Her Younger Man (A Country Music Romance): a Renny and Rachel Romance (5 page)

CHAPTER  SEVEN

“Damn that was fun,” he yelled as he rolled off of me and slapped the floor. “I haven’t had that much fun in way too long. “

I would have told him it was fun for me too if I could have talked. I was too busy navigating the aftershocks of making love to Renny Taylor. No, wrong word, this wasn’t love, this was sex. Pure, unadulterated, criminally enjoyable sex.

I started giggling. Like an idiot. Laughing and laughing. I had been so tightly coiled that Renny had unraveled me completely. He laughed along but I wasn’t sure if he was laughing with me or at me. I didn’t care. Joy is fleeting, grab it when you can, I say.

He rolled on his side to look at me –or perhaps to make sure I hadn’t gone completely around the bend. “Ice cream?” he asked hopefully.

“I need a shower first,” I answered, “but help yourself. It’s only vanilla, sorry.”

“A shower. Excellent idea,” he said, pulling me to my feet and dragging me to the bathroom. No, this wasn’t what I meant. I needed a shower by myself. I was beyond stinky and I felt spasms of shyness. I did not want him seeing me in the glaring light of the bathroom.

I needn’t have worried. He waited until I was in the shower before he came in with several lit candles which he set on the counter before turning off the overhead lights. Ah, okay, now let’s see what showering with this man meant.

It meant water. A little soap and a lot of other. He slipped in behind me and wrapped his tallness around me. Even with my Keira Knightly weight his arms wrapped around me easily making me feel small and vulnerable. Of course, I was in a shower, stark naked, with a man 20 years younger than me, I’m not sure I could get more vulnerable.

I could. He took the loofah from my hand and made a cursory sweep across my back before tossing it to the floor and pouring the body wash in his hands. He started at my neck and used his hands to massage the soap into my body as I leaned against him. He took his time, lingering over my breasts and belly before teasing up my thighs. There he took his time as well, working up more than one kind of lather.

He proved to know how to play a woman’s body. Those long, slender, agile, silky fingers were not a disappointment. Oh, what a man can do with four fingers and a thumb! They should teach that shit in school. More useful than Algebra.

My body responded in ways I had never experienced, even just moments before in the kitchen. Where that had been rough and tumble, this was painfully gentle. I was melting, cascading through the pouring water, diving into pure bliss. I came with a cry and before I could catch my breath he had turned me around and was hoisting me up against the shower wall. I wrapped my legs around him as he entered me, all gentleness forgotten.

It was a good thing we were drenching in water because I think spontaneous combustion was a real possibility. I slipped a little but his hands cradled my butt and kept me tight against him. I shuddered with the aftershocks of my own orgasm and so I was taken by surprise when he stopped moving, groaned and fell against me. So this is what all that shower sex hype was about? How had I made it this far without experiencing this? Who cares, it would never have been this, and this with this man, was worth waiting for.

We parted reluctantly, kissing and serious. I expected another exclamation of “that was fun” from him but he remained deeply quiet. Maybe he was finally worn out. I was ready for some serious sleep myself.

Ice cream forgotten we fell into my bed, slightly damp but satisfied and blissful. I have never slept better.

This man. Where had he come from?

___________________________________________________________________________________

He was up and moving fast before I was fully awake. He was grabbing clothes, cursing and talking on the phone all at once, as I opened my eyes to the bright sunshine.

“I’m on my way. Hell, you guys can handle one interview without me. Ok, ok, untwist your knickers Reade. I’ll be there in a few.”

I sat up, wiping sleep from my eyes, completely forgetting my nakedness. “Do you need me to drive you to the hotel?”

“Thanks, called a cab.”

I heard a honk outside. “There they are.” He had his jeans on and his shirt pulled on but unbuttoned, his hair was newly wet so he must have showered already. I must have been dead to the world not to have woken. I glanced at the clock; 1:30. P.M.? Wow.

