Tikka Chance on Me Page 6

  He’d be lying to himself and to her if he said he hadn’t given the idea some serious thought...especially in those first few hours after the takedown. But she was right. It wasn’t an option. There was really only one option that made any kind of sense.

  Putting off goodbye for just a few more hours.

  “Get in your car,” he told Pinky, voice as thick as molasses. Or maybe his favorite gulab jamun syrup. “Follow me back to my room. Let me be with you one more time.”

  She actually turned and looked at her car. A red Civic that had been easy to trail back from Walmart the day they’d hooked up. It would make for a lousy getaway vehicle, and his handler would probably flag it as suspicious the minute it settled into the motel’s lot.

  Like she’d read his mind, she murmured, “Your bosses won’t like that. If we spend the night together. If we drag this out. You’re going to get in trouble.”

  Trucker—because, yes, dammit, he was still Trucker, he wasn’t gone yet—huffed out a breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t care!” he cried. “I died last night, Pinky. I need you to remind me what it’s like to come back to life.”

  It sounded absurd when he put it out there like that. Absurd, over-the-top, like soap opera dialogue. It was also one-hundred percent true.

  “Wow. That is a line,” Pinky marveled, apparently agreeing with his own assessment. “It even works the second time.”

  “Does it really?” He couldn’t bear to hope...but all he had was hope.

  Seconds dragged by like hours. Her eyes cut from her car to him and back again. And then she dug her keys from her pocket and nodded decisively.

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  One more night with Trucker Carrigan. Who wasn’t even Trucker Carrigan anymore. What was I thinking?

  “You’re thinking that you want to get laid again,” I answered aloud as I checked my mirrors before pulling out of the drive-in. The girl reflected back at me in the rearview...her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She was practically glowing, just from the prospect.

  But it was more than just sex. This thing between us. This thing that had twisted me up with grief and then drowned me in so much relief that he was okay. I had feelings for him. Bigger than attraction, bigger than lust. They started with ‘like’ and ended with...heartbreak. Fuck. He was going to hurt me. I was going to hurt me. And still I’d decided to follow his bland brown car to yet another motel room.

  The Shady Lane was about a quarter-mile past the Pineview Inn, off a stretch that included several gas stations and what had, when I was a kid, been a Ponderosa steakhouse. Now it was a Chinese buffet. The whole area was kind of transient. Nobody kept track of who was staying where or for how long. It was perfect for drug deals, for late-night assignations, and for government agents who’d just killed off their identity.

  I was fast becoming a connoisseur of eastern Indiana motels. If the business classes didn’t work out, maybe I could write a travel guide: Best Places to Hook up—Your Map to No-Tells, Motels, and Hotels Run By Patels. Not that I’d ever hook up in a hotel run by a Patel. Even though people with that last name hailed from Gujarat and I was Punjabi, I had no doubt that word of my sexual escapades would somehow get back to my family before I could even orgasm. The American desi gossip network was even more powerful than the Eastville service industry network.

  I’d only really escaped its reach at college. Because college was like Las Vegas. As long as you kept it all off social media, what you did tended to stay there. Trucker and our relationship, if you could call it that, would be like that, too. Something that stayed here in town, a secret triangulated in two motel beds and one Walmart parking lot. I hadn’t tweeted about him. Or put creeper shots of him on my photo apps. There was no evidence that we’d ever been anything but bartender and customer. He’d shaved...so I wouldn’t even have beard burn to remember him by.

  But I could make sure he wouldn’t forget me.

  We parked without fuss in front of his new room. And we were in each other’s arms two seconds after we crossed the threshold. The kiss I’d wanted to give him when he walked up to me at the Royal...I took it now. I claimed it, backing him against the quickly shut door and practically climbing him like a tree.

  The first time we’d done it like this, it had been strangely gentle and tender. There was none of that softness now. No, it was frantic and hard and hot, our mouths crashing together as he squeezed my ass and I worked at his zipper. “These khakis have to go,” I whispered against his lips. “Burn them.”

