Sixteen. Like a Prayer
SIXTEEN
Like a Prayer
Maren
My best friend waits approximately thirty-five seconds after the door closes behind Joe before she hones in.
"What. Was. That?" she asks, impressing meaning into the words as if I haven't noticed the eyes she's been giving me since the moment Joe got caught zoning out and I talked him into leaving Lucy with me.
"I'm gonna go break apart that window seat in the main room so my wife can sand it down and make it pretty again. Don't mind me. I'm not here." Cam smirks over his shoulder at me. "Good luck!"
"Don't make it weird," I say to her, my eyes darting to the child in my lap.
"Obviously, I wouldn't. But Mare. Come on. You've been here maybe two months? You two act like you've been married for years!"
"What? No we don't!"
"Want me to grab the dog?" she asks in a poor imitation of Joe's deep voice. "What's for dinner? You get that kid and I'll get the other…" She finishes in an even worse imitation of my voice.
I feel my face grow hot under her scrutiny. Okay, so maybe that does sound kind of domestic. "I'm just helping him out while I'm here. We're practically family."
"So you keep telling me. What's with the"—she pauses and then mouths the last words— eye fucking ?
I straighten, my eyes darting down to Lucy, who is busy "braiding" my hair into twists. There is no amount of conditioner in the world that will save my hair after this.
Pressing my lips together, I consider my words carefully, mindful of young ears. "Shelby Springfield, you are evil. Did you wait for me to be confined before you decided to lay your twenty questions on me? Is Lorelai in on this?"
Shelby flips her hair over her shoulder and pats the top of her belly. "Maybe and definitely. So spill. You have no way out."
I sigh and Lucy mimics me, giving up on my hair and leaning her head onto my chest.
"I'm not staying."
"So?"
"So this is temporary."
"And I'll repeat, so?"
"So I'm not about to jump into a fling with a single father who also happens to be best friends with my older brother." I finish the last words in a rush and work to keep my breath steady, even though my heart is racing. This is the exact thing I have told myself over and over since the night on the couch two weeks ago. The repercussions are too much. I couldn't live with myself. There are too many factors.
"You already slept with him," Shelby says in a soft voice, and I look down at Lucy, alarmed, but somehow she's fast asleep on my lap. Hell, now I really am trapped.
"I have not," I say in a near-pout. "But we did round a few bases like teenagers on my couch and it was possibly the hottest thing I've ever experienced in my life. Which is saying something because Shane was no slouch in that, um"—I glance down again—"area."
"I see."
"Do you?"
Shelby nods. "I do. That's a pickle."
"It is."
"You want more."
"Of course I do. But I doubt he does, and again, I'm leaving. There are too many strings attached for a fling, and anyway, I don't think I'm a fling kind of girl."
"Why do you have to leave?"
"What do I have to stay for?"
Shelby's gaze drops to my lap and mine follows it, but neither of us say anything. I know what she's thinking. It's crossed my mind. Well, more like it's crossed my heart.
But I can't put words to it. I won't. It's not my place. They belong to someone else.
And I belong to no one at all.
My brother calls just as I'm heading out to take Rogers on a misty early morning walk. It's my second phone call this morning. My family members back in Michigan are operating an hour ahead, and they have certainly been making use of the time difference to catch me.
My mom and dad called while I sat on my porch, sipping coffee. They tag-teamed via the speakerphone, which I hate because there's always a weird delay, but they mean well. "I don't want to keep you for too long," my mom always says. As though speaking with my parents every week is an inconvenience. Being here, literal steps away from Simon and Donna Cole, helps. For example, I didn't have to rehash the weird final, final breakup with Shane at the lodge for my parents. Donna gave them the full scoop with all the not-so-gory details, so they only needed my verbal confirmation that it was as uneventful as they'd heard.
Liam, though. I could do without his checking in.
