Reminders of Him

But I want to kiss her again.
I touch her face, and she leans into my hand. I’m still not positive
she’s comfortable, so I hesitate until she scoots closer to me. I position
myself between her legs, and then she tightens her thighs around my hips.
I can take a hint.
I swipe my tongue across her lips, and she pulls me in until her sweet
breath is in my mouth. She tastes like apples still, but her mouth is saltier
and her tongue is more decisive. She leans into my kiss, and I lean into the
truck, into her, and she slowly falls back across the seat, pulling me with
her. I hover over her, standing between her legs, pressing myself against
her.
The way she sucks in small gasps of air while I kiss her is driving me
insane.

---

She guides my hand up her shirt and I grab her breast and she wraps
her legs around me and then my jeans are against hers and we’re rocking
back and forth like we’re in fucking high school and this is our only place
to go.
I want to pull her back into the bar and tear off her clothes, but this is
enough. More than this would be way too much. For her. Or maybe too
much for me. I don’t know, I just know her mouth and this truck are
enough.
After a minute of making out in the dark, I pull away from her mouth
just enough to see that her eyes are closed and her lips are parted. I keep my
steady rhythm against her, and she lifts her hips, and I swear the friction
between our clothes is enough to start an actual fire. It’s so hot between her
thighs, and I don’t think I can finish like this. I’m not sure she can either.
We’re just going to drive ourselves crazy if we don’t find a way to get even
closer, or stop altogether.
I would invite her to my house, but my parents are in town, and I’m
not bringing anyone near those two.
“Nicole,” I whisper. I feel uncomfortable even suggesting this, but I
can’t keep making out with her in an alley like she isn’t worth a bed. “We
could go back inside.”
She shakes her head and says, “No. I like your truck,” right before
pulling my mouth back to hers.
If she likes my truck, I love my truck. My truck is my second-favorite
thing in the world right now.
Her mouth is my first.
She moves my hand to the button on her jeans, so I oblige and
unbutton them while my tongue is dragging across hers. I slip my hand into
the front of her jeans until my fingers slide over her panties. She moans,
and it’s so loud against the silent soundtrack of this sleepy town.
I move her panties aside with my fingers, and I’m met with smooth
skin and heat and a whimper. When I inhale, I can hear the shakiness of my
own breaths.
I bury my mouth against her neck just as headlights turn onto the
street next to us.
“Shit.” My truck is parked in the alley, but we aren’t hidden from the
view of the street. We suddenly find ourselves scrambling as we’re snapped

---

back to reality. I pull my hand out of her jeans, and she buttons them. I help
her up, and then she faces forward while straightening out her hair.
I close her door and walk around the truck as the car approaches and
comes to a slow roll, then a stop, right in front of the alley. I glance up at
the car and see Grady in his cruiser. He’s rolling down the window, so I
walk away from my truck and up to his car.
“Busy night?” he asks as he leans toward the passenger seat so that he
can see me from the driver’s side of the car.
I look behind me at Nicole in the truck and then back at him. “Yep.
Just closed. You on until morning?”
He turns down his radio. “Whitney took a new shift at the hospital, so
I’m back on nights for now. I like it. It’s quiet.”
I tap his hood and then take a step back. “Good to hear. I gotta go. See
you tomorrow on the field?”
Grady can tell something is up. I’m usually not this quick to brush him
off. He leans forward, looking around me, attempting to see whoever is in
my truck. I lean to the right and block his view. “Have a good night,
Grady.” I point down the road, letting him know he’s welcome to continue
his patrol.
He grins. “Yep. You too.”
I’m not trying to hide her. I just know his wife is a gossip, and I don’t
really want to be the talk of the T-ball field tomorrow.
I climb into my truck, and she’s got her feet up on the dash. She’s
looking out her window, avoiding eye contact with me. I don’t want her to
feel awkward. That’s the last thing I want. I reach over and tuck a strand of
hair behind her ear. “You okay?”
She nods, but the nod is stiff, and so is she, and so is her smile. “I live
next to Cefco.”
That gas station is almost two miles away. She told me earlier she
lived close by, but two miles at midnight isn’t close. “Cefco off Bellview?”
She shrugs. “I think so. I can’t remember all the street names. I just
moved here today.”
That explains why she isn’t familiar to me. I want to say something
like, “Where’d you come from? What brings you to town?” But I say
nothing, because she seems to want me to say nothing.

---

Two miles only takes two minutes when there’s no traffic, and two
minutes isn’t all that long, but it sure does feel like an eternity when you’re
spending it in a truck with a girl you almost fucked. And it wouldn’t have
been a good fuck. It most certainly would have been a quick, sloppy,
selfish, couldn’t-have-been-good-for-her fuck.
I want to apologize, but I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing for, and I
don’t want her to think I regret it. The only thing I regret is that I’m taking
her home and not to my house.
“I live there,” she says, pointing at Paradise Apartments.
I don’t come to this part of town very often. It’s in the opposite
direction of my house, so I rarely drive down this road. I honestly thought
they condemned this place.
I pull into the parking lot, and I intend to kill the engine and open her
door for her, but she’s already out of the truck before I even get it turned
off.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says. “And . . . for the coffee.” She closes
the door and spins around like that’s how we’re supposed to part.
I open my door. “Hey. Wait.”
She pauses but waits to turn around until I’ve reached her. She’s
hugging herself, chewing on her lip, scratching nervously at her arm. She
looks up at me. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . I know what that was.” She waves a hand at my truck.
“You don’t have to ask for my number, I don’t even have one.”
How does she know what that was? I don’t know what that was. My
mind is still trying to process it. Maybe I should ask her. “What was that?