Mayday (16 page)

She waved off his confused glance. Shrugging, he bent back over her hands and arms, swabbing them with an alcohol wipe again and placing bandages over her cuts and the two small spots where the splinters had entered her skin. When he finished, he planted a gentle kiss on each bandage. Then he moved to her inner wrist, brushing his lips over the sensitive flesh there.

His eyelids went heavy, his groin tightening as she shivered at the feel of his mouth on her skin. “A kiss to take away the pain,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She cleared her throat. “So, um . . . Do you think Mr. Skagway will protest again tomorrow?”

“At the moment, I don't give a shit about Frank, Bea, or anyone else,” he told her. “I missed you tonight, Helen. Come home with me.”

Finally—
finally
—he'd reached Step Four in his Make Up for Previous Sucky Bedtime Performance Plan. The step where they ended up back in his bed, and he showed her how many times he could make her come around his cock in one night. He planned to devote himself to the task with the sort of single-minded dedication he'd once reserved for swim meets and breaking IM records.

She'd asked him earlier whether he was bribing her with sex. The answer was yes. Fuck, yes. He'd use whatever it took to keep her by his side: his mind, his heart, and definitely his body.

Today, she'd shown him how it felt to rely on her. She'd also shown him just how wholeheartedly she'd support someone she cared about. God knew, he didn't want her to ignore her pain for his sake ever again. But the fact that she was willing to do it . . . it meant everything to him.

If he had the love of a woman like that, he'd worship at her feet. Conquer the world for her, knowing she'd do the same for him.

Tonight he'd keep trying to earn that love. If she let him.

He looked at her sweet face. Her brows had drawn together, and she let out a silent sigh. Even before she spoke, he knew he was shit out of luck.

“I can't, Wes,” she said. “I wish I could. Truly. But my parents are coming home tonight, and they've been gone a long time. I can't just call and tell them I'm spending the night somewhere else, with someone they've never met or even heard about.”

She closed her eyes, her soft lips pursing in frustration as her head dropped forward to rest on his chest. “I know that makes me sound like a teenager. I'm so sorry.”

Her voice cracked as if she were about to cry, and any frustration he felt disappeared.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It's not a problem. We have all the time in the world.”

She looked up then, and something he couldn't read shadowed her expression. Something that made him wonder just what she was thinking.

“Yeah,” she said. But she didn't really sound like she was agreeing with him.

“Plus, I'm glad your parents aren't used to you spending the night with men,” he said. “I know it's not fair, given my personal history. But I can't help the way I feel, baby.”

Her eyebrows rose at that, but he could see a tiny smile peeking at the edges of her lips. “Oh, that,” she said, waving her hand in breezy dismissal. “I just make sure to have all my sex at work. At least until I can afford my own place again.”

He laughed. “I know better than that. You librarians are too clean-cut for workplace nookie.”

Her smile widened. “Sometime, let me tell you about what Penny and Angie did while wooing their men.”

“Oh, God,” he said, the memory suddenly coming back to him. “Didn't you say something about stuffed animals?”

“Yup.”

A young man's fantasy flashed through his mind. Seducing the librarian. This time, though, the librarian had brilliant, coppery hair and the softest curves he'd ever felt. He'd remove her glasses, take down her hair . . . bend her over the stacks . . .

He exhaled slowly, trying to calm his burgeoning erection through sheer force of will. “God knows, I'm tempted to have you at the library. But I can't do it while I'm still mayor. My office is about as wild as I can get until my term ends.”

“Understood.” She tugged his hand. “Come this way, Mayor Ramirez.”

He allowed her to lead. “Where are we going?”

“I'm sorry I can't spend the night with you. But now that my hand feels better and everyone else has left, there are other things I can do. In the privacy of your truck.”

She flashed him a wicked grin, wiggling her fingers, and his heart nearly stopped.

“Really?” he asked.

When she heard the squeak in his voice, a look of satisfaction crossed her face.

“Really,” she said. “I told you I had a few surprises in store for you, didn't I?”

“Won't that hurt your hand?” He had to ask, even though every cell in his body was screaming at him to shut up and accept what she was offering.

