Reckless Point (6 page)

He pulled back a few inches, examining me.  “You’re
so goddamn beautiful.” 

My face felt warm under his scrutiny.  No man had ever looked at me so closely.  And been so hard doing so. 

“I’m not,” I said.

Marco took the flare of my hips in his strong hands, massaging gently.  “You are,” he insisted.  “You’re perfect
, Angela.”  And then he wrestled me onto the bed and entered me without another word. 

I didn’t
count how many times we coupled and in how many positions; from the front, from the back, sideways, on top, with tongue.  Marco was a demanding lover who gave as good as he got and he showed me possibilities to rival the Kama Sutra.  Finally I fell asleep in his bed and even then, half in a dream, I felt him inside of me again. 

When I opened my eyes to sunlight my heart nearly stopped. 

“Marco,” I poked him urgently in the side to roll him off of me. 

He smiled.  “Hello, Angel of the Morning.” 

I
ignored his lyrical reference and began feverishly pulling clothes on.  “I’ve got to go.” 

Marco propped himself up on an elbow and watched me appreciatively.  “Why?  You’re not exactly sixteen.” 

“Well, Grace and Alan believe otherwise.”  I snapped my jeans closed and searched for my shoes. 

“Angela.”

My bra hook was proving elusive so I ripped the whole garment off and shoved it in my back pocket.  “What?”

Marco hesitated, watching me with dark intent eyes.  After a moment he
sighed and rolled onto his stomach.  I tried not to look at his naked body. I didn’t want to have a reason to stay.  The word ‘Seventeen’ was tattooed in large spidery script from one shoulder blade to the other. 

“Hey,” he groaned from the bed.  “Close the curtains, would you?  That sun is glaring like a mother fucker.”

My heart threatened to escape my chest as I took long strides across the street to my house.  It was Sunday morning but surely somewhere behind the glinting windows of Polaris Lane there were one or two hardy busybodies already awake and sipping tea as they surveyed their tiny world. 

Thankfully, Alan and Grace Durant were not among them.  I climbed through my bedroom window and listened carefully for a moment, hearing nothing and finally exhaling with weak relief.  Technically I was beyond their legal reach.  But sneaking back in sure as hell fought off a lot of unanswerable questions.

I grabbed some fresh clothes out of my bag and headed for the shower.  As I was stepping into the stall, the yellow lighting shone on the handful of bruises on my back.  I grinned wryly, well recalling how they were achieved.  The hot water felt wonderful as all the cramped muscles in places I didn’t even know I had relaxed and luxuriated in the steam.  I even hummed a little.  I was tired and there were parts of my body which felt battered into jelly, but I also felt good.  Really good. 

Until I left the bathroom and found my father waiting on the other side of the door. 

I smiled nervously, not liking the grave look in his gray eyes. “Morning Dad.  Sorry, did I hog all the hot water?”

H
e didn’t smile back.  “You sleep well?”

I combed through my wet hair and avoided his gaze.  “Hmm? Yeah, real good.” 

My father threw me a look I’d seen before, just never directed at me.  It was the way he used to look at Tony.  The I-Know-You-Are-Full-of-Shit-and-You-Know-You-Are-Full-of-Shit look.  We spent an uncomfortable moment silently appraising one another. 

But then my mother bounced into the hallway.  She hugged me.  “I’m making your favorite, Angie.”

I tried to remember what Grace might believe my favorite was.  I sniffed the air.  “Cinnamon toast?”

“Coming up in five minutes.” She peered at me and pushed a lock of wet hair aside.  “Your stomach all better?” 

My stomach? 

“Y
eah.  Learned my lesson though.  No more greasy food this weekend.” 

My father continued to regard me with the most disconcerting glare.  Evidently he didn’t wa
nt to speak his mind in his wife’s presence because he shook himself and spoke mildly.  “Grace, I’ll be puttering in the rose garden for a bit and then I’m off to do inventory at the store.”

My mother waved him away.  “You and your rose garden,” she rolled her eyes.

I tried to listen to my mother’s bright chatter as I nibbled at bites of cinnamon toast.  But all I thought about was Marco. 

“Tell me you didn’t love it.” 

“Angela,” my mother said crossly as I spilled my cup of coffee. 

“Sorry,” I croaked, mopping it up.  “You know, I guess I’m still pretty tired.  I think I’m going to take a nap.” 

