Trick

Chapter 6

GUNNER

I just planned on driving by. I was useless at work anyhow, so what harm could just passing by do? I had to make sure stalker-ass Rochelle wasn’t here. I didn’t plan on being seen. But f*ck me, Harlow is running down the drive toward me and what the hell am I supposed to do? Bolt? That’s even too dick for me. Tell her I made a wrong turn? That’s too stupid to believe.

No, I’ve got no other choice but to suck it up and tell her the truth. Maybe not the part about how my body has ached to be back inside of her all day, but the part about how Rochelle is on a rampage I don’t think she’ll quit anytime soon—unless I put a ring on that finger of hers.

It would solve the problem. Both female-based problems in my life right now. It’d get Rochelle off my back, and force Harlow to accept once and for all that she’s too damn good for me. Always has been.

“Gunner. What are you doing here?” Harlow pants. I know she’s been running, but her being out of breath reminds me of last night when she panted my name with each thrust of my dick inside of her.

“I need to talk to you. Can we go somewhere?” This is a f*cking bad idea, but I’m not hanging around here to wait for her mean-as-shit father to come out and throw me off of his land with a shotgun pointed between my eyes. Or at my balls.

Her eyes move from my beat up bike to her white, lacey dress. She was probably enjoying a nice dinner with her dad and his friends based on the line of Mercedes and Audis in the driveway. She isn’t exactly dressed for any place I’d take her.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she answers, sliding onto the back of my bike without hesitation and wrapping her tan arms around my waist. “Let’s go.”

I kick start my bike and speed away from the Mills’ grand estate. I met Mr. Mills a couple of times over the years. When Harlow and I were sneaking around together, he found us in their greenhouse. Luckily, we’d just tugged most of our clothes back on, otherwise that would have been a sight for the old man. He figured I was just some worker on his grounds trying to mess with his daughter. He cursed and yelled and told me to leave and never come back.

I bumped into him again after Harlow and I had split up, at the bank. I’d just come from closing on my bar and was dressed in my only suit. He struck up a conversation with me as we waited in the long line, not remembering how he’d thrown me out of his palace a year before. I wanted to tell him who I was. Remind him how he told me I was a good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch, and that I’d never lay a hand on his daughter. I wanted to tell him about all of the zeros in my bank account, and that if I wanted to, I could be dick deep in his daughter right now. But I didn’t. I just talked a good talk and politely walked away when it was my turn at the counter.

I don’t know if that makes me a coward, or a better man.

He came into Tricks once, and I poured him a bourbon after bourbon and listened to him talk about his wife, Harlow’s mom, who had passed away years before, and how he was wasting time on this younger gal now even though he didn’t love her. That sometimes, things just make sense, so you do them.

That’s sort of why I’ve hung with Rochelle so long. She isn’t the love of my life, never will be. I think she even knows and accepts that. But we make sense. We both come from tough childhoods on the road, fathers that are shady a*sholes, and siblings we’d be fine never speaking to again. She is sexy as hell, pretty damn hilarious when she wants to be, and doesn’t expect a fairytale.

Talking to Mr. Mills that night was the first time I’d realized that other people had the same feeling about love as I did, and it shocked the shit out of me that I could actually share the old a*shole’s point-of-view.

I park my bike in the gravel parking lot of Stroker’s pool hall and help Harlow down.

“I thought we were going to talk? It’s not exactly quiet in there,” she says, following me to the door. She looks disappointed.

“It’s crowded, yeah. Trust me, it’s better that way.” Because if we’re alone, we both know damn well what’ll happen.

The place is a dump. There’s wood paneled walls, old red carpet, and the only lights are the dim, blue neon ones overhanging each of the twelve pool tables in a row. At the end is an old, scratched dance floors where has-been beauties and drunken losers drape themselves over each other and sway. It’s no place I want to bring Harlow, no place she deserves, but it’s out of the way and there’s no chance Rochelle or any of her friends will see us here.

Harlow makes her way to a booth in the corner while I grab us two draft beers.

“I was surprised to see you at the house,” she says, then takes a long drink of the skunk beer. “Not a bad surprise, just, you know...what do you want to talk about?”

She’s fumbles over her words, nervously. The music turns on in the place, louder than normal. Ear-splitting, whiny-ass country music.

