Two Weeks
Authors: Andrea Wolfe
Two Weeks
By Andrea Wolfe
Copyright © 2014 by Andrea Wolfe
All rights reserved.
Cover art by EroCovers
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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are eighteen years of age or older.
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Also, a very big thank you to my dear friend Anya Karin for editing, EroCovers for a beautiful cover, and to anyone that bought Haze or Be Here Now, whether you liked them or not. You gave up some of your time to read something that I wrote, and that's awesome one way or another. I can't thank you enough!
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-Andrea
Ally
I
'm in my hometown at a bar, and it's
not
a holiday. Well, not any real holiday, anyway. I always hated these places, which is why I vowed never to come to them.
Yet, here I am.
One of my oldest, best friends invited me, but she's late. I haven't seen her in a long time, and it's clear she hasn't changed much. I should have predicted this and adjusted my schedule accordingly so I didn't have to spend time alone in this miserable place.
At least the bar stools are comfortable, I'll give it that.
By absolute chance, we both ended up home at the same time, and decided to suffer together. I'm not sure why she's here; a family reunion brought me home, a family reunion I'm not the least bit interested in.
Especially not when it's in Red Lake where I grew up.
Even though it's a small town, I don't recognize most of the clientele here tonight. They probably know me somehow, but that doesn't matter.
They don't say anything regardless.
"Give me whatever is on tap," I say, my voice wholly unenthusiastic, hoping to convey the fact that I want to be left alone.
The bartender stares back at me with confusion. "There's a lot on tap, actually," she says as she taps her hand on the surface of the bar. I vaguely recognize her. She's from a couple grades below me, likely a person that got trapped here and couldn't find a way out.
Now she fulfills the alcoholic needs of the local population.
"You'll have to choose
something
." She's growing impatient.
I don't imagine it is a very fulfilling job. I feel kind of bad for her—even with her catty attitude.
"Just surprise me. Give me your favorite. I'm not that picky about beer."
She nods and slides a glass under one of the nozzles. I watch as the bubbly liquid races toward the top, somewhat hypnotized by her perfect technique. The tiny layer of foam stops exactly at the rim of the glass. "Do you want to open a tab?" she asks.
"That's fine." I reach into my purse and find a credit card in my wallet. I can definitely afford to buy a couple drinks for Liz, especially with my new promotion. I hand over the credit card and then check my phone again. Still nothing from anyone.
I take a slow sip of the beer. It's good and cold, much better than I expected. Not too heavy, not too light. The summers can be hot here, but tonight isn't too bad.
There is a raucous table of guys over in the corner and they're being way too loud. Every time they all laugh together, it seems to shake the building. I take a big sip of the beer as a defensive maneuver, begging for the alcohol to soothe my tense nerves.
I shoot a disapproving glance in their direction, and then I look away. One of them catches me doing it, and I promptly freak out inside, worried that I've sent the wrong kind of signal. But he doesn't move, and I'm happy about that.
The last thing I need is some truck-driving, beer-bellied hick trying to score my number while I'm home for three days. I'm so cold.
And it's not like I'm available anyway.
Max, my boyfriend, is in Boston. We've been dating for over two years, and we're in the process of moving in together, which has proved to be quite the project. We finally found the perfect place and now all we have to do is sign the lease, which I suspect is going to be followed shortly after by a proposal. We've definitely talked about it.
I love him, but that doesn't mean the relationship is easy. He's busy, and so am I. But in our own little way, we make it work. Sometimes I think I try harder than he does, but that discussion is for another time.
I look around again; there is enough empty space in the bar to fit three times as many people and it's a
Friday night.
If this were a bar in Boston, it would be a very different story. The sound of bad karaoke coming from the adjacent room brings me back to reality. It's some modern country anthem about trucks and cheap beer and tractors and sounds like nails against a chalkboard.
I
can't
stay here.
I walk out onto the much quieter patio and call Max. I wait as it rings. And then it rings again. And again.
He didn't say he was doing anything tonight,
I think.
So where is he?
Before it goes to voicemail, I hang up and try once more. I want to be transported away from this shithole and everything associated with it, at least momentarily. It was hard enough for me to agree to come here with Liz—and it's even harder for me to sit here alone while she goes through whatever the hell ritual she's currently in the middle of.
No luck again. I leave a voice mail.
"Max, if you get this soon, call me back.
Please.
I'm at a bar full of locals and I could definitely use your conversational skills right now since I don't know anything about eating road kill and the karaoke is all shitty country music. Love ya."
I hang up and with defeat, lower the phone to my side. I'm kind of pissed that he didn't answer—and I think the tone of my message makes that clear—but it's not his fault that Liz is totally late. He's probably drunk with his friends.
"That's not very nice of you to say about us," I hear from behind me. I didn't notice anyone else out here when I came out, but that's not to say I didn't miss someone.
"And why the hell do you care so much?" I ask loudly, even before I turn around.