  “I thought you said...I looked...sexy.” He laughed, the words stuttering out of him as he tried to keep up with my kisses, with my hands.

  “I lied,” I lied.

  And then I tugged him toward one of the double beds.

  If tonight was all we had, I wanted to get started as soon as possible.

  ***

  All of Pinky’s doubts, all of her questions, seemed to have vanished during the short drive across town to the Shady Lane. Now, she was single-minded, focused only on one goal: having him. Taking him. Fucking him. He couldn’t think of any reasons to get in her way. Not when she tasted like need and heat and sweetness. Not when she was tearing at his clothes, stripping him of his bland white-collar costume to reveal the man she knew—the man he still was—beneath.

  God, she was beautiful. So determined. Still dressed when he was bare-assed naked before her. They fixed that together. Tugging her shirt over her head. Undoing her jeans. Getting rid of those sexy high-heeled boots. Yanking her panties down her legs and helping her step out of them. He unhooked her bra, proud of himself for the one-handed trick he’d learned at some point at Eastville High.

  “Nice,” she giggled. “Highly marketable skill for an insurance adjuster.”

  “I’ll be sure to add that to my résumé.” He dropped a kiss on her brow. Then her cheek. And, of course, her lips. Jesus Christ, he never wanted to stop kissing her lips.

  He broke away from her only long enough to dig into his duffel for the condoms he’d haphazardly tossed in with his toiletries. There were seven left in the box. “How many times do you think we can do this before sunrise?” he wondered as he dropped the foil packets on the night stand.

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to find out.” Pinky pulled back the covers on the bed, climbing in and scooting up against the headboard. The heat of minutes earlier had cooled due to practicalities. He’d have to change that. He’d have to make her burn.

  So, he dropped onto the mattress, crawling up on her like some sort of cat stalking prey. He probably looked ridiculous. But the way her lips parted, the way her gaze lingered on every inch of him, made him feel like the sexiest man on the planet. And when he stopped to nip at the inside of her thigh and she gasped...that made him feel sexy, too. So he did it again. And added tongue. He licked a searing path to her center, to her pussy. Feeling her buck against his mouth, seeing her writhe as he worked her up, was like experiencing a miracle.

  “Trucker,” she called him, because he hadn’t given her an alternative. “Trucker, please.”

  He raised his head, looking up at her. “Please what?”

  “You know what.” Her hands clenched and unclenched, fisting the cheap motel sheets. She beat a restless rhythm against his hip with one foot, the other flat on the mattress like it was her anchor. She was so fucking responsive, so wet, and aching for more.

  “Please make you come? I’m working on it.”

  “I appreciate your commitment to foreplay.” Her chuckle was breathy, high, a little hysterical. “It’s very enlightened. But I just want you in me.”

  “I can multitask, remember?” With that, he slid three fingers deep inside her and went back to work sucking her clit.

  “Trucker,” she said again, the syllables desperate and keening. And then “Tyson,” too. Names he could never answer to again. Names he didn’t even want to hear from anyone else, because they were her
s now. She owned them. With her hoarse cries. With how she rode his face and thrashed on the bed and begged him to stop and to keep going in turns.

  She came all over his hand. All over his tongue. And then, while she was still flying high from the orgasm, he suited up with a condom and gave her his dick. Driving it hard into the slick heat of her pretty little cunt. Pushing her knees apart, as wide as they would go, and hooking them over his shoulders while he slammed into her.

  Their first time, they’d been impulsive. Having reckless fun. And then, at the Pineview, it was an exploration of each other. Full of wonder and magic. This time, there was none of that. No. It was primal and earth-shattering. A possession. She rose to meet his thrusts, the slap of their bodies like violent music. Every time their gazes locked, they negotiated consent anew. Yes, this was okay. Yes, this was wanted. Yes, he could go harder and faster, all in service to the tightness in his cock, the heaviness of his balls, and the welcome of her vagina.