“I wanted to talk to you about what I’ve been doing since the last time we saw each other,” I say.

“What?” she says, pointing to her ear. “It’s so loud in here!”

“I said, since I last saw you—”

“I can’t hear you!” she yells and leans in even closer.

“Never mind.” I’m getting frustrated. I glance around the sad room. “Do you want to dance?” I yell across the table.

She pulls her head back in surprise. “You don’t dance, Gunner. Like, ever.”

“You do, though. I can talk to you easier if you’re...close.” And I guess if I have to, I’ll hold onto those sweet hips and get to feel her move against me one more time before I lay the situation with Rochelle on the table and send Harlow running for good.

Harlow nods and springs up from the bench.

The way she moves is and always has been grace in motion. I’m not poetic about much, but Harlow’s body was made for music. It makes me have a little regret over being such an a*shole when we were younger and I refused to dance. Because what would happen, every damn time, is she’d rush to the dance floor, and the sexy way she moved would have every guy from every corner of the place drooling until some dumb f*ck who didn’t know she was mine tried to grind against her.

At which point my vision would go red and my fists would start swinging.

Back then I thought I was defending what was mine or whatever. Now I realize I was ruining, over and over again, her chance to freely do the thing she loved.

So maybe tonight is a way to repent for all the sins of my past. And, maybe, it’s a way to give her one last good memory of me that doesn’t include being naked and writhing around in the sheets before we say goodbye forever.

Harlow shimmies over to the old ass jukebox, taps some ornery looking bastard on the shoulder, and smiles with delight when he produces a few quarters in exchange for some dollars after she asks with her pouty bottom lip poking out. I keep my fists at my side as the old a*shole ogles her up and down while she sways her hips and throws her change in. The whiny, sad music screeches to a stop and the drunks swaying on the dance floor perk up.

I didn’t know the song, but it’s sung by a girl with a voice like icy lemonade on a hot day. The voice coats a beat that has everyone’s feet tapping in time. Harlow takes my hand and laughs full-on when I twirl her to the floor. Barstools empty and pool games stop while people come to the floor to dance or crowd around to watch.

To watch Harlow.

Why the hell did I ever throw punches when people drew to her? It’s like hating a moth for flying at the light over and over. She seems to have a halo round her, but not one of those goody gold ones the angels have ringing their heads. This halo glows around her entire body, every sexy-as-sin curve and long, sweet line. I’m not the only one who can’t keep their eyes off of her, and I tug her tight to me.

“Shit, kitten, you sure as hell know your way around a dance floor, don’t you?” I say in her ear, loving the way the heat of the pool hall is making her neck slick with sweat. Her hair sticks to it a little, and it reminds me of the way it looks when we’re in bed, skin to skin, moaning and rubbing up each other.

“It’s my major,” she says. There’s a big proud smile on her face, and it’s a knife in my heart.

I never asked about her damn major.

I never asked what college she goes to, even though I listened to her chatter about how excited she was to go that whole summer. I never asked who she goes to put yellow roses on her mama’s grave with. Because, that summer, she went to do that at my mama’s gravesite with me, and I promised I’d be the one to it with her at her mama’s. I never asked if her friend Daisy got that tattoo of a fairy on her hip, though I know that if she did, Harlow didn’t get a matching one like her friend wanted. Harlow’s hips are smooth and sun-kissed and my lips and hands know every square inch.

There are thousands of questions I never bothered to ask her. Questions that make a difference. Questions that can’t be f*cked away.

She’s got her back to me, and she slides down slightly as we move to the beat, letting her plump little ass nestle against the jut of my dick. She reaches her hands to both sides and links her fingers with mine, pulling my hands to those hips I was just thinking about.

I turn her around in my arms, and she tilts her neck back, those clear blue eyes looking to me like I have all the answers.

Too bad the truth is, I don’t have a single one.

I knew from the second she strolled into my bar that taking back up with her was going to be a world of trouble. I had no idea just how much trouble I was looking at.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” she asks.

I tighten my hands on her hips and am about to tell her that this is the wrong direction for us, that she and I need to pull the hell back before she gets her heart crushed. I swear on a stack of Bibles, the words are on the tip of my tongue when an old George Strait song comes on.

