Austentatious (21 page)

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Authors: Alyssa Goodnight

BOOK: Austentatious
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“You’re a natural. Ready to start her up and take a little ride?”
The grin slid quickly away, right along with my tact. “No.”
“Just to the end of the driveway and back,” Sean pressed. Before I could reject this idea, he’d slid onto the bike behind me and brought his arms around to cover my hands on the handlebars. “Trust me, luv,” he urged.
Rather than comfort me, his words derailed my confidence. The truth was I couldn’t figure out who to trust: myself, Sean, Fairy Jane, or any of my life’s little cheerleaders. But that was a bigger issue. This was just about a motorcycle—everything else could wait. I concentrated on Sean’s arms, and the warm contact points where our bodies met, and the fact that I did trust Sean to get me safely down the driveway and back.
Relieved that he couldn’t see my face, I nodded once, bobbing the bobblehead.
Wordlessly, Sean revved the engine and walked the bike around to face the street. Then he lifted both feet from the pavement and puttered us down the gently sloping driveway all the way to the street. He turned us neatly, and with a little twist of his wrist, we rocketed forward a little faster, shooting up the driveway with a buzz and a hum to stop once again beside my safe and quiet little car. Sean shifted the engine back to neutral and climbed off, leaving me to settle into the idea of whipping around the city on a breezy
Wednesday
morning in March.
“You’re hooked, aren’t you?” Sean taunted, dragging a smile out of me.
Our mini test drive might not have fazed me, but I had no delusions that our driveway jaunt would be in any way comparable to zipping around Austin at ten times the speed. But butterflies or not, I needed to risk it. Because if there was any chance of making things work with Sean, I was going to have to learn to be open to compromise and the occasional outlandish adventure.
I turned to Sean to give him the thumbs-up and spotted Leslie sauntering across the lawn in some sort of tangerine caftan, a pale avocado mask smeared over her face. Super.
Before launching into the inevitable commentary, she gave Sean the once-over, flicked her eyebrows up as if to say, “Where were
you
when I decided to switch teams?” and settled her gaze on me.
“My, my, my,” she started, feathering a hand to her ample bosom in an “I do declare” sort of way. “Do my cucumber-soothed eyes deceive me, or is that our own sweet Nicola James atop that monster of a motorcycle? Surely not.” She seemed oddly flirty. I kept my guard firmly up.
“Hi, Leslie. Late class?”
“I don’t need to be on campus till noon on Wednesdays. But I can’t imagine what sort of apocalyptic situation lured
you
away from work.” Her gaze, dragged inexorably back to Sean after each whiff of a glance at me, finally settled in to stay. “Are
you
the emergency?”
“Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted, oozing charm. “Sean MacInnes, Bad Influence.” This came off as simultaneously cocky and self-deprecating.
Leslie shifted sinuously forward, and I almost expected a little forked tongue to slip between her lips and flicker about in intimidating fashion. But she merely extended her hand, palm down, the picture of silver screen moxie, particularly with the green goo. “Leslie Innerbock,
Original
Bad Influence,” she purred.
Insert eye roll.
“She seems relatively uncorrupted,” Sean pointed out after dutifully bestowing a kiss and releasing Leslie’s hand.
Leslie’s lip curled; I could tell she was grudgingly impressed. “What can I say? Perhaps you have more persuasive ...
tools
”—her gaze raked down and lingered before whipping up again—“at your disposal. And what woman can resist a man in a kilt?”
I turned away to hide the grin I could no longer hold back. But conscious of the unpredictability of both participants in this showdown, I knew I’d have to intercede before things got hideously embarrassing. For me, that is. I schooled my features and turned back.
“Whoa. Down, girl. Just think of this motorcycle as that mechanical bull you were telling me about, and it can all be your idea.” I gave the cycle a little pat, willing her to remember her little Friday-night pep talk.
