Lost Along the Way (8 page)

“Come in,” he said, holding it open for me. “I’ll get you some water.”

His house was much like him—a strange mixture of opposing themes. New speakers, but an ancient TV. Clunky tools I couldn’t identify lay carelessly on lace doilies. Pieces of metal on the coffee table next to a book about Tarot. Even the smells were contrary. Metal and grass and…

Sugar?

We rounded the corner into his kitchen, where three short loaves of banana bread—or something similar—lay resting on cooling racks.

“Did you bake these?”

He stared at them in shock, as if surprised to see them there. As if he for some reason wished they weren’t. “Yes.”

“This morning?”

“Last night. I couldn’t sleep. I, uh, well….” He filled a glass with water and held it to me. “It’s sort of a long story.”

I’d only had a bowl of cereal before my run, and the smell of all that sugar and cinnamon made my stomach grumble. I took the water but set it right back down. I only had eyes for that bread. “Are you going to offer me any?”

His eyes widened in alarm. “No!”

I laughed in surprise. “Why not? Are they for somebody special?”

“Ummm…. No. Not really. I mean, well, they were going to be for you, but—”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” A rack of knives sat next to the loaves. I took one out and cut several thick slices. The aroma was mouthwatering.

“I don’t think you should eat that.”

“Why not? Is it pumpkin bread?”

“No. It’s… sort of my own recipe.”

“It smells amazing.”

“Danny, I mean it. You shouldn’t—”

I took a bite before he could stop me. The expression of alarm on his face was almost comical. I swallowed fast in order to ask, “Did you poison it or something?”

“Of course not!”

“Good, ’cause it’s fantastic!” I couldn’t have said what it was. Not pumpkin or banana or spice bread. But whatever it was, it tasted like heaven. “Why were you worried?”

“Well….” He gnawed his lower lip in a way that was beginning to become familiar, although for the first time, I took real notice of his lips. I’d never noticed before how full and soft they were, between all his overgrown stubble. “I don’t really know much about baking.”

“Seriously, it’s delicious.” I broke a piece off and held it toward him. “Try it.”

He hesitated, and I moved closer, holding the morsel to his lips, watching him expectantly. I felt an unbidden thrill as he opened his mouth and let me slip the bread onto his tongue. He looked terrified, as if the bread really might be poisoned, but then his eyes drifted shut as the flavor hit him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I took another bite myself, chewing slower this time, letting myself savor it. Behind him the window over the sink afforded a view of the backyard, and an old unattached garage. “Is that your shop?”

“It is.”

“Can I see it?”

He smiled, his inexplicable discomfort over the bread suddenly gone. “Sure.”

I grabbed another slice of bread and followed him out the back door. The yard needed to be mowed and was thick with weeds. Piles of scrap metal lay in heaps, although whether sorted by size or by degree of rustiness, I couldn’t tell. It surprised me. He took such good care of his front lawn, and of my parents’ yard.

“This one’s always my last priority,” he said as if reading my mind.

The breeze was light, the sun hot on my shoulders and the top of my head. The tall grasses crunched dryly under our ruthless feet. Grasshoppers buzzed as we passed, jumping wildly through the weeds, occasionally colliding with my bare legs. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. I finished the second slice of bread and immediately wished I’d kept the glass of water, but I’d left it on his kitchen counter.

Landon slid the garage door up and led me inside. “Most of my finished work is at the market, but I have a couple of new things I’m trying to finish up in time for Jubilee Days.”

A welding mask, gloves, and a leather apron hung on the wall. Equipment I couldn’t identify lay here and there along with bits of metal, some of them bent and shiny with metal leaves or birds or scoops attached. A shelf along one wall held jars of chemicals and a pile of rags. But everything was dwarfed by the ornate silver sculpture sitting in the center of the space, much larger than the one in my parents’ yard. This one had birds too, although they were smaller, with strange little fan blades for wings.

“It’s hard to balance,” he said, eyeing the piece. “You want people to see the artistic part, not the part that makes it move. But it’s all one and the same.” He reached out and gave it a push, setting it into motion. The fan blades on the birds spun—not soaring, like the one in my yard, but flapping wildly as they twirled.