It’s like a switch flips in my brain, pressing past all the f*cked-up confusion of the present and taking me right back to being ten and in the kitchen with my mama. She was cooking her famous seafood stew, and this song came on.

“C’mon over here, good looking.” She smiled at me and put her wooden spoon on the counter. “When George gets to singing with that fiddle, this mama’s feet have to dance.”

“Aw, Mama, I don’t wanna dance,” I complained. “If the other guys come in, they’ll tease me.”

Her smile got wider and she took me in her arms. “Beautiful boy, I taught every one of those fat heads to dance. Now it’s your turn. Before I know it, you’re gonna be taking pretty girls out to dance till all hours of the night. And no boy of mine is going to be out in this world without knowing how to two step properly.”

“I can’t stand girls,” I protested, buy my mama just laughed, turned the stew down, and held her hands out. “Trust me, baby, you’re gonna look just like your daddy, which means you’ll have so many girls chasing you, you’ll have to carry a stick.”

“Sounds good to me,” I muttered.

“C’mon, sourpuss. I won’t be happy till you let me show you how to dance.”

I stepped into her arms, breathing in the comforting smell of my mom’s sweet perfume and the seafood stew bubbling on the stove. She took me through the steps, quick-quick, slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, slow...

“Not so bad is it?” she asked, and I smiled sheepishly. “That’s my love. You’ll make some girl very happy one day.”

“Gunner?” Harlow asks, her face pale. “Are you okay?”

She’s worried, I realize. Worried about me. Hell, my mama would have loved Harlow so damn much. It breaks my heart she never got to meet her.

I gather Harlow in my arms without another word and feel a smile on my lips when she laughs loud and long.

“Gunner Hunt, you can dance! Holy hell, you sure can dance.” She looks down at my boots like she’s wondering if maybe I switched feet with someone else.

“I can’t hold a candle to you,” I say. F*ck, she feels good in my arms, warm and right. “My mama taught me while she cooked dinner. Said I’d meet a pretty girl one day, and it’d shame her if I didn’t know how to dance properly.”

The smile that curls on her lips makes me catch my breath in my throat. “I would have so loved to meet your mama,” she says, holding me tighter as we whirl across the floor. “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She would have loved you.” I blurt the damn words out before I really have a chance to think things through, before I realize that I’m opening up old wounds best left closed.

Harlow stops us on the dance floor, grabs my face, and kisses me full on the mouth. Her lips go close to my ear and she whispers, “She would have been so damn proud of you.”

The sad thing is, Harlow means it. She means it from the tip of her little toes to the top of her gorgeous head.

And she couldn’t be more wrong.

My mama would be appalled if she knew what a coward her son turned out to be.

The song ends and another picks up. Harlow bites her bottom lip and grabs onto my hands expectantly.

I know I’m going to regret this tomorrow. I know this is a train wreck going out of control, but tonight, instead of the devil whispering in my ear, I feel like it’s my mama. And she’s telling me to keep this amazing girl close. So that’s what I plan to do.

“Come do a shot with me, and I’ll dance till my feet bleed,” I vow.

Her entire face lights up, and it doesn’t make me feel good at all. I feel like a prick. Just agreeing to dance with her has her lit up bright, and I’ve never offered to dance with her before. Up till now, all I was doing was pushing her away or getting my rocks off with her.

It’s not just my mama who would be disappointed. I’m disappointed in myself. It’s a feeling I’ve numbed away the last few years, and I can’t say I like the way it fits very much.

“Can we do a shot of Southern Comfort?” she asks.

“Baby, we can drink any damn thing you want,” I say. I take her by the hand and pull her to the bar, pushing her in front of me so I can keep an eye on her.

Why the f*ck did I decide to take her to such a shady shithole?

I give some a*shole a look that communicates I’ll kick his ass in when I catch him licking his lips at Harlow. Meanwhile, the douchebag bartender catches sight of her and rushes over.

“What can I get for you, angel?” he asks.

Before she can say a word, I growl out, “Two shots of Southern Comfort and make it quick.”

The guy glares at me and gets the drinks ready. Harlow turns to me, her eyes perfect wide circles. “That was really rude, Gunner.”