“That
is
true,” she conceded, as graciously as she’d ever conceded anything. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is you found a man, got yourself a Weird shirt, and damn if you’re not sitting astride a great big vibrating—”
Vvvvvrrrrrrrooooovvvvmmmmm!
Sitting there, caught up in Leslie’s runaway monologue, visualizing it streaking toward its train wreck of a conclusion, I was at a loss. My reaction? A cringe with a twist. My hands had curled reflexively around the handlebars, jerking just enough to rev the engines in one big guttural growl, the mother of all reprimands.
Leslie’s mouth rounded to an “o” and popped shut, a virtually unheard-of reaction.
Sean’s head whipped around in surprise, but then he dimpled me with a knowing grin. I was as shocked as anyone and becoming more and more fond of this bike.
Leslie recovered quickly, and rather than hold a grudge at such a garish interruption, seemed more than a little impressed with my sudden burst of spunk. “In case she doesn’t mention it herself ...” Leslie shot me a look. “Nic comes for karaoke every Friday night. She brings the cupcakes. Get her to invite you along, and we’ll see if you can keep up. And if you can get Nic to sing, I’ll know you’re a god. Wear the kilt.”
I suddenly had an urge to ram her, but before I could act on it, she was sauntering back the way she’d come, giving me a fluttery finger wave and a devilish grin.
Sean watched her go but quickly turned back to me. Before he could comment—I didn’t even want to guess what he might have said—I blurted, “I’m ready.” I’d deal with Leslie’s impromptu invitation later.
I scooted back, giving Sean room to climb on in front, and suddenly outrageously shy, I wrapped my arms loosely, tentatively around Sean’s waist. I managed to make it to the end of the street with my relaxed grip, but once we’d slid into traffic, with cars whizzing by on either side and the pavement stretching in front of us, potholed and bumpy, I quickly traded it for the infinitely more comforting full-body clamp technique. With blustery-crisp wind on my cheeks, I shamelessly spooned him on the streets of the capital city. From chin to knee, every last inch of my body was pressed against the inches of his. I was jittery and shivery, and, surprise, surprise, a bit of a potty mouth. But the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind carried all those words away.
Just as I was getting used to it, we were slowing down, easing into the Central Market parking lot, and killing the engine. I’d done it! I’d trusted and survived. And it hadn’t been so bad. I refused to picture the roads we’d have to take on the next leg of the trip, instead reveling in this one triumphant, exhilarating moment. I felt a bit like I’d conquered the world—and deserved a celebratory cupcake.
We wove our way through the maze of Central Market, stocking up on standard picnic fare: a baguette, a bit of cheese, an eclectic selection from the olive and pickle bars, strawberries, and bottled water. It wasn’t until we were lugging the picnic supplies out into the sunlight in an environmentally conscious canvas bag that I realized the bike didn’t have one of those cool storage compartments or hipster baskets—it was pretty much “what you see is what you get” as far as I could tell. So if Sean was driving, and I was sprawled over the back of him like a bug on the windshield, where exactly did we plan to stash a baguette? Not to mention its accompaniments.
“Has this bike been on a picnic before?” I asked.
He aimed a quizzical look in my direction, covered it with a smile, and lifted his hand to circle the back of my neck. No answer was forthcoming. I tried again.
“Where are the groceries going to ride?” I pressed.
“Between us, where else?” His reply was automatic and positively reeked of male ego. Evidently he’d forgotten how I’d had to peel myself off him, a regular pudding skin, after the first ride. I hadn’t a doubt that this second leg would be considerably more frazzling than the first, given the dips and curves in the roads that led up to Mount Bonnell, and I fully intended to reprise my role as pudding skin.
We would see who fared better: me or the picnic.
15
In which Sean succeeds in toppling the Queen
T
hat is how we came to be zipping down West Thirty-fifth and bouncing along Mount Bonnell Road with an edible bazooka resting on my shoulder. The groceries had
not
fit between us, and I fully expected to have bruises on my butt where the water bottles had thumped in a steady beat all the way there. I’d have to keep that in mind while making my plans for the evening.
