17. Lily

17

Lily

I’d spent three days making passports and determinedly not thinking about him. Then, that morning, the air conditioning had gone on the fritz, so I was busy fixing it. I do my own maintenance, not because I enjoy it or I like the challenge but because I can’t have a maintenance guy poking around the bus and discovering tens of thousands of dollars worth of fake documents.

Because fixing the air conditioning meant digging into the bowels of the bus, from the inside, in July, without a/c, I’d taken most of my clothes off. I had the blinds drawn anyway to keep the worst of the sun out, so I figured it didn’t matter.

That’s why, when the phone rang, I was inside a claustrophobic crawl space, on all fours in my bra and panties, trying to keep the sweat out of my eyes while I tightened a loose hose. I listened to the ring tone and frowned, confused.

I have several phones on the go at any one time, “burners” I can use for business and periodically throw away. I color-code them with electrical tape.

Except this wasn’t the green phone I used to call the Mexicans, or the red one I used to call the Japanese, or even the blue one I used to call the Russians. This was the plain, boring one without any tape on at all. The one I kept for my normal, non-business life.

The one that never rang.

I backed out of the crawl space and grabbed the phone, expecting it to be a telemarketer. “Hello?”

“Been thinking about you,” said a deep Texas rumble. I almost dropped the phone. “How did you get this number?” I said when I’d recovered.

“Well now there’s a story. I had to do a whole heap of calling around. Eventually, I got it from Greta, at the library. I figured you probably read.”

“She shouldn’t have given that out! That’s confidential!”

“I threw myself on her mercy. I told her I wanted to woo you.”

“ Woo me? That’s what you call it?”

“She’s eighty-three, Lily. What did you want me to say, that I want to rip off your panties and fuck you until you bite my shoulder?”

The phone slipped out of my hand and I fumbled it three times before I got it to my ear again. “Why are you calling?” I asked, my face scarlet.

“I wondered if you wanted to drop by the stables?” he said. “See the horses?”

“I don’t like horses,” I said.

“Who doesn’t like horses?”

I tried to put into words why I didn’t like them, but it sounded stupid in my head. So I just said, “Me.”

“So don’t come for the horses. ”

“Why else would I come?”

Silence. A deep, hot, throbbing silence. I swallowed.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “What are you wearing?”

That goddamn voice—dust and sweat and whisky-raw heat. It twisted deep into my mind and made me go mushy inside.

I looked down at my bra and panties. I was still on all fours. “I’m baking cookies,” I said. “Double-chocolate. And I’m in a summer dress.”

“I love cookies,” he said. “Bring some with you.”

“Oh no, I’ve irretrievably burned them.”

“I don’t think you’re baking at all.”

“I have to go. I have work to do.”

“You want to know what I think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Not especially.”

“I bet you’re still in bed. Lying on your back.”

I looked down at my tools and oil-covered hands. “Not even close.”

“On your knees, then. No, wait—on all fours.”

I swallowed. “No.” Goddamn, that voice.

“I bet you’re thinking about me.” Each word was like dark, sweet molasses. “My hands on your hips.”

“No.”

“Rubbing you with my thumbs. Drawing your panties down your thighs….”

“I’m hanging up the phone now,” I said, not hanging up the phone.

“Pushing your knees apart a little, so I can get my head between your thighs.”

I stopped talking.

“Can you feel my breath on you right now, Lily? My hot breath right on your pussy?”

I bit my lip.

“Are you getting wet for me? Ready for me? Are you touching yourself?”

I jumped to my feet. “Goodbye, Bull.”

“Come to the stables,” he rumbled. “The Hollister ranch.”

“ Goodbye!”

I ended the call and just stood there for a second. I was panting and flushed, my hair sticking to my forehead. Well, the air conditioning was broken. That’s all it was.

Then I spotted it in the mirror—a big, dirty oil mark on the front of my panties. I looked down at my oil-covered fingers.

Goddamn that man.