“But when people figure out my story,” she presses, winded again, like earlier. “About Ben and—and my attack, you know. I hate that.”
She touches her cheek, reflexively going to the scars, and for once I catch her hand in mine, stopping her. “I love what you are,” I insist. “Exactly what you are.”
“Michael, stop.” She wriggles her hand out of mine, but this time I capture her face within my palms, turning it upward until I stare into her eyes, glittering with emotion.
“You are beautiful, Rebecca. Hear me when I say it.” She searches my face, her eyes shifting. I know she wishes I’d stop, that I’d let her hide, but damn it, I don’t feel like it tonight. “I like the scars, Rebecca,” I repeat, still holding her firmly under the spotlight of my full gaze. “I like that you’re different and real. Hell, I love everything about how you look, baby.”
She winces visibly, but I won’t back down. I’m fueled by all the emotion of this night. “Don’t you get how proud I was to introduce you to Laurel? It wasn’t just about shocking her or pissing her off. I wanted her to meet my girl.” The mask of pain vanishes, replaced by her quirky, lopsided grin. “And for what it’s worth,” I add, “you’re the only woman in forever who’s managed to light my fire. That alone is some kind of major accomplishment.”
And then, we’re kissing. I don’t even know who moves closer, who breaks through the veil separating us, but suddenly her lips are meeting mine. Her breasts press against me, her long hair brushes soft as silk against my cheek, and I’m touching her everywhere, all the curves and softness. I find her hips, feel the buds of her nipples, hard through the cotton material of her blouse. And I feel her exploring me. Whatever’s not been working between us physically—whatever’s held us back—has been unstopped, that desire and heat always shimmering between us has rushed to the surface. We’ve broken free, found our way to sunlight and air and life, right here in my truck.
“Here.” Reaching behind us with one hand, still holding her with my other, I quickly spread out a tarp, a work cloth left here in the bed of my truck. “Here, Becca,” I urge her into the back of my pick up. Like two good southerners, we’re ready to lose it all in the bed of a 4x4.
Together we curl there, obscured from all my neighbors, wrapped in one another’s arms. Her hands seem so small as they explore my chest, my back, as they trail up beneath my T-shirt, her warm flesh pressed against my own. It seems we can’t stop touching one another, that we each need to know that the other is real.
“Michael,” she moans in my ear as I begin toying with the button of her capri pants, working frantically to open them. “Michael, we’re in your truck.”
“I know.” I laugh breathlessly, pressing her onto her back, being gentle as I can be under the circumstances. Feeling hard metal against my knees, even through the thick material of the tarp.
She laughs with me, clasping my face in her hands, steadying me until I’m staring hard into those warm eyes of hers. “Michael, this is a truck,” she enunciates clearly. “I am a good girl. I do not do it in a truck.” See Conan Strike Out. Here we go again, I think, and bury my face against her neck with an anguished groan of sexual frustration. I can almost hear the sound of Chuck Barris’s giant gong.
“Michael,” she whispers in my ear, a soft panting sound that’s all girl. “I want our first time to be really special.”
“Me too.” I nearly beg, “But soon, baby.”
“Maybe in Malibu?” she suggests, running her fingers through my hair, reminding me of our Fourth of July plans for next weekend at Casey’s house.
“Yeah, maybe in Malibu,” I mumble, feeling the crash of sexual hope. “Maybe Marti’ll take Andrea out one night or something.”
And I want our first time to be special too. Sure as hell don’t want it in the back of my truck in the driveway. Of course she’s right; I’m just a little out of my head lately. Rolling off her, I collapse with a sigh.
One of these days, this queer boy is going to figure out how to get a damn girl in bed.
“Just for the record, I don’t think Alex is worrying about what’s happening here,” she says, snuggling close in the crook of my arm. We’re still lying together under the dark, open sky, cuddling like a pair of lovers, even though I’ve barely even touched her breasts. I feel like we’re lovers already, though. That’s the weird thing about being with Rebecca.
“You don’t know, though.” Stroking her hair, I nestle closer. “Maybe it goes both ways. Maybe Al knows how mad I’ve been at him. Maybe he’s watching everything.” I glance back at the house, lowering my voice self-consciously. “And maybe he’s pissed at me.”
Her green eyes narrow, but I see warmth glinting in their depths. “Michael, Alex isn’t worried with the things of this world.”
“Yeah? How do you know that?” I ask, voicing the question that perpetually stays on my mind.