The First Law of Love (30 page)

“Oh God, oh my God,” I moaned, pressing even closer to him. I was breathing so hard it sounded as though I had just sprinted nonstop from Chicago to be here, in this moment with him.

He drew away then, his own breath harsh and uneven, his heart thundering against my breasts.

“You're ripping me apart,” he said, his voice hoarse and rough, his hands almost painful in my hair, his grip was so tight.

“Case,” I gasped out.

He let me go then, turned as though in a fury, grabbing up the garbage bag and saying around a husk in his throat, “I'm calling Clark to come and get you.”

“
Case
,” I demanded, shaking with desire and stun and the primal need for more.

He didn't so much as look at me as he opened the door and informed me, “You are not staying here alone tonight.”

He could have slammed it on the way out, but he didn't. I put both hands to my mouth, trying to contain the feelings that were hurtling through me. I sank to a crouch then, burying my face in my hands. Through the open patio door, I heard his truck fire to life and then the sound of him driving out of the parking lot.

I had refused to let Clark see how shook up I was when he knocked on the apartment door no more twenty minutes later. I told him what happened, omitting a certain few things, and was proud of myself for holding it together rather well. Clark was outraged that someone had been in my apartment. It took all of my fast-talking skills to attempt to convince him that I was not about to be scared out of my own place, that I didn't need him to take me back home with him, nor send one of the boys over to guard the door. In the end, Clark slept on the couch anyway.

At Howe and James the next day, Friday, Mary and Al had heard all about the break-in. I was a semi-wreck, having spent a sleepless night in my unmade bed, unable to think of anything but Case's lips on my skin. He hadn't kissed my mouth, but he was going to kiss it. And soon. Tonight, if I had anything to do with it.

This certainty kept me in a state of barely-contained furious momentum throughout the day, in which I was forced to behave rationally (meaning, not race down the street to Spicer Music to confront a certain someone); Case had actually had the nerve to bring Peaches here to the office, before I'd arrived, as though he couldn't bear to see me this morning. She was currently lying like an Egyptian sphinx on the top of the counter near my desk. I told Al all about the bar exam once he calmed down regarding my apartment situation. Even so, he insisted that I head out early, get some rest.

“I already called Bill,” Al told me before I left, referring to my super at Stone Creek. “He is installing a camera system in the entryway, just so you know.”

“You're the best,” I told Al. “Thank you.”

“Don't forget my birthday party is in a week,” Al reminded me. “Helen Anne will have my head if you don't stop out. We're having a barn dance, imagine that. Nothing that amazing in Chicago, I'm just saying.”

I promised him I would be there.

I drove home, Peaches prowling around the passenger seat, and listened to Bill the super apologize for ten minutes, before being allowed into my apartment. I had already left a message with Clark that I wouldn't be able to make supper tonight, afraid I would be unable to behave as though nothing was the matter. Further, I knew it would be impossible to rest right now, even though I had promised Al I would try, so I took a long walk, out into the foothills beyond Stone Creek where I lost myself for a little while, hours in fact, letting the setting sun soak into my hair and the air into my lungs. I tried very hard not to think about Case and me in another life, both the one in the past and the one I imagined for our future, in the here and now – the one I was terrified to fully acknowledge.

I got back to my apartment to find two missed calls from Robbie; shit, that meant he was either in town or getting to town. Well, he was an adult. He could find his way to Ron's cabin without any help from me, and I was in no mood to see him at present anyway. Instead of doing the polite thing and returning his messages, I soaked in the shower, heart clubbing. I shaved my legs and beneath my arms, dried and scented myself with my favorite vanilla body butter. I blew out my hair to its fullest, curliest insanity, applied eye make-up that might best be worn on a call girl in Las Vegas, dressed in my laciest black lingerie, shortest jean shorts and my red-and-black, cleavage-queen tank top.

What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?

But I couldn't answer that so I didn't try. Instead I drove to The Spoke around nine; Case had said yesterday that he was playing tonight. I parked, my heart galloping like the running horse on the tailgate of his truck, which was parked near the back entrance, I saw immediately. I faltered then, almost restarting the car and driving right back home.

