CowSex Page 10

  “Gotcha.”

  “So yeah, anyway. I’m good to go, Cowboy.”

  “What about your lipstick and Kleenex and all the other shit women carry with them?”

  “Not wearing lipstick, but I have my Clinique, chubby stick, popping poppy, tinted, moisturising, lip balm with me, so fear not. I’m all good.” I pat his cheek. “But thanks for your concern.”

  He closes the door without another word and makes his way around to the driver’s side. He doesn’t have any trouble getting to his seat.

  We pull out onto a wide country road. The snow has been cleared, but it’s banked up on either side of us.

  The radio is playing quietly in the background, and I’ve no clue who’s singing, but I like it. It’s what I would call ‘sexy country rock.’ Not sure if that’s an actual genre, but that’s where I’m placing it. I listen as the man sings about a woman’s body, how he compares it to a back road and knows every curve. It’s kinda hot, something I’ve never considered country music could be.

  I attempt to Shazam the song but have no signal.

  “Who’s this?” I ask.

  “Singing?”

  “Nah, flying that plane that’s just passing forty thousand feet above our heads.”

  His head turns my way, and his mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he refocuses on the road.

  “You done with the sarcasm?”

  “Probably not. Yes, singing. Who is it?”

  “Sam Hunt.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  I pull up Google but am again let down by the lack of 4 or any other kind of G.

  “What kind of music did your band play?”

  “Something like this.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I lied. We sang opera. Yes really.”

  “Ooooh, now who needs to take their anti-sarcasm pill.”

  He gives a little shrug as he watches the road, and I swear I even see a hint of a smile on his face.

  “What were you called?”

  “That Addison Sound.”

  I sit back in my seat and mull this over. I don’t love it, but I don’t hate it, either.

  “We were just called Addison when we first set out, but the label said it needed more. Since Colorado isn’t exactly known for its country music scene, and ours was just a little different, almost unique, we came up with that.”

  I’m desperate to Google them and, once again, check my phone for a signal, but there’s still nothing. Being cut off from the instant access to everything is enough to make me twitchy.

  I take a deep breath in and look at the passing scenery instead.

  “Did all of that bore you, Essex?”

  “All of what?”

  “Me explaining about the band.”

  “Not at all. I was gonna try to Google you, but there’s no signal on my phone.”

  “Is that your UK phone? You’ll be running up a charge using that here.”

  “Yeah, I was gonna get a US SIM to use while I was here, but with the snow and lack of car, I’ve not had a chance to go out and get it sorted.”

  I catch the corner of his mouth twitch as if he’s once again trying not to smile.

  “What?” I question. He turns his head in my direction and gives me a full-on smile.

  “You just sounded very English then, ‘get it sorted.’” He attempts and fails to sound something like me.

  “What was that? You sounded like the chimney sweep from Mary Poppins.”

  He gives a small laugh just as we begin to hit civilisation.

  We pass a roadside café, although I should say diner because that’s what it says on the sign, then a motel, followed by a petrol station.

  There’s an estate of what looks like new homes over on the right-hand side and a sign saying Addison Heights on a curved wall at the entrance, right after that, a stop sign at a cross roads, and before us, the town centre of Addison Creek.

  My heart starts to flutter rather than beat in my chest. I’m so excited to finally see what will be my hometown for the next six months I can hardly contain myself.

  “Welcome to Main Street, Addison,” Koa says in that low rumble of his.

  “Thank you, but my name’s Gracie, not Addison.”

  He groans, which isn’t a bad sound. Not. At. All.

  “Where do you need to go first?”

  It suddenly strikes me that I’m not sure what I need to get. Am I going to be staying at the cabin, or will I have to find a room at a hotel or worse still, a motel?

  Koa pulls down a side street beside a bar named Mo’s, which is probably the same bar he mentioned last night and turns into a car park out the back.

  As he comes to a stop, I ask the question.

  “Koa?”

  “Essex?”

  “You say that you’ve come to town for supplies, right? Well, I was sorta wondering what was actually happening with me? Am I gonna keep staying at the cabin, or do I need to find a room somewhere? Because if I’m staying, I’d like to contribute towards food and get myself some wine and buy you a bottle of something as a thank you. If I’m not, then I don’t know what I’ll need, apart from the wine, because, well, I’ll be needing my wine wherever I end up. A girl always needs her wine. Especially this girl. Or vodka. Vodka’s good, too, but I tend to get a bit messy on vodka, especially if I mix it with wine—”

  “Essex?”

  “I don’t mean in one glass, I just mean—”

  “Gracie?”

  “What?”

  “Quit talking.”

  I jerk my head back.

  “What the fuck? Was that a polite way of telling me to shut up?”

  “Yeah. Now, let’s get to the diner before they stop serving breakfast, I’m starved.”

  This time it’s me who opens and closes their mouth without actually saying anything.

  KOA

  I WOKE THIS MORNING WITH my hard dick pressed between Little Ms Essex ass cheeks and nearly hit the roof when I realised this fact.

  Mortified, I slid out from behind her, climbed over the back of the couch, covered her with the blanket and made my way to my bathroom.