“It’s wonderful.”

“Well, it’s a work in progress. I want their wings to move, but the fan blades aren’t quite right. I think I lose too much momentum there, but if I make the scoops much bigger, the birds’ll look out of place.”

He spun it again, watching it with a critical eye, analyzing the way it moved. A ray of light fell through the open door, slicing through the shadows, highlighting specks of dust in the air, turning them into a golden halo around his head. His dark hair stood in messy clumps from the jog. A bead of sweat ran down one sideburn. His full bottom lip disappeared as he chewed it thoughtfully.

Christ, he was gorgeous. I’d noticed it before, of course. How could I not, working side-by-side with him one weekend after the next? But now, standing there in his dusty garage with his mechanical birds whirring away and the dust dancing around his head, he seemed radiant. Almost godlike.

He pushed the birds again, and I found myself fascinated by the movement of his scarred hand. I noted the dark hair over his veined forearms and had to stop myself from reaching out to touch him. He turned toward me, his eyes bright, his smile inviting.

“What do you think?”

I think I want to kiss you.

“Danny?” he asked, puzzled by whatever he saw on my face.

Had I said the words out loud? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was right then, in that one crazy moment, I wanted him like I’d never wanted anybody before. I wanted to crush his lips beneath mine. To tear at his clothes. To bend him over his rough wooden workbench and fuck him like mad.

No. No, that wasn’t it at all.

I wanted to take him inside. To undress him while we kissed. To revel in every inch of his flesh. To make love to him like it was the only chance we’d ever have.

He reached for me, not out of passion, but out of concern, and I felt the blood rushing toward my groin, the unmistakable stir in my loins telling me I was about to pitch a rather embarrassing tent in my jogging shorts.

“Oh my God,” I mumbled, turning away.

“Are you okay?” He sounded confused, and who could blame him. I knew exactly how he felt.

“I’m fine.” I was already halfway across his backyard, concentrating hard on grasshoppers and scrap metal and barking dogs. Anything to get my damn penis under control and back to its inert state. “I need to go.”

He followed me inside. The smell of baking hit me hard, causing my stomach to lurch, and I wavered, confused at my own reaction. What the hell was I running from? I found my glass of water and drained it in one swallow.

It’s nothing
, I told myself.
You had a moment. You were attracted to him. So what? It’s normal.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

“Positive.” I put the glass down and turned to smile at him, feeling better already. “Just thirsty, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“I should probably get back to the house and get to work.”

“Right. I’ll be by later to help.”

“Sounds great. Just give me time to shower.”

“Me too.”

The words were like a gunshot echoing in my brain, starting a tumble of pebbles rolling down the hillside. A tumult of images that threatened to become a landslide.

His shower. Him. His naked body. His full lips. The feel of him against me as we soaped each other’s bodies. The way he would taste. The sounds he would make as I fucked him.

“Jesus. I have to go.”

I practically ran from the room. I warred with myself all the way home, feeling the undeniable stir of arousal deep in the pit of my stomach and the tingle of lust pulsing through my veins. My hands shook as I undressed.

Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him naked. Or wet. Or bending over in front of you.

A cold shower. That was what I needed.

Or a really good orgasm.

No. Not that. Not now. Not with thoughts of him still flying through my head.

A cold shower. Yes.

But I turned the lever toward the red, imagining Landon’s callused hand doing the same thing. I imagined him naked, waiting for the water to heat up. By the time it ran hot from the spigot, my blood was roaring in my ears, my cock aching and fully erect. I pulled the lever to activate the shower and climbed into the hot needle spray. In a tiny house on the opposite side of the street, Landon was doing the same thing. I knew it was true, without understanding how I knew. I knew he was there, doing exactly what I was doing, thinking about me the same way I was thinking about him. I knew his cock was as hard and ready as mine.

“Oh, God,” I moaned in defeat, moving my hand toward my erection.

Don’t think about him.

But I was powerless to do otherwise. My mind and my body were aligned against me, and they wanted only him.

