The Boots My Mother Gave Me (17 page)

He was so gross, your middle-aged American male going through a mid-life crisis. He came with two busty blondes in halter minis, proudly displaying one on each arm, wearing his Roca Wear tracksuit, sporting a
comb-over
and wielding a bottle of Viagra, as if it were a calling card to the opposite sex.

I rapidly concocted a Slippery Nipple and set it in front of him.
Just take your drink and walk away,
I rehearsed in my mind. No such luck. He downed his Slippery Nipple, slamming the glass on the counter. Jeremiah didn’t acknowledge him, his eyes fixed on me, watching my body language.

“How about a Blowjob,”
Comb-over
said smugly.

The Blowjob, aptly named for a mix of Irish Cream and Kahlua, finished up with a heavy dose of whipped cream. Having bartended for the past three months, I was primed for such requests, as some patrons found it amusing to order
dirty
drinks with a provocative undertone. In addition to the Slippery Nipple and the Blowjob, there was Sex on the Beach, the Screaming Orgasm, the Slippery Bald Beaver, the Mountain Dew Me, and the list goes on.

I saw Pete approaching out of my periphery, my relief bartender for the night.
Thank God!

“The freedom train has arrived. Get out of here,” Pete said, snapping me on the leg with his bar towel.

“You are a lifesaver,” I mumbled to him.

“What about my Blowjob,”
Comb-over
demanded.

“I am officially off the clock.” I looked at Jeremiah, hopeful. “Pete will get it for you.”

“But I wanted you to suck the head off it, baby,” he said. I thought I might throw up in my mouth. Jeremiah’s hands clenched into balled up fists, as he looked straight forward, jaw twitching. I needed to defuse this situation.

“No thanks. I don’t drink,” I responded definitively, refraining from exchanging words. I never knew arguing or reasoning with a drunk to be effective. I thought I could nimbly dodge any further conversation, as I turned away from him.

“You think you’re too good to drink with me? You stuck-up bitch.”
Comb-over
reached across the bar, grabbing me by the arm. Jeremiah had him face down in the drink puddles on the counter, his arm twisted around his back in one swift movement, as if he had performed such tasks before.
Comb-over’s
arm was cranked so far up behind him, he could have given himself a neck rub. Ooh, it looked like it hurt.

“Get this guy out of here,” Pete called to the bouncer, who approached due to all the commotion.

“Don’t you have something you’d like to say?” Jeremiah coaxed, his arm snugly around the front of
Comb-over’s
neck as he pulled his face up off the bar.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he dismissed coolly, tightening his grip.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, lady,”
Comb-over
choked out through ever-tightening vocal chords.

Jeremiah shoved him off to the bouncer as I stood watching, taking him in. I remembered him tall, lean, well developed, and handsome. Now, four years later, he looked like a regular Adonis. Fully muscled, his jaw squared, quietly confident, he oozed primitive, raw maleness.

“You’re just a regular knight in shining armor,” I joked, an attempt to downplay my admiration.

“That’s how it works, ya see. Guaranteed to be a jackass in every crowd. Gives a guy like me the perfect opportunity to swoop in and impress the girl.”

“You hungry? It’s the least I could do, what with you defending my honor.” I grinned.

He returned my farce in true Jeremiah form, his audacious smile surfacing. “In the movies when a guy defends a girl’s honor, he gets a lot more than dinner.”

We nestled into a dimly lit corner table at
Mai’s,
a local restaurant. Hawaiian music played softly in the background. We had an ocean view, as the warm night air whirled through the place carrying with it the Aloha spirit. We took each other in across the table, quiet laughter surfacing within both of us, simultaneously wondering how in the world two kids from Georgia, Pennsylvania ended up on Maui Island together.

“Hi. I’m Lana. I’ll be taking care of you tonight. What can I bring you to drink?”

Jeremiah waited for me to order. “Mango peach iced tea for me, please.”

“I’ll try the lager.” He read from the beer and cocktail menu.

“Sounds good. I’ll be right back with those,” Lana said.

“So, that arm twisting thing you did back there. Did you learn that in the Marines?” I asked, putting my elbows on the table and leaning in toward him curiously.

