Tequila High Page 8

  Wrapped in the towel from the waist down, I lay my jeans across the end of the bed and make my way to the place beside Nixon. I sit, swinging my legs up onto his lap. “This will have to do, because I am not getting on that bed with you.”

  His grin turns positively devilish. “Don’t trust yourself?”

  “It’s not that. I just—”

  “Sure it is,” he tells me, whipping up the towel and digging into the meat of my thigh. “I’m wearing you down. Admit it.”

  “No, you’re not. Oh my God, that hurts! Aren’t you supposed to be using that liniment anyway?”

  It feels like his fingertips are going all the way to the bone.

  “I will. I’m going to get your legs loosened up first. Might want to bite down for a second.”

  Expertly, Nixon works and squeezes the muscles of my upper legs, staying a respectable distance from my groin. I’m sore there, too, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting him get his hands anywhere near that area. It would be over for me, and I’m adult enough to admit it.

  Just before I’m about to cry uncle, Nixon stops. “That ought to do it.” I watch as he takes the lid off the liniment and scoops out a big gob and rubs it between his hands. He glances up at me, his eyes hard on mine. “You ready?”

  What a loaded question! I doubt any female above the age of sixteen is ready for a guy like Nixon. Rather than speak, I just nod, bracing myself for the moment when he’ll dig back in to my tender legs. I needn’t have worried, though. When those long fingers touch me for the second time, they’re in a whole different mode. They’re slick with liniment, so they glide over my skin. Even his rough palms feel pleasantly abrasive. He flexes his fingers in more of a gripping fashion, gently kneading my left thigh.

  He starts around my knee, engaging his thumbs to press and pull as he works his way slowly toward the more painful area of my quadricep. He focuses his attention there, but not once does he hurt me this time. Rather, the motion of his hands only soothes and loosens.

  I let myself rest back against the throw pillow and the arm of the couch, my head lolling to one side as Nixon’s fingers work their magic. I’m completely relaxed and at ease, could almost nod off, until his palms begin to ascend again. Tension builds in me as Nixon’s fingers squeeze and massage ever higher on the inside of my thigh. I want to tell him to stop, should tell him to stop, but it feels so good. My muscles have turned to jelly under his capable manipulation.

  But now, as he rubs and slides closer and closer to my center, an ache of a different kind begins. I keep my eyes closed and concentrate on my breathing. I don’t want him to know I’m affected by such an innocent touch. Because right now, it is innocent. He’s doing the exact same thing he was doing to the lower part of my leg. It’s just that now another part of me craves the stroke of his fingers. Just the thought of what happened with those digits last time brings a flush to my cheeks and heat pouring into the area just north of Nixon’s hands.

  The rhythm of Nixon’s massaging slows as his fingertips get high enough to graze the elastic of my panties. He makes a long circle up to the edge and away, then up to the edge and away. Like the tide ebbing and flowing. Pinching and gripping, rubbing and sliding, all I’d have to do is spread my legs a little bit wider, and Nixon would have the perfect access to me. He could push my panties aside and slip one long finger into me, just like he did that night in his hotel room. It would be so easy. And it’s so, so tempting. I‘m nearly lightheaded with want.

  I open my eyes and lift my head, ready to tell him to back off, but the words die on my lips when I see his face. His eyes…they’re on fire. They’re hotter than the flames licking away at the logs a few feet away. He doesn’t smile that cocky smile. He doesn’t give me any commentary. He simply takes my breath away.

  We stare at each other for the longest time, his fingers still teasing a dangerous spot on the inside of my thigh. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You’re gonna have to employ some of that iron will of yours and talk to me about something.”

  “Like what?” My breath is coming fast.

  “Anything. I don’t give a damn. Just distract me.”

  I know I shouldn’t poke the bear, but I can’t seem to help it. It seems he’s always the one dishing out this particular brand of torture. I can’t resist the opportunity. “Flames getting a little too hot for you?” My lips are curved into a satisfied grin.

  His jaw is rock hard and flexes as he clenches his teeth. “Enjoy your victory, Haley Brandt. While it lasts.”

  “Thank you. I think I will.” I have the silly urge to laugh. Something about knowing that he wants me this much, that I make him this way, is intoxicating. I’m nearly giddy with it. “So you want me to talk and distract you. Hmmmm.” I try to think of a way to use this time to my advantage. I’m not crazy enough to think it might happen again. “Have you ever played ‘Never have I ever’?”

  He shakes his head, his eyes still hard on me. He moves his hands to my other leg and repeats the process. As he does, my feet jostle in his lap, accidentally grazing what I realize is his erection. I hear his groan. He stops dead, fingers digging into my flesh, lips thin, eyes shut, and waits for a few seconds. I assume to compose himself. For a split second, I consider telling him not to bother. I consider taking his wrist and guiding his hand to the place I want it most. But I don’t. I can’t. My heart can’t stand a repeat of what happened with Jason, the ranch hand who taught me one of the most painful lessons of my life.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, holding my feet carefully still, even though I want to press my heels into the ridge, to rub along it, to watch his face as I drive him as crazy as he’s driving me. I clear my throat. “It’s normally a drinking game played with a bunch of people, but we can make do. Basically, you tell me something you’ve never done, and I have to admit if I’ve done it. If we were drinking, I’d have to drink if I have done it, but I don’t think tequila is a good idea.” He grunts his agreement, and I smother a grin. “I’ll start. Never have I ever had a one-night stand.”