Pulling myself off the bike at the base of Mount Bonnell Park was another matter. I’d been coiled in a pseudo-fetal position for the last fifteen minutes, and my fingers had been curled, talonlike, into awkward clenching claws. Likely I was also deathly pale and ornamented with a curious array of kamikaze insects. It was entirely possible that the Juan in a Million moment, the gifting of the Weird shirt, was destined to be the day’s highlight.
I turned away slightly and made a show of stretching and surveying while surreptitiously pulling out my cell to check for messages. I was in luck—a text had come in while I’d been swooping along like a superhero with a grocery bag cape.
Mssg from Beck:
 
Strip poker??
I was rolling my eyes in exasperation when Sean’s voice startled me back to the reality of right now. “Ready?”
This seemed to be the day’s recurring theme—Was I ready? Hard to say. Today was mapping out to be one of those “kill you or make you stronger” sort of days, and so far, for a squeamish little chicken, I thought I was kicking some serious ass. I did dread the thought of a final elimination round, though....
“Yep,” I answered with an enthusiastic nod, glancing at the trail of limestone steps leading up to the park.
Sean took over as pack mule, and I couldn’t help but notice that the top of the baguette was drooping, a little limp from the journey. I knew the feeling.
The rough-hewn limestone steps seemed to go on forever, and I lost count at a hundred. We reached the top together, Sean having tangled his fingers with mine at the bottom, maybe to keep me from looking up his skirt.
The steps led to an open expanse of patio laid with the expected limestone and covered with a partial wooden trellis held up by, surprise, surprise, limestone posts. Rather coincidentally, the spot put me in mind of an old-fashioned folly. I deliberately shook that thought from my head.
We drifted together toward the overlook of Lady Bird Lake snaking a beautiful, reflective blue through the surrounding hills dotted with scraggly cedar and scrunchy live oaks. Sean looked away first—I could feel the tug on my hand as he twisted his body around, scanning the area.
“Relatively secluded this morning.”
“Well, it is Wednesday,” I reminded him (and myself).
“Lover’s Leap,” he murmured, reading a mounted plaque and leaning his torso far forward and then whipping back with startling quickness. “Nothing romantic about death and disfigurement, in my opinion, but then I’ve been told I’m dreadfully dull.”
“Who told you that?” I demanded, shocked and rather appalled.
“My younger sister.” Judging by his grin, he’d been pleased with my reaction.
“Speaking as a younger sister, I’m sure it was justified,” I said sweetly.
“Brothers?” he asked.
“Just one.”
“He has my sympathies,” Sean parried with mock seriousness.
“He managed,” I countered, spearing him with a defensive glare.
“Against what was no doubt a carefully considered, meticulously organized, deviously clever assault. The man is a hero.”
“
You
seem to be managing just fine,” I retorted, scuffing my shoe through the pale powdery dirt.
“Ahhh, but we’ve already established that I’m a hero. And I’d wager you’ve mellowed slightly.”
“I’ll take that wager,” I countered, letting one eyebrow kink in challenge.
Sean’s grin flashed quick, the sun glinting sharply off his perfectly straight teeth. My eyebrow relaxed as he demanded, “Truce! Even now it’s clear I’m no match for a little sister.”
He held out his hand and I took it, for once not second-guessing anything. Filling my head with thoughts of Sean, careful not to leave room for anything else, I managed just fine. The effect was a floaty, serene sense of light-headedness. Perfect for a wandering hike along the limestone cliffs and a sunny picnic on a vast sloping slab of rock facing out over water and sky, both the same Easter egg blue.
