Games We Play (3 page)

LC, aka the cute dude behind Kendall, laughed. Could laughs be sexy? They could if they were delivered like his—low, slow, and scratchy.
What the hell is scratchy?
she asked herself, chalking her loss of brainpower up to standing so close to him in line. She paid for her water and candy, took her change, and left.

Cooper followed her with his eyes as she walked out the door, watching her small but lovely ass make its way back over to her car.

He never let the opportunity to study butts pass him by, and he had been impressed with hers, half in love with it already as it had sashayed past him earlier on its way into Walter’s store. She was a very pretty girl, with long hair swinging from a ponytail, resting just at the top of her shoulders. He’d followed her into the store with his eyes, cataloging her slim figure, small waist, and shapely rear. He’d been enchanted by the movement of her round—but not too round—rump, just big enough for him to hold one cheek in each hand, a gig he was always up for.

He’d continued to watch the sway and shift of it as she moved. The soft material of her dress enhanced the rise and punch he felt from taking in the sight of her bum bum, as his old Brazilian friend used to call it. He loved him some bum bum or badonkadonk, which was the preferred moniker of those who lived in the dirty south. He liked his full, round, and free of clothes.

He’d read somewhere that men were attracted to butts because they resembled breasts in some way, and added with curvy hips, they were a sure sign of fertility. Wide hips made baby-making easier for women, and men were always in search of mates to make babies with, a characteristic fundamental to their DNA. Who knew? All he knew was that he liked hips with curvy asses attached to them. Always had, always would.

Walter, the man he knew behind the counter, cleared his throat, pulling Cooper’s eyes to his. He smiled. Walter laughed. “LC,” he said, shaking his head. “After all these years, you haven’t changed, not one bit. All that money, and you’re the same ass hound you always were,” he added, taking Cooper’s cash.

“Yeah, but why waste your time looking at that?” someone other than Walter said. Cooper recognized the voice. He’d grown up with the guy. Jeremiah stood at his side now, looking out the front window at the African American woman who was making her way back to her foreign car.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing those now,” Jeremiah said.

“Not enough going on in your own life, huh? You think you need to have your nose in mine?” Cooper said as he glanced at the big man standing next to him. In fact, Cooper had not dated any African American woman before. But that was his business, and he didn’t appreciate being told what to do or how to live his life by anyone, especially not someone like Jeremiah.

“Zero-zero-five-nine is the password to the course this month,” Cooper said, addressing Walter now, ignoring the man who stood beside him.

“We don’t like what you’re allowing to happen in Coopersville,” Jeremiah said.

Cooper turned to face him, and all hints of a smile disappeared as he gazed into the hard eyes of the other man. Six foot five, with a beard and mustache hiding his face, Jeremiah was three hundred pounds of pure muscle.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cooper said.

“If you’re interested in her, then you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said.

“You have yourself a nice day, Jeremiah,” Cooper said before turning to face Walter again.

“Hope to see you at the course soon, Walt,” he said, then left.

Kendall was still standing next to the pump, sort of waiting, watching from underneath her lashes as he made his way back over to his truck. Yep, same fine man.

He stood next to his truck now, eyes on her, and since she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make her seem sketchy, she settled for a giving him another smile, hoping it was inviting.

“You live around here?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Too bad,” he said, smiling.

Pretty, pretty
, she thought of his straight and even white teeth, the semi-full lips opened slightly over them, and the slight five-o’clock shadow on his chin. And, oh lord, really gorgeous green eyes.

Hell yeah, too bad
, Kendall thought. She gave him what she hoped was a sexy and inviting pout. He laughed, and not the sexy laugh from earlier, this was a you’re-so-funny laugh, so maybe her pout had fallen short. She stood watching as he hopped into his truck and pulled out onto the road. Oh well, that was plenty fun while it lasted.

Cooper checked his rearview mirror and watched her get into her car and pull out onto the road behind him. She’d had to wait for two smaller cars to pass before the road was clear enough for her to enter.

