I’m not looking for a boyfriend or attachments. I just want to unstick the celibate part of my routine, without resurrecting all the things that have gone to hell in my life.
Kick It In The Sticks by Brantley Gilbert thumps deep and loud in my chest as I press through the throng of smoke-soaked flannels and cowboy hats. I have no idea who throws these parties or if the land owner even knows about them, but they happen every weekend, all year long, even when it snows.
There’s no snow tonight, but it’s cold enough for coats and gloves. A roaring bonfire emits a blanket of heat and embellishes the wilderness ambiance.
The linchpin of these parties, however, is the pickup truck. Not the trucks hauling in kegs of beer with a dozen under-aged drinkers hanging out of the cab. I mean, those are clearly important. But the truck everyone gravitates to is the one with the massive sound system of speakers and electronics stacked in the bed. An obscenely long extension cord snakes from the truck to some unseen power source near the barn.
The barn.
That’s where I’m headed.
The washed-out, abandoned outbuilding seems to exist only so that OSU students have a place to fuck in private. The lack of lighting obscures the interior in blackness, and the blaring music penetrates the thin walls, making it impossible to talk over the noise.
There’s a tantalizing sort of mystery in that. Without sight and voice, the senses narrow to the caress of hands on skin, the taste of lips, the warmth of breath, and the languid circulation of lust sliding through veins.
I want that. I ache to be consumed by the attentive, tactile sensation of a body against mine.
Last month, I actually made it through the doorway of the barn with a guy. But the moment he pressed my chest against the wall and put his weight on my back, my slumbering demons raised their ugly heads. The meltdown that followed trapped me in a vortex of fucked-up memories, and the poor guy couldn’t run away fast enough.
The danger with intimacy lies in my triggers. A hand on my wrist, a chest against my back, the smell of whiskey—these are the trip wires I’ve identified. I know there are others.
I maneuver through the congestion of body heat, sidestepping wandering hands. The drinking and dancing is in full force. Arms in the air. Plastic cups foaming over and spilling. Hungry eyes shifting in my direction, tracking my movements.
A crook of my lips would be the only invitation they need. Any one of these guys would follow me to the barn. But he must be the right one. Someone who can navigate around my triggers. A man who can quiet my panic attacks and bring me back from the darkness. Or join me there.
Keeping my arms tucked prevents grabby hands from setting me off. But as I move among them, they still reach. I dodge fingers, avoid eye contact, and step into the path of a grinning cowboy.
He says something, but the deafening music swallows his voice. His gaze dips, following the protocol to check out everything below my face. Then he smiles to the full extent of his jaws.
No thanks.
I walk past him, bumping into writhing bodies. The flow of the crowd spins me around, surrounding me on all sides with the signs of male interest—raised eyebrows, dilated pupils, licking lips, and lingering looks that say, I want to put my hands all over you.
Then I see him.
Twenty feet away, he stands in the doorway of the barn, tall and confident and…
Jake?
He has Jake’s towering height, the broad width of his chest, and the same disarming presence. Is he staring at me?
Shadows hide his face beneath the low rim of a baseball cap. A black biker jacket and fingerless gloves ward off the cold. Skinny jeans outline his muscled thighs, and… Canvas shoes?
No, not Jake. He wouldn’t be caught dead in those clothes. Not to mention the hair peeking out beneath the sides of the cap. It’s too long, too black, and too curly. Definitely not Jake.
That’s good. Seeing him here would really put a damper on my night. But I like that this guy looks like Jake. The familiarity in his build ignites a thrill low in my belly. I also like that he’s not grabbing and leering and all up in my personal space.
He remains rooted to the spot, watching me. At least, I think he’s watching me?
I step closer, and he doesn’t turn away.
Lift your face to the firelight. Come on, I want to see your eyes.
I put my hand up, offering a wave of greeting, without waving.
His arm rises, mimicking my gesture.
Oh God, he’s definitely looking at me. Looking and waiting.
My heart buzzes a hypnotic rhythm in my chest, and my nipples tighten. The field dims, and my mind slips into a fugue state, where there’s no music. No rowdy laughter. It’s just me and this man and the possibility of sex.