And he wanted me. He felt the same desperate desire. He was fighting an identical mental battle, moving his soapy hands down his stomach, wishing I was the one touching him. Wishing I was there with him. I imagined his muscular forearms, their dark hair slick from the water. I imagined him leaning forward against the wall and me standing behind him just as we both wanted, kissing his neck and running my hands down his chest, over his hips, between his legs to cup his groin in my hands. I moaned at the way it felt. He was hairy down there, far more than I was, and although that’d never turned me on much in the past, it did now, more than I ever could have imagined. I caressed him, squeezing his scrotum gently, and he made a sound—more than a sigh, less than a moan—that took my breath away. I squeezed again, reveling in the feel of him in my hand. He pushed toward me, begging silently for more. And I gave it to him. I used my other hand to stroke him slowly, from root to tip. This was my imagination, and worries about soap or condoms or lubricant need not apply. My movements were silky smooth along his shaft as I stroked him. I heard his deep-throated moan of approval. Of pleasure. Of gratification. Yes, this was what he wanted: me touching him. Caressing him. But I wanted more. I wanted more than just jerking him off. I wanted to claim him. To own him. To see every inch of him as I took him.

And I could. In my mind’s eye, he was perfectly clear, a vision so sharp and bright, it had to be real. I could see everything from the way the water beaded on his tattooed shoulders to the small crescent-shaped birthmark on his ass. When I touched him, I felt the coarseness of his hairy flesh against my palms and the ridges of his muscles beneath my fingers. The solidity of his back against my chest and his buttocks against my erection were as real as the water pouring over us. As real as the frantic groan of disappointment that escaped his lips as I took my hand away from his cock.

I stepped back to admire him, urging him to arch his back. To bend a bit at the hips and push his ass toward me. I gripped his cheeks in my hands, spreading him open, exploring between them. A thick trail of hair rose from his scrotum up that narrow crevasse, and I followed it, my heart pounding, my groin throbbing with desire. I found what I sought and trailed my thumb over his entrance, and we moaned in unison as that ring of muscle softened under my touch. I wanted nothing more than to sink into his heat. It took no effort at all to step forward again. To angle my cock toward him. He whimpered as I slid past his rim and pushed deep into his hot, tight body. It was the most gratifying thing I’d ever felt.

Somewhere on the other side of the street, I knew he was there. I knew he stood in his own shower, his forehead against the cold tile wall. I knew he had his own hand on his cock. Not stroking. Not moving. Just holding as I pushed into him. I knew he felt my invasion, and it was everything he’d dreamed. I knew he was tensing, yearning, pleading, pushing toward me, longing for me to take more.

And I did. There in my shower, in his shower, with an empty
Wyoming street between us, we made love. Or we fucked. Or
something in between. I held him as my hips moved, my hands caressing his chest, sometimes grabbing his shoulders to increase my leverage. I alternated between deep, languid thrusts and fast, frantic throes. I fucked him until my legs and back screamed from the effort. I lost myself in the pleasure of making his gorgeous body mine. He moaned and gasped and whimpered as I took him, one arm braced against the wall, his other hand tight around his cock. I felt his ecstasy. I sensed he was as enthralled in our lovemaking as I was. We didn’t speak. We didn’t even kiss. But we touched in a way that was utterly impossible. We merged our thoughts. We shared our flesh in the most primal way, slaking our lust, crying out as one when our orgasms finally came. And when it was over, I looked down, shocked to see my semen spilling from my own hand to be washed away down the drain. I was stunned to realize he wasn’t there. He wasn’t with me.

And yet he was.

The water was nearly cold. My hands shook as I turned it off, just as they’d shook when I’d turned it on, but for entirely different reasons. I held my towel to my face, feeling dirty. Feeling wretched. Feeling like an adulterer. My knees wobbled, and I sank to the lidded toilet seat with tears in my eyes.

Fifteen years, and for the first time ever, I’d cheated on my husband.

I
DIDN
’
T
see Landon again that day. For the first time in weeks, he stayed away, and although I was relieved, I couldn’t help but wonder why.