She plucked the flashlight from him and wrapped the fingers of her right hand around it. Her head tilted in thought, she slid her bandaged hand up and down the length of the light for a minute. He bit back a groan, his eyes glued to her firm hold on the metal cylinder.

Holy Christ. The mere glimpse of a flashlight was going to make him hard for the rest of his life, unless he missed his guess.

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug as she handed the object back to him. “Now that the splinters are out, I don't seem to have any pain. But if it gets uncomfortable, I can always figure out an alternative. I'm a smart woman, Wes. Trust me.”

He should resist messing with the Make Up for Previous Sucky Bedtime Performance Plan, but . . . he was only human. Only a man. A man whose locks opened with an eager beep in the empty parking lot outside of the square.

“Okay,” he said meekly, and helped her up into his truck.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he came with a muffled roar, jetting into the strong grip of her hand. Despite the hushed darkness of his truck, he saw sparks of lights behind his eyelids as he experienced the hardest orgasm of his life to date. Clasping one hand over hers, he tightened her hold further, pumping himself back and forth as he spilled into the condom. With his other hand, he gripped the back of her head as he took her mouth in a rough, passionate kiss. His tongue thrust inside her mouth, delving to find the sweetness there. Mimicking the penetration he'd envisioned happening that night in his bed.

Her free hand slid down his chest, rubbing his nipples. His back arched as the wave of orgasm continued past all reason, and his body shook with helpless tremors.

“Shhh,” she whispered into his mouth. “Shhh, sweetheart.”

God, he ached to feel her bare hand around him. But that wasn't possible, not with her bandages. And he'd insisted on the condom too, wanting to ensure she didn't either dirty those bandages or return home to her parents with his semen staining her pretty yellow dress. She'd promised to talk to her mom and dad about him tonight, and he wanted to make a good first impression.

Finally, the climax faded. He slumped boneless into his seat and gazed at her with dumb astonishment. “How did you . . .”

He trailed off when he heard how weird his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Wow. Umm . . . wow.”

Good work, Ramirez. That's the way to sweet-talk a smart lady like Helen
. If he'd had the strength to hit himself in the face, he'd have done it. Maybe the punch would have jarred a few words loose from his decimated brain.

Her other lovers had probably praised her spectacular hand jobs with soliloquies. Maybe composed a haiku or sonnet on the spot. But not him. He could barely form a single coherent word.

“Sorry, baby,” he finally managed. “Is your hand okay?”

She smiled up at him. “Just fine, thanks to Nurse Ramirez.”

He swallowed hard. “Thank you. That was . . . amazing.”

She let go of his cock with a final stroke from root to tip, one that made him jerk weakly once again. When she looked at him in the dimness of the cab, he could barely see her expression. But he traced her furrowed brow with one trembling finger, thinking that she seemed almost. . . doubtful.

An impression backed up by her one-word answer. “Really?”

“God, yes,” he said.

“Because that's the first time I've done . . . that,” she said quietly.

Something inside him went still, caught between confusion and fierce possessiveness. How had the woman reached her mid-thirties with so much innocence still intact? And what had he done to deserve the privilege of debauching that innocence?

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “So you're a hand-job prodigy,” he concluded. “Not a surprise. After all, you're good at everything you do. Why should this be any different?”

“I want some sort of certificate,” she said. “Maybe a trophy.”

“Can do,” he said. “As far as I'm concerned, you deserve a crown.”

“When you're hand-job royalty, I'll bet the queenly wave looks a little different,” she said with a giggle and a rather obscene hand gesture. Then she glanced at the dashboard and frowned. “Shit. I have to go, Wes.”

She didn't resist him when he planted another lingering kiss on her lips, though. Or when he got rid of the condom, zipped up, and insisted on walking her to her car. Or when he pinned her against the side of that car and took her mouth with fierce possession, his hands clamped tight on her hips.

When he wrenched away from her, they were both panting.

“Talk to your parents tonight, Helen,” he rasped. “Let them know you're not coming home tomorrow night.”

She nodded and unlocked her car with shaking fingers. With a final wave through the window, she drove away. Long after he could no longer see her, he continued to watch where she'd disappeared. And on his way home, he could barely remember driving. His mind was still a vacuum, wiped clean by the power of her presence and by a single, soft hand on his cock.