He checked his mirrors every ten minutes or so, and yep, there she was trailing behind him, the two cars still in between them. He slowed down—why the fuck not?—forcing the two cars to go around him.
That’s better
, he thought when she and her little Honda SUV were directly behind him. She pulled up closer to his truck, and he met her eyes in the rear mirror and smiled, a big, high-wattage one. She flashed one back, and his grin widened.

They continued that way for the next thirty miles, trading glances and trading smiles, she trailing behind his truck. He stopped at the stop sign, his exit to the road that would eventually take him to FM 1341, the main road into and out of Coopersville. He stuck his arm out of the window and pointed to the sign that read
Coopersville, 30 miles
. He smiled at the thumbs-up she gave him.

He turned left, and she followed, riding his tail, and the possibilities of that image held like onto his mind with a vise-like grip. She was singing now; he could hear the music through his open window, some country tune. She flashed him a grin when she caught him looking back in his rearview mirror at her, which was often now.

It took about twenty-five minutes to get into the outskirts of Coopersville. The Brewpub stood on the corner of 1341 and Old Quarry Road, the first landmark into town. She was with him when he turned into one of the parking spots located out front of the Brewpub and parked. She didn’t stop, just waved to him as she passed.

He stepped out of his truck and walked into the street, watching her make the right turn onto Locus Street, which he knew took you to the mostly older residential part of the town. The university parking decal on her car’s window had given him his first hint of who she was, and the fact that she’d trailed him into town had been his second. He’d thought it might be the case, and now it was official. The professor had come to town.

Kendall lowered her window, letting in some fresh air, leaving the handsome stranger behind, hoping she’d have the chance to see him again. If she had anything to say about it, she would. From all outside appearances, he would be worth a search and rescue. See, things were working out better than she’d expected. Houston who?

God, wouldn’t it be wonderful, a blessing really, if he were available to have some fun, a summer fling—no expectations, no demands. “Oh,” she squealed again at the thought of spending time with someone who looked as good as he did, and since she was wishing, how about if he could knock her socks off in bed? Wouldn’t it be great if he could make her come unglued, giving her the toe-curling sex that women bragged about, that she read about in romance books, when the guy never loses an erection, can go all night—you get the picture. She longed for anything resembling that.

She’d wished Houston, her ex-boyfriend, could have been different in bed. He’d been okay, and just okay—alright, not really okay—and although she had done the perfunctory ohs and ahs in the right places, at least she
hoped
it had been in the right places, she hadn’t really connected with him in that department. Not that it mattered to Houston. Was she there and ready when he wanted? So what if she didn’t climax. “I got mine, you should learn to get yours,” he’d often said, and he was so not the man for her.

Honestly, she and sex had only ever been okay. She wasn’t sure how much of that blame to shoulder. Maybe she was the problem—too unskilled, too unaware, too professorial, too reserved, not up for all manner of toys and tricks and getting other people involved in the bedroom, as it seemed everybody was doing these days. No way did she want some other woman lurking about in her bed with her man. She hadn’t grown or matured that much, didn’t think she ever would either. She had a this-is-mine, you-can-look-but-don’t-touch policy when it came to her men. She shook her head, trying to focus her attention on finding her aunt’s street.

According to her aunt’s directions, she was to make a right to Locus Street. Yes, there it was now. Then it was three blocks up, a left onto Painted Pony. Another two minutes, and it was right on her left. She glanced down at the clock on her dashboard. It was five till 2:00 p.m., and she was great on time. Two minutes later and she was parked alongside the curb, in front of her aunt’s home.

That was easy
, she thought, finally letting go of the idea of LC. She should have stopped at the Brewpub. She’d wanted to, and he’d clearly expected her to. Nope. “Later gator,” she’d said out loud as she passed him. Kendall was nothing if not punctual, and she hadn’t wanted to arrive late.

She took a moment to look at her aunt’s home.
Has it always been this small?
she thought, taking in the homes surrounding it. Probably, but at age ten, her one and only visit here, it had seemed huge. She tried to conjure up those memories, memories of being outside on sunny days, eating popsicles, playing with friends she’d made, and eating dinner with her aunt and uncle. She’d spent so many evenings that summer playing outside with her dolls or the neighbors’ children while her uncle tinkered on something in the garage. He’d kept the door opened to keep an eye out for her.