Dammit, you
'
re not a coward
, I reminded myself, and tucked a couple of twenties into my right front pocket, not wanting to tote around my stupid purse, although I did stash it in the trunk before going inside, where it was crowded and noisy, familiar with the scents of grease. Neon brilliance immediately bathed my skin; a great deal of my skin was bare in my current outfit.

“Holy shit,” was the first thing I heard as I entered the bar. Seconds later Travis Woodrow rose from a table and came right to me; I was about three inches taller than him in my heeled sandals. He was all eyes as he said, “Lawyer lady,
how-dee-do
.”

I couldn't help but giggle, even as I felt more curious stares flickering my way. I said, “Great, thanks.”

“Who is the lucky fucker you're meeting here?” Travis asked then.

“I'm just here to see the show,” I explained, my eyes already roving the space for a sign of Case. Probably he was in that back storage room, getting ready. I spied Marshall then, at a table with some of his friends, and he did an almost comical double-take, rising and coming up to me. He gave a low whistle.

“Tish,” he said. “First, glad you're home. And second, holy fucking shit. Case is going to break something when he sees you. He's going to freak out.”

“Where is he?” I asked, all faint at the thought. My kneecaps jittered. I needed a drink and I asked Travis, “Hey, will you get me a gin and tonic?”

“Sure thing,” he said, obedient as a school boy.

“Marsh, where is he?” I asked again.

Marshall said, “What is going on? Seriously, what is going on? Case is all nuts tonight, hiding something.”

I shook my head, unable to answer. Travis returned with my drink and I downed about half of it in one gulp. So classy.

“Come on, sit over here with us,” Marsh invited. “Me and Case play in just a few.”

I recognized most of the people at the table and even though I said ‘hi' with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I still situated myself at the far end of the table, facing the stage, in no mood to be distracted. One of the servers was taking a drink order and I asked for another gin, polishing off the first.

Marshall was troubled, I could tell, but he didn't bitch at me for drinking like this. He excused himself; no more than five minutes later, my head already growing lighter with the alcohol, he and Case came from the back, and I could see Case looking for me in the growing crowd. His eyes found me instantly, as though his internal radar was just as alive and firing as my own. Our gazes locked and heat struck me like an arrow he'd just fired in my direction. He was wearing his cowboy hat, and the t-shirt I had held to my face in his bathroom, his face almost stern in its intensity.

The guys took the stage amid cheers and whistles; usually Case appeared so relaxed, so at ease on stage, but this evening I could sense his strain. He and Marsh bantered a little, deciding what to play, and a few people called out requests. I drank two more gin and tonics, knowing I was being ridiculous, unable at present to stop. Things started to get that amber-tinted haze I recalled from college weekends. Time seemed to slow down, moving as though in honey. I studied Case without letup, and his eyes flashed to mine time and again; even in my ever-increasing drunken stupor, I could sense his concern, his growing tension.

The two of them played for over an hour. I'd had to go to the bathroom for almost that long, loathe to go and therefore be forced to stop watching Case play. I waited until he and Marsh were finishing their last encore before I stumbled to my feet and made my unsteady way to the ladies room; it was quieter and darker back here, as the bathrooms were on the opposite side of the front entrance. I regarded myself in the mirror in the empty bathroom, hearing the song end out in the bar, to thunderous applause and cheers.

I braced on the sink and willed myself to keep all that gin in place. I managed to use the toilet without falling in and as I came back through the door and into the entryway, I nearly crashed into Case. My heart responded to this by flinging itself joyously in his direction.

“You're here,” I said. I might have slurred a little.

“You're loaded,” he observed as we stood a few feet apart, regarding me with a steady and unforgiving gaze.

“I am,” I agreed. His hair in the bar lights appeared even more red-gold than usual, damp with sweat along his temples. His mouth was somber, no hint of a smile. I had just spent the past hour and a half watching those lips as he sang and now I needed them to be pressed hotly against every last bit of my skin. I nearly ached with desire for this; my nipples were firm against my tank top, probably visible even through my bra, and I squared my shoulders. I wanted him to notice; his gaze flickered south before moving directly back to my eyes, though I saw him swallow.

“Come on,” he said then, in a voice that brooked absolutely no argument. “Let's get you home.”