That empty mind only came back to life when he pulled into his driveway and saw the gift she'd left on his doorstep sometime earlier in the day. Then his thoughts started racing, filling with her once again. When he got close to the present, he had just enough brain power to decipher the attached note. Written in Helen's inimitable scrawl, the message read, “Because it's a Leap Year, I can do this. Thinking of you, sweetheart.”

He contemplated the gift in silence for an embarrassing number of minutes. It wasn't much. Only a small tree, decorated with streamers. Ones he knew she'd placed with her own hands. The hands now bandaged because of her determination to help him, to stand by his side and make sure his dreams came true.

It was only a small tree, symbolizing affection and renewal and hope. Just like the small tree he'd had Constance deliver to Helen's doorstep that night. He hadn't written a note, but he'd added a heart he'd made from rose petals and rice early in the morning. Bleary with fatigue, he'd made sure to fill in that heart until not a single speck of blank paper could be seen beneath the grains and petals. For some reason, getting the heart right had felt like a matter of the utmost importance to him. Now he knew why.

Like the tree, that simple shape contained more than just its surface significance.

His heart, like his mind, was no longer a vacuum. It was full because of her. It was full
with
her. And now, if she could read the true meaning behind his gifts, she knew it too.

A
fter finishing a run in the predawn darkness of his neighborhood, Wes took a shower and grabbed the newspaper by his doorstep. This time, he wasn't waiting for a text from Helen before checking the headlines, especially since he knew a few of the articles would involve him. He wanted to read what the reporters had to say about Helen's presentation, Frank Skagway's protest, and last night's May Day activities. Not all of the coverage would be positive, he figured. But he hoped the success of the later evening would balance out the rough beginning.

Honestly, though, he was having a hard time caring about any of it this morning. Even Bea and what she thought about yesterday's successes and failures. Only one thing dominated his mind: his upcoming night together with Helen. The rest of the day was just an obstacle in his way, waiting to be hurdled as he raced toward the finish line with her.

He'd already read her text message from last night a dozen times.
Loved the tree and the heart. Using my imagination to think of a suitable reward for that kind of effort. Thanks, sweetheart. Helen.

The thought of her using that expansive imagination on him—like she'd done with such explosive results last night—made him ache. Made him hard again, even though he'd just jerked off in the shower while picturing her naked and spread before him.

So when he unrolled the paper from its plastic bag, he did so with only half his attention. Mostly, he just wanted to see if one of the reporters had gotten a good shot of Helen during her presentation. She'd looked adorable in the yellow dress, and he wouldn't mind having that adorability preserved in print.

Then he saw the headline on the front page. For a long minute, he stood paralyzed, unable to read further until he took a few deep breaths.

Of course. Of course. That's what he got for glancing away from the prize, even for a few hours.

The headline read: M
AYOR
T
IMES
T
WO
: R
AMIREZ
S
EEKS
N
EW
T
ERM IN
C
LEARPORT
, VA.

Who the fuck had told the newspaper about Bea Carter's offer?

Helen's face flashed in his mind, but he immediately dismissed it. The woman who'd spent hours last night working with bleeding forearms and long splinters embedded in her palms, unwilling to disrupt his big event with her absence or a request for help, wouldn't tell the media about his plans.

Had she told her friends? He doubted it. And even if she had, he knew Angie, Con, and everyone else well enough by now to exonerate them too. They might screw on the library's stuffed animals, but they were fiercely loyal. Which meant . . .

His parents. The only other people he'd told about Bea's offer. The people most likely to run to the media, no matter what he asked of them.

He clenched his fists, breathing deeply until he was sure he could hold his phone without crushing it. Until he could talk to his parents without shouting. He didn't know for certain that they'd contacted the
Niceville Daily News
. They deserved a chance to explain themselves before he leapt to any conclusions. Even ones he was pretty fucking sure were correct.

At this time in the morning, they were at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Flipping through the newspaper, his father claiming the sports section while his mom scanned the rest for articles about her son. Always. Without fail. If they weren't behind the news story, Mom would have already called him once she saw the disastrous front-page headline.