I managed somehow to forget about everything—all of it but the two of us together. I might have fallen asleep on that flat, warm rock under the sun, but with nothing more than the tail end of a baguette for a pillow and a Texan’s fear of sunburn, I opted instead to wrap my arms around my knees and tip my head back for five blissful minutes of heat without the burn. It was a tricky balance, an art form really, much like the way a fugitive knows precisely how long to stay on the phone to beat the trace.
It was impossible to say when Sean switched his gaze from the glorious Texas Technicolor to me, but when my eyes finally blinked open, he was staring. Flustered, I took refuge in common sense, struggling to sit up despite my limbs feeling like warm wax. “We’re going to need to pick up some sunblock if we’re going out in a canoe,” I reminded him. “Otherwise we’ll crisp up and hurt like hell.”
“We don’t want that, do we?” he asked, sounding very James Bond and looking the part with his carefully banked smoldering gaze. He kept it trained on me as he pulled me to my feet.
“No-ooo,” I answered, suddenly obsessed with dusting off my bruised bottom.
“In Scotland we pack umbrellas, not sunblock. No sense in being overly optimistic.” We were climbing slowly back toward the limestone-paved patio, the sun beating warmly on our backs.
“You only have to burn once. After that you remember: getting aloe vera gel sticky-slathered all over you, cringing at every touch for days, peeling and itching until you resemble some sort of queer albino reptile. After that, you don’t leave home without it.” I looked at him quizzically. “You’ve never gotten burned?”
“Funnily enough, this is my first good opportunity. And now I’m wondering why
you
didn’t bring the sunblock,” he teased.
Something triggered in the back of my mind but got shuffled away in the face of unadulterated exasperation. “Possibly because I wasn’t privy to your plans, and I never expected to be flitting about, exposed to the elements, not to mention the pavement, on the back of your motorcycle.” I could hear the panicky edge to my voice and knew exactly what was causing it. Sean had touched my biggest nerve—today, I was flying blind.
“I’m teasing, luv. The sunblock was clearly my responsibility, and I bungled it. I’m just relieved you thought of it before we shoved off into the lake, pale and exposed as sitting ducks.”
“Well, we’d have had your umbrella, right? You
did
bring an umbrella. . . ?”
I was almost positive—you could say 100 percent certain—that the man wasn’t packin’ an umbrella.
“I’m afraid not,” he admitted, looking chagrined, the slightest bit of pink staining his cheeks. Quite possibly the onset of sunburn.
“I’m only teasing, luv.” I mimicked him, looking away quickly before he could see the onset of my pink.
“I deserve that,” he said, tangling his fingers with mine.
My jeans brushed against the velvety leaves of a Texas sage, and I let my fingers skim the lavender blooms. My breath was suddenly coming in pants, and not from exertion. If I was truly honest with myself, I had to admit that the hardest part of this whip-fast romance was stepping further and further outside my comfort zone with each baby step I took toward Sean. Made me wonder how I’d feel about the “new me” after the first blush of romance had paled.
Thinking to aim us down a scrub oak–lined hiking path and detour the century of steps, I shifted right. Sean shifted left simultaneously, and we collided on the uneven rock. He caught me, and for the space of a hundred rapid-fire heartbeats, we were only inches away from ... who knew what ... something good. But then the wind whipped up, high on our little outcropping of rock, fluttering Sean’s skirt.
I glanced down—I couldn’t help it—and Sean, glancing down too, moved his hand to that little pouch hanging over his ... hanging over the front of his kilt. Black leather trimmed with three jaunty tassels, it matched nicely against the colorful plaid of pine green, true blue, and black, shot through with streaks of yellow, pale blue, and red. But the colors all blurred together as I stared at that little pouch and Sean’s hand on it. I waited with bated breath (really!) and tried to ignore my heartbeat, building in silent crescendo. Unsnapping the pouch, Sean reached his hand down inside. I was blinking rapidly now, and my lips were twitching with the minor hilarity of the situation.
When his hand reappeared, it was holding a disposable camera, and it took my detoured mind a second to register that Sean had probably brought it along to commemorate this Day of Dares.