The house was built with bricks, painted a light yellow, and she couldn’t remember if it had been that color as a child. These houses had been built in the early 1930s or 1940s. The front porch, with its white-painted railing that came to about her waist. She remembered playing on it, feeling safe and special, hidden within its depths.

She took the two steps that led to the front door. To the left of the door there were two single windows, both open, both covered with screens. The porch had been painted that grey color she’d seen in a few fancy garages. A few potted plants sat in between two dark green chairs, the old-school metal kind that rocked.

She knocked. She could see inside through the screen door protecting the wooden front door, which stood open. She turned and glanced behind her. The yard was neat. A nice old tree sat in the front near the curb, surrounded by a brick wall, five or six bricks high, painted yellow to match the house. No flowers in the flower beds, just mulch covering the dirt. She heard noises and turned to see her aunt’s figure come into view.

Aunt Myra looked so much like her mother. It was uncanny. They could have passed for twins, and her aunt was the younger daughter by a few years. She was close to Kendall’s five-seven height, neither of them as tall as Vivian, the model. Her aunt was slim like her mother, and she was dressed in slacks and a blouse. She wore her hair in a short Afro, and glasses hung on a beaded string around her neck.

Kendall stepped aside as her aunt pushed open the screen door. “You must be Kendall. I hardly recognize you,” Aunt Myra said, motioning for her to enter. “Let me take a look at you,” she said, a smile on her face as her eyes roamed over Kendall. “Beautiful, just like your mother. You have any trouble getting here?”

“No, none at all.”

“Good then. Are you hungry?” Myra asked.

“I could eat,” she said.

“Great. I fixed us lunch. It’s set up on the back patio, where I watch my evening TV shows. Follow me, and I’ll give you a small tour of the house on the way.” The house was small and clean, with a country-favored décor, Kendall decided as she trailed behind her aunt. It was nicely furnished, with expensive, sturdy-looking furniture. Hardwood floors ran throughout the rooms.

“The living room is to the left, the dining room to the right,” Myra said, as they walked past them.

“My bedroom is to the left, and you can take the guest bedroom, which is across the hall from me,” she said, opening the door. Kendall stepped in briefly and took a quick glance around the room—champagne pink and spotless.

“It’s pretty,” Kendall said.

“This is the one bathroom that we’ll share,” Myra said, pointing to the room next door to her aunt’s room and across the hall from Kendall’s temporary one.

The hallway that led from the front door ended in the kitchen, which was big and roomy. An old wooden table with four chairs around it sat to the left of the doorway. Green seat cushions covered the chairs, matching the place mats that were on the table. Green curtains of some lightweight fabric hung from the window, and an oval-shaped green rug sat underneath the kitchen table.

There were three single windows—two in a row on the side wall and one on the back wall, offering a view to the backyard. An electric fan stood spinning quietly in one of the windows, bringing in the cool spring air.

Across the room from the table was the cooking portion of the kitchen. Two rows of cabinets, upper and lower, flanked the walls, with counter space below the upper cabinets, interrupted first by the refrigerator, then by the sink and the stove.

“You have a lovely home,” Kendall said, and it was true. The word
cozy
came to mind. It was very different from her mother’s upscale, expensive, expansive style.

“It’s home. It’s not very large compared to what you’re used to, I’ll bet, but George and I were very happy here,” she said, moving through the kitchen to the door leading outside.

Kendall followed her, stepping out into a screened-in back porch, half the size of the kitchen in width. There was another door, opening out onto a set of steps that led to the backyard.

“This is where I spend most of my time when I’m home. I sit out here and have my morning coffee, read the paper, and watch TV. It was a part of your uncle George’s daily routine. He liked to have his breakfast out here in the spring and fall, when the weather was changing and the breeze was cool. Have a seat, and I’ll go and get our lunch,” she said.