The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [38]
Joe laid a generous amount on the table as he slid free of the booth. “Don’t count on it, Beverly. That’s not what friends do.”
He reached out and helped her to her feet, which gesture brought them close together by the edge of the booth, a position neither of them moved quickly to remedy.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her face inches from his.
Her clean smell of soap with just a hint of perfume drifted by him, and his awareness of her proximity suddenly sharpened. Without thinking, he slipped his hand around her waist and stepped back a pace, ushering her toward the far entrance with his other hand. “Shall we?”
She kissed his cheek, laughing. “We shall.”
They walked arm in arm across the nearly deserted restaurant and out into the balmy air of the parking lot to their cars. There he paused and admitted an earlier concern. “Beverly, I don’t want to sound mother-hennish, but I’d be happy to drive you home. I’m not saying you drank too much tonight, but I—”
She interrupted him by kissing him gently before saying, “I’m as sober as a judge, Joe Gunther.”
Both his hands were on her waist by now, and he slowly brought them up the sides of her rib cage and to her shoulder blades, feeling the heat of her skin and the outline of her bra through the thin cotton fabric of her dress. “I guess you are,” he murmured.
They kissed again, their bodies coming together. He dropped his right hand down below her waist and pressed her closer to him.
Between kisses she said, “I have a much better idea than your driving me home. This is a motel, after all.”
He managed to say only, “True,” before she covered his lips once more.
They proceeded slowly after reaching the room, removing each piece of clothing with the erotic attention it deserved, commingling experience and exploration in their motions. The bathroom light was left on so they could relish what they saw.
There was an unspoken understanding in all of this, which made it doubly precious, for they each knew that what they were doing was as much an homage to their pasts as it was a yielding to the moment. This was a watershed, a marking of passage, but by no means the beginning of anything new. For Joe, he had to accept the finality of Gail’s decision. In Beverly’s case, she needed to feel she was desirable and capable of spontaneity. Both of them knew they were with someone they could trust.
And so, without a word, this fragment of time was to be prized in private, and in all likelihood, never repeated.
Finally, the last garment slid loose and they stretched out naked. Limbs intertwining, they each shed their ghosts and obligations and made love without constraint.
Chapter 8
Nancy Martin opened her eyes briefly and then shut them again with a wince, the light through the trailer’s window hitting her like twin lightning bolts. She had a headache so painful it made her nauseous.
She rolled over toward the dark closet and tried again, this time managing to see something. Her bedroom. That much made sense. The bed was empty except for her. That was good news. She’d had enough of Mel for the time being.
Slowly, she propped herself up on one elbow and dragged herself along until her shoulders were resting against the bare wooden headboard. She looked down the length of her body to measure the damage. Her torn underwear circled one knee, there were red marks high on the inside of her left thigh from where Mel had bitten her, her breasts were swollen and very tender, and she could feel the tightness of a bruise building on her cheek where he’d butted her with his head. Having sex with her husband had become a hazardous experience.
She tentatively touched a welt along the outside of her hip. And whoever said that ripping underpants off a woman was sexy—even thongs—had clearly never been in them when it happened.
Nancy closed her eyes again and sighed. Drinking wasn’t the anesthesia it was cracked up to be, either, at least not in the aftermath.
She’d had worse; there was that to cling