“He was looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive, kitten,” I said, my mouth close to her ears. “And there isn’t a man I wouldn’t beat the piss out of for looking at you like that. You’re mine to eat, and I plan to do it tonight until you come in my mouth.”

She presses her lips together and her delicate hand shakes when she lifts the glass. I slap a bill on the bar and stare down the bartender, who stalks away.

Harlow holds the glass out to me. “To our mamas. Two of the best damn women who walked the earth, gone too soon.”

My throat goes tight, but I clear it and clink glasses. “To our mamas.”

It’s a strange toast, but it makes sense for the two of us. The first time we met, Harlow told me about her mother and how much she missed her. I remember thinking that this loved, petted, perfect rich girl and my lowly, stinkin,’ wrong-side-of-the-tracks self had one thing in common at least. Once I got to know her, I found out we were actually more alike than I thought possible.

It’s a damn shame that with all the things we had in common, a few differences destroyed any chance for us to be together. But that’s life. It sure as hell isn’t fair, and Harlow and I both learned that when we buried our mamas as kids. Sometimes life kicks you when you’re down just for the fun of it. That’s why you gotta get tough or get your ass handed to you.

“C’mon, gorgeous.” I tip her chin up with my finger and kiss her, the sweet of her mouth even sweeter against the bite of the liquor. When I pull back, her eyes are still closed, the lashes so long, they brush her cheeks. “I promised you a dance. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

The music picked up since Harlow fed the jukebox and started the place hopping, so we get to do our fair share of quick two stepping before the tempo slows down. As soon as it does, Harlow nestles close, her head leaned on my shoulder, her arms around my neck. If I dip my head, I can smell the amber and pomegranate.

Snooping around her room years back, I found the little bottle of perfume she wore. A few months after I walked away from her, I had a moment of weakness and bought myself a bottle of it, just to try catch the smell of her.

Didn’t f*cking work. Straight out of the bottle, it smelled cold and heavy. I realized it was the smell of the stuff on Harlow’s skin that drove me nuts. To this day, it’s the one and only smell that can make me instantly turned-on.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt so damn good,” I tell her, stroking her soft hair.

She glances up at me, her smile so wide and happy, it sets off every alarm bell in my head. I shouldn’t be leading her on. One shot of Southern Comfort sure as hell isn’t enough to get my tongue stupid-loose like it’s being.

“It’s dancing,” she says, pointing down at our feet. “It releases endorphins and they make you happy.”

“I don’t know about endorphins,” I say. “But I know a little bit about being happy. And I think I’m feeling it because I finally have you in my arms again.”

She stops again, mid-dance and her lips tremble. “I have never felt so right, Gunner, as I have these last few days. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for you to come back to me.”

“Here I am,” I say, cursing the words the minute they leave my mouth.

As if I’m not already headed for enough damn trouble, I start to whisper in her ear, things I want to do, and exactly how I want to do them until she’s shaking in my arms, begging me to take her home.

I shut down my last few working brain cells, the ones that are screaming that I’m sinking myself deeper into the kind of trouble I’ll never be able to get out of.

Maybe I don’t f*cking want out. Maybe I want to go back to that time, three years ago, when it felt like I had a chance with Harlow. Maybe I want to make good on the promises I made to her, then broke. Maybe I want to finally make my mama proud and fight for the right girl.

She holds on tight while I take her home, back to my house, a few hundred feet from the barn where we f*cked like crazy when we were hardly more than kids.

I can’t get her in the house fast enough. She walks in and sits on the stairs, crooking a finger at me. I shake my head and scoop her into my arms.

“Gunner?”

“I’m taking you up to my room. To my bed. I’m not going to stop touching you until your throat is raw from screaming my name. Because you’re about to come until you can’t come anymore. And then we’re going to start from the top.”

“Gunner!” she cries, shock in her voice.

I nod. “That’s a good start. But next time, I want it louder. And I’d prefer to be buried in that sweet p-ssy while you holler.”

I kick the door of my room open and drop her on the bed. She scrambles off before I get a chance to climb on top of her, and I think for a second she’s going to leave me.

Which is good, much as it flat lines my heart. She needs to turn and run before I decide I’m not letting go of her.

