I closed my teeth around his thumb and bit down, shrugging innocently.
Frankie watched me intently before blinking out of his daze and unhinging my jaw with the pressure of his finger. “Where the fuck did you come from?”
“The North Pole,” I joked, finally hopping out of his bed. “And we take gift giving very seriously there.”
My bare feet rested on the dash of the truck as it idled in the gas station parking lot. The passenger seat was tilted back like I owned it, and I’d not only convinced Frankie to let me play DJ, but my phone was now saved directly to his Bluetooth—which gave me a juvenile satisfaction thinking about another woman in this same seat eventually finding my name there.
Chalk it up as one of those silly, honest mistakes we make, like leaving scrunchies in cup holders or planting hairs in the bathroom. A modern version of Ophelia wuz here, but instead of in black marker on a frat house wall, I was leaving my very obvious digital footprint on the man's very expensive, financed vehicle.
Growth.
My phone pinged with a text I’d been expecting from Natalia.
Nat babyyyy: Matty said I shouldn’t be worried, but I’m still worried
Ophelia: Last-minute shopping
It was just like a man to wait until three days before Christmas to buy presents. I was relieved that Frankie was at least normal in that respect. Every other way was surprisingly too good to be true and he desperately needed a humbling for my sake.
There was definitely such a thing as too much of a good thing. And I knew that, because if I let him bring me a coffee in bed one more morning, I was going to go back to Colorado with expectations not even my regular barista at Starbucks could deliver on.
The driver’s side door swung open and Frankie hopped inside, casting a plastic bag full of things onto my lap.
“I guessed,” he told me, draping his arm over the back of my seat as he backed out of the parking lot and drove away.
I opened the bag to sift through and my eyes widened. A slow, embarrassing heat licked from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck.
He checked the rearview mirror nonchalantly. “I thought Snickers were a safe bet, but I guess you can have the KitKat if you really want it.”
“Are we running a marathon?” I gaped at him as I lifted the variety box of condoms out of the bag.
He sniffed out a laugh. “Am I being scolded for being too prepared now? After last night I’m never making that mistake again.”
“You said you weren’t upset about that,” I reminded him.
“I’m not at all, I just…” He paused, looking over at me and glancing at my legs stretched out across the cab. “I feel like I can say this to you, so I’m going to.”
“Say it.” I tethered myself in preparation.
“If I fuck you once, O, I’m fucking you ten more times.”
“Oh.” I stared blankly out of the windshield. “Thanks for your honesty.”
“Too much?” He reached over and grabbed my thigh, resting his heavy hand there like it was the most natural thing in the world and not blazing me from the inside out. “I figure we’re past the point of beating around the bush.”
“I think that’s…exactly what we’re doing.” I laughed.
His eyebrow arched and then flattened, the innuendo catching up like watching a car crash in real time. “You’re a sick, twisted person and I don’t know if it’s because you’re worse than me, or if it’s because it’s like looking in a mirror.”
Frankie hooked a left and turned into a garden center parking lot. The displays outside housed several colorful hanging and potted plants. We would absolutely find something in there for his mom, and I needed out of the car like I needed air to breath. Between the mega box of condoms, his hand on my leg, and the way I could smell every note in the soap that he used like it was directly under my nose, I couldn’t think straight.
“So your parents used to garden together?”
The blunt tips of his fingers tightened behind my knee. “They always had a big flower garden, nice landscaping, perfectly trimmed hedges, but she hasn’t done it in years.”
“This’ll make her so happy.” I said. “You can help her plant.”
“I hope so.” He sighed. “I’m still clueless about Addy.”
I tapped my finger on my chin. “What is she like?”
“Pain in my ass.”
“I’m sure she thinks you hang the moon,” I volleyed. “What does she like?”
He lifted his hat and swiped his fingers through his hair. “Art.”
“That’s a start.” I inclined my head toward him.
“She paints. Everything. I mean, when we were kids she was painting our bedroom walls like her own personal mural, and it wasn’t even as bad as you’re imagining. Eclectic as shit, sure, but it was like Pablo Picasso level of abstract.”
“Family trait?”
“I don’t have an artistic bone in my body,” he admitted. “I was always too busy to have hobbies. I was jealous of Addy in that way. She would tell me that she wished she could see half the shit I’ve seen, but if she knew what that meant I know she’d take it back.”
I studied his profile, the hard, straight line of his nose, his naturally full bottom lip. “You don’t talk about the service that much.”
“Government secrets,” he rebuffed.
“I’m excellent at keeping secrets.”
“Delta was both the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me,” he replied thoughtfully.
“How’s that contradiction?”
“I was free for once, which is ironic because I was technically considered property of the United States.” He smiled to himself. “Like I said, I wasn’t a creative kid. I played football in high school because I was big and it was something to do, but I never did it because I wanted to be in the NFL or anything.”
“You could be making millions.”
“That would soften the blow of permanent brain damage.”
“Sometimes you have to make sacrifices,” I said.
“I wasn’t free, as in I could do whatever I wanted—I was free from making decisions.” He inhaled and cleared his throat. “I didn’t have to be the point guy like I was at home, I just got told what to do and I fucking did it. I boozed on government money, messed around, made friends—Mom was good, Addy was in college, so she was good.”
“You got to be Frankie for you, and not for everyone else.”
“Something like that, Trouble.” He scratched his chin. “What are you doing? Turning me into some sentimental asshole?”
Another message came in from Nat, and this time instead of answering it from the privacy of my phone, Frankie hit the play button on the touch screen in the console and let voice to text do the job for me.
The clipped, robotic voice read out loud, “‘Did you finally take his born-again virginity?’”
I shot up and punched the A/V button so hard my thumb bent backward. Marking your territory via Bluetooth came with its own unique set of consequences unfortunately. I slid my feet off the dash and shoved them back into my sandals, hitching the sling bag I’d brought with me over my shoulder in preparation to dash out of the truck.