Long Summer Nights (12 page)

“I play to win, mister. Everything is allowed.”

He nodded once, stood and slid his briefs down his long legs, and she sat, frozen, transfixed by the sight of his erection, thick, jutting and completely involved. “We still have tiles,” she muttered, not wanting to play anymore. Right now, she had places to go and large cocks to sit on.

Being the world’s most clueless man, he smiled. “Then we play on.”

He made a great show of playing with his pieces, and stealthily, Jenn’s fingers crept between her thighs, settling there, and oops, her finger accidentally inserted itself inside her. He looked at her oddly, but played out his letters.

E-N-T-E-R.

“And what am I supposed to do now?”

“Play on,” he said, and frustrated, she used her free hand and shifted her tiles. However, before she could lay them out, he laid his hand over hers.

“Not the tiles,” he told her, and then she understood.

Oh, my.

“Move your chair,” he instructed, and she swallowed at the thought. However, Jennifer considered herself a good sport, so she scooted her chair out from under the table in plain view.

“Play on,” he repeated in a husky voice, his gaze focused firmly on her hand.

At first she felt awkward and nervous and not inclined to trip the light fantastic, but he was quiet and still, making her feel almost as if she was alone. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

She parted her legs, displaying herself more than she’d ever done before, and her fingers began to move. Steadily she stroked, blocking out the sight of him until the pleasure began to take over, and then she lifted her eyes, locked with his, and her fingers began to move in earnest.

He was a courteous audience, only a slight hitch to his
breathing, a line of sweat on his brow, and she could feel her body moving to climax. Faster she stroked, chasing the orgasm, feeling it flutter inside her as warm and damp as the summer’s air.

He didn’t make a move to touch her, didn’t try to interfere, and her hips began to rise and fall, wanting to chase the flutters, wanting to come.

Eventually she could feel the shudder of the climax, and she closed her eyes, letting her fingers do magic, her hips tilting as high as they could.

There. There. There.

For a moment, she stayed there, frozen, aftershocks of nerves pulsing between her thighs, and she opened her eyes, met his, and forgot to breathe.

She had never seen a man so pained, so primed, and yet he sat there, frozen, locked inside himself. She wanted to go to him, wanted to climb into his arms, and if he had said a word, she would have, but he didn’t, and so she shifted back in her chair, not as sated as she would like, and she blamed it all on him.

Defiantly she lifted her hand, took her well-worked finger and slipped it between her lips.

A sound emerged from his throat, low and raw. But still he didn’t speak.

She studied her letters, and then laid out her word.

E-M-B-R-A-C-E.

Blandly she met his eyes, and he looked her, appearing lost and uncertain, and she could feel her heart twist.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, and this time, because he asked, she went to him and straddled him, lowering herself over his cock.

“This,” she said, taking his lips, kissing him and showing him her heart. His mouth was hungry and angry and hard. She wanted to go slow, she wanted to be tender, to
show him how to love, but he was past that, and he lifted her on the table, pulled her legs around him, and began to piston inside her, using her for purposes that she couldn’t understand.

Later, after her thighs were raw, after her back was bruised, after her heart had been raked over the coals, he emptied himself inside of her, and pulled her upright, soothing her back, stroking her hair, but the burnt embers on her heart remained.

I
T WAS LATE ON
Tuesday morning, and Jennifer was snug in Aaron’s bed, listening to the battle of the typewriter keys. He was careful about his work, never sharing too much, hoarding his privacy, but sometimes she would pretend to be asleep, just so that she could watch the way he worked.

Before dawn, when the sunlight was absent, he worked by the light of an antique gas lantern. He’d told her that the warmer light was better for the eyes, but she didn’t believe it. Sometimes he would sit in the dark, staring into that flickering flame, and it was clear that more than his work was occupying his mind.

He chewed gum when he worked. Anxious, loud popping, his jaws working furiously. In between these bouts of inspiration, he would pull at his hair in what had to be a painful manner. Sometimes he would hunch over the keys, his fingers flying as he typed. Other times he would stare at the typewriter with a ghostly gaze that looked beyond the machine, beyond the cabin, and she wondered where he went. Where were the places he wanted to go?

