Long Summer Nights (8 page)

“Definitely,” she told him, happy to assign the blame where it belonged. And woohoo, it wasn’t her. “What about your parents?”

She had decided that he was a trust-fund baby. Neglected yet spoiled, shunning the trappings of a material world.

“Mom died young. My father raised me.”

And Jenn would bet her eyeteeth that it was his nanny that raised him, or some caring teacher at boarding school. “How did she die? Cancer? That’s got to be hard on a kid.”

“Suicide.”

He said it so evenly, like it was a sale at Saks or a long wait for a cab. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. She watched him from under her lashes, but there were absolutely zero indications that he hurt at all. “I’m sorry.”

“She was depressed. My father was probably the root of her depression. I don’t know. Anyway, I was too little to suffer from it.”

This time she caught it. That cheerful invincibility in his voice, as if nothing phased him at all. Ah, yes, denial. She knew that one well. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. Her parents had always been a constant in her life, perhaps not the most comfortable constant, but she never doubted them, and she hurt for anyone who didn’t have that security. And she hurt even more for the man who pretended
he
didn’t need it.

He met her eyes, cool and composed. “I’m not the only kid to grow up without a mother.”

“What was your father like?”

“Tell me about the constellations,” he asked, not so neatly changing the subject.

“And now you want to know?”

“It’s either that or fool around,” he muttered, finally sounding like a man who wanted to get laid. Jenn couldn’t quite hide her smile. Later they would talk. Right now he needed to be held, to be comforted, to be loved. And of course, she’d never say that.

“I’d prefer not to have sex on a rock,” she said instead.

“Very provincial.”

“My bed’s like a rock.” It was a strong hint to see his cabin. To pry deeper into his life.

“Then why not take your pleasure under the stars?” he asked, remaining maddeningly clueless. “It’s a nice night. In the summer, you have to take advantages of the opportunities as they’re presented.”

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand, and leading him back to her place, the land of the bedrock mattress. With his sensibilities, he probably wouldn’t notice. Martina would call her a masochist, headed for a heartbreak, and her mother would only shake her head with a sigh, but right now Jenn needed Aaron. And right now—no matter what he believed—Aaron needed Jenn. Sometimes that was the most important thing in the world.

H
ER CABIN WAS APPALLING.
The bed was worse than the rock. There was a cricket in the corner, and he swore there was something jabbing into his spine.

Aaron was in heaven.

He kept his watch on his wrist, determined to keep track of the time, determined to prove that he was in complete control.

Of course, that was before she took off her shirt.

In the meager light, he thought her smile might have been a bit smug, but the windows were caked with dust, and the moonlight was dim, so he might have been mistaken, or at least he hoped he was.

He waited precisely three seconds before he touched her, and by the time he’d finished counting, his hands were shaking and his cock was about to explode, and he told himself that it would better not to wait next time.

Assuming that there was a next time, he reminded himself.

Then his mouth was locked to her breast, and her fingers were pressing into his hair, and it was very difficult to think.

She jerked at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his
head, and then she fell on him, or perhaps, more truthfully, he fell on her, and they were tumbling to the bed where he felt the painful crack of his head. He yelled out loud, and she kissed his head, his neck, his mouth, and the pain diminished into a different sort of pain.

A decadent pain.

He tugged at her jeans, getting her naked, and in the absence of light, he used his hands, his mouth to undress her. Judging by the staccato gasps, she didn’t seem to mind. When he laved at her breast, he could feel her nipples swell in his mouth. It was such a heady sensation. Better than Scotch, better than the numb burn of whiskey. This was life. In the dark, there was nothing but this. But her. His hands stroked between her legs, and she was damp and aroused and waiting for him there.

It was a testament to his steadfastness that he didn’t just ram into her right then. No. He wanted her to explode. He wanted her to want. He wanted her to scream. For him.

Selfishly, because he wanted more, he used his mouth on her, his tongue at her naval, following the path of her skin. He could taste the salt and the sun, and the light inside her that the night couldn’t dim. When he kissed her there, when he thrust his tongue inside her, she gasped, her hips rising, and he smiled with satisfaction.

Yes. He’d done that, he thought.

Every time that he tasted her, every time he sucked on her flesh, she would cry out, her fingernails raking against his back, and he’d never heard any sound that was so sweet, so erotic, so cock-torturous.

But Aaron was strong, working to kick his body in check. This was about proving that he didn’t need her, didn’t need this, so he licked harder against her skin, feeling the moisture on his tongue, feeling her spasms, and knowing that he was driving her mad.

Just as she’d done to him.

It only seemed fair.

Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling and pressing, and she began to mutter and swear, and he nearly laughed at that.

Madness was the very best sort of lust. The loss of the barriers, the complete dissolution of a person, all the pretense taken away, and only a mass of vulnerabilities remained.

And she was there.