He started out the door before I could say anything, like, “wait” or “Thanks” or “is this it?” He rushed back in, grabbing something from the floor, leaned into me, gave me a quick kiss and … gone. The front door slammed and I heard the cab door open, close and the whoosh of the cab taking him away from me.

Now what?

I lay back in bed and that’s when it hit me that he had seen me in the light of day. Shit!  I needed ice cream. Now.

I gathered myself, forgo the robe and walked into the kitchen. My clothes were still all over the kitchen floor. I decided to leave them there if, later in the day, I needed to convince myself it had all happened I could point to the evidence.

I dished out a huge bowl of vanilla ice cream, threw on some loose chocolate chips and sat down at the kitchen table.

I called the office and told them I was writing at home today. There was a twinge of attitude and a smoot of curiosity but Sam just reminded me that my deadline was noon the next day and let me go.

Noon tomorrow. I had to make sense of the last 48 hours by noon tomorrow. Maybe I should have studied magic instead of journalism.

CHAPTER  EIGHT

I finished my piece on the Taylor Brothers, trying to be objective. It wasn’t easy now that I had actually gotten up front and personal with one of them. It also didn’t help that it appeared to be a ‘slam-bam-thank you-ma’am’. I hadn’t heard from Renny since he rushed out yesterday morning. I don’t know what I was expecting, flowers? Love notes? What an idiot, I am. I was just another port in the storm. Count your blessings, Rachel, you had some world class sex with no strings attached. Every girl’s dream.

Then why did parts of my piece sound so bitter? Why did I emphasize the rolling stone nature of the Taylor Brothers, painting them like some aging rock stars intent on sucking all the marrow out of their new life? And what was wrong with that, aside from Reade being a married man and new father? Who were they hurting anyway? Not this gal. No way. Uh-uh. Thank goodness I have a tough skin. Love ‘em and leave ‘em Rachel, that’s what they call me.

God, I’m so full of shit.

Sam loved the piece and chose a candid shot of the boys playing by the bus for the cover. I told Sam I was sick with a cold so I could stay home the rest of the week and mope. I couldn’t face the office, not feeling like I did – one minute giddy and the next defeated.

By Thursday I was curled up, alone and in my best sweats and ripped T-shirt trying to concentrate on a new movie screener I was supposed to write a review on. I was restless and kept having to go the bathroom every 15 minutes. I was pounding down cranberry juice and water in equal doses in an attempt not to make a run for the emergency room. The frequent trips and the aching between my legs kept reminding me of Sunday night. It kept reminding me that I had been used and abandoned. Again.

When would I learn? I was always picking the most inappropriate people to fall in love with. My first husband had turned out to be gay and my second, well, let’s just say his demons were way bigger than mere love could cure. The fact that I miscarried right after he left wasn’t his fault and everyone told me it was a blessing in disguise. How could I travel all over the world if I’d had a child to raise? That’s why my letter from the Pulitzer committee was framed and hanging above my toilet, to remind me of what a shitty consolation prize it was.

And I had done it again with Renny Taylor. Not that I was in love with him. Not really. But I could be, easily. I hadn’t met anyone I had felt like this about since, well, maybe never. If he had stayed even a few more hours I would have been lost. Another blessing in disguise. Guess I’m just blessed to the gills.

I turned off the movie. I could finish it tomorrow. I already knew how many stars it was getting and I was sure the rest of it wouldn’t make much difference. Still, I would finish it. I’m nothing if not ethical. Still, I thought I should jot down a few notes before becoming unconscious for another night.

I opened my computer and heard Ronny’s voice. Damn! I had left my iTunes on. I had purchased several of the Taylor Brothers albums in the last few days just to torment myself. It was like playing with the canker sore inside your mouth; it hurt so good.

I liked most of their music, a combination of country, folk, rock and a little gospel for flavor. But what made the Taylor Brothers special were the ballads Renny and his brothers wrote. They all wrote with such honesty and rawness. The lyrics were authentic, the music soulful. I would never have imagined that those rowdy Tennessee boys I had met in a Troutdale bar, swilling beers and oogling girls, could know the depths of my soul. But they did. Especially Renny. Especially on one song called “Easy To Leave”. You can guess why it was my go-to torture song.