Whenever he was unhappy with his words, Aaron would rip the paper from the roller, muttering to himself. “Hack,”

“Overdone,” or her favorite, “You unimaginative cretin.”

Although she was dying to see what he wrote, she never
asked. Out of all the pieces that Aaron kept tucked away, his writing was the one thing that he nurtured most of all, and she knew it.

This particular morning, he was in the midst of a flurry of pages, muttering unhappily when Jenn heard the knock at the door.

Aaron raised his head, glared at the offensive sound, and Jenn snatched up her clothes.

“Who is it?” he asked in a voice that would have scared off little puppies, small children or dedicated delivery men.

A heavily accented voice came from the other side of the door. “Do you have so many guests in this dreadful hellhole? Do not insult me with stupid questions.”

Jenn was surprised to see him smile, and he turned to look at her.

“You’re decent?” he asked, and she threw on a T-shirt and jeans.

“Not really, but you can open the door anyway.”

A minute later, a tiny old woman swept into the room, tossing a black silk shawl over her shoulders, and nearly whacking Aaron in the face with her fringe. “I abhor nature. Why must you subject me to this…” Her unimpressed gaze found Jennifer and stayed there, accompanied by a profound silence that would have bothered a lesser woman. As it was, Jenn was perhaps intimidated, but she managed a brave front.

“I’m assuming you are not the housekeeper,” the woman stated.

Jenn looked at Aaron, and realized this was a test. He wanted to see if she would crack under pressure. Ha. No wimps here. Undaunted, she crossed her arms across her chest. “Not the housekeeper.”

“Nor the plumber,” the woman continued, tapping one finger on her chin. “No.”

“Nor the personal trainer who is here to help Aaron achieve the washboard abs he’s always craved?”

Jennifer looked at Aaron and arched her brow. “Seriously?”

Aaron began to smile. “Didi, this is Jennifer Dade. Jennifer, this is Didi Ziegler. My agent.”

“And who is she to you?” asked Didi, not happy with a mere name. Jenn suspected she wanted the complete Jennifer Dade dossier, short as it was.

“That’s complicated,” answered Aaron, and Jennifer smiled at him gratefully.

“I suspect it’s much simpler than that, but we shall pretend to be polite and ignore it. I am here to check on your progress, as I have promised, only to have my meager hopes dashed each time I appear. So tell me, Aaron, do you have something for me? Something to make me weep with joy, soften the pains and frustrations of being your agent. If you want to please me, say yes.”

“Not yet.”

Didi directed a pointed scowl at Jennifer, obviously considering her responsible for sloth, gluttony, lust and a host of other sins, except envy, which Jenn knew was impossible. One foot began to tap disapprovingly on the floor, and not that Jenn wanted to read bad things into it, but the message was there.

It was completely unfair because Jennifer knew that Aaron was working, knew that every day he was seated at his typewriter, with a discipline that few could ever match. She opened her mouth to say something when Aaron interrupted.

“That’s not why,” he said, which could be construed
to mean that he was defending her. But why not simply give his agent something to read? It was the easier route. Puzzled, Jenn watched him, noted the stubborn edge to his jaw. A mystery was afoot.

Didi kicked at the paper balls on the floor, and Two hissed from his perch on the bookshelves. “Do you think I will wait forever?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered simply, a man used to taking women for granted. There was a message there; Jenn chose to ignore it.

Jenn thought that Didi would have been disappointed. Heck, she would have been. Heck, she would have fired him. But instead Didi patted Aaron’s cheek, and gave him a warm smile. “Forever is much longer than you believe.” Then she considered Jennifer, taking in the mussed hair, the lack of makeup and the faint rose of sunburn on her arms. “I don’t know you. I probably will not like you, but I find myself full of questions.”

“She’s a reporter.”

Didi’s mouth gaped, only slightly, only for a second, but Jenn noticed. Then Didi closed it, and wheeled to face Aaron. “You are a stupid, stupid man.”

“I know,” he said, and again the older woman paused.