“No, I don't want to go yet,” I told him. All inhibitions momentarily lowered, if not totally eradicated, I stepped forward and put my hands on his ribcage, one on either side, shivering inadvertently at the warm strength of him beneath my palms. I leaned against him perhaps more than I actually needed to – but then I understood, like a splash of scalding water to the face, just how very much I needed to lean on him.

He breathed in hard through his nose as I clung to him, his eyes just inches above mine, as I was wearing heeled sandals. He had such gorgeous eyes, and the expression in them was one he was trying very hard to control, I could tell even with my senses all drunk and blurred.

“Come on,” he said again, his voice tight. He was near enough that his breath touched my cheek with those words. “I'll drive you home.”

I let him lead me out under the starry sky, where I felt dizzier than ever, tiny and insubstantial, as though I was just a moment from being swept away in a current I could not control. I held even more tightly to Case, who led me directly to his truck with one arm around my waist, where he opened the door.

“Here we go,” he said with controlled politeness, as though talking to an acquaintance. One hand beneath my elbow, the other lightly on the small of my back, he assisted me into the passenger seat. I scooted my legs so he could shut the door and through the partially-open window he told me, “I'll be back in just a sec.”

There were people in the parking lot enjoying smokes, chatting over a last beer. The noise and lights from within The Spoke were amplified as Case swung open the door and disappeared inside, exiting a minute later with his backpack slung over one shoulder, carrying his guitar case. I watched with my head tipped back against the headrest, absorbing the way his shoulders shifted as he crossed the parking lot towards me, his long legs in faded jeans and boots, his cowboy hat shadowing his eyes from view. I shivered at how damn good he looked, at how much I wanted him.

It
'
s time
, I thought.
It is so time
.

He stashed his gear behind the seat, leaning in from the driver's side, working with quiet efficiency, as though I wasn't even in the truck. He climbed in without a word; when the engine fired to life, the radio clicked on and the soft sound of the country station out of Miles City came over the speakers. Case shifted into first and then second, taking us out of the parking lot.

I studied him, his profile crisp against the window; he didn't look even a fraction in my direction, like he usually did. I tilted my thighs closer to him, but no reaction at all.

What the hell?

There was no traffic on the road as he drove through town and then took the turn towards Stone Creek. The silence between us was electric and tense, but I could not think of one blessed thing to say, especially not when my body was throbbing with desire for him. And, I allowed, my conversation skills were not currently up to par, sloshed as my brain was with gin. Though I did realize a couple of things with sterling clarity.

Tish, you fucking idiot.

What did you expect? He
'
s going to thank his lucky stars that you
'
re drunk and take advantage of you?

He
'
s not that type.

Oh God, I want him. I want him, I want him
…

Like a broken refrain these words swirled around my mind.

Far too soon, the truck bumped into the small resident lot at Stone Creek and my eyes flickered upwards to my second-storey apartment, where the light above the kitchen stove lent the otherwise dark building at least a tiny sense of welcome. I imagined Peaches sprawled in the window sill waiting for me, her tail twitching, and the last thing I wanted right now was to go up there and lie alone in my bed, longing with every atom of my being for Case to be there with me, all of my petty, stupid fucking seduction efforts having gone to utter waste.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and my throat was choked, though not enough that it was obvious.

“We'll go get your car tomorrow,” he said, already letting himself out and rounding the hood. He caught my forearm gently to help me down and I put my hands on his shoulders, indulging in this excuse to touch him; he had left the truck running, clearly communicating his intent to be here no longer than necessary and the tears that had been threatening me pulsed horribly into the corners of my eyes. I thanked God that it was dark as a Halloween cloak, so that he would not be able to see this.

“Do you have your purse?” he asked then, stopping short. He added, “Shit, I didn't even think about looking for it.”

“It's in my trunk,” I said, letting my hands fall to my sides, unable to keep touching him when it would lead to nothing. I muttered, “I put my keys in my pocket…I hate carrying a purse.”

He nodded as though this explained everything and said quietly, “Well, let's get you inside.”

A hot burst of anger caught me unawares, flashing upwards from my gut, and I said with more heat than I intended, “I got it.”

“Tish,” he said, low, and his eyes were intent upon me, even though I refused to look up at him, for fear he would see that I felt like crying. He observed, “You can hardly walk.”