“So I had this dance professor who was very, um, creative.” She fumbles with her phone, docking it on the station near the bed. “She had us learn to...strip.”

The music starts and it’s like she sheds any uncertainty. The way she moves is the perfect mix of sexy and confident. She looks me right in the eyes, and I wonder how I ever thought those blue eyes were innocent. She moves to the music, her hips and ass shaking to the rhythm as she pulls her dress up a few inches, slides it back down, then pulls it up a few more.

The softly rounded bottom of her bare ass peeks out, and my breath sucks in. She’s wearing a thong that’s nothing more than a bunch of ribbons tied together. Bright red. Like she’s a Christmas gift wrapped up in a bow, only for me.

She turns her back to me. The music pulses in my ears, and I can’t take my eyes off of her. She pulls the little zipper down in the back of her dress, and the white lace slinks to the floor. All she’s wearing is a lacy red bra, that tiny thong, and her black stilettos. I know for a fact the next time I watch her dance out in public, this is the image I’ll have in my head.

I’m not sure I’m ever gonna be able to watch her dance in public for long.

The minute I’m alone, I swear I’m gonna get on my knees and thank God that I get to keep this image of her in my head forever.

The way her body moves makes my dick throb hard. She runs her hands up and down her body, slowly, in time to the sexy song, and hooks her thumbs in the waist of her thong, tugging down an inch.

“I want to watch you, too.” She nods her head my way. “I want to watch you touch yourself, Gunner.”

I swallow hard as she dips low and rocks back up, teasing me with a quick flash of her nipples and a shake of her ass.

“You’re so damn hot, baby,” I say, unbuckling my pants and tugging down on my zipper. I fold my boxer briefs back and take my dick, already rock hard, in my hands.

She sucks that bottom lip in and bites down, then dips a hand between her legs, rubbing the exact place where I want to rub my fingers, slide my tongue, press my dick.

“I love your dick, Gunner,” she says.

She shakes her hips as she heads closer to me, letting the straps of her bra fall down over her creamy shoulders.

“Feel free to come touch it if you want, sweetheart. Or lick it. Or ride it. It’s all yours to do whatever you want with.” I fist my hand around it and pull slowly, from the shaft up to the head. Her eyes follow my hand.

The way she moves convinces me she’s some kind of beautiful witch putting me under her spell. Her body is still rocking with the music, but her eyes are flicking over my body. She reaches up and unsnaps her bra. Her big, sweet tits swing out, heavy and gorgeous, the nipples already hard and ready for my mouth.

“Come let me suck those, baby,” I say.

“Let me suck that first,” she says, pointing to my dick.

I let go of it and lay back as Harlow climbs onto the bed and pulls my pants and boxers off with one excited yank. I throw my shirt to the side, and she licks her lips.

“Perfect,” she hums. Her tits press on the muscles of my upper thighs and her tiny, soft hands grab onto my dick. I love that she uses both hands. She spends a few minutes rubbing the shaft up and down, drawing her fingers over the head, and cupping my balls, but soon she can’t keep her mouth away.

“Gunner, I’ve wanted to suck on you so bad,” she moans. Her lips part and she takes my dick in, her tongue licking in circles like she’s trying to taste it all at once, her lips tight around my width. She slides me deep in, until I feel the back of her throat. She’s sucking slow and hard, her hands running along my thighs and up over my abs.

I’m happy as hell I took up boxing and got back in top shape. Watching her dance made me realize how perfect she really is in every single way, inside and out. My heart may be a rotten black lump, but at least I can please her with my body.

With that thought in mind, I sit up and tug on her shoulders. Her mouth pops off my dick, sucking with extra eagerness on my head and making me groan. She looks let down, like I stopped her getting the last sweet licks of a sucker.

“What’s the matter? Did you want it different?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

I lay her back on the bed, reach for the bedside table and pull a black satin box out of the top drawer. I take out handcuffs. The gleam of the silver catches her eyes.

“You trust me?” I ask.

She nods, her eyes big as dinner plates. I take her wrists and hold them over her head, slide the cuffs through the bar in my headboard, and watch her bite that lip as I snap the metal links closed.

“I like this.” I draw the back of my hand down her body, watching her gasp in and out. “Yeah. I like this a lot.” I flip my hand over and press up from her hips to her tits, squeezing softly, then hard enough to make her gasp and moan. “I love this sweet little body.”

