Mayday (13 page)

Helen glanced at her notes. “As you know, today is the last day of April. Historically, certain May Day traditions actually took place then. On the night before May Day, any man interested in a woman would deliver a tree covered in streamers—a small Maypole, essentially—to her house. In response, women in towns and villages would often create hearts with either roses or rice, and then place those hearts on the windows or doormats of the men they admired. These indications of romantic interest were usually created and delivered in secret, but not always. Admirers could choose whether to reveal their identities or stay anonymous.”

Her smile found Wes, who was sitting in the front row. “And thanks to the hard work of our mayor, the library can now plan special programs to replicate those old traditions. Later today, for instance, we're holding a May Day craft event in the young adult area. Teens will be able to sit down and either decorate small trees with streamers or create heart-shaped offerings with rose petals and rice. Then they can deliver those trees and hearts to the girls and boys they admire most, just as they would have done a century ago.”

Mr. Skagway's hand shot into the air.

“Yes?” She knew what was coming, but couldn't see any way of avoiding it.

He rose to his feet and stabbed a finger in her direction. “Let me make sure I understand you correctly, Ms. Murphy. The library is encouraging Niceville boys to deliver representations of their penises to Niceville girls?”

“Trees,” she said. “Not penises. Trees. And during leap years like this one, it was actually the responsibility of the females to deliver the trees. In our program, we're letting the girls and boys choose which activities they'd prefer. Anyone can do either craft or both.”

His eyes widened. “
Girls
are delivering trees?” he gasped. “That's even more appalling and unnatural! Girls don't even have penises!”

“Again, Mr. Skagway,” Helen said. “They're delivering trees. Not penises.”

“And the symbolism of the rose petals is equally obvious. Rose petals come from roses, after all.”

“Um . . .” She wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that.

“Have you never seen a Georgia O'Keeffe painting, Ms. Murphy? Flowers are vaginas. Why, these celebrations are encouraging our girls to present their genitalia to boys in the shape of a heart!”

A low murmur of sound traveled through the audience. One of the reporters took out his notebook and scrawled a few hurried words. In the front row, she could see Wes's chest rise and fall with a deep sigh. Bea Carter's eyes flicked between his face and Helen's.

“Rose petals, not genitalia,” she reminded Mr. Skagway. “I can assure you, the library has no intention of encouraging our young adults to do anything objectionable. They're merely delivering small trees and heart-shaped objects made of rice and flowers to boys and girls they admire.”

She took a deep breath. “Now, let's talk about the traditions for May Day itself.”

Mr. Skagway sat down, but he kept a suspicious eye trained on her.

“Many men and woman wore green on May Day as a celebration of spring and the natural world. Women would sometimes also don garlands of flowers on their heads. Tomorrow morning, the library will open early and supply flowers for women who want to make their own garlands. Or men, actually. The library doesn't discriminate.” She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength for what she'd see when she opened them.

Bingo
. Mr. Skagway's hand had risen into the air once again, and he scrambled from his chair to his feet.

“A circle of flowers placed upon a head? Come on, Ms. Murphy,” he called out. “Even you have to admit the implications.”

Oh, for fuck's sake. Enough already
.

Pinning him with a stern look, she unleashed her tongue. “Are you implying that when an innocent young flower girl wears a garland on her head at a wedding, it's meant to symbolize her vagina? Or that when families put wreaths on the graves of departed loved ones, they're referencing female genitalia? Really? I think a lot of folks here would be very surprised to hear that.”

Hissed whispers of agitated conversation began to erupt throughout the room.

“What about all the times throughout history when clergy wore garlands during religious ceremonies? Were those ceremonies all about vaginas too?” She leaned forward on the podium, raising her eyebrows in inquiry.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well . . .”

She refused to break eye contact with him, even as he squirmed.

“On some occasions, a garland might represent a vagina. On others, it merely represents a pretty circle of flowers. The library's garlands are circles of flowers. Not vaginas. The garland around the Maypole tomorrow will be a circle of flowers. Not a vagina.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Anyone who implies otherwise is reacting to his own biases and fantasies, rather than the library's or the mayor's intentions. Am I understood?”