Harder he worked her, hearing the deep shallows of her breath, knowing she was nearly there. Wanting her there, he plunged his finger inside her, and her body rose, possessed by a demon, possessed by him, and she froze for a moment, until finally, with a quiet scream, she fell.

This time, the role of the Boy Scout came easier, and Aaron gathered her close in his arms and stroked her hair, his hand guarding the beat of her heart. He listened for the languor in her breathing, the small signs of sleep. There was no light in the cabin, nothing to keep the darkness at bay—except for her.

After she had slipped into her dreams, very carefully he detached himself from her and put on his shirt. For a long second he stayed, peering into the blackness, and knowing she was there. But in the end, he walked out her door, and walked through the woods, back to his cabin.

It wasn’t difficult to leave her. In fact, he told himself, he didn’t even regret the raging throb in his pants. He was no slave to emotion or pleasure. He was only a slave to his art.

The cat eyed him cautiously, but Aaron wasn’t planning to sleep or ease the pain in his cock. Instead he lit the candle on top of his desk, then sat in front of his typewriter and let the pain flow into his words.

J
ENN AWOKE ALONE,
and she wondered if she’d dreamed the whole thing, but her jeans were on the floor, her shirt was tossed over a chair and there was a mark on her breast. His mark. Not that she cared. Really.

Quickly she threw on fresh clothes, and looked over her scrambled notes from yesterday. Yeah, she needed coffee, yeah, she needed to wake up her brain, but first she needed to do this. To sit down and work. To focus. To prove to herself that she could.

It wasn’t a great start. The beginning wasn’t nearly as clever as she wanted it to be, and she blamed it on the fog in her head, and not the wicked throb between her thighs.

Sure, she’d gotten off last night, but she’d been the only one, and she wondered why he didn’t trip the light fantastic, as well. Was there a problem? With him? With her?

Instead of looking at her screen, she stared at the demolition site that had been her bed, and sighed.

Not smart, Jenn. Not smart at all.

Clearing the fog from her mind, she pulled on her sneakers, sprayed bug repellent and sunblock on her arms, and decided to scavenge her morning cup of coffee.

When she opened the door, she almost missed the paper bag, but then she tripped over it, making missing it pretty much impossible.

Inside were two yellow bath towels, plump and soft to the touch. Jenn had almost convinced herself that Carolyn had put them on her doorstep, struck by a neighborly bout of sympathy. Happy with the idea of having something luxurious, she buried her nose in the downy fabric, and inhaled. Not Carolyn.

She knew that scent. She knew that smell. Not a spring-fresh fabric softener, but a musky smell that made her thighs start to tingle all over again.

Aaron?

Seriously?

From the distance she heard the bedlam of his typewriter, and she knew better than to disturb the man who was perpetually disturbed. So she put the towels back in her cabin, and then went off in search of her coffee.

However, as she passed by his cabin she smiled, because in her heart she knew he was killing her all over again.

T
HE
M
ANHATTAN NEWSPAPERS
were always delivered at 6:00 a.m., seven days a week, holidays included.

Aaron had a passionate love-hate relationship with the papers, especially on Thursday.

On Thursday the book section came out and books were both celebrated and pilloried with the stroke of a pen.

His first impulse was to be at Frank’s place at the crack of dawn, waiting for the truck. But people would take that to mean that he cared. So Aaron waited until precisely 3:00 p.m., at which time he moseyed down to Frank’s, whistling aimlessly, usually pausing to admire some arbitrary piece of rock.

Today, he left at 3:20 p.m., rather than at three, because in his manuscript he had subjected the golden-haired female to a tender love scene and he liked it, which he knew boded ill. Eventually he threw out the scene, changed it to a tragic death off a cliff, and if Two watched him with a particularly knowing look, then Aaron ignored the cat.

There were very few creatures that ranked below Aaron in emotional intelligence, but a half-blind feline was one.

When he strolled through the glass doors at Frank’s, no one seemed to notice that he was late. Jacob and Isaiah were hovered over the chessboard, and Isaiah was retelling the story of how he once beat at famous baseball player at chess.

“It’s not a lot of work to beat a baseball player at chess,” Aaron pointed out, grabbing his paper and settling into the corner where he wouldn’t be disturbed.

“You ever beat a baseball player at chess?” asked Jacob, seeing the remark for what it was—Aaron’s version of hello, and returning it in kind.

Aaron chose not to respond.

“Didn’t think so,” Isaiah said to whomever was listening.

Aaron only rattled his paper in response. When Jennifer entered the store, he was halfway through the City Section and it annoyed him the way that the two old men fawned over her as if they’d never been around an attractive female before, but since they were each over sixty, he sat silently in his corner, and didn’t mind it too much.

Until Stewart Connelly came in. Yes, Stewart was nice, fortysomething, once divorced with bright red hair that made him look like a kid. And yes, he was the elementary school principal, but did he have to fall all over her, his tongue lapping the ground?