I rip her thong to the side, the waistband biting into her skin before it tears. I bend my head down, lodge my tongue against her *, and lick up hard, dragging my tongue over her stomach, between her tits, along her neck. She yelps. “Nice. Next time, louder. And crazier. I said I wanted you to scream, didn’t I?”

I dip my head down and draw her left nipple in, sucking and biting gently while I squeeze the right. Her hips lift off the bed, and I cram my thigh between her legs, letting her rub hard against me. I feel the wet slide of her on my skin, and it makes me suck and squeeze harder. She matches my pace, jerking her hips hard against me. I switch off, giving each gorgeous tit the attention it deserves. Harlow moans and pulls her arms, making the cuffs clank against the bar.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re stuck here for a while,” I whisper, kissing her neck, her ears, along her jaw. “After that dance and the way you sucked my dick, I’m feeling like I’m in your debt. And you know I hate owing anyone anything. Call it my stupid pride, but I need to pay you back.” I slide my hand down between her legs and plunge my fingers in where she’s already so wet, my hand is soaked. “So damn wet. And tight as hell. You don’t get how much you torture me, kitten. I thought we’d have a quick roll, and I’d get you out of my system. But your p-ssy? Your mouth? They’re the only things my dick wants.”

“Gunner,” she moans. “All I want is your dick. Please, please. Can you give it to me?” She squirms, her arms stretched, her back arched, her hips tight against my hand.

“Not yet.” I slide my thumb along her slick folds, working my way up to her *. When it circles that little bead, her moans get louder, sharper. “Scream for me, baby. Let it out. I know you like to be loud. We’ve had to be quiet before, but you can be as loud as you want now.” I move my thumb faster and her voice tears from her throat, cracking and shaking.

“Gunner! F*ck! I’m coming!” she screams.

Best damn sound I’ve ever heard.

Her body shakes and jerks against me, and I pull my fingers out, licking the taste of her off them.

“Gunner,” she begs. “Let me feel you. I want my hands on you.”

I’m about to tell her ‘no,’ just so I can selfishly enjoy her the way I like it: with me calling every shot.

But there’s a point where the fun of the chase is eclipsed by a need I never imagined I’d feel again. I realize that even though I love the teasing and twisting when we f*ck, what I really I want is to hold this girl in my arms and be held by her. To open up and be loved the way I haven’t been in three long years.

I pull the drawer open and slide out the key. “Hold tight,” I say, kissing her slowly, deeply, as I undo the lock.

Harlow is so busy rubbing her sweet little tongue around the inside of my mouth, she doesn’t notice she’s free of the cuffs.

Once she does, she grabs me like it’s been years since she had a chance to.

She’s like a woman starved, pumping her hips, running her hands up and down my body, licking and nipping at my skin like a greedy little thing. I love it, but I don’t want this to be the only way she expects it to be with me.

“Slow down, baby,” I say. I hold her face in my hands, and she tilts her head like she’s confused.

“You wanna stop?” Her voice quivers.

“I never wanna stop. I just want this...I want you...nice and slow,” I say, rolling her over and kissing her neck as the words fall from my mouth.

“Slow?”

“All night slow.” I kiss down her neck, along her shoulders, move my hand between her legs, and work my fingers along her * and into her tight little p-ssy.

“All n-n-n-night?” she stutters. “With me?”

I pull back and look at her.

“Who the hell else would I be with?”

Her eyes hold so many damn questions that I don’t have answers for. That there are no answers for.

“Hey.” I cup her face with my hand. “I know I may have been a dick when you first showed up at the bar. You gotta understand, I meant it when I told you I was no good for you and to stay away. Anything I could think to say that would push you toward a better life, I said it. It’s not like I’m proud of that, but I did what I had to do.”

“So when you said this was just a f*ck?” she asks.

I hate the way she says the word ‘f*ck.’ Like it’s something low and cheap she was willing to take because that’s all I offered her.

“C’mon, baby. You can’t see through my bullshit by now?” I lower my mouth over hers and kiss her hard. “Damn, Harlow. You gotta know how much I love you.”

The words are out, and there’s no going back now.