He sat with a thump. “Yes,” he muttered.

“I'm so sorry,” she said sweetly. “I couldn't hear you.”

“Yes,” he repeated more loudly. “I understand.”

His glare should have peeled the skin from her bones, but it didn't. It just drew her shoulders straight and her chin high.

“Then I'll continue with my presentation,” she said.

When she swept her gaze over the audience, Wes caught her eye. Looking considerably more relaxed, he sent a grateful smile her way.
I owe you
, he mouthed.

She nodded and prepared to continue her presentation, but then saw his lips form another word. One whose full implications she hoped no one understood but her.

Lunch
.

His eyes glittered bright as he stared at her, his color high on his tanned cheeks.

An answering flush spread across her own face. And she had to admit it, at least to herself: When she made her garland tomorrow morning, it was totally going to represent her vagina.

H
is arms crossed over his chest, Wes leaned against the brick exterior of the library and watched Frank Skagway hand out flyers from the sidewalk outside the building. Wes hadn't yet read the smaller text on the sign, but he'd spotted the words
BOYCOTT, MAYOR,
and
PHALLUS
in the all-caps headline. He figured he had the gist.

The man wasn't giving up, despite Helen's magnificent smack-down at the presentation. Sure, Frank hadn't asked any more questions, but he'd made a point of cornering the
Niceville Daily News
reporters again after the talk ended. And now, of course, he was trying to gain traction for the boycott. Wes doubted many people who'd attended the meeting would take one of those flyers, though. Not after the way Helen had laid it out for Mr. Skagway. God, he adored that agile, sharp tongue of hers, especially when it wasn't slicing into him.

Speaking of Helen . . . where the hell was she?

She was taking an unusually long time to join him, even though she'd said she'd meet him outside in only a minute or two. He couldn't help but wonder if she was chatting with that redheaded guy. The guy whose evening with Helen he'd interrupted the other night. The guy who now, apparently, worked with her.

What sort of history did the two of them have together, anyway? Were they simply coworkers? Old friends? Former lovers?

“You have quite an advocate in Ms. Murphy,” he heard someone say.

He turned to see Bea Carter standing just outside the front door of the library. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she made her way to his side.

“She made a point of crediting you for the library's increased funding,” Bea said. “Every chance she got, she emphasized how that funding allowed the library to plan and execute a much larger number of community programs than ever before.”

He couldn't stifle a proud grin when he thought of how Helen had championed him. “I certainly appreciate her eloquent support.”

“I noticed,” the councilwoman said. “I also noticed that at least one Niceville citizen still has serious concerns about the events you scheduled for this weekend.” She inclined her head toward Frank. “Do you think he'll be able to pull off a boycott and derail your plans?”

Her dark eyes examined him, watching his every expression. He fought a need to squirm, making sure he kept his head high and his hands relaxed. But even though he maintained his external calm, he couldn't stop the anxious thoughts crowding his mind. Had Frank's proposed boycott made Bea doubt Wes's capabilities? Was she thinking twice about offering him support for a mayoral run?

Project confidence
, he ordered himself.
But don't get cocky, either
.

“I certainly hope not,” he said. “The committee worked hard on the May Day celebration this weekend. We don't want people to avoid it for no good reason.”

“I suppose we'll see,” she said. “The community events begin this afternoon, am I right?”

“Yes. The library is doing the tree and heart crafts. And later this evening, we're lighting bonfires in Central Square and setting up the Maypole. Most events take place tomorrow, though.”

“I'll come back tonight, then.” Her eyes locked onto the building's entrance. “I won't keep you any longer. It appears you have someone waiting for you.”

When he glanced that way, he saw Helen outside the library door, her hair brighter in the sun than the bonfires they'd light that evening. She'd turned to face the other way in an apparent attempt to give them privacy, her arms wrapped around herself.

He frowned. Why hadn't she just walked over to them and introduced herself to Bea? And why did she look so forlorn?

“Helen!” he called. “Come on over. I'd like you to meet Ms. Carter.”

