The Quickie - James Patterson [6]
It was the same way I’d caught him looking at me down a corridor or in the parking lot or stairwell at work.
A kind of pleading in his almond-shaped brown eyes.
For the first time I allowed myself to stare back. I took a sip of cold beer.
Then my beer dropped from my hand as I suddenly realized why I was so attracted to him. It was crazy, really. When I was in high school, I met a boy on summer vacation at Spring Lake on the Jersey Shore. He was in charge of the bike-rental place by the boardwalk, and let me tell you, Lance Armstrong didn’t put in as much roadwork that summer as I did.
Then one Friday night, the most momentous Friday in my life up to that point, he invited me to my first beach party.
I guess every life has at least one golden moment, right? A period of time when the glory of the world and your place in it briefly and magically align.
That beach party was mine.
There I was. My first honest-to-God beer buzz, the ocean crashing in the background, the evening sky the color of turquoise, as this perfect, older boy reached out across the sand and without a word took my hand in his. I was sixteen years old. My braces were off, my burn had finally started to turn to brown, and I had a sense of infinite possibilities and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off.
That’s who Scott reminded me of, I realized, staring at the light in his eyes — Mike, the Jersey Shore bike boy, come to take me back to the endless beach party, where there were no high-stress jobs, no biopsies, and no cheating husbands with attractive blondes on their arm.
And I guess, right then, what I wanted more than anything, at the most confusing, shitty time of my entire life, was to go back there with him. And be that sixteen-year-old girl again.
Scott was down on his knees, wiping up the beer spill. I took a breath, reached out, and brushed my hand over his head. “You’re sweet,” I whispered.
Scott stood up and held my face in his hands. “No, you’re the one who’s sweet. And you’re the most beautiful woman I know, Lauren. Kiss me. Please.”
Chapter 8
PAUL AND I HAD ONCE HAD a sweet sex life. In the early days, we were inseparable. On the way down to our third honeymoon, in Barbados, we even became full-fledged members of the Mile High Club.
But being with Scott?
It was life-threatening.
For the better part of an hour, we just kissed and caressed and fondled, my breath and heart rate accelerating in dangerous increments with each button release, every tug of my clothes. When Scott eventually pulled up my shirt and pressed his face to my stomach, I almost bit through my lower lip.
Then he popped the top button of my jeans. From my throat came a sound that wasn’t even close to human. I was in danger of passing out, and loving it.
We staggered from room to room, shedding each other’s clothes. We clinched, straining against each other, desperate for breath. I had been needing this for so long, especially the touches, the caresses, maybe just the attention.
How we actually ended up in his bed, I couldn’t quite remember. Somewhere near the end, I recall, lightning struck so close in the backyard that the window rattled in its frame in time to the headboard.
Maybe God was trying to tell me something.
But I don’t think we could have stopped if the roof of the house had been ripped away.
Afterward I lay there on the comforter, shuddering like a trauma victim, sweat covering my cheeks and neck, my lungs stinging. The wind howled against the windowpane as Scott rolled his searing body off mine. “Jeez, Lauren. My God, you’re great.”
I was afraid he might stand up and offer to take me home then. I was happily relieved when he spooned in beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder. As we cuddled in the dark, all I could think about were those eyes of his, those gentle, almost auburn-colored eyes, as he finger-combed my hair.
“I think I need a shower,” he said finally. His long, muscular legs seemed