“Why are you here?” I ask suddenly.
“I’m changing your tire.”
“In the middle of nowhere. Why are you out here?”
“Why are you?”
“I asked first.”
“I work here,” he concedes, nodding back the way he came. “There’s a school about fifteen minutes in. It’s an extension of Holden College. They have an agricultural program and I was just wrapping up some things. I got a bunch of texts when I was driving back, so I parked to check them. That’s why I was stopped. I didn’t notice the lights had gone out.”
I squint into the darkness, like I might be able to see something. I can’t, of course. He could be lying. There could be nothing back there. Or there could be a school, with his name on a door. Professor Something. Master Gardener.
I look at his hands. The cracked knuckles.
I look away.
He could be an escaped convict. Maybe he stole that jacket and the Rolex. He’d paid cash for the meal—maybe he’d stolen that, too. I’d prefer it. I’d prefer his alias to this real person, to his true story. I’d prefer to know I’m not the only liar.
He lowers the jack, tightens the lug nuts the rest of the way, and stands, wiping his hands on his thighs. I need to back up, but I don’t. There’s a foot of space between us.
“That should do it, Denise.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time.”
“If you turn on your lights and check both ways before entering an intersection, there won’t be another time.”
He cocks his head slightly. “What if there could be?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to see him a second time. I didn’t intend to see him at all. But maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s a giant flashing neon sign saying, here’s that chance you didn’t take. Take it.
“There can’t,” I say.
His face falls a little bit. “Right.” He bends down to collect the jack and the wrench, and retreats to his truck. He tosses them into the back, the clatter of metal on metal deafening in the quiet.
“Tonight,” I say, to clarify. “That’s it.”
He pauses at the door to his truck, his fingers already wrapped around the handle. Taking his cue, like an honest, decent man. Who changed a tire, got rejected, and dealt with it. “What?”
“Turn off the lights.”
He stares at me for a long second, a little bit incredulous, then reaches through the open pickup window and shuts off the headlights. There’s a full moon and a blanket of stars overhead, the air cooling rapidly in the dark. I’m in the shadows again. In my element.
“Come here,” I say. I remain standing at the side of my car as he approaches, his work boots crunching over the rocks and dirt. He crouches to scoop up the discarded tire and returns it to my trunk, then looks at me. Not for his cue, exactly. But for clarification. Confirmation.
“What do you want, Denise?” His voice is low. I want to hear him say my name. Reese Carlisle. To know it and everything it implies.
But I never will.
“Did you want to fuck me? Is that why you gave me that key?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Yes.”
“I wanted you to. I thought about it.”
“You should have come. It would have been good.”
“Let’s find out.”
He glances around. “Right here?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
He exhales. Bemused. Considering. “Are you crazy?”
I hold his stare. “Yes.”
Maybe the first sign I’m not the only crazy one out here is the fact that instead of turning around and getting in his truck and driving back to wherever it is he came from, he takes a step forward. There are only a few inches between us to begin with, and before I expect it, there are none. He’s taller than me and I feel him against my belly, my thighs, my chest.
He doesn’t break eye contact, waiting for me to cry foul, to chicken out, to rethink my proposition. But he doesn’t know me.
When I don’t move he lifts one hand to the back of my head, sliding coarse fingers over my neck and into my hair. He doesn’t close his eyes when he lowers his face to mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips, hear the harsh rasp of my own.
“Still think you want this?” he murmurs.
“Let’s find out.”
The last thing I see is the tiny quirk of his mouth before he kisses me. There’s nothing soft or sweet or searching about the way he kisses, and it’s a relief. It says he gets it. He gets that this is one night only, we’re not soul searching, we’re not bonding, we’re not falling in love. This isn’t a getting-to-know-you type of fuck. This is getting-off-and-getting-gone. I know the reputation of Fantasy Friends and its like-minded dating websites, but you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find a man who truly just wants a couple of hours, a handshake, and a goodbye. When they meet me—or Hanna or Isabelle or Jacqueline—they transform from the promised one-night stand in the email to Mr. Chivalrous, pulling out chairs, asking questions about my life, my family, my interests.
I can’t talk about those things.
It knocks my enthusiasm for the evening down by half, dampens my libido, makes everything that much worse. I normally stick it out. After all, I’ve gone through the trouble of making a profile, putting on a costume, and showing up.
This—this stranger with his tongue in my mouth on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere—this is the most “real” I’ve had in months. Years. He’s grinding his hips against mine so hard his fly hurts my leg. His hand is rough where it holds my neck, the other squeezing my waist, holding me in place. And I love it. Bruises will extend the experience. They’re like leftovers. I can nibble on them for days.
I push him back so I can work my skirt up over my hips. I’m wearing plain black panties, and when I slide my fingers beneath the cotton sides he stops me. “I’ll do it,” he says, holding my wrist. “In a minute.”
I expect him to try to push me to my knees or something, but instead he surprises me by grabbing my ass and hoisting me onto the trunk of the car. He moves between my legs and undoes his fly, though it’s too dark for me to see anything beyond the action. He kisses me again, his fingers in my hair, the first time in years I’ve let someone touch my hair during sex. The first time it’s been real.
His free hand skates up the inside of my thigh, making me tremble. The rough scratch of his fingers on the sensitive skin is unbearable, the promise of the trajectory nearly enough to make me come. I try to break away to breathe but he forces me back, nipping my lower lip until it stings and I open for another kiss. I like the idea of this. That he’s taking his due. He did me a favor; this is payment. Payback.
It’s much better than polite inquiries about how I became interested in cartography.
I pull his hand between my legs, and he laughs against my mouth, the only sound in the night besides our breathing. I try to move my panties to the side but he won’t let me, planting my hand on the warm metal of the trunk and returning his fingers to my crotch. He just rests them there, his knuckles rubbing, working the fabric over my heated skin, getting it wet, finding proof that I’m not just a girl who claims to want it. I do want it.