“No, no. You two take your time talking,” Helen called back, holding up both hands.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he told Bea. “I'll be right back.”

Striding over to Helen, he laced his fingers through hers. “What's the problem?” he asked quietly. “Are you angry at me? Or just shy?”

She glanced at the ground. “Neither. But what you say to Ms. Carter is none of my business, Wes. You two should talk in private.”

“Of course it's your business,” he said in bewilderment. “Apart from that, you're my girlfriend. I want to show you off.”

I hope you're still my girlfriend
, he thought.
I hope all this hesitancy doesn't mean you've decided to dump me because I might leave in six months
.

He led her by the hand to Bea, presenting Helen with a flourish to the councilwoman.

“Bea, please meet my girlfriend and fiercest supporter, Helen Murphy. Helen, please meet City Councilwoman Beatrice Carter of Clearport, Virginia,” he said.

The two women shook hands.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carter,” Helen murmured.

“The same,” Bea said. “I take it Wes has told you why I'm here?”

Helen nodded. “But I won't tell anyone else. I know you want to keep it quiet.”

“Are you planning to come with him if he moves to Clearport?” Bea asked, her sharp gaze focused on Helen.

Oh, Jesus Christ
, he mentally groaned.
It's too soon for that question. Helen's going to freak out, and I can't blame her. We just started dating two days ago, for God's sake
.

Helen didn't look freaked out, though. More . . . distant. Like she'd somehow removed herself from the conversation even while she participated in it.

“Oh, no,” she said calmly. “That's not the type of relationship we have.”

The hell it's not
. He fought the urge to argue with her, to persuade her by any means necessary—logic, appeals to her emotions, sex, whatever. Anything and everything he could use to convince her to accompany him if and when he left Niceville. But he couldn't discuss it in front of Bea. More importantly, he knew it was still too early in his relationship with Helen for that particular conversation. He needed to give it time, much as the prospect pained him.

“Don't worry,” Helen continued. “I won't be a consideration for him when he decides whether or not to move.”

What the fuck did that mean? Was she breaking up with him today, thus removing herself as a consideration in his future? Or did she think of their relationship as simply casual sex, convenient only until a better offer came along?

He stifled a growl at the thought. If she thought he'd let her go today, much less hand her off to the next guy who wanted her, she had another think coming. He intended to win her heart and make her his during the next six months. By the time he left—
if
he left—she'd come with him. End of story.

“I see,” Bea murmured. “Well, I'll leave you two to enjoy your lunch together. Good luck collecting what he owes you, Helen.”

They both turned to her, startled.

“I can read lips, you know. When you're in the public eye, it doesn't pay to assume no one's watching,” she said. “Probably a good lesson to learn now, Wes.”

Without another word, she turned and headed for the parking lot behind the library. The two of them watched her round the corner before turning to face one another.

“She scares the shit out of me,” Helen said. “At the same time, I kind of want to marry her.”

“Well, there's another image to tuck away for a lonely night,” he said. “In the meantime, though, I promised you lunch and you promised me some answers. Let's head to my office.”

They walked over hand in hand, but in complete silence. With every step, the question he needed to ask pounded in his brain and raced through his veins:
Are you breaking up with me? Are you breaking up with me?
By the time they'd arrived at his office and he'd slammed the door behind them, he couldn't stand it any longer.

“I need to know now,” he said. “Before you say anything else. Before any stories about bizarre patrons or weird, slippery residue on book drop returns. Before we even talk about what happened at that presentation. I need to
know
, Helen. Are you breaking up with me?”

His hand tightened on hers as he waited for her response. He could hear himself breathing like he'd run a half marathon on the way back to his office.

She bit her lip. For once, he couldn't read the thoughts on her expressive face. The moment stretched on and on, to the point where he felt like shaking an answer out of her. And then she finally spoke.

“No,” she said. “I'm not breaking up with you.”

Something inside him snapped. He dragged her into his arms and backed her up against his desk without another word. The need to make her his in the most primal way overwhelmed his reason and erased every list, every strategy he'd ever formulated. Sure, he'd intended to wait for full-on sex. Step Three in his Make Up for Previous Sucky Bedtime Performance Plan—the step he'd scheduled for today—involved delaying his own pleasure a little more. But he couldn't hold back. Nothing in the world could stop them from making love now.

