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I’m too overwhelmed by everything that happens tonight to put together a coherent response, but I do manage to nod and say, “Okay,” in a soft, barely audible voice.
Grant nods and though his scowl remains, I see something else behind his eyes. Something that looks almost like…lust?
No, that can’t be it. If he wants me, he can take me right now. It must be more of that tenderness he shows when he helps me to my feet. My rear end hurts like hell then and it hurts like hell when I have to sit on it in the car. It still hurts when he gets me home and it hurts when he walks me to the door. He remains until I lie down on the couch, a little devastated that it’s only my imagination that allows me to hope there’s anything there other than kindness and concern for his best friend’s daughter.
He leaves without another word, and I lie on the couch and try to wrap my head around everything that happened to me tonight.
I’ve been attracted to Grant ever since I first meet him. I’ve wanted him since I was twelve years old, even though in a much different way at the time. At that age, I don’t really see him the way I see him now, but I recall how handsome he looked and how my heart flutters whenever he smiles at me.
He’s the first person to make me feel confident.
I suppose that’s not exactly true. My parents love and encourage me and tell me repeatedly that I can be whatever I want to be, but they’re my parents. They’re supposed to say that. I know that’s shitty of me to think, but it’s true. They’re supposed to encourage me, so while I know they believe what they say, it’s hard to believe them when they’re the only people who say it.
I want to be a journalist. Ever since I was a kid and I read comic books about the superhero with the reporter girlfriend, I wanted to be a reporter. I want to bring into the light the hidden things in the world and I want to give people the information they need to make good decisions about their lives.
My classmates make fun of me, of course. They tell me that reporters are supposed to be smart, so why would a dumb girl like me think I can be a reporter? Well, I tell Grant one day when he visits what they say and not only does he very seriously tell me they’re wrong and not to believe a word they say, he goes shopping and returns an hour later with a book on journalism and a subscription to a leading news periodical that I still have. He not only encourages me, he gives me the tools I need to succeed and I will always love him for that.
He’s also the first person to make me feel beautiful.
I doubt he remembers my fourteenth birthday. He probably doesn’t remember finding me in my room, crying on my bed with my phone open to a text from a classmate saying he’s not coming to my birthday party because he only goes to pretty girls’ birthday parties. He probably doesn’t remember putting his arm around me and telling me that I’m beautiful and if that boy can’t see it, then he doesn’t deserve my time.
He has no way of knowing that I hang onto those words for the rest of my life and whenever I feel discouraged or down on myself, I hear his voice tell me I’m beautiful and amazing and it gives me the strength to make it through whatever struggle I face.
And of course, he has no way of knowing that ever since that conversation, I have eyes for no one but him. That night at fourteen was the first time I fantasized about sex and Grant Stone was the hero of that fantasy and every fantasy I’ve had since then.
A lot of high school boys miss out after that. Not long after Jimmy Heinz tells me I’m too ugly for him to attend my birthday party, it becomes clear to me that he’s in the minority of boys in my school. I think I turn down over a hundred boys in high school. Of course, I know part of why I’m asked out so much is that I have a pretty face but not a perfectly skinny body. The boys think of me as attainable.
They’re wrong, though. Even though I harbor no illusions about my looks and my body, I’m completely unattainable. They’re nice enough boys, but they’re boys, with all of the immaturity, silliness and let’s be frank, stupidity of boys. Grant Stone is a man and when your every dream of love and sex is a dream of a man, no boy on Earth can compare.
I shake my head at myself. Why on Earth did I go to the club? I don’t even like clubs. They’re loud and full of obnoxious drunk people who jostle and bump into you and men who think it turns girls on to whisper gross things into their ears with breath that smells like beer and steak fries. I don’t even remotely like those boys and on the rare occasions I drink, I like to drink at home where I can curl up with a good book and a pint of ice cream.
Instead, I put myself in serious danger and the first time I’m alone with Grant, he has to spank me for essentially being an idiot. Way to go, McKenzie. If he didn’t think of you as that same dorky child of four years ago, he definitely does now.
Then again, there was that look in his eyes. I know it’s dangerous to hope that the lust I imagine isn’t my imagination after all, but as the throbbing in my ass cheeks prompts an even more powerful throbbing in my pussy, my hand slides in between my legs and I decide it can’t hurt to dream.
Except it hurts like hell to move my ass off the cushions of the couch when I remember it’s a better idea to go upstairs to my room.
Chapter 3
Grant
This is my sanctuary.
I realize most people will look at this place and wonder how in the world anyone can think of it as a sanctuary. I realize most people won’t understand how a guy can pack up his car and drive four hours to get to a place like this, a place that doesn’t look like a sanctuary at all.
It’s a summer camp. My mind is filled with summers here from the age of seven all the way up to eighteen. I come here probably once every two months now, and it’s just to use the gun range. The camp is still owned by same family and the current manager is the grandson of the couple who managed it in my youth. He and I took our first shots right here on this range years and years ago, and unless he’s out of the area I know he’ll show up at some time today.
Of course, I’m not shooting a .22 these days. I do have three .22 guns, two rifles and one handgun, but they’re in the gun safe at home. Today, I have my service piece, a Smith and Wesson, and I have my personal handguns, a Glock and a Sig-Sauer. I also have two hunting rifles. People can go ahead and think I’m a gun nut if they want but I don’t really care how they feel. I’m a cop and I come to this range in order to keep my skills up and to get my mind in order. There’s nothing to bring the world back into focus like having to focus on a target.
And I sure as hell need to bring the world back into focus.
That’s why I don’t tell Hank I’m here. Any time I head out to this place, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s coming with me and he’s why I can’t focus. Well, at least he’s why the images in my mind won’t let me focus.
There’s an image in my mind that won’t go away. Okay, there are two images. The first, of course, is the image of Mackenzie’s beautiful, perfect ass. I’m only human and when she’s bent over my lap and I’m spanking her the sight of her is seared into my head. That image certainly refuses to leave my head for long but what I really see is her face, her eyes open in surprise and her lips closed over a wooden spoon in a bemused smile. That moment is at her graduation dinner.
The bemused smile comes as she tries beef tartare for the first time at her first fancy restaurant ever. The look of shock is when the flavor hits her, and she realizes she loves it. The image of her fills my mind because that’s the moment I realize I want her desperately. That moment happens about three minutes after she thanks me for a gas gift card she receives on her birthday and it occurs to me it’s not just Mack’s graduation we’re celebrating. It’s also not just her birthday. It’s hereighteenthbirthday. She’s eighteen and nine days old, suddenly an adult, my partner’s daughter instead of my partner’s kid. That epiphany hits me and then the waiter arrives with the tartare. I dare her to try and that wide-eyed look is my reward.
I feel awkward for the rest of the dinner, of course. How do I celebrate with my best friend and his wife the academic success of his daughter when I can’t get thoughts of her as a love interest out of my mind? I guess to an extent that awkwardness is still present here with me in the middle of the desert with my weapons arranged on the old table behind me and my Glock in my hand with a full magazine and two more on the counter in front of me.