  His eyes pop open, and he tilts his head. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I haven’t.”

  “No, I mean, did you have to start with something sexual?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble again. That was pretty stupid. I guess I’ve got it on the brain. I can’t really help thinking SEX SEX SEX when his fingers are doing delicious things to my lower half. “So, have you?”

  He sighs heavily. “Yes, I have.”

  “How many?”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  “Oh, come on. How many? More than ten?”

  “Several.”

  “That’s not a number.”

  “You don’t need a number.”

  “Maybe I just want a number.”

  “How about this instead? I don’t do love, but I’m a man, and I like sex, so… You do the math.”

  Must be quite a few. “Any of them recent?”

  “Is this how the game works? One question turns into twenty? Or is it my turn to go?”

  Damn.

  “You’re right. Sorry. It’s your turn.”

  “Never have I ever watched Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  My face catches fire. “Uh, I did.”

  One slashing brow twitches up. “Really. Enjoy it?”

  “Uhhhh…” I’m not sure how to respond to that. If I say no, I’m a prude. If I say yes, he’ll think I’m into kink. Of course, with him, I could probably very easily be talked into kink.

  “Did you watch them by yourself?”

  “No, with a friend.”

  “Male or female.”

  “Female.”

  His eyes gleam into mine. “Maybe you should try watching it with a male.”

  Heat drips from my face through my chest and into my low belly. Watching such an erotic film with Nixon Holt would be tantamount to some rare form of Chinese torture where they set you on fire and just let you burn. And burn. And burn. And never put out
the flames.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Chicken,” he whispers. “Your turn.”

  “Never have I ever, ummmm, smoked pot.”

  “Me either.”

  “Really?” He shakes his head. “I’d say that makes us both rare.”

  His turn. “Never have I ever had multiple orgasms.”

  Why in the world would I ever initiate a game such as this with a man such as this?

  Utter stupidity.

  It’s the only possible explanation.

  “Me either.” I press my cool hands to my hot cheeks and move quickly into my turn. “Never have I ever snuck into a movie without paying.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Really? Were you a deviant child?”

  “Nah. Just a typical boy. I have an older brother, and we were always either trying to out-do each other or getting into trouble of some sort. It was just the two of us and Dad, and we tried all sorts of things to get his attention.”

  “Did something happen to your mom?”

  “If you call her leaving us for a mechanic ‘something happening,’ then yes, something happened to her.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m sure that hurt.”

  “Pretty much ruined our family, so…”

  He shrugs, but the bitterness in his tone is inescapable. I wonder if that’s why he doesn’t “do love.” A bad experience with his mother would damage any boy.

  I change the subject. “Ever get arrested?”

  “It’s not your turn.”

  I stick out my lip in a small pout. “Fine. You go.”

  “Never have I ever had sex in a public place.”

  “Seriously? You haven’t?”

  “No, that’s a lie. I have.”

  “You can’t lie! That defeats the purpose of the game.”

  “I thought the purpose of this game was to keep me from injuring myself with a four-hour hard-on.”

  I can’t help laughing. “That, too, but you’re supposed to tell the truth.”

  “From here on then, nothing but the truth.”

  “Have you lied about other answers?”

  “No, just that one. I just wanted to know if you’d had sex in a public place.”

  “Well, liar, it’s my turn then.” Because I’m now more curious about his youth, I repeat my previous question, only in the expected style. “Never have I ever gotten arrested.”

  His eyes dart from left to right and his lips tremble with a barely suppressed smile. “I can’t really say that.”

  “You’ve been arrested? For what?”

  “Let’s see. Driving without a license when I was fifteen. Underage drinking when I was seventeen. And a bar fight when I was twenty-two.”

  “So you were a deviant child. A hellion. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “More or less.”

  “I assume you outgrew that, or…?”

  “Upstanding citizen since that bar fight.”

  I decide finding out interesting details about Nixon’s life is like crack—the more I get, the more I want. It’s probably not wise to keep making this personal, but I’m curious about this man and too hesitant to ask him under normal circumstances. I’m supposed to be steering clear of him, not delving into his personal life. The last thing I need to do is risk falling in love with him. That would be a disaster. But for the sake of keeping him distracted while we’re alone in a cabin together, I give in.

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  “Never have I ever had a wife.”

  Nixon doesn’t look up. “Never have I ever had a wife either.”

  “So you’ve never been married?”

  “No.”

  “Gotten close?”

  He pauses a little too long. “Yes.”

  I should let this go. But I don’t. “What happened?”

  This time, his pause is so long I almost retract my question. “She wanted kids right away. I didn’t.”

  “Oh.” I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. I try for about ten seconds to restrain myself and not probe him for more information, but that’s a fight I was destined to lose from the get-go. “What happened?”