Nothing except—

“Um, Wes?” Helen managed to get out in between his ravenous kisses. “I don't mean to be tacky, but I'm kind of hungry. Didn't you promise me lunch?”

Okay. Back to the start of Step Three then, goddammit
.

Still, he couldn't help smiling at her as he drew back and let her breathe. “So I did, baby. First you eat.” He paused for a long, deliberate moment. “And then I do.”

And when he saw how big her eyes got at the reminder of his plans for Step Three, he couldn't regret sticking to his agenda. If she looked like that at the mere mention of what he planned to do to her today, he couldn't wait to see her expression when he made her come with his mouth.

One thing he knew for sure: It'd be beautiful. Just like Helen.

 

Forty-five minutes later, he had her leaned back in his desk chair, her hips perched on the very edge of the seat and her legs spread wide.

The door was closed and locked. He'd tossed her panties somewhere a few minutes ago. He couldn't remember where they'd landed. Maybe on his ceiling fan. Her shoes he'd flung over his shoulder. They'd hit the wall with a thump, so he figured they were on the other side of the room. She'd helped him push up her dress to her waist after he'd cupped and rubbed her pussy for a few minutes, pressing against her clit with the heel of his hand.

In an effort to maintain control of himself, he'd remained fully dressed, tie and all. But when he'd knelt between her thighs and admired her exposed sex in the light of day, she hadn't tried to hide. She'd just stared at him with dazed eyes and flushed cheeks. And then, with the first exploring lick of his tongue through her labia, she'd shuddered and hissed, sagging back against the chair.

They'd only been at it for ten minutes, but he could tell she was nearing an orgasm. He slowly pushed a finger inside her as he sucked at her clit, buzzing with arousal and satisfaction at how her slick flesh twitched under his tongue. She'd covered her own mouth with her hand, but low moans kept leaking out anyway. Her chest heaved as she shifted and arched, pushing herself into his face.

He loved it.
Loved
it. So much that he was already regretting they didn't have time for a second round this afternoon. She was delicious and so very wet around his finger and against his tongue. His office chair was going to smell like her for days. God help him, he figured her scent and the memory of how she looked in that chair would keep him erect at work for the foreseeable future.

She began to tighten around his finger, and a quick glance upward confirmed his suspicions. Beautiful. She'd thrown her head back against the chair and closed her eyes as she opened her legs even further and raised her hips. She was about to come for him.

He reached up to her mouth and removed her hand, replacing it with his own fingers. “Bite me if you need to,” he murmured against her flesh.

He carefully pushed another finger inside her pussy, rubbing the heated flesh inside. At the same time, he sucked her clit into his mouth one last time, vibrating the flesh with rapid flicks of his tongue.

She went completely still, every muscle in her body taut. And then she did exactly what he'd suggested. She bit down on the heel of his hand as her body began to shake above him, against him, all around him. The flash of pain made him groan, but not in protest. In pleasure, as he fought the need to come in his suit pants.

He gentled the pressure of his mouth as she clamped around his fingers in hard spasms. Her hips rolled against him, riding the swell of her pleasure. And when those twitches in her flesh began to weaken, he couldn't resist.

He pushed her legs up higher and fucked her with his tongue, rubbing her clit with his nose, his upper lip, anything he could. Her orgasm strengthened again, and she clutched his head to her sex with rough, needful hands. Her mouth no longer covered, she cried out into the near silence of his office.

“Oh, fuck, Wes,” she gasped. “Harder.”

He obliged, drawing her pleasure out as long as possible. Finally, she subsided into the chair and he rested his head on her soft, pale thigh. Her fingers threaded softly through his hair, petting him and sending sparks of sensation down to the base of his spine.

When he pressed one last kiss against her clit, she trembled. He slowly withdrew from between her legs, not wanting to disrupt the satisfied ease he felt in every lax muscle of her body. With gentle hands, he nudged her thighs together and rolled down her skirt.