Hot Pink

  It was like craving cocaine.

  It wasn’t good for you; it was bad for you; it was very bad for you.

  It would leave you, figuratively speaking, in the gutter, like in Reefer Madness. Which meant she had to keep those reasonable brain cells wide awake and on full alert.

  But between trying to design a snappy, upbeat web site for one of the new car dealerships, craving the no-good, rotten-to-the-core Rocco Vinelli and gnashing her teeth over being alone when every other twentysomething was out having fun this weekend, Chloe was so ready for a drink by five o’clock that she bitch-slapped her obstinate libido into compliance and headed for Chino’s.

  “Hey, nice shorts,” her Colin Farrell look-alike bartender murmured, giving her a long, low whistle as she walked up to the sunny terrace bar. “And that top.” He winked. “Even better.”

  She suddenly realized she was still wearing her raggedy cut-offs, purple tube top and Adidas flip-flops. “Shit, I forgot to change.” She grinned, finding the physical act of smiling less difficult than she thought, feeling good about feeling even mildly good. “My brain’s fried. I need a drink.”

  “One mango tango coming up.”

  When she tried to pay for it, he shook his head.

  That first sip helped—like instant calm—or his smile helped and it helped too that she realized she wasn’t the only one chained to a job on this summer Saturday. She watched him work the bar, his movements deft and sure, the muscles in his arms and shoulders smooth, taut, rippling gently as he swiftly made the drinks and handed them off. And when he’d look up and smile at her from time to time, she began feeling more like a normal twentysomething.

  She watched the women hitting on him, one after another, saw how he laughed with them and joked, how he made them all feel good, how he turned them all down with a small shake of his head and an excuse that still left them smiling.

  God, he was smooth. Like another man she knew.

  She was on her second mango tango and thinking about calling Rocco. During the entire time she sipped on that drink, she curbed her impulse, telling herself her Colin look-alike was just as sexy and more available. Or at least available—the more part was debatable, of course, but not relevant at the moment. As she started her third drink, however, her restraint began to slip. “I’ll be right back,” she said with a wave to the bartender and made a dash for the bathroom, where they had a comfy couch by the phone.

  Don’t, don’t, don’t, the little voice inside her head implored, but ignoring it, she dialed Rocco’s number. One ring, please, please answer, two rings, she thought about offering something to the gods, three rings, maybe he had to get up from his chair where he was reading some highly literate book, four rings, dammit, he was in bed with someone, five rings—his voicemail came on and she slammed down the receiver.

  Oops. Not on the table. There. And she slumped down on Chino’s sleek Italian couch and gave in to all the paranoid, disturbing visions flooding her mind—the ones where Rocco was with other women—and yes, she meant plural, because she was extra paranoid after two-plus drinks—and he and his harem were all having a fabulous time like everyone else on this blissful Saturday. She almost called back and said something stupid about missing him and adding her to his harem, but two women came into the bathroom just then, gave her a look like where did you get that outfit and started fixing their perfect makeup and talking about their boyfriends and making her feel even more pathetic because not only didn’t she have a boyfriend, but she looked very much like a particular type of street person.

  Her dispirited feelings served as further deterrent to calling Rocco and leaving him a message begging him to come and see her. These two beautifully dressed, coiffed and madeup women were sure to look at her and snicker.

  Rising from the couch with as much grace as she could muster after her mango tangos and the non-skid properties of rubber sandals on cork tile, she walked from the bathroom with the refined posture of a convent-bred lady who had been taught to walk with a book on her head. When she reached the bar, she immediately drank down the dregs of her drink and asked for another.

  “You sure?”

  The bartender was giving her one of those looks clearly questioning her capacity for liquor. “What’s your name?” she asked because she was having trouble saying “my Colin Farrell look-alike” in her brain after three drinks. It took too long. And if they were going to argue about her wanting another drink, she didn’t have time to run through that long tongue-twister of a name while explaining to him—very nicely, of course—that three drinks were not too many for her.