  Standing in my shower a few moments later, I recalled how she held me last night while I lost my fucking mind.

  I can’t believe I cried like that. In front of her.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I don’t know her. She’s not a friend. She just blew in from London, crashlanded in my front yard and my life, and there I was, spilling my life story like I’d known her since the beginning of time.

  Two days. Two fucking days was all it had taken for her, her pink and purple hair, and her funny accent to get to me. I’d cried while telling her about one of the most painful experiences of my damn life.

  And then I fell asleep while she held me.

  Fuck me.

  I don’t sleep with the women I have sex with, and there I was, holding onto her like my life depended on it without so much as a kiss.

  Not that it is what I am looking for from her, not from anyone. I am done with relationships, have been for a while. Uncomplicated sex is all that I require now and for the rest of my days.

  Still, memories of Gracie Elliott’s body pressed into mine wouldn’t stop trampling over every cohesive thought I have.

  How she feels—soft. Curvy.

  How she smells—fucking delicious. It’s light, fresh and citrusy. Nothing heavy, sickly and overpowering like a lot of women. Most women in fact.

  These memories all march straight to my dick again.

  When I woke, I knew I was gonna have to deal with the way it was standing and winking at me before I could face her again. It took less than five minutes for me to jerk off and then shower. I was still left feeling pissed though. Pissed and vulnerable. Not a feeling I liked.

  The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I knew that I had to get out of the cabin and do something. We’d finished the last of the bourbon last night, and I was down to my l
ast few beers.

  I’d bought a few things from Dempsey’s grocery store in town when I arrived a week ago, but that was mostly gone. Plus, I needed toiletries—condoms—maybe.

  I shook that thought from my head—both heads, got dressed, and then made my way outside to take care of the snow that had built up on the veranda and driveway. Thinking, manual labour would also burn off some energy and my bad mood.

  A couple of hours later she appeared. Leaning on the fence that wraps around the veranda watching me.

  I finished clearing the snow from the driveway and made my way back to the house. I wanted to be pissed with her. I was angry at her and her questions and the way she’d gotten me to open up and tell her all about Kalea, my daughter.

  I climbed out of my truck, opened my mouth, and then took her in. A ridiculous pair of furry lace-up snow boots with jeans that looked like they’d been sprayed on, a puffy snow jacket that matched her boots perfectly, her silvery hair was once again braided, and I had no clue why but those pink and purple strands just did something to me. Her head was covered with a beanie with a furry pom-pom on top that was about the size of her head. Her face was—fuck—her face was beautiful. It looked free of any makeup, her cheeks glowing pink because of the cold, her eyes, which are the colour of a hawk’s, sparkling in the winter sunlight. Her lips had a soft sheen of pink covering them, and I again wondered if the myth was true, did the colour of her lips match her nipples?

  My dick twitched in my jeans, and I moved around the front of my truck to remove the plough. When she followed me, I just didn’t have it in me to be mean. She just looked too fucking cute to pick a fight with, so I invited her to join me in town instead.

  I feel strangely nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve walked the streets of my hometown, and I wonder what the locals are going to think about seeing Koa Carmichael, one of Addison's favourite sons, in town with a stranger. A gorgeous stranger with a weird sense of style and a funny way of talking. This should set the tongues wagging, but right at this moment, I can’t find a single fuck to give.

  I walk around to the passenger side of my truck and undo the door.

  “Need a hand, Essex?”

  Gracie reaches out with her left hand, but fuck that. I put my hands on her hips, spin her around in her seat and slid her down my body to the ground. I make sure that she feels every single inch of me.

  I shouldn’t have done it. I just couldn’t help myself.

  We remain stationary for a few seconds, me pressed against her as she leans back inside the passenger side of the truck. Despite the door still being open, she really has nowhere to go.

  “The wrist doing okay?” We both look at her hand that’s resting on my shoulder as I ask.

  “It’s all right. Swelling’s going down, but I had to take the bandage off when I showered, and I’ve not put it back on.”

  “Let’s go eat and then head to the drugstore. We’ll get you a compression bandage that’s easier to get on and off.”

  Reluctantly, I step aside so that she can move and I can close the door.

  “This way.” I motion with my head to the left of the parking lot and fight the urge to take hold of her hand. Today’s the first day in weeks that I haven’t had bourbon for breakfast, and it’s making me think all kinds of strange thoughts.

  I bury my hands in my pockets and lead the way to the diner. It’s almost eleven thirty on a Saturday morning, and I just know the place is gonna be packed. There are a lot of folks from this town that I still consider acquaintances. I smile and nod when their faces light up with recognition as we walk through town. There’s a couple I even stop and chat with, introducing Gracie as a friend from England when I do.

  There are a few who have claimed to know me over the years just so they have a story to tell. They look, they recognise me, and then put their heads down, knowing full well that those stories were lies I knew they spread. I’ve learned to let it go. As the band made it big, the odd person has crawled out of the woodwork, or the gutter, with a fabricated story to tell, but Addison is a town mostly made up of honest, hardworking people.

  Gracie stops outside a gift store. Judging by the window display, it’s already geared up for the tourists. Overpriced, locally made soaps, candles, and Afghan rugs line the shelves, and I turn to Gracie.

