And it rocked my world.
“No,” he whispered, sliding himself in, then out, pulling back and speaking through gritted teeth as his fingers played a lovely imagined melody, “you’re playing me. You’re like a hot, wet vise.” He pulled the arm behind his head out and stroked my br**sts, pinching in time to his thrusts up. I leaned down and pressed my hands against his shoulders, a smattering of hair damply stuck to his forehead, his eyes leaving that intense gaze and going unfocused. We were both so, so close, and then –
We tipped over together. A wave of cotton and spirit encircled us, making my ears rush with pumping blood and found dreams as wave after wave of cli**x crashed over me and Trevor, his h*ps thrusting himself so hard into me I cried out from the pleasure-pain of being delved into so deeply, of being known so thoroughly. A strangled groan of ecstasy made his neck tighten and he was oh, so beautiful in that split second, an image of abandon and release and I was doing that to him. Me.
And then my own screaming orgasm flushed through my entire body, from the top of my head to my toes, all wracked clenching and unremitting joy, h*ps shifting and demanding he fill me and move me with more, more, more. I cried out and the hand he’d been using on my sweet spot stroked my face, fingers tracing my lips, giving me a taste of myself, the act of wild eroticism adding to my cli**x, bursting me to an explosion that went on and on, endless, taking me some place so pure I could only be, living in full communion with some divine kind of love that was a blend of our breath, our sweat, our juices, our touch and moan and –
Our everything.
Like everything, though, it couldn’t last, my body struck dumb for burst after burst of this sensuality, Trevor’s own orgasm pounding into me and making me feel so honored, so needed, bodies in concert and playing a song we hadn’t even created yet. As the throbbing receded slowly, I found myself first hearing our breathing, my body panting while Trevor’s took slow, deep inhales to steady himself. A slickness connected us at the pelvis, my h*ps and mons covered with what I realized was my own juices, his safely contained in the condom (thank goodness), my body more primed and responsive than ever.
My nak*d soul was so grateful. I leaned down over him, pressing my lips to the soft spot under his stubbled jaw. His hands covered my back, then one came up along my hair line and pulled my messy mop off my face. The grin we shared said all the words that, spoken out loud, would have sounded stupid.
So we stayed silent, until Trevor said apologetically, “I need to take care of this,” and I slid off him. Having him out of me felt like an immediate emptiness I didn’t like but didn’t know had been there before. Sore and a little befuddled, I just watched his dimpled ass as he walked away, took care of things at the trash can, and came back to the bed, pulling a cotton blanket we’d thrown off the edge onto us.
And then we just spent a long time breathing together. It was all we needed.
Trevor broke the silence first, which was fine with me, because I had no idea what to say. There wasn’t any kind of class at my high school or college for what to say after f**king a nak*d hitchhiker in a potting shed.
“Can I ask you a strange question?” Trevor asked, stroking my arm from the shoulder down to the elbow in a long, languid, gentle way that made me feel like a little baby having its back rubbed to sleep. It felt divine and he could ask me whatever he wanted at this point.
“Go ahead,” I said, sleepy and sated.
“What happened to your mom’s foot?”
That was not the question I was expecting and it shook me out of my trance. “That…that happened when I was four,” I said, my feet and hands going numb at the change of topic.
Trevor had no idea what he had just asked and if he kept prying I was going to curl inward like a potato bug in too much sunlight. He seemed to sense that he’d encroached on some sort of place where he wasn’t wanted but I could tell he wasn’t going to back off. A creepy-crawly feeling covered my skin, marching on like soldiers in combat, not in a rush, but steadily progressing to get in place to defend.
“What kind of accident, Darla?” he whispered in my ear. His hand froze and then the whole of his palm pressed against my shoulder, warm and comforting the way someone treats you when you’ve lost someone you loved and they don’t know what to say.
“Car.” I was reduced to one syllable answers. Nobody really talked about this. I was only four when it happened and even I didn’t really have the words to tell Trevor what I knew he wanted to know. Layer by layer he had penetrated – and no, not just sexually – me. Now he was going in deeper, like a prince with hedge clippers, trimming away the thorns to get to the castle to rescue the sleeping princess which, I supposed, would be me in this analogy.
Or maybe my pain.
“The car accident,” he asked, “were you in the car?”
Oh, how I had wished I had been, at least when I was little. For so many years I’d wondered how different our life would be if I had been in the car with Daddy and Mama, with Aunt Marlene and Uncle Jeff.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. My heart went still and zoomed up all at once and it became hard to breathe, hard to feel, hard to stay here with Trevor who, for some godforsaken reason, kept asking more. It was almost like he genuinely cared and wanted to know more about me because – well, why? Asking all these questions had to mean something, right?
He gently pulled my shoulder toward him and I had no choice but to respond, the bed so tiny I couldn’t exactly pull away or I’d fall off. He was the only man I’d ever had in here, so this was all new on so many different levels. First of all, this was not a bed made for two people. I rotated my body, my h*ps sliding against wetness, a proud sort of blooming inside me recognizing that it was a symbol of what we’d just done.