“I’m so weary and resigned

That what I want I’ll never find

I’m just always out of step

Making moves I soon regret.

Why can’t love be like a book,

A secret glance, a sudden look

Why don’t love sit and stay awhile

With me,

Why am I so easy to leave?

Why am I so easy to leave?”

Oh Renny!  A dam burst inside my chest and I choked on the rush of emotion. I was sobbing like a small child, like I’d lost my best friend, like it was the end of the world. Completely losing my shit for the second time in less than one week. All because of some charming asshole. I was fine before he showed up, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I? Nothing could have hurt me as much as knowing, that once again, I was easy to leave?

I was clutching the sofa pillow pouring my sorrow into it (since no hairy, bare chest was available like the last time, when a knock from the front door jolted me. I jumped up, my heart racing! It couldn’t be! Why not? Why wouldn’t it be Renny? Here I was, at my absolute ugliest, crying like a love-lorn 12 year old, puffy eyes, flushed skin. Why wouldn’t this be the time he showed up? Perfect.

I glanced in the mirror and considered taking a shower, whitening my teeth and having a full course of Botox injections before answering the door. Do you think he’d wait? I patted down my hair, wiped my face and blew my snotty nose as the knocking grew more insistent.

“Untwist those knickers buddy,” I called out, using his favorite phrase.

I opened the door, big snotty smile on my face. It wasn’t Renny.

“I’m not wearing knickers girlfriend, you should know that,” said Marlene, my best friend and constant tormenter.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Don’t drown me in kisses, sweetie.”

“Sorry, come in. Sorry.”

“I come bearing gifts,” she said, holding up a box of Voodoo Donuts. Voodoo Donuts are one of Portland’s greatest creations.

“I brought you some cock-and-balls since I know it’s been awhile,” she said, holding up one of Voodoo’s most popular confections.

And… just like that I was crying again. At a donut. I was crying at a donut.

“Okay, “Marlene said, sitting on one of the most uncomfortable kitchen stools ever invented. “ Spill. Who were you expecting?”

“I wasn’t” Sob. “Expecting…” Sob, sob.  “Anyone.”

“Then who were you hoping for?”

“Just… someone I met. He … I thought…”

“I figured it was a ‘he’.  You’ve never smiled like that for me. Here, honey, eat the donut, pretend it’s him. Chomp down hard.”

“How did you know?”

“The crying and gnashing of teeth, as well as your completely inappropriate response to an innocent pastry. Now, we need some booze and then you’ll tell Mama Marlene all about it.”

She rummaged through my very bare liquor cabinet but came up with some tequila and made me a surprisingly good Tequila Sunrise. “Come along now, bring your cock-and-balls and your booze and let’s get comfy on the couch while I get the deets about the devil. And always remember, I have my contract killer on speed-dial.”

“You’d do that for me?” I finally laughed.

“Anything for a Sis, right. Now spill.”

“I’m… embarrassed. You’re going to think I made it all up.”

“Listen girlfriend, I’ve been with you, what, 30 some years? I’ve been through the gay boyfriend, the alcoholic boyfriend, the gay, alcoholic husband. What wouldn’t I believe about your choice in men?”

“Good point. Only he’s not gay or alcoholic, well, that I know. I guess he could be. Not gay, but he does drink, it’s just that I didn’t see him drink more than one …”

“Shut it Drake, stop blathering. Tell me NOW.”

“It’s a long story, kinda, well, not so long, a week tops …” She sighed. I gathered I was not as articulate as she was hoping.

“Name. Start with name.”

“Renny Taylor.”

“Renny Taylor what?”

“I, ah, slept with Renny Taylor.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“See? I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“We’re talking THE Renny Taylor?”

“Yup.” She sat back, took a swig of her sunrise, looking at me with either a new-found respect or she was contemplating calling the men in white coats.