  “You good with interior design, as well as fashion?”

  When she looks up at me, I feel a strange tightness in my chest and clear my throat for no reason other than to attempt to dislodge it.

  “I can pull a room together. I think if you have an eye for style, it can generally be applied across the board. Homewares is something we’ve talked about branching out into, but when you’ve got the likes of Primark producing and retailing goods at such low prices, it really is almost impossible to compete.”

  “Primark?”

  “It’s like your Kmart or Target. Mass produced with a quick turnaround. That’s not really how we operate. Our lines are limited, keeping them that way makes sure that they’re always in demand. We offer online exclusives, which are only available directly from us, and others we make available to certain stores. It’s all about supply and demand, believe it or not, for a small business like ours, lower supply has meant a greater demand. People wanna be seen in an item from Gracie Baby’s latest collection. What can I say, Cowboy, my stuff is popular.”

  I was mesmerised. Trans-fucking-fixed. Listening to Gracie talk like that, it was evident that she knew her shit, and I was suddenly filled with all kinds of admiration for her. She had it rough as a kid, raised by a single mom with the help of her grandparents, but she’d lost them all by the age of eighteen. She quite literally had no one. But instead of falling apart, she kept going. Dropped out of college and made her way in the world.

  I had no clue about the fashion industry or designer labels. I like what I like whether it’s from Costco or Chanel, it matters not a fuck to me what the label is. Sure, I have the money these days to surround myself with beautiful things, but I wouldn’t pay good cash for something just because it is made or designed by someone the rest of the world considers the in thing. I buy it because it suits me and my needs.

  AS WE ENTER THE DINER, a deep yearning for my youth and a life so much simpler hits me right in the solar plexus. The mundane sound of crockery and cutlery clattering together, the coffee machine and milkshake spinner churning, the smell of grease and something sweet all combine to almost overwhelm me with their familiarity.

  Then I notice the hum of conversation quieten as all heads turn our way.

  We come to a stop in front of the host stand, and I have my hand resting on the small of Gracie’s back. She’s relaxed, and I’m grateful that she has no fucking clue what a momentous occasion this is. It’s been years since I stood in this spot. A whole other life ago.

  When the band first made it big, we came back when we could, but eventually, between touring, recording, and life, we just didn’t have any need to return.

  I came back occasionally to visit with Aunt Emily, and of course, I came for her funeral, but I didn’t visit the diner or come into town at all on either of those occasions.

  Now, I look around at the sea of faces. A lot of them would be too young to remember me from when I lived here, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have heard of me and know what I look like.

  I watch the nudges and the whispers. There’s nothing malicious, and the reaction is kind of amusing. If it weren’t for my ability to play the guitar and sing, I’d be living a life much like theirs. If Danielle hadn’t done what she did, I might be standing with her in this diner instead of Gracie. Right now, I could have been enjoying breakfast with our son and daughter, who might have been back from college for a weekend visit.

  “As I live and breathe. Koa Carmichael, is that you? Get yo’ ass over here and give me some sugar.”

  Martha Lang, one of my mom’s oldest and closest friends, and also the owner of the diner comes walking towards me. She flips a
dishcloth over her shoulder and wipes her hands down her apron before holding out her arms.

  “Excuse me,” I whisper into Gracie’s ear. She grins up at me, and I can’t help but return her infectious smile.

  “Hey, Martha.” I wrap my arms around the woman that I have known my entire life. She’s put Band-Aids on my scraped knees, fed me when I’ve been hungry, and stepped up to look after both my son and me when shit went down with Danielle.

  “How you doing, boy? Heard you were starting renovations on Emily’s old place and staying there while the work gets done.”

  “Well, if that’s what you heard, then it must be true. Gossip’s rarely wrong around here.”

  “Pshhh. I don’t listen to none of that shit. I heard it from your momma while on the phone with her just two days ago before she left for her cruise. She also told me Kai’s coming home for the holiday.”

  She steps back and looks up at me, and I swear this woman has shrunk since I last saw her at Emily’s funeral.

  “Then she told you right. I’m picking him up from the airport the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, you be sure to stop by for a visit. It’s been too long since I saw either of you handsome Carmichael boys.”

  “I’ll be sure an’ do that, Martha.”

  She looks up at me with her pale blue eyes and a soft smile on her lips.

  “It’s really good to see you, son, really good.”

  I pull her in for a hug, rather than let her witness the emotion I know is on my face. Because she will see it. Martha never misses a thing.

  “Who’s the hottie waiting at the podium, boy, she with you?” Like I said, Martha misses nothing.

  “That’s Gracie. There was a mix-up with a booking for Emily’s cabin, so she’s staying there.”

  Both her eyes and her mouth open wide.

  “She’s staying there with you?”

  “She arrived late Wednesday night in the middle of a blizzard. I couldn’t exactly send her packing, now could I? Do you have a table or a booth free for us? I need to eat before you stop serving breakfast.”

  If Martha were to find out what happened at the cabin when Gracie arrived, I’d probably get an earful of abuse and an ass kicking, so best to shut that conversation down.