"Not all of us are hicks. And not all of us think we're
so much
better than Red Lake, Ally." The voice is low and gravelly, borderline familiar. I guess that's a good thing since he just
called me by my name.
I turn around, ready to connect the voice with a person. My gut tightens immediately when I see who it is—Jackson Ames, former local football star and good friend of my older brother. I haven't seen him in years. While there isn't that much light on the patio, he's standing right under one of the recessed lights, and it's almost like a spotlight.
I can see everything.
He looks incredible, his frame muscled and sculpted, his dark brown hair trimmed short, but not too short. Not quite long enough to be messy, but almost there. His jaw is like a right angle, his cheekbones prominent, and his t-shirt sleeves struggle to fit around his biceps. His jeans are snug and worn, and by the time I'm looking at his boots, he's got a look on his face that I could only describe with the word
hungry
.
Jackson smiles, and I hate how perfectly white his teeth are. I hate how intensely brown his eyes are. And I hate how they are looking at me.
I'm surprised by my body's reaction to seeing him, uncomfortable with it, even. The last time I saw him, I was an awkward sixteen year old girl in high school. Sure, I thought he was cute at the time, but it didn't matter since he had a girlfriend and was way out of my league. They were prom queen and king that year.
He hung out with my brother, Jeff, quite a bit, and outside of that, we never interacted. It didn't matter, because after he graduated and stopped being the local star, I never gave him another thought. As far as I knew, Jackson was just another empty-headed jock that only thought about pussy and getting drunk
.
But now he was a man—a hell of a man, I might add—and that made things very different.
"Jackson," I say breathlessly, surprised at how my voice sounds. I repeat myself and correct the tone this time. Correct the all-too-apparent vulnerability. "Jackson, I didn't expect to run into you here."
"Likewise," he says, stopping to sip his drink. "It's been a long time, Ally. How is your brother?"
"He's fine." I lift the beer to my lips and take another cool sip. "Don't you talk to him anymore?" I ask. "I thought you guys were close."
"We stopped talking a long time ago. We just... grew apart. Like most people do." His frail eyes inform me that I've touched on perhaps a sensitive subject.
I pause and look for Liz, my only clear escape now—but there's still no sign of her. "Do you still... live here?" I ask. I quickly realize that talking is actually much better than waiting by myself, even if I am talking to Jackson Ames.
"Yes. With all of the other
hicks
." His words are spiked with sarcasm. "Can't get enough of goin' huntin' and driving my truck through the mud." His sardonic smile completes the joke.
I nervously laugh, the response unexpected. "Right. What else is there to do around here?"
"I'm still working on that." He takes another drink. "So you're in Boston or something?"
I drink some more beer before responding. "Yeah. I work for a pharmaceutical company. Who told
you
about it?" I'm actually a little perturbed that he knows
anything
about me, and I'm not sure why. More of that unwanted vulnerability, I guess.
"I still talk to your dad now and then. He told me you're doing really well. Got a fiancé and everything. Settling down. Good for you."
"
Fiancé?”
I ask, taken aback. "Max hasn't proposed. Is that what my dad is telling people? And why the hell would you be asking him about
me?
" I feel a rush of something odd and it makes me a little lightheaded.
Jackson laughs aggressively, and it rumbles all throughout me. "Jesus, Ally, don't flatter yourself.
He's
the one that mentioned you. And you sound pretty freaked out about the possibility of marriage. If that's the case, maybe he's not the right guy for you." He smiles, but I don't feel happy.
My cheeks instantly get hot and red. I'm not in the light like he is, so he probably can't see it. I'm embarrassed. "You have no fucking right to talk about Max like that," I say, my response snarky as hell. "I mean, we're going to get married. Soon. We're buying an awesome place together in a couple of weeks." I'm shocked at how his casual joke affects me. It's kind of scary. But I can't stop. "At least I have a job that matters," I say as if it will somehow repair my damaged honor.
This feels too unusual.
"Relax," he says. "I was just kidding around." He pauses, and I'm not sure what direction he's going to steer the conversation. "Your dad did say that, though. I didn't lie about that part. He's really proud of you."
I gulp, surprised at the remark. It softens me. "Well, I'll have to have a chat with him," I say firmly, breathing deeply to try and calm myself down.
Jackson's smile fades. "So why the hell are you back here then? You've got a great job that matters and a great boyfriend and you live in Boston and seem to hate Red Lake with all of your heart. Something doesn't add up here."
"Family reunion. My great aunt isn't going to be around much longer, so my mom demanded that I come. I caused enough problems by not just saying
yes
immediately."
"Family reunion? So where is Jeff? Or is he no longer a part of the family?" His tone is somewhat biting, and I'm surprised by it.
I smile unexpectedly. "He got out of it. Mostly just because he and his wife recently had a daughter and they don't want to travel with her yet." Jackson doesn't say anything immediately, so I move on to something else. "What the hell are
you
doing here? You actually came back to Red Lake because you liked it?"