Face to face, I couldn’t hide anymore but I could close my eyes because his right now were searching, and deep, and questioning. That was the problem. Trevor was taking all of this far too far. What I thought was supposed to be some fun, something wacky, something to add to my list of Stupid Things That Darla Did For Stupid Reasons was quickly becoming Something That Darla Had Always Hoped Could Be.
I knew how this would end, though. His friend was coming, taking him away and then I would just become some joke that Trevor told to his friends. A story about how he got high as a kite and found himself in Ohio and some crazy fat chick picked him up and f**ked him. That’s all I needed to be, right?
That’s all I was.
I was fooling myself if I thought that what I wanted so desperately to see in that look from him was really there.
On the other hand, what did I have to lose, giving him what he was asking for? Sure, I could chip off a chunk of my heart but hell – nobody else was asking for it right now. The leap was easier than I thought. I just opened my mouth and let shit pour out. Except, this time, it wasn’t shit.
It was true.
“When I was four and when my Aunt Josie was eleven, my mom and dad, and Josie’s mom and dad, were out on a double-date – I don’t know whatcha call it when you’re married.” I smiled, but I could feel it not even reach my eyes – and it definitely did not reach Trevor’s face. His features had gone slack, his eyes a little narrow, focusing all of his attention on my words, one hand pressed against my hip, pulling the lower halves of our bodies closer.
“My Uncle Jeff was driving and he probably had some beers in him – that’s what I guess, I don’t know. We don’t talk about it,” I said, my stomach tightening. “Umm…” I stumbled, trying to find the words. Eighteen years of being told this story and I still didn’t really have the right words. “So…umm, Uncle Jeff was driving and he was in the front seat and so was my daddy, and my Mama and Aunt Marlene were in the back and Uncle Jeff didn’t see a semi truck that was backing into a driveway across the road – ”
“Oh, God,” Trevor said, his voice husky and shocked.
“Yeah. Oh, God. Oh, God is the right thing to say, Trevor.”
“So your dad…”
He left the question out there. “He passed. And Uncle Jeff did too, instantly. At least that’s what I’m told. I was only four, so I don’t really know the details.”
“And your mom lived, right?” Trevor said.
“Well, obviously. She’s not an apparition.” I tried to smile at my own joke but we both just gave each other a sick look.
“And your aunt?”
“She lived. She had brain damage bad enough to be at the Cleveland Clinic for six weeks. They weren’t sure if she’d live but she did. Me and my Aunt Josie had to live with the assistant librarian until my mama got out of the hospital, and then Josie lived with us for a while until her mom was back.”
“Why the librarian?”
“Uncle Jeff was the head librarian here.” He just nodded, his chin sliding up and down the skin between my neck and earlobe.
“And she’s OK? Your aunt who was in the accident?”
I thought about all the ways that that question could be answered, my mind floating through answers in nanoseconds, as if someone had picked up my brain and thrown it through the air in a giant arc. And then I chose the easiest answer. “She lived. She’s here.”
We both sighed. I looked up, having focused on his shoulder to get through the explanation. I expected to find pity in his eyes. What I found instead was his face coming toward me as he planted the gentlest of kisses on my forehead and stroked my cheek.
Something troubled in his eyes told me he had a story, too, but now wasn’t the time to pile more sadness on top of my own. I wasn’t really surprised. Everyone has a sad story – around here we have more tragedy and misery than most places, but no one’s really poor in those. If bad luck and terrible timing were a currency, our whole trailer park would be on a Forbes list every year. In time – which we didn’t have much of – maybe I’d hear Trevor’s story.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“Neither do I.”
In the stillness, all we heard was our breath. I snuggled against him, pressed my cheek against his heart, enjoyed the throbbing of it against my jawbone. His stomach gurgled and I mumbled, “Don’t make me make you another crazy omelet.”
He laughed and then kissed the top of my head, the pressure so fatherly it almost brought tears to my eyes. “You’ve been through so much,” he said.
“So have you,” I answered. We both knew that was lame.
A deep rumbling in his diaphragm burbled through me. “Darla, I’m a f**king p**sy compared to you.” His words were mumbled and a bit slurred with sleep, arms loosening as he settled in, snuggling down and kissing my cheek. Before I could answer (then again, what was I supposed to say to that?) his breathing went even and my sweet Trevor Connor was out cold, slumber overtaking him in the wake of our lovemaking.
We had popped my shed’s cherry.
Chapter Six
Darla
Tap, tap, tap. I looked over to the window and saw a strange man’s face peering in. This wasn’t the first strange man’s face I had ever had peering in my window but it was the first strange man peering in this window because nobody, not Davey, not even Mama, ever came out here. I’d kept it quiet for so long I just assumed no one knew where it was. So, why was this man ogling me and Trevor?