Seeing her silence, Aaron smiled at Didi, a full smile without pain or effort. There was an odd relationship to them, a crusty familiarity, and Jenn believed that yes, the word was commonly called
affection.

Curiously the woman watched him, then gave one dismissive nod before heading for the door, her heels tapping with brisk efficiency. “Very well. I will leave now, and after I leave, will you forget me? Forget your obligation? Forget the woman whose very livelihood depends on you?”

“Forget you? Never. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Didi laughed, a surprisingly loud laugh for such a small woman. “Very good. I will try to keep the disturbing ramifications of this inglorious tryst out of my brain, but I will be back.”

A
FTER
D
IDI HAD LEFT,
Jennifer started to laugh, and Aaron liked to listen to her laugh. He hadn’t realized the sounds that he missed before Jennifer. Laughter. She liked to laugh, and liked to smile, and he realized that he liked it, too. Watching her laugh and watching her smile.

“That’s your agent? She’s delightful.”

“I’m glad you have a sense of humor.”

“How long have you two worked together?” she asked, and he could see the questions in her eyes. The ones she asked, and the ones left unsaid. “Fifteen years.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four,” he answered, and she looked at him, surprised. “You thought I was older?”

“Yes,” she told him, decimating his ego. “You must have been some prodigy? Either you’re very good, or she’s very stupid.”

“She lived with my father when I was a kid. It was short. It ended badly, but somehow in the process, she developed a strong interest in my writing, and I gained an agent. I think she felt sorry for me.”

“That would explain it.”

Yes, he thought that it would, relieved to see the speculative light disappear from her eyes. Sometimes she got too close, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to lie to her anymore. But there was a guilt-induced confessional, and then there was full, voluntary disclosure of exactly who he was, and how much of a bastard he could be.

Aaron didn’t want her to know that.

There were parts of Aaron Barksdale that Jennifer would understand, but there were also parts of Aaron Barksdale that she wouldn’t forgive. When she looked at him, those all-seeing eyes boring through his jerry-rigged facade, he regretted that he didn’t say more. But it wasn’t enough to make him return to the city and fix all those little missteps that he’d taken in his life.

It would have been a lot easier if one of those little missteps wasn’t his son.

T
HEY SETTLED INTO AN
odd sort of routine. Every morning, Jenn would go into town, and interview the seventy-year-old schoolteacher who had once taught FDR’s granddaughter, do a taste testing for the double-chocolate-chunk cookies that had once been third runner-up in the Pillsbury Bake-Off and meet with a few other locals for an update on how the Festival’s arrangements were progressing.

One afternoon she discovered Aaron’s afternoon trips to read the paper, and spent the next half hour debating the implicit unbiased nature of the paper. She believed the
Times
was completely neutral, but Aaron told her that she needed to stop being so blind. Eventually he felt guilty and bought her a hot fudge sundae, and she let him solve the crossroad puzzle, only butting in to tell him that the answer to ten across was
Watergate.

She wrote late into the afternoon, and then meet Aaron for dinner at his cabin. Sometimes they would stay there, make love, and sometimes she would drag him out to her rock, where she tried to educate him on the wonders of mobile communication. Aaron chose to remain ignorant.

Every day he told her more about the summers at Harmony Springs, but every day, he volunteered less and less about Aaron the man. She did discover a few pertinent
facts: he possessed no driver’s license because a man’s feet were transportation enough. He had lost his virginity at age fourteen to a senior in high school, HS 147, which told her he had one time lived in Brooklyn. He had never gone to college because he believed that the institution of secondary education was flawed when compared to life experiences. Jennifer, who had graduated—barely—from NYU, scoffed and told him that the only man who had matched Aaron’s life experiences was John the Baptist and Albert Einstein. He laughed.

Sometimes at night they would stay awake, the room dark except for the single gas flame, and she would dare ask the questions that she never asked during the day.

“Don’t you have dreams?” she asked, curled up against him, listening to the quiet sounds of the night. “Don’t you want to be published again, or achieve…I don’t know, something?”

“I’m here. All I want is to be. Everyone wants to make something of themselves, but they get caught up in making themselves into someone they aren’t.”