still to win one. He offered marriage.
Do you love me, Brandon?
I care for you, baby. I care a lot.
Brandon , people care for pets. They care for a comfortable pair of shoes. They care for an old sweater knitted by some elderly aunt in a rocking chair. Do you love me?
I don't know.
Perhaps he was simply expecting too much from love. He wanted to feel gut-punched. Knocked out. Obsessed. He wanted to be so swept away with intense love and desire that he'd throw himself in front of a train to protect his beloved … after he had sent her into orbit with the best orgasm she had experienced in her life.
Beautiful and career driven, his girlfriend got an abortion and told him about it afterward. He never spoke to her again.
It occurred to him in that moment that if Mitsy had had their baby, the kid would be seventeen … not much younger than Charlotte , trusting that Charlotte had been honest about her age. Studying her in the dim dashboard lights, he began to suspect that she just might have lied.
Thick pine forests crowded the two-lane highway. Charlotte turned the car up a gravel road that Brandon recognized. It led to the quarry, Ticky Creek's infamous make-out spot. Once excavated for sandstone, the place had been closed once the government had declared the surrounding countryside a national forest. For years people used it as a landfill. Then Smokey Bear had decided to divert murky Ticky Creek trough the old quarry, believing the large, creepy lake would attract locals and tourists to fish and swim and picnic.
Charlotte stopped the car thirty feet from the water, shifted into Park, and killed the engine. She left the ignition on so the headlights and stereo remained working. She smiled at Brandon , then reached over into the back and dug into the cooler, extracting two icy beers, one of which she pushed into Brandon 's hand.
Sinking back against her door, one leg partially propped on the console between the seats, she tipped the sweating beer bottle up to her lips and drank deeply. He watched her, his mouth dry and his fingers gripping the bottleneck. The scent of the beer made him dizzy.
One beer isn't going to kill you. It's not as if it's Chivas.
"You bring any Cokes?" he asked, aware of the tightness of his voice.
"Nope. Don't you like beer?"
Just a couple of sips. To cool you down.
He lifted the bottle and pressed its cool, wet surface to his forehead, tried to focus on the pool of illuminated water up ahead and not on the fact that his hands were trembling. In the car's headlights the water looked green and bottomless.
"My old man once caught a catfish out of this place that weighed fifty-five pounds," Charlotte informed him as she stretched out her legs and kicked off her shoes. Her feet, with black-painted toenails, rubbed against his knee. "If you're hot, you can open the door."
"Good idea." He shoved the door open. He planted one foot on the ground. If worse came to worst, he could jump and run.
"Aren't you gonna drink that?" She pointed to the bottle in his hand.
"I don't drink," he admitted without looking at her.
She giggled. "Come on. You're joking, right?"
Shaking his head, he handed her the bottle.
"I thought you were a real boozer."
"I got well."
She shifted and shoved the bottle back into the cooler. When she straightened, she held an ice cube in one hand. She leaned so close he felt her body heat. The ice melted and dripped through her fingers onto his shirt. "Open up," she told him softly and placed the ice against his lower lip, slid it between his lips as she nestled closer. "You don't mind me getting a little cozy, do you? I mean, it isn't every day a girl gets to spend time with a movie star." Her hand slid across his chest and toyed with the shirt buttons. "Do you ever get turned on when you're doing love scenes?"
"No." That was a lie, of course, but he didn't want to encourage her.
She wiggled closer. Her breath smelled like cinnamon, and her skin radiated Red Door. Her
Do you love me, Brandon?
I care for you, baby. I care a lot.
Brandon , people care for pets. They care for a comfortable pair of shoes. They care for an old sweater knitted by some elderly aunt in a rocking chair. Do you love me?
I don't know.
Perhaps he was simply expecting too much from love. He wanted to feel gut-punched. Knocked out. Obsessed. He wanted to be so swept away with intense love and desire that he'd throw himself in front of a train to protect his beloved … after he had sent her into orbit with the best orgasm she had experienced in her life.
Beautiful and career driven, his girlfriend got an abortion and told him about it afterward. He never spoke to her again.
It occurred to him in that moment that if Mitsy had had their baby, the kid would be seventeen … not much younger than Charlotte , trusting that Charlotte had been honest about her age. Studying her in the dim dashboard lights, he began to suspect that she just might have lied.
Thick pine forests crowded the two-lane highway. Charlotte turned the car up a gravel road that Brandon recognized. It led to the quarry, Ticky Creek's infamous make-out spot. Once excavated for sandstone, the place had been closed once the government had declared the surrounding countryside a national forest. For years people used it as a landfill. Then Smokey Bear had decided to divert murky Ticky Creek trough the old quarry, believing the large, creepy lake would attract locals and tourists to fish and swim and picnic.
Charlotte stopped the car thirty feet from the water, shifted into Park, and killed the engine. She left the ignition on so the headlights and stereo remained working. She smiled at Brandon , then reached over into the back and dug into the cooler, extracting two icy beers, one of which she pushed into Brandon 's hand.
Sinking back against her door, one leg partially propped on the console between the seats, she tipped the sweating beer bottle up to her lips and drank deeply. He watched her, his mouth dry and his fingers gripping the bottleneck. The scent of the beer made him dizzy.
One beer isn't going to kill you. It's not as if it's Chivas.
"You bring any Cokes?" he asked, aware of the tightness of his voice.
"Nope. Don't you like beer?"
Just a couple of sips. To cool you down.
He lifted the bottle and pressed its cool, wet surface to his forehead, tried to focus on the pool of illuminated water up ahead and not on the fact that his hands were trembling. In the car's headlights the water looked green and bottomless.
"My old man once caught a catfish out of this place that weighed fifty-five pounds," Charlotte informed him as she stretched out her legs and kicked off her shoes. Her feet, with black-painted toenails, rubbed against his knee. "If you're hot, you can open the door."
"Good idea." He shoved the door open. He planted one foot on the ground. If worse came to worst, he could jump and run.
"Aren't you gonna drink that?" She pointed to the bottle in his hand.
"I don't drink," he admitted without looking at her.
She giggled. "Come on. You're joking, right?"
Shaking his head, he handed her the bottle.
"I thought you were a real boozer."
"I got well."
She shifted and shoved the bottle back into the cooler. When she straightened, she held an ice cube in one hand. She leaned so close he felt her body heat. The ice melted and dripped through her fingers onto his shirt. "Open up," she told him softly and placed the ice against his lower lip, slid it between his lips as she nestled closer. "You don't mind me getting a little cozy, do you? I mean, it isn't every day a girl gets to spend time with a movie star." Her hand slid across his chest and toyed with the shirt buttons. "Do you ever get turned on when you're doing love scenes?"
"No." That was a lie, of course, but he didn't want to encourage her.
She wiggled closer. Her breath smelled like cinnamon, and her skin radiated Red Door. Her
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