“Yep. Been in four years now. The day you left, I signed up. Went to basic a week later.”

“Think you could show me how to do that move?” I mimed the action. My elbow caught the flaming candle on the table, nearly tipping it over.

“I think you’re dangerous enough without any moves.” He smiled, catching the candle, tipping it right side up.

Lana returned, placing our drinks in front of us, taking our dinner orders. I leaned back in my chair locking in with his gaze. “It looks good on you, life. You look good, Miah.”

“You too,” he said, his eyes keeping mine. “The hair took some getting used to.” He ran his hand self-consciously over his crew cut. I loved his unkempt surfer-boy do, but the military look suited him well. Anything looked good on him.

“So, what are you doing here, in Maui?” I asked.

“My unit. We’re on assignment, mandatory R & R.”

“Your unit?”

“They left for Honolulu this afternoon. I stayed here. It’s quieter, less people. What are you doing here?”

“Work and school, massage therapy. What do you do, in the Marines?” I continued to play twenty questions, more interested in his story than in telling my own.

“Recon. Spec ops,” he said. “Tell me about this massage therapy. You rub people?” He smiled.

“No way! You’re Marine Reconnaissance?” I whispered, looking around as if our conversation entailed covert information.

He laughed lightly at my reply. “I thought you might like that. So back to this masseuse thing...”

“Massage therapist,” I interrupted. “I’m licensed with the state. It’s homeopathic, kind of like a chiropractor, and completely legit. So, you’re like a bad-ass, huh?”

He looked at me, pleased at my deduction, but too humble to acknowledge it. He shook his head and grinned, as Lana returned to our table with our entrees. “Would you care for another?” she asked Jeremiah, referring to his nearly empty glass of beer.

“Ah, yeah. I’ll take one more.”

Noticing I hadn’t ordered an alcoholic beverage, she inquired, “Would you like a drink with dinner?”

“No. No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t bother you, me drinking, does it?” Jeremiah asked, as Lana left the table.

I shook my head. “No. I just don’t drink.” Twenty-two years old, I didn’t even have a drink on my twenty-first birthday because I didn’t want to turn into a mean drunk. “After all, I am my father’s daughter.”

“It’s not in you,” he said, fully catching and dismissing my insinuation.

“How do you like it, Recon?” I quickly changed the subject as I took a bite of my macadamia-crusted mahi-mahi.

“I like it. They recruited me out of boot camp. It’s encouraging to be good at something, to be chosen. I’ve traveled all over, Harley, places I never thought I’d see.” His face lit up. “The best part is the guys. It’s nice to have a family,” he ended, looking down at his plate. He shoved his food around with his fork momentarily before taking a bite.

I never knew Jeremiah to have much family present in his life, other than his dad. I was glad to hear he found a kinship with his unit, their bond strong as blood, dependent on one another, even for their lives at times.

“Back to this massage thing,” he said, giving me an inquisitive look, arching his brow, causing me to chuckle.

“You just can’t let it go, can you?”

“Seriously, my back is killing me, you think a massage might help?” His smile curled flirtatiously.

Midnight found us in the living room of my suite at the resort, my housing provided as part of my contract. Jeremiah lay on the massage table covered with a light sheet. I pushed it down to his waist, exposing his perfectly sculpted back, cursing myself. He was so fine. I needed something, anything, a distraction.

Aha, music!
That would fill the dead space, and give me something to focus on. I powered up the radio, using my nifty remote control, and the first words flooding out of the speakers, Marvin Gaye’s,
Let’s Get It On.
I aimed the remote at the radio, desperately trying to change the station as the song continued. Finally, the seek button took off, dialing into a new, less provocative tune, but by that time we unsuccessfully held back our laughter.

“You play that song for all your clients?” he teased.

“I find it breaks the tension,” I returned his playful tone. “Okay, take a few deep breaths for me. Get nice and relaxed and try not to talk. I know that’s a challenge for you.” I snickered. “Really, you’re supposed to feel it, take it all in, melt into it.”

