Saving Savannah

“Either that, or you’re the type of girl who does everything ass backwards.”

Rising from my chair, I stretched my arms to the ceiling and winked at him. “It’s been working out for me so far.”

Thirty-Five

SAVANNAH

It seemed like the whole week spun by in a work-fueled blur.

Every day, all day, the shop was insanely busy. From open to close I had wall-to-wall customers ready to fork over their money. Every one of them hopped up on Salem’s not-so-savory history, dying to squeeze every last drop of paranormal out of their trip to the infamous seaport town.

I took it all of course, and gave them exactly what they wanted. I told couples they were sexually compatible according to the lines on their hands. I let my tarot deck answer their most sacred, intimate questions. When they needed spooky souvenirs to commemorate their visit, I was there to provide the most stunning array of colorful crap this side of Essex street. Most of it, ironically, imported from places like China or Taiwan.

And at the end of each day, I fell exhaustedly into my own bed. Sleep took me quickly, and it was thankfully dreamless.

I hadn’t seen the guys for days now, and it was starting to bother me. I wanted — no, I needed to see them. I knew they were busy though, like I was. They worked extra long hours, Zane had two jobs, and Roman had school.

For those reasons I was determined to give them their space. We still kept in touch through flirty text messages, and a couple of late night phone calls. It was fun, and it made me happy. But it wasn’t nearly enough. It wasn’t what I wanted.

By Friday, I actually craved them.

It made me angry at myself, that I’d somehow fallen this hard. That despite my every inner warning and self-imposed rule, I was getting wrapped up in the one thing I promised myself I’d stay away from.

But it was just too good. The attention was triple anything I’d had before, and the camaraderie between the guys made everything ten times more fun. Every time we’d gotten together, it had been magically comfortable. Everything we’d done as a group had been seamless. Effortless.

And then there was the sex.

If I hadn’t experienced such a thing in my life, I’d never have realized how addicting three guys could be. Forget the chemistry, which was explosive to begin with. There were simply things you could do with four people that you could never even imagine with a single partner. The switching, the shifting, the positions themselves. The gratified totality of always being full. The feelings of elation and contentment, as they traded off on me…

Because yeah, I’d always fantasized about having two guys fucking my brains out. Was there a girl who hadn’t? Not an honest one, anyway. Only now I was actually doing it. And I didn’t just have two guys, I had three.

Everything — the whole experience — it was totally off the charts. And yes, it was every bit as addicting as it should’ve been. That much, and then some.

But how long can it go on?

That was the part that scared me — the not knowing. The not being prepared for the day or time when the guys might wander off in their own directions, leaving me all alone. Because as fun as it was, it couldn’t possibly last forever. Which made it very different from the other relationships I’d been in, where I foolishly thought I saw a future with someone.

Each day was a battle between the part of me desperate not to get hurt, and the part willing to ride this thing out for every last ounce of fun. And yet the guys were still sweet to me. They were all still amazing, each one in his own way. Erik sent me a bouquet of flowers, with a brick attached to the vase. Roman, ever the artist, sent me the most adorable little drawings. Zane texted me funny pics of the weirdest shit at all different hours. Everything from strange-looking customers on his nightly tours, to close-up pics of his nipple.

They all made me laugh, no matter how tired I was. And the laughter felt good.

I was still an hour from closing up shop when I heard the door bells ring one last time. Before I could turn around, two hands slipped around me from behind. I recognized them immediately, just as I recognized the familiar, possessive grip.

“Wanna get the hell out of here?”

I spun happily into Roman’s arms, inhaling the scent of leather and musk and steel. I slid my own arms around his waist, clasping my hands tightly into the small of his back.

“Fuck yes.”

He was dressed in ripped, faded jeans and the hottest of leather jackets, all zippers and chains. His five-o’clock stubble and gleaming white grin oozed sex appeal.

“Then let’s go.”

He took a step backward and bent to retrieve something. That’s when I noticed the two objects he’d already set on the floor. A pair of helmets.

“Oh.”

My gorgeous Italian lover looked down, studying me for a moment. “You ever ride before?”