Page 52 of Plunge

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Fletcher

I TALK MY dad into making me another batch of the vegetarian shepherd’s pie for the night of the Sweetheart Dance. He doesn’t ask too many questions, but gives me a knowing look when I tell him I’m having company to watch a few Kill Bill movies.

“Company with a taste for my fine vegetarian cooking? I take it you’re not spending the night with your brother Hunter?”

“Way I hear it, you know very well I’m not spending the night with Hunter because you and Ma are hanging out with Louie so he can take Abigail dancing.”

Dad and I talk a little about how Louie has turned a corner in terms of enjoying his experience on this side of the womb. “You about ready to head back into the great, wide world?” He hands me a dish of something and tells me to stir it, so I do while he chops onions.

“Well,” I tell him, wiping my eyes a little as they water from the onions, “I did get my visa situation sorted out. I’ve got a race in Bahrain in March. Might head there soon to start preparing.”

Dad nods and slides the diced onions into a frying pan. I tell him a little more about the network that will be airing the race, discussions we’re having about showing it live versus trying to get more viewers at a prime time spot. Dad can tell I’m deflecting, though, because he keeps trying to ask me about the vegetarians in my life.

“Son,” he says, frowning as he shakes the pan and flips the onion mixture. “We never really got to have a good conversation before you left town for the long haul.”

I sigh and keep on stirring the bowl of whatever brown filling he’s using. “That was a long time ago, Dad.”

He nods. “It was, and it had a long term impact on you, too, I think. It’s fair to say you aren’t the most trusting person after all that.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m a fuckup, too, right? Always thinking with my dick and letting my temper make decisions for me.” I toss the bowl on the counter and start to leave. I figure I’ll just order Thistle a damn pizza rather than subject myself to this.

“Fletcher,” Dad yells. I freeze. He doesn’t raise his voice often. “I wasn’t going to criticize your habits. I’m trying to apologize to you for not being a better advocate when you needed adults to guide you.”

“Lord, Dad.” I shake my head. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me, ok?”

I turn around and he’s assembling the meal in one of those disposable foil pans for me. “I’m just saying none of us handled it very well when Thistle got pregnant. We weren’t expecting that, Fletcher. And I’m sorry I let you leave town before we had a chance to talk about it more.”

I’m not really sure what to say to him after that. It’s not like I would have taken his phone calls. I didn’t come home any of the times Ma demanded then begged for me to come back to Oak Creek. I walk over to him and put my hand on his shoulder, and when he pulls me in for a hug, I let him. He pulls my head down and plants a kiss in my hair and whispers, “Tell Thistle I hope she likes this pie. I added shiitake this time.”

When I get home, I slide the casserole in the oven before I take a shower and shave. I sort through the suitcase I brought home looking for clothes that send the right message tonight. The only problem is that I don’t know what message I want to send.

Is there an outfit that communicates “You turn me on but I want to acknowledge that I’m leaving town and understand it would be emotionally risky if we fucked again”?

I groan in frustration and climb into my favorite jeans with an old Oak Creek High t-shirt. Then I laugh when I open the door to see Thistle standing there in a matching outfit. She laughs, too, and I invite her to sit down while I get the food. “I found tray tables in the hall closet,” I yell to her from the kitchen.

“Good because I’d hate for us to stain our outfits spilling food from our laps,” she says. “I brought the last batch of Diana’s homemade beer for us.” We fall into easy conversation about how my sister can’t handle the smell of the fermenting hops now that she’s knocked up, so her beer production is on hold until Baby Wexler arrives.

She sits next to me, watching Uma Thurman fight her way out of a buried coffin, groaning appreciatively as she eats the food from my dad. And it’s all just so freaking nice. It feels comfortable, sitting here with her, watching fake blood gush from television villains and laughing about the special effects in the movie.

So damn nice, in fact, that I can’t keep myself from leaning toward her and kissing her. Just a short kiss, right on the lips, but when I pull my head back, breathing heavy, her pupils are dilated and Thistle looks as turned on as I feel right now.

“You just feel right,” I say, and then I dive back in, like I’m a starving man and she’s my meal. Thistle wraps her arms around me and kisses me back. I tug her into my lap and her knee knocks over the tray table, but I don’t give a shit about that right now. I kiss her for a long time, my hands exploring her body, her fingers tracing my skin, then kneading my muscles and pulling me tight against her own body.

“Fuck, Thistle,” I whisper, as my thumbs brush her nipples. They’re hard and puckered through the thin fabric of the old t-shirt and whatever flimsy bra she’s got on under there. She gasps at the contact and reaches down to lift her shirt. “Are you sure,” I ask her, my lips against the skin of her neck. I want to be sure that whatever fucked up decisions we make tonight, we make together.

“Yes, Fletcher. God, don’t stop,” she says, shucking her shirt and reaching for the waistband of mine. Our clothes go flying across the living room and we knock over the other tray table, too, in our haste to get naked. Gasping, she pulls back from sucking on my throat and looks over her shoulder at the gauzy curtains over the picture window.

“Can we go somewhere else?”

I groan in response and stand up with her in my arms. She wraps those strong legs around my back and I carry her over to the steps, where I trip and fall on the carpet with her beneath me. Laughing, she pushes my boxers down with her feet and my cock springs out against her panties.

“Fuck, Fletcher, I love your cock,” she says, giving it a squeeze. “I think it’s gotten bigger.”

“Thiss, you can go ahead and feel free to say that to me all night long,” I tell her as I crawl down her body. I’m squatting on the bottom step in between her legs, sliding her lacy panties down her legs as she runs her fingers through my hair.

She feels so familiar. This feels so right. The scent of her is one I’ll never forget, and as I run my tongue along her thigh, heading toward her center, she moans and writhes beneath me. “Oh, yes,” she says. And then, in a whisper, “Please, Fletcher.”

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