My mother wrinkled her nose.  “A nap?  It’s eight in the morning.” 

“Yeah,” I sighed, tossing the soggy paper towels in the trash.  “It is.” 

After I’d rinsed my plate of in the sink and was heading down the hall my mother called me back. 

“
Have you seen my buttercup glass?”

I stopped dead.  “What?”

There was a sigh and the sound of the kitchen faucet.  “You know, my set of painted flower glasses. Your father’s managed to break two of them so far this year. And now I can’t find the buttercup glass.”   

I remembered the sound of shattering glass, the splintered bits on a dustpan as they slid into the trash can.  And I remembered what
, and
who
, came after that. 

I coughed. “No, ma.  I haven’t seen your buttercup glass.” 

***

The house was quiet when I emerged from the hazy funk of my morning nap.  I sat upright in my bed for a few minutes, listening to that peculiar ear-ringing echo which is the sound of deep silence. 

After leaning over and checking the time on the bedside alarm clock I got heavily to my feet.  My insides felt like tapioca pudding, the aftershocks of too much sex.  I mused about too much sex as I smoothed the quilt back into place, wondering if too much sex was a legitimate medical diagnosis and making a mental note to research it. 

When I still heard nothing from any other corner of the house I assumed my parents had both gone to the store. 

So I was a little thrown when I found my father sitting unhappily in the living room.  They had purchased new furniture the year I graduated from college and I missed the odd patriotic-themed pattern of the old set.  Alan Durant glowered at me from a bland beige sofa.   

“Sit down, Angela.” 

I sat gingerly on the edge of a reclining chair.  My father appraised me sternly. 

“How’s work?”

I raised my eyebrows.  “Work?” I shrugged.  “Good as ever, I guess.”

He leaned forward. “And how’s life?”

My eyes lowered.  “Fine, Dad.” 

“Is that why you’re making time with the
Bendetti boy?”

My mouth fell open.  My father could see through obsidian.  I should have known better than to try to fool him.

“Don’t bother denying it.  You know where that guy has been the last few years? What are you thinking getting mixed up with a punk like that?”

I was starting to feel a sort of surreal detachment from this conversation.  It was really an exchange which I should have had with my father ten years ago.  Except there wasn’t any reason for it back then. 

My face flushed and I felt obliged to remind him of something.  “I’m an adult, Dad.” 

“Then please
act like it.”

I stood, my hands on my hips.  “
Dammit, I’m responsible for my own decisions.” 

He sighed, looking suddenly tired.  “And your own mistakes.”

“If need be.” 

My father looked at me sadly.  “All you ever wanted was to get out of here.” 

“I am out of here.” 

He shook his head slowly, then rose to his feet, glaring at me.  “You tell that asshole if he wants to see my daughter he’d better get over here and shake my hand and look me in the eye.”

“I’m not telling him that.” 

He started
to head out the front door.  “Got to get back to the store.  You know your mother doesn’t have a head for counting and if I leave her to it much longer my inventory numbers will be all off.”  His hand was on the brass doorknob.  “Invite him for dinner.  Your mother’s making meatloaf and even I can’t stop her.” 

“Dad!”

“Six o’clock, Angela.”

He slammed the front door. 

I felt miserable.  It had taken me nearly twenty five years but I had finally utterly disappointed my father. 

The idea depressed me to the point of exhaustion so I did the reasonable thing and returned to my bedroom, peeling back the bedspread and sinking between the covers, letting the blissful oblivion of sleep overtake me. 

Grace Franco and Alan Durant had been born in Cross Point Village and so of course they knew one another long before the first wisps of adolescence. 

I’d grown up looking at grainy photos of high school dances, mountain picnics and the nauseatingly shiny radiance of a young couple in love. It didn’t even have to be said; my parents were the fairy tale.  The first kiss, for them, was the forever kiss. And when I was old enough to recognize the rarity I would shake my head, thinking “My God they were lucky.”  They never knew the futility of the search, the sting of one heartbreak after another until it seemed impossible the world could hold your other half. 

I, on the other hand, knew all about it. 

The guy I lost my virginity to was named Matthew Moriarity.  Amherst was a small college and it wasn’t difficult to float in similar circles with nearly everyone at some point. 

It was senior year, the final spring break, and I reluctantly tagged along with my roommate, Judith.  Judith was prissy as a cat and engaged to a fellow undergrad named Fred. 