  “Colin.”

  “No way!”

  “Word of honor.”

  “You must know you look like Colin Farrell.”

  His dark brows rose in a quick flicker. “I’ve been told.”

  “You can’t be related.”

  “Nope. Last name’s McCarthy.”

  “Well, then, Colin McCarthy, another mango tango please, and don’t give me any shit.” She could be infinitely subtle in her arguments when drinking.

  “You’re not driving, are you?”

  She hesitated. “I’ll call a cab.”

  “I get off at seven. I could give you a ride.”

  She couldn’t continue to act like an infatuated teenager over Rocco, pining over him, mooning over him, practically lighting candles before his picture. He had no redeeming qualities—except one, of course—but that didn’t count because he shared that with everyone. She would have to consider those other fish in the sea. Really. Seriously. Seriously, seriously. “Okay,” she said. She also had the ability to make quick decisions when drinking. “Now, may I have a drink?”

  “Sure can.” His smile was boyish, like he’d gotten a present he’d wanted.

  “How old are you?” A libido was so much more tractable when tipsy.

  “Old enough.”

  “Okay. How young are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  She softly groaned.

  “You can’t be much older, and it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  He said it so casually, like a twenty-one-year-old would, like the world doesn’t have any rules. And, she supposed, she’d never played by the rules anyway. But it was more about her being older than about his youth. God, she wasn’t used to this—being the older woman. It was like a weird milestone. Was wrinkle cream the next step, and men calling her Ma’am?

  “You’re the hottest babe that’s ever walked in here. Word of honor,” Colin said, soft and low, pushing another drink across the bar to her. “I’ve been having wet dreams about you for months.”

  She smiled. Maybe she wouldn’t have to buy wrinkle cream right away.

  Maybe her Saturday had just taken a great big U-turn for the better.

  NINETEEN

  IT WAS A GORGEOUS PINKY-GOLD SUNSET lighting the horizon on Vermillion, and maybe it triggered something in his brain, or maybe eight beers and too much ganja jump-started the cosmic concept. Whatever—the idea came to him like the proverbial flashing lightbulb over the character’s head in a cartoon, and he picked up the phone.

  “Good, you’re back from your picnic,” Rocco said, and proceeded to describe exactly what he wanted.

  “It’s not that easy,” Anthony muttered when the lengthy description came to an end. “You know how long it takes me to mix something like that?”

  “Take your time. I don’t need it ’til Monday.”

  “Screw you. I have a life and you’re loaded.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Are you going to do it?”

  “Not by Monday.”

  “By when?”

  “This is just going to make more trouble. You’re supposed to figure out how to placate Amy for a few more weeks, not have her go ballistic.”

  “She won’t know.”

  “If you market it the way you’re talking about, she sure as hell will. Unless you can keep her inside her house, she will.”

  “Okay. So my idea n
eeds a little tweaking.”

  “It needs a shitload more than a tweaking.”

  “I’ll figure it out. You just do your part.”

  “This chick must be some piece of ass.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The chrysalis stage of male commitment. “Don’t fuck with me, Anthony. I really want this.”

  “I’ll have something for you to look at by the end of the week. This isn’t a simple process you can do in a hurry. Even loaded, you should remember that. Friday, I’ll give you a couple to choose from.”

  “Thanks. Now, you know what I want.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You want the fucking moon on a platter.”

  Rocco laughed. He was feeling better; he was almost feeling good. At least he was going somewhere he wanted to go . . . somewhere in the right direction. Or maybe just in the opposite direction from Amy.

  TWENTY

  “SHOULD WE GO TO MY PLACE?”

  They were sitting in Colin’s pickup, his crotch rocket bungee-strapped in the back of the truck, the cab floor a jumble of motorcycle paraphernalia—boots, a couple of helmets, jacket, tools that he’d just swept off the seat so Chloe could sit down. He was leaning on the steering wheel, looking at her, waiting for an answer.