Silently Aaron started to seethe, trying to concentrate on the nominees for the Booker Prize while he listened to the smarm in Stewart’s voice, which a gullible female might mistake for boyish sincerity.

“Are you going to the dance?” asked the Boy Wonder.

Of course she was, you pea-brained idiot. It’s why she was here.

“Definitely,” she told him, more polite than she should have been. Or perhaps she saved all her snarky insults for Aaron, which made him smile behind the safe cover of newsprint.

“You’ll save me a dance?” Stewart asked, and Aaron reminded himself that it was a free country, and Jennifer
would be smart to get to know Stewart and pump him for information.

Jennifer left a few seconds later, and Aaron breathed a sigh of relief, until Stewart left and Jacob and Isaiah started the colorful rehash, as if everyone in the room hadn’t heard each sentimental detail.

“I think Stewart has a thing for her,” said Isaiah in that folksy old-timer voice of someone who remembers love as tender and gentle instead of the bitch-slap it actually was.

“In all my days I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man lusting so badly. Like watching a tiny acorn grow into some giant gnarled oak. You just can’t predict how tall and twisted it’s going to end up.” Jacob laughed as if it was somehow funny.

Aaron blocked out the agonies of the conversation and refocused on baseball, wondering why people bothered with the Mets anymore.

“She’s too sophisticated for Stewart,” Isaiah commented.

“She’s too smart,” Aaron muttered under his breath, wondering why everyone didn’t know that instinctively—like Aaron did.

Jacob smacked at Aaron’s newspaper, narrowly missing his nose. “What? You said something, Aaron?”

“Nothing,” he answered, detaching himself from the conversation, determined not to listen, because he didn’t care.

Jacob moved his king, giving Isaiah a merciful way to end the misery cleverly disguised as a game. Isaiah always won, but some days, the game was longer than others. “Bet he wants to take her home,” he said, taking a sip of his tea.

“Maybe he’ll get her drunk?” suggested Isaiah, moving his knight, calling out Check.

“He’s an elementary school principal. He couldn’t get Keith Richards drunk.”

Aaron wasn’t so sure. Stewart had a long track record with the ladies, usually buying them flowers and books of poetry. The bastard was slime.

“You think she’ll let him kiss her?”

“I’m thinking so.”

Aaron studied the forecast, and noted the heavy humidity in the area, which explained the sweat at his brow.

“Maybe I’ll go to the dance,” Isaiah said, and Aaron frowned because a dance was a ridiculous thing, frequented by frivolous people who believed that shoes were meant to be worn out.

“You still got a suit that fits you? You’ve gotten a little padded in your old age.”

“I do indeed. Do you think the widow Newberry will save me a dance?”

“One dollar says not in this lifetime.”

Isaiah shook his hand and smiled. “You have a bet.”

T
HAT
F
RIDAY, THE WEATHER
was warm and sultry on the opening night of the festival. A weekend of music, mouth-watering food, mood-altering wine, bargain-hunting and crowds that were as large as those at Christmas. They were predicting rain later that night, and the air was thick with it. But for now, the humidity hung low, shimmering below the clouds.

The dance was held in an old half-ruined icehouse that was open to the elements. Ivy-covered brick columns rose on all sides, and grass peeked through the brick floor. There were no ceilings, no walls, nothing but the columns that stood like soldiers. The music was an eclectic mix that
held no discernable pattern. One minute rock, the next Patsy Cline, but all were dance tunes. Tripping the light fantastic was the purpose, and the people of New York had descended in droves.

Jenn found a cedar picnic table near the edge and watched the dancers move around the floor. There were older couples that did the polka in spite of their age, young couples that swayed to some private beat, and huge packs of teenagers that did nothing but jump up and down.

“Do you mind? I won’t interrupt your work.”

It was Stewart Connelly and although she’d known he would be there, she was still disappointed that it wasn’t Aaron. She wanted to see him tonight. She wanted to dance with him. She wanted to lie naked underneath him with nothing but the stars overhead.

Politely she quashed her disappointment and focused on her work. “Tell me about the dance,” she suggested, motioning for him to take a seat. “Are those all out-of-towners?”

“Some. The locals complain about parking and crowds, and I guarantee there’s somebody getting towed at the high school for illegal parking.”

“Strict cops?” she asked, noting how nice he looked, how respectful and stable. Stewart Connelly was the very model of the Modern Major General. Her mother would have approved.

“The tickets are for revenue generation,” he said.

She leaned in farther and plastered a fascinated look on her face. “How did the dance start?”

“The legend or the truth?”

“Let’s start with the legend.”

“They needed a festival to celebrate the start of the summer. The longer days, the warmer nights, exactly
like a thousand other festivals around the country. Very boring.”