Once Bitten Twice Shy. Sommer Marsden
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on TV. Sometimes she’d picture a random man she’d seen on the rare instances she went out. But tonight she found, parting her outer lips, stroking slowly over her clitoris, that Jack’s face kept popping into her mind. Jack on his knees, Jack holding her thighs as he licked her, Jack pushing his thick, nicked-up fingers deep inside her. Stroking her to orgasm.
‘You’re screwed,’ she whispered in the dark, thrusting two fingers inside herself, mimicking her mental images. She arched her hips, fingers thrusting, other hand stroking. She was getting close and she both welcomed it and wanted to shun it.
Release was often too much emotionally. It was a reminder that she was alone. And not just alone, she was lonely.
She bit her lip and let her hands take care of what needed to be taken care of. In her mind she saw him, Jack of the small creases around his brown eyes and the unruly dark hair, flipping her so she was beneath him. Kissing down her belly, lapping at her sex, before finally – so slowly that she thought she’d expire from the waiting – moving between her thighs and entering her.
She imagined that first thrust. The first time in six years she felt a man drive inside her. The first moment of being filled and taken.
She came, a half sob, half laugh flying off her lips. Outside a horn blared, a dog barked and she heard rain begin to hit the metal awning. She lay there, shuddering lightly, until the final contraction worked through her. Then she rolled to her side, shut her eyes and waited to sleep. She was just thinking that sleep would never come, now that she’d let this man into the protected territory of her mind, when she finally drifted off.
She woke early again, hearing the ominous, gruff tone of Kendall in her ears. A dream, she was sure. She knew it was her worry, her fear, the blind panic she experienced whenever she considered dating a man. It was all in her head, she knew, but still the message was unnerving. Making her feel as if he was there in the room.
Be careful, you know I’m right. Deep down we’re all the same. And you’ll wear on him the way you wore on me. And then he’ll have no choice but to put you in your place…
Saturday morning often meant one thing for August. The market. Sure, she was a homebody that many would call a borderline shut-in, but it wasn’t really that bad. She simply preferred the company of herself, her latest project and the good vibes of her tiny cottage.
That didn’t mean she never got stir crazy. An echoing warning from her dream was just the kind of thing that provoked the restlessness, so she decided she’d go out, shop for food and a few other things.
Skinny jeans, old beat-up brown boots, oversized cardigan and her outrageously untamed hair up in a knot made August as ready as she was going to be. She made a pot of coffee, filled her travel mug and put a cup of granola in a Ziploc bag for the drive up.
The thought, strange and unbidden, popped into her mind to call Jack and see if he wanted to go to the market with her. After all, it was mid-October and the farmers’ market rarely went into November, never past the first week, at least. She only had the option of going for two or three more weeks.
‘No Jack,’ she muttered, walking through the house to ensure everything was off, locked and safe. ‘Not even Carley. You don’t need her cheerleader chatter in your head. Rah-rah Jack! Rah-rah take a chance! You need to think.’ August pulled her coat on, grabbed her bag and her keys. ‘And you need to get a cat or a dog, or even a hamster, for Christ’s sake, so you don’t sound so bonkers talking to yourself.’
She locked the front door behind her and headed toward the Jeep. The Walking Stick tree sat there gnarled and gorgeous. Crouched low on the ground like some ancient thing that couldn’t bear to right itself any more.
Like something from Tolkien …
Again, that simple remark provoked something in her that made her smile. But just because Jack knew of Tolkien didn’t mean shit. Everyone knew who Tolkien was thanks to the wonder of epically long movies that, despite being amazing, she always dozed off during because of their length. Knowing Tolkien didn’t mean nearly as much now as it had when she was in middle and high school.
‘Shut up,’ she told her own spinning brain. She climbed into the Jeep, waved to her neighbour collecting the paper, and drove off toward Nottingham for the farmers’ market. Some time out in the sun around clusters of people appraising honey and bread and vegetables was just what she needed to shake off the weirdness of the last few days.
The market wasn’t nearly as crowded as the week before. The chilly temperature of October tended to keep the less than diehard open-air market buyers at bay. August parked the Jeep, grabbed her cloth bags and made a beeline for her first stop: the rustic bread stand.
‘August!’ Mr McAllister was a ruddy older man with white hair, sparkling blue eyes and a booming voice.
‘Hi, Mac,’ she said. He’d insisted on their second meeting she call him Mac, his old Navy nickname.
‘Here for my hearty white bread? Or possibly Beatrice’s honey-wheat-raisin loaf?’
Beatrice, upon hearing her name, wandered out from behind their restored antique Chevy pickup truck. ‘Mine, of course,’ she said, winking at her husband. ‘Who wants your boring old white bread when you can have a spectacular mélange of flavours in your mouth?’
Mac playfully elbowed his wife and winked at August. ‘Settle this bread war, August,’ he said.
She laughed, her soul lifting at being out in the sun, as meagre as it was today, and joking with the couple she always looked forward to seeing. ‘Actually, I’d like one of each. And a loaf of that Amish cinnamon bread I bought last time if you have any.’
Beatrice held up an only slightly gnarled finger. ‘One left. And it’s in the cab of the truck. I was just about to put it out on the table.’
‘But we’ll put it right in your bag instead,’ Mac said. ‘Coffee, August?’
She shouldn’t, she’d already had her super-strong concoction for the day, but when he poured a small paper cup of their superb coffee – offered free to customers – she unprotestingly let him doctor it to her liking and hand it over. ‘Thanks. Cold today.’
He nodded. ‘Yep, you can feel those cold November winds working their way into the mix already. Just a few more weeks and it’ll be too cold for an old geezer like me to stand out here and hock bread.’
‘Still setting up at the downtown indoor market when it turns cold?’
He grinned at her. She smiled back. Mac reminded her of a leprechaun for some reason. It almost always kept her on the verge of giggling. ‘You know it. So you come down there and stock up on bread through spring. We’ll miss you if you don’t come.’
Beatrice reappeared with the Amish loaf and began to gather August’s other requests. She pulled a small cellophane bag from a pile and tucked it into August’s market bag along with the bread. ‘That’s just a treat from me. Sugar cookies. My grandmother’s recipe. You look like you can afford a cookie or four.’
August felt herself blush. Her work hours and her obsession with her current projects often left her forgetting to eat except once, maybe twice a day. Her jeans were a bit loose and her face a little gaunt, she’d realised this morning. A cookie or four would be welcome.
‘Thanks, Bea.’
‘No problem. Now you stand here and drink that coffee and tell us about what you’re working on now.’
August obliged, sipping her coffee, explaining the iris paintings and even showing them some pictures on her phone. Then she went into the fairytale canvases and somehow found herself mentioning Jack and the Walking Stick tree.
‘You’re blushing,’ Bea said, leaning close.
‘What?’
‘When you mentioned his name.’
August took a deep breath and forced herself to say, in an airy