“Let’s take a photo, shall we? No one will believe it otherwise—you, out on a Wednesday.” He scoffed.
We hiked back to the overlook and posed beside Lover’s Leap, Sean holding the camera at arm’s length as the two of us grinned, the moment captured.
“Did you get our T-shirts in the picture?” I asked.
“Hard to say. Why don’t I get one of just you and your shirt? Then we can stop off at Hippie Hollow and get one of you without it,” he teased with a wicked smile.
I posed, framing the white words emblazoned on my chest like a handsy spokesmodel, and he snapped a second picture. “One more,” I insisted. I extended my hand for the camera. “It’s possible you’re the first man to climb to the top of Mount Bonnell, skirts fluttering. Doubtful, but possible.”
Handing over the camera with a grin, he was quick to pose with his hands on hips and a rakish gleam in his eye. Hoping Sean wouldn’t notice, or at the very least wouldn’t comment on it, I stole a second behind the camera to marvel at this latest surreal moment in my once-predictable life.
Coming back to stand beside me and slide the little twenty-four-shot camera back from whence it came, Sean ever so casually suggested, “How about I race you to the bottom.”
He wasn’t joking. In two seconds I was scrabbling over limestone, heading downhill, making for the path in lieu of the stairs. I left Sean in a white puff of dust, his hand still in his pouch.
My grin was imperturbable as I navigated the path, dodging live oaks and ducking around the curves, skidding on gravel and getting hung up for a nervy eternity by an older couple meandering downhill with walking sticks and single-minded determination. But mere seconds had passed when I glimpsed the blacktop—the far edge of roadside parking at the bottom of the hill—and only seconds stood between me and victory.
And then I was there, my feet skimming off the slippery gravel and onto the tar black ...
And then lifting, spinning in the air in a dizzying swirl that had my adrenaline bubbling over and my stomach plummeting in panic.
The thrill of victory crashed into defeat as I realized Sean was below me, around me, everywhere: He’d beat me to the bottom.
“Trounced you fair and square, darling, despite your head start and the slight disadvantage of my regalia.” Our makeshift whirligig had finally slowed to a stop, and Sean was making no move to let go.
“If I could think of a way you could have cheated, I’d accuse you. But since I can’t ... congratulations.” I admit it—I’m a bad sport. But for God’s sake, the man was wearing a skirt!
“Come on. That was hardly sincere. And while we didn’t wager, I think I’ve earned a prize. One kiss,” he demanded quietly, a single eyebrow raised in yet another challenge.
I let my shoulders slump slightly in defeat and puffed out a sigh. “Fine.” And while he slid me down the length of his body, letting the tips of my toes settle on the blacktop, I kept my arms twined tight around his neck and tipped his head down for a kiss.
As usual, it sprang out of my control, pulling at me, twisting inside me, urging me to indulge, to steal this shady roadside moment under the twittering trees and careless clear spring sky. I’d meant to skim my lips over his and leave it at that, but within seconds I was nipping and sliding my tongue along the seam of the lips that had taunted me mercilessly for going on four days now. I heard the hum and roar of cars on the road, and Sean shifted, shielding me from passersby or possibly distraction, and I let myself let go and fell into him, swooping and sailing, my own little “lover’s leap.”
Practice for tonight. Possibly.
 
With his breathing distinctly hitched, Sean casually suggested a rematch. I suspected his motives were ulterior. I politely declined and we climbed back onto the bike. As we glided down the winding, bumpy roads back into the city, it was clear—at least to me—that things between us had shifted. Into considerably more dangerous territory.
We made a quick stop at the drugstore to load up on sunscreen, despite my suspicions that I was at greater risk alone with Sean than at the mercy of the afternoon sun, and I took advantage of the moments alone to check my messages. I ignored the voice mails—it was likely they were work-related—and focused on the single text:

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