Normally I love talking to my brother, but right now, the timing is… not awesome. I don't know what the heck to say to Liam. We usually discuss work (I'm currently unemployed), or relationships (I'm currently unattached). I'm still feeling the repercussions of the time his oldest, closest friend finger-banged me on his couch, and yeah. Not telling him that one. I can't even fathom how that would go over. For me or for Joe. Especially Joe, who made it clear he wasn't looking for a repeat of said finger-banging moments before driving himself home with a very telling wet spot on his pants. I have no plans of repeating it and negative plans of ever sharing it with any living soul. Except Shelby. Who already told Lorelai, if the DAYUM GIRL GET IT text is anything to go by.
But apart from them .
So here I am, fervently trying to make idle small talk that is interesting enough to avoid the conversations I don't want to/can't have, but boring enough that he'll be looking for a way to end the call. I'm currently running through every character I've had on a musky tour in the last two months. I've already told him about Steve-O the Yeller and Drunk- as-a-Skunk Patrick and am trying to draw out a tale about Maggie, who brought a full Crock-Pot of mac 'n' cheese to share on the boat.
"I've been meaning to ask you," my brother interrupts and I stop short. "How's Joe doing?"
"Who?" I ask like a complete idiot, my heart thumping in my ears.
"Joe, Maren. Josiah Cole."
"Oh. Right. I know Joe."
"Yeah. Good." Liam chuckles into the phone. "How's he doing?"
"Joe?"
"Yeah. And the kids. How's he been? Do you see him much?"
"Oh." I swallow. I decide I can be honest. "He's… well. I guess he's okay. He works really hard. His kids are awesome. Anders is my fishing partner. He's almost as nuts about musky as I was at his age, if you can believe it." Liam grunts and I smile. "I know. And Lucy is a doll. She has tough mornings still, but she's adjusting to her special preschool well, and I even was able to keep her for a couple of hours the other night so Joe could take a break."
My brother is quiet a beat and I immediately want to walk back every word I've just said. Except I don't know what I've just said. Finally, he speaks. "I didn't realize you were spending so much time with him."
"Well, and the kids," I rush to clarify. "Mostly the kids, really. They're great, and Joe can use the help, and I'm here. So…" I trail off, cringing, painfully aware of how defensive I must sound.
"Be careful there, Mare."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean," he says, his tone colored with every shade of big brother in his arsenal, "we've been through this. Joe is a grown-ass man with two kids and an ex-wife. His problems are way over your head, kid."
"I'm almost thirty-four, not eighteen, Liam. Not that it matters, because I'm just being a friend, helping another friend— your friend, actually."
"You're thirty-three going on twenty-three, Maren. You don't have a job, or a place to live. Not to mention you broke off the only serious relationship you've had in years because it ‘felt wrong.'"
He's not saying anything I haven't said to myself, but wow , it stings coming from him.
"I'm just helping ," I repeat, my words sharp but measured.
"And that's good," he assures me, his tone mild, and I want to smack him through the phone for it. "I'm sure he appreciates any help he can get. I'm just warning you not to get in over your head with him."
"I'm not sure I know what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts. Joe has a lot on his plate. Real things. Things you can't even begin to relate to. And the last thing he needs is you getting all involved, playing house, and then having your feelings hurt when he has to move on from this for the good of his kids."
I bite my lip, hearing his words and feeling the truth of them settle in my gut. And what I'm feeling isn't good. My brother is right. Mostly. His delivery leaves much to be desired, but I'm able to see past my defensiveness to the core message. Joe is not for me. His kids are not for me.
And I am certainly not for them.
"I need to go, Liam. I'm supposed to meet Cameron at the apartment," I lie, ready to end the call. Cameron may not be at the apartment yet, but I might as well head on over. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can move on. Again.
It's the off season but the bar is full tonight. We could say Cameron and Shelby are the reason, but that's only partly true. It's hopping in the lodge tonight because it's karaoke night. Well, okay, not officially. Because it's the off season, there's no such thing as karaoke night. But there is a mic and loud music and lots of drunk vacationers.
