanting to get in out of the heat too. Now that she was grown, she saw Ada as more than her grandmother and caregiver. Ada was a woman who’d loved and lost, dreamed and lived.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“My life’s an open book,” Ada said with a chuckle, but Darcy didn’t laugh in return. Ada wiped the smile from her face. “Sorry, librarian humor. You know you can ask me anything.”

“Why didn’t you remarry? I’m pretty sure Henry Wilson wanted to court you.”

“After Raymond died so young, I couldn’t imagine loving anyone else, and when your mother and your aunt Sara were little, I was trying to keep afloat. Then you and Logan were such handfuls.”

“Logan was a handful. I was the model adolescent.” Darcy forced a teasing tone.

“Logan was wild. But, I worried—worry—about you even more than Logan.”

“Me? Why?” Her stomach rolled, and she flopped down on the couch.

“You work so hard not to be like your mother, you aren’t living. You go to work, date the most boring of men, and never do anything that scares you.”

The truth of her grandmother’s words settled on her chest like a bucketful of river mud. “Would you rather I slept around, experimented with drugs—”

“You’re getting defensive. You always do that when I even mention your mother. That’s why I worry about you. You’ll never have a worthwhile relationship unless you open up and trust someone.” Ada licked her finger and flipped the page, her eyes on the text.

“I have friends in Atlanta.” She did, didn’t she? Several had texted, and Alice, her replacement and a friend, had called several times. To ask about the job. Darcy pulled the old afghan over her lap and poked her fingers through the holes.

Was Ada right? Probably. She always ended up being right.

The book slapped shut. “I don’t suppose I could have a bowl of the banana pudding I smelled earlier? I’m old enough to have dessert before dinner.”

“Robbie took it. I mean, I made it for him.”

“Why is that, dear?”

“To … you know, thank him for helping you, checking on you … and stuff.”

“It’s not because you thought he was gay?”

“What? How in the world …”

Ada palmed the smart phone Logan had bought her and waggled it. “Darlin’, the girls at the library texted me before you even made it home from the Piggly Wiggly.”

Darcy fell to her back and pulled the afghan over her head, muffling her voice. “He’s not actually gay.”

“Good gracious, of course he’s not. Half of the women in town are prancing around like bitches in heat. He must give off some sort of male animal pheromone. I saw that on Oprah one time. Are you attracted to him?”

“Oh. My. God.” The afghan stayed put over her face. Was she actually having this conversation? She’d never confided in Ada about men. In fact, Ada had only briefly met the two men she’d gotten semiserious with in Atlanta, and she’d never brought either of them home to Falcon. “Who wouldn’t be?” Darcy’s voice barely penetrated the yarn. “He hates me.”

“He’ll get over it. Although, I’m not sure a banana pudding is going to make much of a dent. Give it some time. The rumors will die.”

“Will they? They never did about Mama.” Darcy pulled the afghan off and raised her head.

“There’s a big difference. The rumor about Dalt isn’t true. Your mama … well, she did her best to stoke the talk.”

Silence settled for a time.

Ada cleared her throat. “Since there’s no pudding, could you fix some macaroni and cheese? There’s a documentary on the PBS I want to watch. How about it?”

Laughter snuck through her embarrassment. Darcy hauled herself up. “Coming right up.” She was almost out the door when she turned back to lay a kiss on Ada’s age-softened cheek. Ada patted her hand, no words necessary.

#

Robbie drummed his fingers on the arms of his recliner. Sexual frustration tinged with anger drove his restlessness. Only one thing to do. He hauled his motorcycle out of the detached garage and pulled on a leather jacket and black helmet. The growly vibration of the crotch rocket’s engine settled in his chest, helping to erase a portion of the emotional stew.

With patience, he negotiated the bumpy lane, but as soon as he hit asphalt, he let the bike run. Twisty country roads beckoned. He went too fast. The danger and adrenaline fed the beast, appeased it.