Fred was big and blonde and got off with more grunting than a feral pig.  He and Judith would pretend to chastely fall asleep across the room on top of Judith’s covers until they figured I had nodded off and then they would hammer away like a pair of jackrabbits. 

But Fred, bless him, had legions of hot friends and on the eve of my departure from college
life I was damned determined to find the collegiate action so fabled and yet so lost to me.

Oh, there had been a few awkward outings co
mplete with some tongues and boob rubbing.  And then junior year a three week relationship got me into a pants-off position which seemed promising until Brad (I forgot his last name) ejaculated all over my left thigh and then was too embarrassed to call me again.

There were several dozen of us in the mountainous woods.  There was also a lot of beer and as night fell those who hadn’
t paired off had either passed out by the fire or were nervously weighing their options.  

I sipped a beer
, trying not to grimace over the taste.  It had never really appealed to me.  A friend of Fred’s sat on the other side of the crackling fire, idly strumming a guitar.  I knew him to be a moodily quiet philosophy major with a good body. 

“You play very well,” I lied. 

“Hmmm,” he examined his fingering and didn’t look up. After a few moments Amber, a leggy brunette, sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.  He grinned and they disappeared into the darkness together.

I sighe
d and returned to my beer, figuring if I wasn’t going to have any success I could at least get piss drunk and see what that was like. 

“You can stay in my tent, Angela.” 

Matthew was a fellow history major with an eerily intense passion for ancient Greece.  The eager way he surveyed me was a little depressing since although he seemed a nice sort, behind his green eyes there wasn’t much passionate fire.  But at that point I settled for smoke. 

“Sure,” I smiled prettily and let him lead me back to a very low tent like structure which looked like it was meant for a child. 

Once we got inside things got interesting.  Matthew rolled backwards out of the tent when he tried to wrestle my jeans down my hips.  And then he battled with the little foil pouch for a while before tearing a corner with his teeth and unrolling the damn condom, looking perplexed. 

The earth didn’t move. 
It didn’t even twitch. 

Still, I was rather pleased
to have finally divested myself of my vaunted virginity.  Never mind the fact that I still didn’t have a clue what all the fuss was about.  Matthew and I screwed exactly three more times that week until he ran out of condoms.  And on the last time I felt the vaguest twinges of what might have been the precursor to actual pleasure. 

Despite the vague sting I felt when Matthew found a
n eager art history major offering to give him head, I congratulated myself on my success.  Until I finally returned to my bleak dorm room and sat on the edge of the narrow bed.  Then the memory of Matthew’s awkward fumbling and my quiet acceptance revolted me. 

As I tore off my clothes and bundled myself into the terrycloth robe which had been a Christmas present from my parents, I padded down the hall to the bathroom.  I was grateful the showers were empty and as I stepped under the steamy spray my mind wandered. 

I thought about full crotches and tight asses, of broad shoulders and tanned muscles, of all the varied male specimens I had ever encountered who coaxed that peculiar pull of want in my belly. 

And
I knew, with certainty, that there was more to it all than that sorry pup tent humping. 

As the steam rose around me in clouds I let the water run through my hair, closing my eyes and thinking about the silver glint of handlebars over black wheels, of hard legs straddling either side as man and motorcycle rode on by, bristling with sexual energy.  The rider paused long enough to glance back with a knowing stare and with a jolt I knew him.  He looked exactly like
my half-forgotten childhood neighbor, Marco Bendetti. 

And that was how I discovered that my own hand
, and a wild daydream, could be extraordinarily satisfying.

***

The house was quiet.  I expected my father would be down at the store. There was a note on the kitchen chalkboard in my mother’s plump handwriting. 

Ang
ie,

Gone for a
walk.

I’ll be home by 4
to make dinner. 

X0X0X0X0, Mama

My stomach burbled with loud neglect and so I began poking around in the cabinets for something to eat.  After considering for several moments I finally sat down with a simple bowl of cornflakes.  I chewed slowly, trying not to think.   The kitchen was rather dim so I opened the thick indoor shutters to let in the light. 

He was in his garage with
the door wide open. His shirt was off and he kneeled next to a motorcycle, appearing to tinker with one of the wheels. 

I slowly closed the shutter so it was only
open a crack.  I didn’t want to stop watching him, but I didn’t want him to see me watching either. 