But maybe she hadn't noticed it yet for some reason. He'd try their home phone, which came equipped with caller ID. If they answered, he'd ask them about the article. And if they let him go to voice mail, he'd know they were avoiding his call. For good reason.

The phone rang four times. No answer. When his call clicked over to their voice mail, certainty weighted Wes's feet like lead. Still, he tried to reach them via their cell numbers, just to be thorough.

“This is Miguel Ramirez. Leave a message.” His father's voice made Wes want to throw the phone into the wall, shattering it to ease the sense of betrayal blurring his vision and raising his blood pressure.

To be fair, though, his father didn't like talking on the phone. Whether his mother answered her cell, which she kept charged and close to her at all times, would be the final, truest test.

“Lisa here. Sorry I missed your call, but give me your name and number. I'll call back.”

His head dropped to his chest, and he fought to get a handle on his temper.

Even in her message, his mother's voice sounded hoarse and tired. Both his parents worked hard. Had done ever since his mom got pregnant in high school, scandalizing almost all of Niceville. She'd shocked the locals because of her premarital pregnancy, of course. But also because the father of her unborn baby was a Latino football star instead of one of the white boys who'd swarmed around her. According to Wes's parents, they'd been one of the first openly interracial couples in the local high school, and not everyone had approved of their relationship. In fact, some of their neighbors had gotten downright nasty.

After she'd discovered her pregnancy, both she and her new husband had dropped out of school to work full-time and earn a living at her parents' flower shop. Buying the business and taking it over as the owners a few years back hadn't lessened their workload a bit. If anything, they put in longer hours than ever.

Years ago, Wes had dreamed of the sort of success where he'd be able to support both of them in comfort. Luxury, even. He'd thought about sponsors, commercials, enough money to let his parents retire young and live easy. Instead, he'd spent his adulthood barely able to afford his mortgage and truck payments, even with his job as mayor. Nothing much left to give them at the end of each month.

A text from his mother appeared on his phone's screen. An apology, but no explanation. Not that he needed one.

Not sorry she'd done it. Only sorry if he'd reacted badly.

Another text from his mother appeared.

He knew they were hungry to be proud of him again. Desperate for his success to make up for the choices and futures they'd lost as teenagers. But he'd told them. Told them, in absolutely clear terms, that they couldn't spread the news of his possible job in Clearport. That publicizing the offer would alienate Bea and lower his chances of getting elected, even if she forgave him. After this sort of media coverage, her opponents on the Clearport City Council would fully understand her plans, and they'd have time to discover and field their own candidate.

But it wasn't really about him, was it? For his parents, it never had been.

He skimmed the article. Apparently, both of them had participated in an interview with a reporter last night, although his mom had said much more than his laconic father. The quotes Wes saw from her didn't surprise him. As he could have predicted, she'd somehow managed to make the conversation about herself and her husband, rather than their son. She discussed her pride at Wes's achievements. How he'd inherited his father's athletic skills and her ability at public speaking. How they'd supported him throughout his entire life.

Exactly what he'd have expected her to say, if he'd known she was talking to the press.

The phone in his hand rang and vibrated. Helen's photo appeared on the screen, a shot he'd taken surreptitiously during one of their friends-only dinners together. She was in profile, laughing at something Angie had said. Something filthy, if he remembered correctly. Her head was thrown back, her dimples showing, her hair glowing from the overhead lights in the diner. He'd captured the image while pretending to text someone, hungry for a piece of Helen he could take home with him. An image to hold close even as she pushed him away.

Part of him wanted to ignore her call. What could he say, anyway? How could he explain away yet another error in judgment, yet another missed opportunity in his life?

But he needed her. He needed to hear her voice and feel her support. So after three rings, he tapped the screen. “Hey, Hel—”

She started talking before the last syllable left his mouth. “Wes, I swear to you I didn't tell the newspaper. I didn't tell anyone, not even my friends. Not my parents. No one. I promise.”

Her voice rang with sincerity. But of course, he'd already known she wasn't to blame.

“I know, baby,” he said. “It was my parents.”

She gasped. “But why? Why would they do that, knowing it could cost you the job?”