  He felt the sting of her nails digging into his skin. The sharp tug of her fingers in his hair. Pinky was marking him, owning him the way she’d owned his names. And he fucking loved it. Let her scratch rows into his back. Let her brand him, tattoo him, burrow under six layers of skin. He wanted more than just memories to take with him after tonight. He wanted the scars.

  “Pink,” he groaned, as his climax bowed his spine and sent spikes of heat every which way. As he shot and shot and shot, filling the condom with what felt like an endless reserve of come. “Fuck, Pink. Want you so much. Want you always.”

  But they couldn’t have always, could they?

  All they could have was this.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Want you so much. Want you always.” The words rang in my head as he got up to dispose of the condom and prepare for Round Two. Possibly Rounds Three through Six as well. He brought back a damp washcloth from the bathroom, cleaning me off with gentle strokes. I could feel his eyes on me. Hear questions he wasn’t speaking. Did he already regret bringing me back here? Regret saying those things in the heat of passion?

  “Tyler.”

  The single word hung there in the air between us after he set the cloth aside and settled next to me on the bed.

  “What?” I gingerly rolled onto my side and frowned up at him, still blissed out and fucked out and a little fried.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. His cheeks were tinged red with what was either embarrassment or discomfort. Or guilt. “My new name,” he explained. “It’s Tyler. Close enough to what I was born with so I won’t forget it. Tyler Buchanan Barnes.”

  Tyler. I liked it. I tried the syllables out in my mind, tasting that ‘l’ in the middle on my tongue, before moving on to the second part. The hilarious part. “Buchanan Barnes? Like Captain America’s best friend, Bucky Barnes? You might as well tattoo ‘this is an alias’ across your back in bold block letters.”

  “Really? ‘Cause I was thinking it would look great on my ass.” He bantered back easily. But there was nothing easy about the tightness of his shoulders, or how still he held himself. He wasn’t supposed to tell me anything about his new identity. He’d done it anyway. Breaking yet another protocol.

  I didn’t know how to make it okay. So, I touched him instead. Sliding my hand around his hip, urging him down beside me. “Sometimes I think about changing the name I was born with,” I confessed. “Pinky Grover? I sound like a Muppet.”

  My attempt at shifting the topic worked. His grin was genuine. His gorgeous body relaxed a little as he curved it into mine. “You’re a really sexy Muppet, though.” He pressed a soft kiss to my shoulder. “Like the ones from Avenue Q.”

  I had to laugh. “I’ve learned so much about you in such a short time,” I marveled. “First it was the Indian food. Then the comics and the vegan girlfriend. Now, it turns out you love musicals and you’re kind of a furry.”

  He nodded in mock-seriousness. “You see why my time in the Eagles had to end. It was all I could do to keep from singing Hamilton songs in the clubhouse.”

  Oh, but he was adorable. A sweetheart in wolf’s clothing. I could fall in love with this man. Maybe I already had. Was that what this was? Missing him before he’d even left? Trusting him without reservation? Craving him while he was just inches away?

  “Ready for another go?” I asked softly.

  “I think I could get there with a little encouragement.” He looked down at his cock, which lay at half-mast against his thigh.

  I was happy to encourage him. To stroke him to full hardness before settling atop him.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured as he stretched to grab more condoms off the bedside table. “So fucking gorgeous.”

  It was something I already knew. I may have had some issues with my twee—and extremely Indian—name over the years, but I’d never needed a man to validate my attractiveness. The words still warmed my blood. Coursed through me like an aphrodisiac. I leaned down and pressed my lips to his. The kiss was like match to flame. Burning us up. Instant incineration.

  We kissed and kissed and kissed, crashing into each other like forces of nature.

  “Tyler.” I tried it out again as I took him inside me once more. This strange new name. It was as foreign on my lips as his body was familiar.

  “Yes.” He bucked up into me, pushing deep. “Take that, too. Own me.”

  Own him. Had anything ever belonged to me besides my dreams? No. It was...stunning. Staggering. To realize that he belonged to me. How on earth was I supposed to let him walk out of my life now?