Marco leaned back on his heels and seemed to be thoughtfully regarding the hulking vehicle.  Finally he took a long drink from the open bottle at his side and selected something out of a tool box, returning to work.  I stared at
the muscles rippling across the ‘Seventeen’ tattoo on his back as his strong hands fought to turn the gears. 

Marco dropped the tool abruptly and stood.  He
turned, looked directly across the street, and waved. 

“Shit,” I said
, hastily closing the shutters all the way.  I looked down, realizing I was still wearing the oversized t-shirt I had slept in. 

After quickly rinsing off my dishes, I ran back to my b
edroom and rifled through my suitcase.  I’d been unsure about packing the stonewash denim dress; it was a little short for my taste, falling a full three inches above my knees, but the color and the full bust line were flattering. 

I paused by the bathroom vanity mirror, generously spraying my thick hair and crunching the curls.  That hair had been the bane of my existence when Charlie’s Angels flat waves were in.  Fortunately a wilder look had come into vogue and my thick dark locks were well suited to Aqua Net heights.  After carefully applying a touch of mascara and a dash of lip gloss, I took a deep breath and opened the front door. 

The garage was still open but I didn’t see Marco anywhere.  As I walked slowly across the quiet street the echo of a child’s carefree summer laugh reached my ears. And under that, a radio in the Gilliams’ driveway was playing Cheap Trick. 

The can Marco had been drinking from was still on the concrete floor next to the bike.  Not beer, but ginger ale.  I stood next to the bike.  Slowly I ran my hands over the gleaming handlebars.  It was different
, larger, than the one I recalled him riding in high school.  It was painted red, with silver coils which looked like strange lightning bolts.   The long seat was smooth and gray on the surface, black on the sides. 

“You can sit on it.”

I didn’t turn around at the sound of his voice.  The pounding of my heart was enough. 

He crept close. “Sorry,” he whispered
, rather theatrically.  “Didn’t mean to startle you.  Again.” 

I shook my head.  “You didn’t.” 

Marco seemed to be waiting for me to do something.  I swung a leg over and straddled the bike.  The leather felt cool between my thighs.  “What do you think?”

His eyes swept over me with a ferocity which made me shudder. 

“Good look for you,” he said hoarsely.  Marco was still bare chested.  It was a struggle not to stare at the breadth of tanned muscle right in front of me.  I swallowed, already knowing how this would go. 

“Stop,” I gasped, looking around nervously as his hands dove unapologetically underneath my dress.  The garage door was still wide open but that didn’t stop Marco from reaching between my legs.  Weakly I pushed his hands away.  “People will see.”

He mocked me.  “People will see.”  His thumbs traveled underneath my panties and then were crudely inside of the instantly slippery core. 

I heard my own small whimper as he massaged with expert precision and my hips bucked in response.  The rise of the rapidly approaching orgasm was threatening to engulf me and I gripped his strong shoulders to keep steady.  I trembled, biting my lip, worrying about our visibility and then not caring if the whole of Polaris Lane was standing by the curb ogling us. 

Marco pulled his hands back suddenly and reached up, yanking the garage closed.  I started to climb down from the bike but Marco shook his head, firmly holding me in place.  In a single fluid motion he unsnapped his jeans and unleashed his whole hot length.  He straddled the bike, facing me, and pushed my dress up over my hips, kissing me with urgent savagery.

“Wait,” I said, as his rough hands began to impatiently tear my panties away.  “I’m running out of underwear.”

He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Do you care?”

I considered.  “No.”

“Good.” And with that he ripped the flimsy satin barrier aside and pulled me up as he eased himself inside. 

My knees collided with the handlebars as we rocked together.   He leaned back slightly, allowing m
e to set the rhythm this time. I opened my dress, kneading my heavy breasts in my hands and enjoying Marco’s sharp intake of breath as he watched.

“Jesus, Angela,” he swore, urging me to drive him harder. 

He came with a mighty shudder and a loud groan, crushing me against his chest.   I felt the pulse of his release and squeezed my muscles together, causing him to groan louder and my own internal spasm to tremble again. 

“Marco,” I whispered, resting my damp forehead against his. 

He stroked my hair, breathing thickly.  “I know, baby, I know.” 

I raised my head and pulled my dress down, feeling suddenly nervous but trying to keep my voice light.  “By the way, my parents want to know if you’ll come to dinner tonight.”

Marco Bendetti grinned mischievously.  “I’ll come anywhere with you.”