Damage - A. M. Jenkins [30]
Both of you sit there without a word; people walk by in the parking lot; their voices come and go while the warmth of Heather’s hand seeps through your jeans.
“Don’t be mad,” she says again, softly—she’s very still, her head on your chest so that you can’t see her face. You don’t say anything. You’re not mad, really—not anymore. Just deflated.
It’s a slow infusion of electricity when her hand begins to move. “I don’t like you to be angry with me,” she says, and her hand’s sliding deliberately up your thigh.
It disappears under your shirttail.
“What are you doing?” you ask, though her knuckles are warm against your belly, tugging your pants The air in the truck is so still all of a sudden that you hardly breathe.
Her voice is muffled against your chest. “If you me to stop, just say so.”
You’re no fool; you don’t say so. Her hand gets busy; your breath gets ragged. It doesn’t take long before your body breaks into one of those tiny uncontrolled shudders, and you hear a low, pleased laugh from Heather. That’s when you try to get her to look up so you can kiss her quick and drive to someplace private—but she pulls away.
And lowers her head to your lap.
There are two worlds: One, outside the open window, people walking by, laughing, talking, coming perilously close to the pickup—which, thankfully, is high off the ground—while you struggle to look straight ahead and keep your face empty of expression. Like a guy who’s just sitting there, bored. The other world is inside the cab of the pickup; sounds and the feel of Heather’s hair moving back and forth like silk under your hand, and the strained quiver you finally give, trying not to move or cry out.
You’re still dazed when she sits up and peers into your face. “Did you like that?”
“Yes.” Your voice is thick. You pull your jeans back together, a little embarrassed because she seems so matter-of-fact, while for you this was quite an amazing thing.
“Did you know your eyes go out of focus when touch you down there?” she asks, smoothing her hair as she settles back into her seat. “You forget to be all mad and serious. I like that. I like making Mr. Good Influence lose control.”
Okay, so she’s not a tease. She just likes things to be her idea.
Which is okay with you; turns out she’s got some pretty good ideas. It’s only a few weeks after that the two of you end up parked out behind the old Methodist church, at the end of a dirt road under a tree. And before that evening’s done you’ve gotten down to business with Heather Mackenzie unbuttoned, unhooked, unzipped, and underneath you on the seat your own pickup.
Yep, Heather’s ideas scatter bad feelings the way puff of air scatters dust.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sixth game. Final score: Panthers, 21; Bulldogs, 10.
On the way home, everybody is hollering, hanging out the bus windows, messing around like this is some crazed field trip. You’re right there with them, waving and yelling at every car that passes.
Well, almost everybody. In the seat ahead of you, Curtis sits stiff and silent. He won’t turn around, won’t talk to anybody, even though the game is over and he doesn’t need to concentrate anymore.
You don’t have to talk to him to know why he’s so quiet. Curtis screwed up tonight. Blew man-to-man coverage on third and ten. He didn’t slip or trip or get outrun. He simply had his head up his ass for a change and was nowhere near the guy he was supposed to be covering.
The bus must be close to halfway home and he still hasn’t said a word.
You lean forward over the seat. “We won,” you remind Curtis, right in his ear.
Curtis doesn’t even turn his head. He’s probably doing his own visualizing now, watching himself over and over, seeing himself realize that the guy streaking toward the end zone is his guy.
He’s always like this. There are two things that really bother Curtis; one is not having Kat.