  ***

  They managed four bouts of increasingly passionate and absurdly athletic sex before they had to stop to rest. Pinky washed up and put her clothes back on, leaving the motel just long enough to go and grab some food from the Taj Mahal. “Advantages of a family business. After-hours access,” she’d giggled as she dished out chicken tikka, naan, and various fried treats. She’d even thought to pack him extra samosas for the road.

  The road he no longer wanted to take.

  That became clear as they ate—at the room’s tiny, rickety, table, so they wouldn’t mess up the bed any more than they already had—and talked about inconsequential things. About everything and nothing. Their favorite places in Eastville. The teachers he’d hated. The teachers she’d loved. Best field trip they ever took—Cincinnati Zoo for her, Indianapolis Children’s Museum for him. He liked talking to her. Spending time with her. Watching how she expertly tore naan with just her right hand and scooped up bits of spiced chicken.

  “Indians traditionally only eat with one hand,” she’d explained when he commented on her technique. “The other one is used for everything else.”

  It made sense. God forbid you fist somebody with chili pepper on your fingers. Talk about being in hot in bed! When he repeated that thought aloud, she laughed until she was near tears. And he fell for her just a little bit harder.

  I don’t want to leave you. The words were trapped in his throat. Strangled. It had been so stupid of him to ask her back to his room, to steal this time with her, without considering that it would make it so much more painful to walk away. Like detaching from a symbiote, sci-fi style. Tearing out half of himself. All he’d thought of was holding her one more time. Kissing her one more time. Being with her. Making love to her until he couldn’t see straight.

  It didn’t take them long to get back there, back to bed—they both scrubbed their hands quite thoroughly first—and this time between them was slow. Like swaying to a love song under an open sky. He sank into her. She melted into him. They laced their fingers together, locked eyes, and didn’t flinch away from what they saw reflected. Heat. Hope. Such tiny words for such big things. It was too much—no, it was just enough. Just enough to send them spiraling into the kind of mind-blowing simultaneous orgasm that only existed in X-rated fairy tales. She fell apart with a dozen tiny tremors, cunt spasming around his cock. He’d spent in her so many times already, he was amazed he had anything left to spill. His blo
od roared in his ears. Her gasping breaths, too. And, for a few seconds—maybe minutes, maybe hours—they just stayed like that. Still and silent, wrecked and shattered.

  Until reality set in—sticky, uncomfortable, reality—and he hefted his weight off of her and went to take care of the condom. He returned to a contemplative Pinky, her dark eyes huge and serious, her kiss-swollen mouth pursed.

  “It’s too soon to love you, isn’t it?” she asked, drawing up her knees under the sheets and resting her chin on them. “I mean, it’s completely bananas, right?”

  He had the feeling she was asking herself more than she was asking him, but he answered anyway. “What’s ‘too soon’? A day? A week? How do you measure something like that?”

  “In daylights and sunsets?” she suggested, wryly.

  “Oh, do not get me started with Rent lyrics. These walls are thin enough that we’d probably get kicked out by the management for singing duets. And I do a mean ‘Out Tonight.’” He gyrated his hips for her to punctuate this point of pride.

  Pinky smothered a chuckle with her fingertips and shook her head. “Could be worse,” she pointed out. “Could be Mamma Mia. Eastern Indiana is not exactly the heart of ABBA’s fanbase.”

  A day wasn’t too soon to love this woman. A week, a month, a year...was way too long. But it would be impossibly cruel to tell her that. So, he didn’t. He just swallowed the words and slipped back into her arms, humming a few bars of “Take a Chance on Me.” He held her until the very last possible minute. Long after dawn. When the early morning sun was streaming through the threadbare curtains and striping their faces.

  In the end, neither of them could actually say “goodbye.”

  Instead, Pinky Grover stood in his motel room doorway, hands on her hips in classic comic-book hero pose, and told him, “Dammit, Trucker—Tyson, Tyler, whatever you want to call yourself—I’m not going to let this be the end. I’m going to pretend we’ll see each other again, okay?”