Cody
Isuggested we go dancing, but Jamison said she knew a place, something better than dancing. This mysterious destination of hers was obviously not stocked with alcohol because on the way there, she pulled into a liquor store parking lot. It wasn’t a chain store. It felt more like a mini-mart, only for alcohol. The sign in the parking lot was cracked, so you could see the light bulbs under the plastic, and the clerk behind the register had greasy hair and gnarly teeth. He was watching Jamison a little too closely. I took comfort in the fact that he was behind plexiglass.
Jamison tooled up and down the aisles, running her fingertips over the glass bottles. The tinkling of her fingers on the glass was the only sound other than the hum of the refrigerators on the back wall. We didn’t talk much in the car and we weren’t talking now. I stayed a few steps behind her, watching her hips swing, waiting for the glimpse of her ass cheek that I got with each stride. The sexual tension between us was too thick for words. All I wanted to do was touch her.
She stopped and turned to face me. “You like the view?”
I did. I’d liked it from the minute I spotted her in the bleachers. “What’s not to like?”
She took a step toward me, close enough that I could feel her breath on my face. And then she reached over my left shoulder and pulled a bottle of Jameson from the shelf behind me. As it crossed my periphery, I recognized it by the beige label and the maroon cap.
“Namesake?” I asked.
“Always.” Her voice was hot and whispery like we were already fucking. I slipped the fingers on my right hand under one of the belt loops on her shorts and pulled her a little closer so her lips were just centimeters from mine.
“What’s this secret plan of yours?” I asked. And then, nodding toward the bottle, said, “You plan on getting me drunk and taking advantage of me, cowgirl?”
“For sure,” she smiled. “But first, I thought you might want to drive my car.”
Jamison drove a Porsche 911 Carrera. It was a thing of beauty. I wasn’t a gearhead or anything, but I don’t think there is a man on the planet who wouldn’t get hard at the thought of commanding all that horsepower. Jamison was the kind of woman who felt that way too. When we walked up to the car back at the arena, she patted the roof. She showed the car love like I do my horse, Trigger. Sitting in the passenger seat when she was driving, I could feel how she connected to the car. How it thrilled her to be at its helm. I wasn’t sure she even knew that she purred when she shifted gears, but she did. I felt sort of honored that she was offering me the opportunity to drive. It was like she trusted me to handle her baby.
“That feels mighty generous of you,” I cooed.
“I have two conditions,” she said, still so incredibly close that it was a miracle we weren’t kissing. “One, you have to drive fast. She doesn’t like to go slow, ever. And two, while you're driving, I get to ask you any questions I want and you have to answer them.”
The first condition didn’t seem unreasonable, but the second one made me wonder if this was a game she played with all the men she wanted. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe when you came from money, a thing like a Porsche was dispensable. I stepped back a smidge, dipped down, and looked her square in the eye, hoping I could discern if she was telling me the truth. “This something you do a lot?” I asked. “Trick men into opening up to you by allowing them access to your possessions?”
Immediately, her face shifted. Her smile remained plastered to her lips like glitter in glue, but the light left her eyes and she stepped back too. “Forget it,” she said. “Just an idea.”
Shit.