He did as I instructed. I prepared my hands with the appropriate amount of oil, placing them on his back, and we were off. Although blatantly distracted with his physical presence, I was determined to show off my prowess. My hands in contact with the warmth of his flesh, kneading the taught muscles just under its surface, I took note of every glorious fiber. It was impossible not to. For the next hour his body was mine and I claimed it, releasing it from tension, leaving him fully relaxed and pain free.

Returning from the bathroom after allowing him time to get dressed, I proudly found him sitting on the edge of the massage table, in a stupor.

“Wow,” he said, his voice raspy. “I think my vocal chords even relaxed. That was awesome.”

“You needed that. You really should get a massage at least once a month in your line of work,” I assured, yawning. It was a quarter past two in the morning.

“It’s late. I probably should get going.” He stood from the massage table, barefoot, in his jeans with his shirt completely unbuttoned.
Stop it, Harley.
I tore my eyes from his torso, catching his gaze. He looked tired.
Tell him he can sleep on the couch,
I coaxed, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You have plans for tomorrow?” He slipped his feet into his shoes while buttoning his shirt.

“Not one.” I pulled the band from my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders in preparation for bed.

He watched me, his eyes engaged, his look changing from sleepy to tormented, painful, as my hair cascaded around my face, soft and uncontrolled. He turned from me, running his fingers through his hair, a habit he had displayed as long as I knew him. He looked up at the ceiling, letting out a sigh, gathering himself before turning back to me. “Have you made it over to Haleakala National Park? We could hike it, camp out, whatever you’re up for.”

“What time should I be ready?” I asked, quickly confirming my participation as I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing my coffee pot for morning.

“Just call me when you get up.” We started towards one another, instinctively, presumably for a goodnight hug. I stopped at the counter, resting my hand on it, alert to the chemical pull between us, realizing I couldn’t just hug him and then let him go. He stopped when I did, about ten feet away, the space between us tense, charged.

“I’ll pack us a picnic,” I blurted out, filling the silence as I backed away from him, around to the other side of the counter.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, turned, and walked to the door. Grabbing the handle, he paused momentarily, resting his forehead against the wooden frame, his back to me, he said, “Harley, I don’t want to leave.”

“Well then, don’t leave. Stay. It’s late. The couch pulls out into a bed.”

He tapped his forehead lightly on the door, frustrated, before turning around, facing me. “If I stay here...with you...I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

“Stay,” I whispered.

He locked the door and came to me, slowing only when he reached me, his lips hovering over mine. “Have you ever missed someone so bad it hurts?”

“Feels like you can’t breathe.”

He covered my mouth with his own. Softly he lingered, causing every nerve in my body to tingle. Pulling away, his eyes opened slowly as he ran his teeth over his bottom lip, full with my taste. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you behind the bar,” he said. He picked me up, setting me on the counter, pulling my halter-top from the waist of my jeans, returning his lips to me with ardor.

Reciprocating his desire, I unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it down over his shoulders, slowly trailing my fingers over the muscles in his arms. He watched me in my admiration, further exploring his chest and his abdomen, his body solid and defined, concave and convex, in all the right places. “You are so freaking fine,” I whispered, a smile forming on my lips.

“It comes with the job,” he modestly dismissed. Picking me up from the counter, my legs straddled his waist. His torso closed around me, his strong arms, one under my bottom, the other supporting my back as his chest pressed against mine. “God, you feel good,” he growled, carrying me to the bedroom.

He laid me on the bottom of the bed as he stood leaning over me. His arm muscles bulged, one on each side of my thighs, bracing his weight. Definitively male in his entire makeup, I closed my eyes, breathing him in, his virile scent filling my lungs. His closeness made me feel safe and sheltered. Heat radiated off his skin, warming mine. He affected me like no other. I was completely bewitched. He could have asked me for anything in that moment, and I would have obliged. There was no refusing him.

I sat up, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, claiming his lips for my own as I moved from the bottom of the bed to the top, pulling him with me. Both of us freed our legs on the way up the bed, removing our jeans. I moved beneath him. He followed stealthily, managing his body so as not to put too much weight on me, but leaving very little space between.

I assumed he moved so accurately from his military training, fully content in my position as his current
assignment.
I pushed at his chest, coaxing him to roll over onto his back. He pulled me with him. I sat up astraddle of his waist.