American Honey

Digging my thumbs deeper into the knot at the base of her neck, she drops her head down and lets out a long “ahhh” as I work my magic.

“It doesn’t seem that way.” Another piece of hair falls from her bun. With a light graze of my fingertip, I swipe it out of the way. Goose bumps dot her skin in the wake of my touch. The coconut scent of her shampoo billows around me. My hands move to her arms, bracing her at the bicep. Pulling her a step back, I hold her against my body. “Let me help you relax.” My desire is sudden and sharp. In all of five minutes, the woman who has done nothing but frustrate and insult me for the last two weeks, has me more turned on than I’ve been in months. Even though my initial intention was to seduce her, take advantage and manipulate her, things suddenly change.

As she leans against me, her head lolls to the side. Running my nose along the length of her neck forces both of us to shiver. “Elle,” I groan her name.

The vibration of her “hmmm” rumbles against my chest, making me even more turned on than I already am.

The second before I could press my lips to the peaches and cream skin of her neck, a loud bang makes both of us jump where we’re standing. As she busies herself with straightening her jacket, I cock my head. Staring down at her, I can’t hide the cynicism in my voice. “Expecting someone?”

“Come in,” she calls out to the door. A pang of jealousy I did not see coming hits me right in the chest, right where Elle was just pressed ever so softly. A very well-put-together man in an expensive three-piece struts into the office as if he owns the place. At first glance, he looks to be about my age, maybe slightly older, but as he stands in front of me, introducing himself as Ethan Robertson, I notice his hair is peppered at the temples with more than a few grey hairs.

“Are you ready, Elle?” Ethan asks without paying all too much attention to me. Elle nods and moves back to the desk to gather her things.

“Yes, of course. Let’s go.” Her voice is suddenly rushed and frenzied. The desire to get out of the room quickly is clear as day.

Ethan escorts her to the door, his hand on her lower back. With his other hand on the doorknob, he turns back to me and shoots me a look that screams, “Aren’t you leaving as well?”

“Owen?” Elle extends her hand to the side, indicating that she expects me to walk out with them.

“No, that’s okay. I have some things I need to catch up on in here.” I walk around the desk and sit at her chair. Kicking my heels up on the desk, Ethan shoots daggers at me. “Catch up? On what, exactly?” Elle asks, taking a few steps back into the room. Her eyes bore into mine, pleading with me to just leave already. I drop my feet to the floor and fold my arms over my chest as she approaches. Her smug attitude about my humble beginnings makes me keep a tight lip on my background. I’ll let her think I know nothing for a bit longer; besides, it’s kind of fun watching her get all up in arms over my involvement in things that don’t include dirt.

From the stack of folders at my right, I swipe a pile of papers and quickly recognize the documents. “Well, these quarterly P&L statements still need to be reviewed and balanced. Then,” I grab for another document, “these tax dividends look like they still need to be sent

out to the accounting department.” Elle’s jaw nearly drops to the floor, but before she can say anything to me, Ethan clears his throat from the door. Completely unaware of the exchange we’ve just shared, he taps the face of his gold and rather hideous watch. “We’re going to be late for our reservation.”

Elle manages to close her mouth and make her eyes look like they’re no longer bulging out of her face. She leans across the desk, waggling a stern finger at me. Pitching her voice low, she seethes, “Not funny, Owen. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”

Just to piss her off, I lean all the way back in the chair, lace my fingers together behind my head, and kick my feet back up on the desk. Ethan barely notices me through the whole exchange, but I know I’ve done something to get under her skin.

There’s no ignoring she’s under mine, too.

***

“So, how’s the S.U.B doing?” Nick asks, saying each letter of his made up nickname for Elle with no little meanness.

“You’re really proud of yourself for that stupid name, aren’t you?”

“What?” he laughs, holding his hands up, palms facing me in mock protest. “It’s funny and true. You said it yourself; she’s a stuck-up bitch. I’m really just saving you time in shortening it.”

It’s been three days since she left me high and dry in the office for her date with Mr. Stick-Up-My-Ass Robertson. Somehow, now that I know what her skin feels like, what her hair smells like, what her moans sound like, the nickname is more offensive than funny.

A pang of jealousy struck me in the gut when I watched her walk out of that office. But, not willing to admit that to Nick – hell, I barely want to even admit it to myself – I keep my mouth shut.

I roll my eyes and take another swig of my beer. “She’s fine,” I grit out. Nick hears the tone of my voice and backs off, striking up conversation about last night’s baseball game.

Since Nick’s construction company is about halfway between the vineyard and home, we’ve met up once or twice at this dive of a bar since I started working there. It’s a total hole in the wall. My feet would stick to the floor if it wasn’t covered in sawdust. The tables are covered in those red-checkered plastic tablecloths. Everything about the place, from the neon signs above the bar, to the bales of hay in the corner, screams hillbilly. There’s a fine line between country and tacky, and this place pushes more toward tacky.

Some twangy-slash-bluesy song begins to play out of the 1950s style jukebox in the corner. “I feel like I’m in Back to the Future or something like that,” Nick jokes. “But I do like those uniforms,” he adds as he calls over our waitress who’s wearing the country-girl version of a Hooters’ outfit.

Just as I crane my head to check out said waitress, a group of women, dressed in Daisy Dukes and tied-at-the-waist country-inspired shirts, strut through the doors. The waitresses can’t hold a candle to these women. All I see are miles of long legs, and I am most definitely not complaining about the view. After a few more minutes, another group or two of similarly dressed women walk in, and that’s when Nick and I realize it’s ladies’ night. Line dancing and dollar beers are on the menu, and suddenly, I couldn’t be happier Nick chose this dive bar.

As Nick and I finish the last of our drink and plan our attack, one last group of girls walks in and my stomach drops. It’s Elle and her friends. Shocked isn’t exactly the word I would go with. Flabbergasted might be more appropriate. Who would have thought, Elle, miss-uptight-in-a-business-suit, no-one-is-smart-enough-to-run-this-company, hotter-than-fucking-sin Elle, would actually be able to kick back and relax. The fact that she looks amazing is not as shocking as the fact that she’s here.

Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her make-up is subtle, simply accenting her natural beauty. Watching her laugh and cut loose with her friends is strange to say the least, but oh, God, is she beautiful when she smiles. Her long and curvy-in-all-the-right-places frame stretches out as she leans her elbows on the bar. Tipping her head back, she takes a sip of her beer. I haven’t been struck-dumb like this in as long as I can remember.

And of course Elle chooses the moment I’m staring at her, ogling her, in fact, with my mouth open and eyes wide, to scan the room. Her eyes fall on me and a look of excitement, mixed with a little disgust, passes across her face. “You okay, Owen?” Nick asks, elbowing me in the side. “You’ve been frozen like that for a few minutes. See something you like?” His eyebrow arches and a wolfish grin pulls at his lips. He tracks my line of vision and lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be able to speak if I was staring her down either,” he adds, standing from his seat.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, looking down at me. I’m still in my chair, unable to move, well, unless I want Elle, and everyone else in the room, to see the hard-on I’m currently sporting.