  “Sure.”

  He smiled. “Got it.” Turning on the ignition, he shoved the gear into reverse, pulled out of the parking spot and squealed rubber as he accelerated out of the ramp onto the street.

  He’d mixed her one last drink because she’d asked him to, and he’d snuck it out of the bar under his shirt. She was holding her umbrella drink carefully between her hands as he drove south on the freeway, taking a sip now and then when no one could see her, enjoying the lingering sunset through the opened windows, listening to the music he’d flicked on, half over the worst of her longing for Rocco.

  But his image would still appear from time to time in her brain like one of those holograms that shimmered and faded depending on your viewing angle. The intensity of her response had lessened, though. She was glad, considering the futility of wanting something you couldn’t have. And when Colin said, “Wanna go for a swim first?” she nodded and said, “Love to,” and really meant it.

  “Have you been bartending long?” She half lifted her glass, lazily making conversation, feeling the wind blowing through her hair, liking his taste in music, wondering if all those tattoos on his arms had hurt when he’d got them.

  He flashed her a smile. “I just turned twenty-one in May. This is my first job bartending. They said I could stay on part-time when school starts again.”

  “School?” She was almost zoning out from the sun and the heat and the music, complete sentences beyond her grasp.

  “The U—electrical engineering.”

  “Good for you.” It just went to show—all engineers weren’t geeky. Some could look like sexy street punk movie stars.

  “I like numbers,” he said simply. “And hot babes,” he added with a wink.

  She smiled. She would have liked to tell him that he’d renewed her faith in the merits of growing old gracefully, but couldn’t muster the necessary brain synapses to explain the complicated pattern of male–female relationships that had brought her to Chino’s that afternoon. “Are we almost there?” she said instead.

  “Ten more minutes.” He hit another button on his CD changer. “Do you like Ben Kweller?”

  They drove to a small lake south of Eagan, traveling gravel roads at the last before turning into a driveway of an abandoned farmhouse and parking between the house and what was left of the barn. He pulled a blanket and a small cooler from behind his seat, then came around, opened her door and helped her out.

  “This is my grandpa’s land, so we’re cool. No one’s going to come and run us off.” He nodded. “The lake’s over there.”

  She said, “Wow,” in astonishment when they skirted the ruins of the barn and stood on the crest of the hill behind it. The grassy slope swept down to a jewel of a lake, bordered on the opposite side by an apple orchard, the site hidden away like a green glen in the depression of hills, the sunset illuminating the horizon in a glorious gold. “It looks like an illustration from My Secret Garden.”

  “It’s a great place. Quiet,” he said. “Secluded,” he added in a softer tone of voice. He held out his hand. “Watch your step going down.”

  She kicked off her flip-flops and felt the cool grass between her toes and began thinking she’d made a very good decision saying yes to Colin. Not that she hadn’t thought that before, but now—in this romantic, sylvan glade—it seemed like she was surrounded by some potent magic.

  He spread the blanket on the ground when they reached the lakeshore and helped her sit down. Kicking off his sandals, he stripped off his shirt, tossed it aside and lay back with a sigh. “Ah . . . peace and quiet. I must have made a thousand drinks this afternoon.” He smiled up at her. “But it was worth it, ’cause you came in.”

  “I almost didn’t. I was working.”

  He grinned, ran his finger down her arm. “I was praying hard.”

  She laughed. “Then I’m glad I showed up. I wouldn’t want you to lose faith.”

  “No way, now.” He rolled over on his side, picked up her hand where it lay on the blanket beside her leg and slid his fingers through hers. “I’m almost believing in miracles.”

  She could see the bulge in his jeans, and smiled. And after the mango tangos, his enthusiasm was charming, more than charming, interesting—even a little bit exciting. And she was seriously in the mood to get on with her life . . . put aside all that teenage infatuation stuff that was utterly ridiculous at her age and engage in some sex with this darling, sexy young man.