“You can ask them that yourself,” he said. “I'm pretty sure they'll come to the May Day celebration today to bask in the glow of their son's success. That is, if they're not still avoiding me and my calls.”

She chose not to address the bitterness in his voice, although he was sure she heard it. Hell, she'd have to be deaf to miss it.

“Have you talked to Bea yet?” she asked.

He scrubbed his face roughly with one hand. “No. But I'm going to call her as soon as we finish talking.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry this happened.”

The sincerity in her words drained the angry tension from his muscles, and he dropped onto the couch. Setting the phone on the coffee table in front of him, he braced his elbows on either side of it and slumped forward. With a tap of his finger, he put on the speaker so he could surround himself with her sweet voice.

“What do I tell her, baby? How do I play this?” he asked.

She hesitated before answering. “I'm not sure I'm qualified to give you advice about politics. My opinion is pretty much worthless when it comes to most matters of real-life importance. Now if you want to hear my thoughts about
Firefly
's premature cancellation, that issue I can address. But not anything substantive.”

“Your opinion matters to me,” he told her. “I need it. Please.”

A small sound came from the phone, a huff of breath somewhere between a sigh and a sob.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Here's my entirely untrained opinion. You need to tell her the truth. That you trusted your parents to keep the secret, and they didn't. Maybe Bea will question your judgment for telling them, but they're your goddamn parents, Wes. Your family. If you can't trust them, who can you trust?”

You
, he thought.
I can trust you
.

“So the fact that they apparently called the newspaper is on them, not you,” she said. “I hope Bea will understand that. If she doesn't, do you really want to work with her anyway?”

He sighed. “I don't know.”

“All you can do right now is prove to her you can win that election, with or without advance notice of your candidacy. We'll make sure the events today are so successful, the citizens in Clearport will be clamoring to vote for you. By tonight, no one will be able to deny what a great mayor you are. No one, sweetheart. Count on it.”

So much faith in him. It would break his heart, if he hadn't already given it to her.

“I count on you,” he said. “Only you.”

Her breath hitched again. “I won't let you down.”

“I know.” He glanced at the screen display and grimaced. “Listen, baby, I need to talk to Bea before she reads the headline for herself. But I'll see you at City Park for the events this morning, right?”

“I'll be there. You can do this, Wes.”

“With you by my side, I think I can do anything,” he said. “See you soon.”

Reluctantly, he ended the call and scrolled through his contacts until he found the right number. She answered on the second ring.

“Bea?” he said. “We need to talk.”

 

The councilwoman finished reading the article, then folded the paper back into a neat rectangle and placed it on his desk. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her jeans-clad legs and steepled her fingers.

“Care to explain how this happened?” she said, her expression completely neutral.

Helen was right. He needed to tell Bea the truth and deal with consequences as they arose. He'd known that—on some level, at least—as soon as he'd read the article. Hearing Helen affirm his plan of action had simply given him the confidence he'd needed to proceed.

In his mind, she was sitting by his side, helping him deal with this situation. He could almost feel her warm hand on his back, urging him onward.

“I told my parents about your potential offer of support for a mayoral candidacy in Clearport,” he said. “I impressed the need for secrecy upon them, but they chose not to listen. I apologize for my misjudgment, and I certainly understand if you no longer think of me as a viable candidate.”

Bea didn't react. She simply kept looking at him.

“However,” he said, “I believe that while secrecy was preferable, it isn't necessary. If both of us agree I should run for mayor in Clearport, I think I can win whether your opponents have advance notice of my candidacy or not.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked. Her voice was calm. Cool. Intimidating, if he was willing to let himself be intimidated.

He wasn't. Not anymore. Helen believed in his abilities. He didn't, not with the same wholehearted faith she did. But he did believe in her. If she said he could convince Bea and Clearport voters of his qualifications, he could. Simple as that.

He squared his shoulders and made his case. “I spent three years fighting for the rebirth of our downtown. In the end, I managed to convince our reluctant City Council and thousands of skeptical taxpayers to invest in Niceville again. Now, with the help of citizens from my community, that investment is coming to fruition in a variety of ways. Most obviously and immediately, in the May Day celebrations this weekend. Their success, and the resulting publicity from that success, will convince Clearport voters I'm the right person for the job.”