After his heart had stopped pounding and some of the tension left his shoulders, he pulled into an out-of-the-way convenience store to stretch. He drained a bottle of water in a matter of seconds, the leather jacket and helmet uncomfortably hot but mandatory. He might be reckless, but he wasn’t stupid.

Robbie wasn’t sure the same could be said about the three young men sauntering in his direction. Their pants sagged, and their grungy T-shirts weren’t long enough to cover the tops of multi-hued boxers. All three boys were white, their muscles lean, not yet fully developed.

The leader wore a smirk below a hooped ring in his nose. A rebel-flag bandana hung out of his back pocket, a swinging statement. His hair was short, spiky, cotton-colored. Pink scalp shined under the artificial lights. The punk was one aggressive neck tat away from being a poster child of the KKK.

“Well, well, boys. If the rumors are true, we have caught ourselves a faggot.” The leader’s voice was thin but full of confidence and bravado. All three looked to be around eighteen, but Robbie had never seen them around Falcon.

“I’m going to advise you to turn around and walk away.” Robbie propped his helmet on the bike and faced the trio. Robbie had at least eighty pounds on them, but as a teacher and coach, he couldn’t fight teenagers in parking lots. His job was too important. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, partly in preparation but mostly for intimidation.

Forward progress of the two boys in the back halted, and they exchanged telling looks, but their leader wouldn’t be denied.

“Nasty rumors are spreading about you, Coach. I’ll bet you love hanging out in the locker room. If you came on to me, I’d beat your ass.” He snickered and threw a glance over his shoulder. This little show was obviously to gain favor with his friends.

“Let’s get a few things straight. Skinny, white boys are not my type, and I’d be the one beating your ass. I’m a United States Army Ranger, son. You really want to take me on?”

The young man snapped forward and popped Robbie in the cheek with a fist. Pain radiated across his face. Rage thundered through him like an old friend. He twisted the boy’s shirt in his left hand and hauled his fist back, putting enough static energy in his arm to break the boy’s jaw.

Panic gaped the boy’s mouth, and Robbie took a deep breath, tamping the tarry mire of his fury back. Instead of a bone-crushing blow, he jabbed twice with the heel of his hand, once below the boy’s eye and once on the bridge of his nose. Enough to teach the boy a lesson, but not enough to send him to the hospital.

Blood trickled out of both nostrils, staining the metal hoop. A guttural, animal-like moan reverberated from his chest. Robbie dropped him. The boy landed on his side, his shaking hands cupped over his nose and mouth. His shirt had ridden up to expose a set of small, ripped abs. Childlike sobs escaped around his fingers. With a sigh, Robbie turned to his friends.

“You boys want to give me a try, or do you want to take your friend home and get some ice on his face?”

They exchanged a look and said “Ice,” at the same time.

The trio stumbled into an old sedan and squealed out of the lot. Twice in one day, anger had burned a path through him. Thank God he’d learned not to let it overwhelm him. Someday, he hoped to eradicate the spikes entirely.

He pulled his helmet on, the tight press against his cheek calling forth some imaginative curses. Is this what he had to look forward to until the rumors died? Damn Darcy Wilde and her big mouth. Her tempting, sexy-as-hell, big mouth.

He stowed his bike in the garage and went straight to the kitchen. Avery whined at his knee, sensing with doggie intuition his human was hurt. Robbie knelt to offer him a reassuring hug and received a gentle lick on his sore cheek.

He tossed some ice in a dishtowel and grabbed a spoon and the casserole dish. Flipping to ESPN, he leaned back in his recliner, one hand holding ice to his cheek, the other shoveling a huge bite to his mouth.

Holy shit. That was good. Another huge bite, and he closed his eyes to savor the explosion of flavor. The bananas were perfectly ripe, the wafers crisp, and the pudding thick and custardy. Not from a box, that was for damn sure. A tongue drooled on his arm. He offered a spoonful to Avery, who wolfed it down.

Between the two of them, they finished the entire treat and lay together in a banana pudding coma, watching Sports Center repeat itself. He would have to run an extra three miles tomorrow in the crushing Alabama humidity. It had totally been worth it.