So while half of the seats are filled with resort guests hoping to casually rub elbows with the reality TV stars, the other half showed up because they knew Josiah Cole would be behind the bar.
I wish I was exaggerating. He's that beloved. And if he was dreamy at eighteen—tanned, arrogant, built like a quarterback—he's a sight to behold at thirty-eight. He's in a pair of low-slung, perfectly worn jeans, a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled over his forearms, and a Leinenkugel's hat worn backward over his golden waves.
He's bobbing his head and swinging his delicious hips as he pours from the tap while an older regular named Johnny belts out "Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival. I'm late, because I didn't want to come. Shelby texted me as I was sitting on the edge of my bed, debating pretending I fell asleep early.
We've been working our asses off at the bait shop and apartment. It's not a stretch.
I didn't, though. Instead, I texted her back saying that I was on my way, slipped into my oldest cowboy boots, and walked out the door, not bothering to put on makeup or fix my hair. It's a high-ponytail-and-ChapStick night and that's that.
And beer. Multiple beers. If I'm going to survive this, I need alcohol.
"Hey! Finally!" Shelby says, finding me as I pull up a stool at the bar. "I was about to sic Cam on you! I thought you'd fallen asleep!"
"I thought about it. I'm pretty tired," I tell her. "I might just have a beer and call it."
"What?" Shelby's eyes are the size of Oreos. "Absolutely not. This is our last night and I've already convinced Cam to sing a duet with me. Two, actually. I picked ‘I Got You Babe' and he picked ‘Friends in Low Places.'"
Oh, for Pete's sake. This is what I get for being best friends with outgoing-celebrity types. So much karaoke. If only Lorelai were here.
"I'll just grab that beer, then," I tell her and shift to the bar, waiting my turn.
Donna serves me, as Joe is preoccupied with a couple of blond twentysomethings. I ask for my beer and a seat opens up next to me, so I motion for Shelby, and she and Cameron walk over. Ever the gentleman (plus, he's giant, so he barely fits on the stools anyway), Cam leaves the seats for the ladies and stands over our shoulders.
By the end of beer one, Donna kisses my cheek goodbye and Shelby asks me to save her seat so she can pick out an ice cream cone from the freezer in the corner where the Coles stock a variety of options usually found only on ice cream trucks.
By the end of beer two, Cam and Shelby have sung their first duet to deafening applause and several dozen phone screens recording them.
By the end of beer three, Joe is leaning against the bar in front of me, chatting with Cameron about how not to pass out in the delivery room. I'm pressed forward, and so is he, his forearm inches from mine. It's then that it happens. The moment I've been dreading since I hung up with my brother four days ago and decided to put some distance between me and the Coles, not for my sake, but for theirs. Joe is straightening from the bar at the sound of his name being shouted, and someone passes him a mic. He's laughing and I'm captivated by the way the little lines around his beautiful blue eyes crinkle. The fingers I have wrapped around my beer—a fresh one that Joe just slid my way without asking—squeeze tight and then slip around the condensation.
All it takes is the distinctive opening chords and my heart jumps straight into my throat. And the bastard knows it, too. He swerves to me and gives me a cheesy wink before opening his mouth to sing.
Fucking A it's Bon Jovi. Not just any Bon Jovi, either. It's the most romantic song of my childhood memories: "I'll Be There for You." It's all growly and hot as hell and I barely notice how the rest of the bar sings along, including my famous best friend and her husband, because all I can see is Joe. And he keeps smiling at me like he doesn't realize he's ruining me forever. I want to scream at him to stop being so fucking perfect. I want to jump across this bar and wrap my arms and legs around him and never let go. I want to run straight out the door and pack my shit and drive to Arizona and the Grand Canyon and beg them to hire me.
I want to stay here forever, watching him be this happy and relaxed.
Instead, I feel my face stretch into a grin that almost hurts, and I sing along. Joe notices my effort and his face changes, becoming impossibly lighter. I watch the tendons of his neck as he throws back his head and belts it like Bon Jovi before returning his gaze to mine and beaming at me.