  “She found someone who did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So was I. He was my best friend. Turned out, he wanted kids and my fiancée, so they both got what they wanted.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “My turn. Never have I ever had a husband.”

  Shit. I should’ve known this would backfire on me. “I have.”

  “And? What happened?”

  Unfortunately, since I prodded him until he told me his story, I feel compelled to return the favor. Only a total douche wouldn’t reciprocate, and I’m no douche.

  “We married when I was young and stupid. He was older. Wanted a trophy wife. Someone to control. I wanted to get away. It worked until I grew up. Until I was not-so-young and not-so-stupid.”

  He watches me with his fathomless black eyes, eyes that are much more perceptive than I realized. “Left you for a younger model, huh?”

  “He did indeed.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Nine months.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Almost ten years.”

  “I’m surprised you stayed that long.”

  “Why?”

  “You just don’t strike me as the type to put up with that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not. Not anymore.”

  “You loved him?”

  “I wanted to. I thought I did, but…no. I didn’t love him. Not like I should have. Still hurts, though. To be disregarded after giving ten years of your life to someone.”

  “That is exactly why I don’t do love. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Didn’t you love your fiancée?”

  “Maybe. I thought so, but not enough to crush me. Enough to turn me off that shit for the rest of my life, though. Life’s too short and too complicated without adding that to the mix.”

  “So you don’t ever plan to get married or have kids or any of that?”

  “Probably not.”

  I don’t know why, but hearing that brings me a pang of grief. “Sounds like a lonely existence.”

  “You can have companionship without love. Chemistry without love. Great sex without love.” His lips twist into a suggestive half-grin that makes my belly flip over. “Really great sex.”

  “Yeah, you can, but…”

  “You can’t tell me you don’t agree. This rule of yours about dating ranch employees doesn’t come from daddy telling you not to. That comes from a bad experience. You said so yourself.” When I say nothing, he prods. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I can’t tell him he’s wrong. But I don’t have to tell him he’s right either. “Never have I ever had octopus.”

  “Me either. Never have I ever dated a ranch hand.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. “That’s not fair.”

  “So far, it seems like pretty much everything is fair in this game. Until it comes to something you don’t want to talk about.”

  I gulp. “Fine. I dated a ranch hand.”

  “And?”

  “And, I thought we were in love. Turned out he was more in love with the ranch than he was with me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Let’s just say it became clear to me that he’d do anything to get it.”

  “What’s anything?”

  “Nixon, I really don’t—”

  “Oh, come on. I showed you mine.”

  Memories flood my mind and heart. All the pain and betrayal, all the guilt and anger, it comes rushing back. My words are small and distant, ringing up through time from the lips of a hurt, disillusioned nineteen year old. “He…he tried to trick me into marrying him, so he could get to the ranch. He didn’t really want me. Didn’t love me. He just wanted what I had. And he’d have done anything to get it.”

  For a second, Nixon’s fingers dig into m
y thigh. I glance up and see anger on his face. His jaw is hard, his eyes harder. The moment passes, though, and his ire melts into something softer, something kind and sincere. “I shouldn’t have pressed you. I’m sorry.”

  “It-it’s okay. I learned back then that men will use you to get what they want if you let them. My husband proved my theory. Being used…that seems to be a trend with me.” I hate the vulnerability I hear in my voice.

  “You’re a smart, funny, gorgeous woman with wild red hair. No man in his right mind would want you only for what you could get him.”

  “Then I must attract the crazies, because I’ve had two loves, if you could call them that, and neither of them wanted me for me.”

  “The sad truth is that some men are assholes who don’t think twice about taking advantage of a woman’s heart. Not all are like that, though.”

  “Maybe.” I don’t want to argue with him, because he doesn’t know everything that happened. He doesn’t know what I know.

  “This guy’s not still around, is he?”

  “No. He left not long after I did. My father wasn’t very happy about his tactics.”

  “I can imagine. I’m surprised John didn’t blow his balls off.”

  “If he’d known all the details, he would’ve.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  Slowly, I shake my head. “No one does, except Hannah. And Jason.”

  “Jason,” he repeats, nodding. “He’s the one you really thought you loved.”

  I nod. As much as I wish I hadn’t, I did love Jason. I loved him as much as I hate him now.

  Nixon doesn’t ask any more questions, and I’m glad. As it is, the memories won’t stop bombarding me, and I can’t stop feeling devastated when I think of that time in my life, of what it was like to be destroyed because a selfish boy put a scared young girl in a position she wasn’t ready for. I can’t stop the tears that flood my eyes either.

  The movement of Nixon’s fingers stops, and he grabs me behind my knees and pulls until I’m all but lying across his lap. He cups my face in his hands and stares into my eyes for the longest time. He says nothing and neither do I. I’m not sure words are necessary. He’s doing a fine job of communicating without them. In the midnight abyss of his eyes, I see a tenderness, an understanding that surprises me. Maybe it’s the bond of shared pain. Maybe it’s an extension of the attraction that’s between us.