“Well holy Mother of God, when was this?”

“Sunday.”

“And you’re just telling me now? Give me that,” she said, grabbing the cock and leaving me holding one lousy ball.

“I don’t even know where to start. I was interviewing him at the ..”

“Forget that shit. Was he good? Those long fingers? Oh my frickin’ god. I used to fantasize about James Taylor and those long, agile, spectacular fingers. Hey, are they related?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t really know much about him, really.”

“What kind of self-respecting journalist doesn’t interrogate the man she’s shlupping.”

“I hadn’t planned the shlupping. Is that a word? He just came to fix my pipes.”

“I’ll bet he did.”

“No, you idiot, my real pipes, my plumbing. It was broken. He used to be a plumber, so he came over to fix my pipes and then, I cooked him dinner and we, you know… shlupped. A couple of times.”

“There are so many holes in this story. First, you’re telling me that a famous musician came to your run-down, piece-of-shit house to fix your plumbing for no reason.”

“No. Yes. I mean his cousin Jed told him they were broken. See, I wasn’t going to be able to get on the tour bus because water was spewing  ...”

“Stop! Stop right there. You were on his tour bus?”

“Just for the ride to the concert.”

“With him?”

“No, just Jed.”

“Jed?”

“His cousin. From Arkansas. He sleeps under the bus.” I had finally managed to render Marlene speechless. It was a week for firsts.

“I am going to pretend… you…. that part … anyway, so he comes to fix the plumbing.”

“Which he did.  You should see my water pressure.”

“I’ll bet. And then you cooked him dinner and he made love to you? See, that’s a problem. I’ve eaten your cooking. It has never come close to making me want to mount you like a stallion.”

“Hey. I can cook. And he didn’t mount me like a … oh, wait, maybe he did. There was a lot of confusion. Tension too. See, he’d taken a shower and was going to fling his underwear at me and then he didn’t have any on so he just stood there waggling and…”

“Excuse me, I need more tequila.”

I managed to get the rest of the story out in the same concise, coherent way I’d told he the beginning. By the time I finished she was drinking the tequila straight from the bottle.

“Then he left and I haven’t heard a thing from him. So now, I feel like an idiot.”

“First of all, no,” she put her glass down and took my hand. “You are not an idiot. If you had a chance to have the sex with that man and you turned it down? Then, yes, idiot. When was the last time you had great sex? Any sex?”

“It’s uh..”

“Exactly my point. You needed this and he was the perfect man to give it to you. No one to complicate your life. He can’t leave you, see, ‘cause he was never really here. Does that make sense?”

“Less than you’d think.”

“He was a rolling stone, babycakes, he rolled through, stopping long enough to give you one hell of a good time, remind you you’re still a woman who can do it with the best of them, and then rolled on out. A perfect zipless fuck.”

“There were zippers. Briefly.”

“No, Erica Jung?
Fear of Flying
?”

“Ah, Yes, the zipless fuck. But you’re not supposed to like the person.”

“You’re not supposed to
know
the person, which, come on, you admitted you don’t really know Renny Taylor.”

“That’s true. It’s just that … this will make you roll your eyes, maybe sigh, again, but we have a connection. Something I haven’t felt since Steve.” She did. She rolled her eyes like some damn teenager appeasing her mother.

“And look how that turned out.”

“True.”

“I believe you have a connection. Most famous people don’t make house calls for sex or to fix plumbing. Clearly, he is intrigued with you, attracted. But honey, really, he’s what? 20 years younger? Where was that ever going to go? You gonna follow him on the road, become his groupie?”

“No. You’re right. I know you’re right.” I sat back, stumped. Listening to her say it aloud, so plain and simple made it seem as ludicrous as it was. “I hate you for being right.”

“You’re welcome.”

It was a one-night stand. I needed to accept that and move on. I could. I’d done it before, so, no problem, right? Buck up. Be grateful for the one night.

After Marlene left I took myself and my sore vagina to bed.

Alone.

Again.

Naturally.