Finally , he mouths, pointing at me, before picking up the chorus.
And suddenly I realize he's happy because I'm happy. Because he pulled this smile out of me. It's why he picked up the mic and sang Bon Jovi. He did it for me.
And I don't know what to do with that.
I said I don't do flings. And I don't. I commit and am loyal and have no interest in casual.
But he sang Bon Jovi to make me smile. And before that he gave me one heck of an orgasm on my couch. And before that he took me out on his boat and gave me a really amazing day. And before that he convinced me to stay in a nice cabin at his resort for basically free and to take a job doing guided fishing tours, which I adore, and, well, I've had three and a half beers and I'm turned on as hell.
Still. This is very unlike me. I don't do casual. Like ever. I'm firmly a third-date kind of girl. No judgment, just it takes me a while longer to warm up to someone.
But it's as though I was born to be attracted to Joe.
I've been carefully avoiding being alone with him since my brother thoroughly warned me off—again—but after closing down the bar, Joe offered to walk me home, and in turn, I invited him to come inside. He barely closed the door before I had him pressed back against it, my hands in his hair, my tongue in his mouth, his fists in my shirt, his hips pressed against me. "Last time" be damned, he doesn't even protest.
"I want to kiss you," I tell him.
"You're already—"
I press the pad of my finger to his lips, cutting him off. "Not here." I rub my fingers where he is straining against his jeans. "Here."
"You don't have to do that," Joe insists, as I ever so slowly tease his zipper down. His tone isn't very convincing, if I'm honest. He's pretty out of breath for someone who doesn't want his cock in my mouth.
"Shh," I whisper, slipping my hand into his waistband. "If you don't want this, I won't do it. Otherwise, be quiet and let me taste you."
"Jesus fuck," he groans. "It's been years, Maren. I don't know if…" He trails off, seemingly at odds with himself. I watch his throat work as he swallows hard and my tongue darts out to lick at the place where his stubbled jaw meets his ear. "Please," he whispers, and I immediately comply, pulling him out of his pants and gripping him in my hand, thick and powerful. I sink to my knees right there. My mouth waters as I lean forward, my tongue darting out to the tip, circling it slowly. Then I lick up the slit, pumping my hand before taking him fully into my mouth and sucking hard. His head falls back against the door with a thud and he hisses, his hips bucking. He's gently fucking my mouth and I've never been so turned on.
I roll my tongue, hollowing my cheeks and wrapping my hand around his thigh, holding him to me as I work. I twist my grip and squeeze as I suck in and his breathing grows harsh.
"Maren, I'm going to—Oh fu—" He tries to reach for my head, my shoulders, but I don't budge. I suck harder, giving him more of my tongue, more of my hand, all of my enthusiasm. My thighs are clenched and my underwear is soaking and my breasts are tingling and all I want is to hear this man come apart.
And a moment later, he does. I swallow him down before letting him go and resting my forehead against his hip, catching my breath. He's panting and slumped against the door, barely standing, so I gently tuck him back in his boxer briefs, then his jeans, and pull up his zipper. Finally, I rock back on my toes and push off the door to get to my feet.
"What just happened?" he asks breathlessly when I'm at eye level again.
I don't know what to say, feeling suddenly very sober and very calm. Content.
That has to be a good sign, right? Unless I'm not as calm as I think. I suppose time will tell.
Instead of responding, I shush him again, a tiny smirk playing on my lips, and press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. I reach behind him for the doorknob and twist it. He picks up on the hint and starts to move.
"Good night, Joe. Sleep tight."
He smiles at me in the dim light and walks through the door. "I expect I'll sleep like a baby, thanks to you. 'Night, Maren."
I close the door behind him, leaning against it. Feeling the throb in my core, I decide to head to bed. I'm thinking the memory of the sounds he made while I worked him with my mouth will be the perfect soundtrack to my own orgasm. I should sleep pretty well myself.