  He seemed to understand, because he rolled upward in a smooth, effortless display of honed muscle and took her face between his hands and kissed her with the kind of enthusiasm she’d expected from him. He was boyish and impetuous and deliciously strong as she ran her hands over his shoulders and down his back and not inclined to wait, she discovered as he pushed her down on the blanket and reached for the zipper on her cut-offs.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to do this?” he whispered, sliding the zipper down.

  It wasn’t a question that required an answer, and she wasn’t sure he would have heard it had she replied.

  Foreplay wasn’t on his agenda, his hands swift and sure as he pulled her shorts and panties off, his jeans and boxers discarded a second later, the sound of crickets and frogs melodic adjunct to his fierce impatience.

  But she didn’t care, preferring a mindless intoxication, disposed to unequivocal passion, just wanting to feel and not think. Just wanting to climax and feel the pleasure. But he was in a profession that made her more nervous than usual and she said, “You have to use a condom,” in the tone of voice that meant, “If you don’t, I’m leaving.”

  He rolled off her, rummaged through his jean pockets and was back almost literally a split second later, having done as she’d directed.

  She felt a warm, little frisson at the level of his enthusiasm, and when he entered her a second later, she felt more than a little frisson.

  Ummm . . . he was fierce and wild, ummm . . . and large. She liked that. Call her selfish, she didn’t care. When it came to sex, she wasn’t altruistic. And so far, she hadn’t had any complaints. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she met his unbridled, tumultuous rhythm and they both took and gave in equal measure, coming in a roughshod convulsive burst that almost—almost matched.

  “Next time,” he panted, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. “I couldn’t wait.”

  “Next time sounds good,” she breathed, having to race at the end, but gratified and content.

  “Wanna swim and cool off?” His grin was very close, his forehead sheened with perspiration, the weight of his body the merest brushing pressure as he held himself up on his forearms.

  She nodded and he kissed her again and rolled off with a long, low sigh.

  Disposing of his condom like he’d
done it once or twice before, he pulled her up into a seated position and lifted her tube top over her head.

  “Va-va-va-voom,” he whispered, touching her nipples with the tip of his finger. “Definitely a wet dream come true.” And bending his head, he kissed first one nipple and then the other with a gentleness that sent a new spiraling heat downward between her legs.

  It was a delectable, nice, felicitous heat, not the kind that blew your mind, but definitely the kind you wouldn’t refuse. And it wasn’t Colin’s fault that the level of her rapture was less than mind-blowing. It was someone else’s fault.

  Someone who probably had a decade more experience fucking than sweet young Colin. Someone who knew all the ropes and everything in between. Someone who had a natural talent that no amount of practice could match.

  Damn him anyway for setting up unattainable goals.

  They didn’t wait until they cooled off from a swim as it turned out. But they swam afterward and then lay on the blanket and basked in the sensual bliss of sexual satisfaction, a golden sunset and two imported beers that tasted better for the gratifying orgasms that had preceded them.

  The stars came up after a time, and they indulged their senses yet again and then once more before swimming one last time and dressing.

  Then they walked back to the truck, hand in hand, and when he dropped Chloe off at her house, he said, “May I come in?”

  She felt the smallest twinge of guilt when she answered him. “Next time,” she said. “I’m so tired now, I’d be poor company.”

  He smiled. He was a polite young man. “Okay. Next time.”

  And he kissed her sweetly and walked her to her door and kissed her again.

  Why didn’t she feel anything but his sweetness when he kissed her?

  Why didn’t the earth move when she came with him?

  Why didn’t she crave him like she craved Rocco?

  She had no answers.

  Maybe there weren’t any answers even if she hadn’t been half-drunk and dead tired.

  “Thanks. I’m going to call you.”

  “Okay,” she said. She brushed her palm over his cheek, turned to punch in the numbers for her lock and smiled at him one last time as he held her door open for her.