Ride Home Ch. 03

I suppressed a smile, not wanting to let him off the hook so easily. "Yeah?"

He grinned. "I mean I do like to tease you, but that's just because you're so cute when you're all pissed off and flustered."

I withdrew my forgiveness, irritation burning away any kind thought I had for the man. "You mean like just now?"

He chuckled, holding his arms open. "Come here, Charley. Let me whisper sweet nothings into your ear."

"I'd rather you stop talking so you don't upset me all over again." I pushed my bag onto the floor and slid closer, kissing him hard when he pulled me against him.

His kisses were gentle at first; light and placating as he held me tight, massaging my shoulders, neck, and cheeks. When my anger faded, I pushed my tongue into his mouth and he moaned, pressing down on my shoulders as he moved to climb on top of me. I pushed him away, scooting back, knowing that if he laid me down, I'd never get up again.

He grabbed the back of the seat and pulled himself toward me, wrapping me back up in his passionate embrace. It wasn't long before his tongue was in my mouth and he pressed me down, this time moving faster as he tried to pin me against the car seat. I pushed him away and slid against the door, the tightness in his jaw giving me a twisted sense of satisfaction. If that was how he felt when he teased me, I could see why it was so fun.

He reached for me, but I held my hands up, shaking my head. "I'm sorry, John, but I really do have to go."

He slid back into the driver's seat without a word, his frustration apparent in his scowl.

I slid my gloves on and released the door handle mechanism, pausing before I broke open the wonderful bubble I'd lost myself in. "Thank you for coming to get me and taking me to breakfast. You really made my day. I want you to know that."

He relaxed, the tightness in his jaw melting away. "What time are you done? I'll come pick you up."

"I'll be right here at three-fifteen."

"I'll be right here at three-ten."

I pushed open the door, frigid air blowing inside. "Bye, John. Have a good day."

"I'll see you later, Charley."

I kept glancing back over my shoulder as I walked around to the front of the mathematics building, faceless, bundled-up students hurrying into the squat structure to get out of the cold. I stopped before disappearing around the corner, turning around to wave. He smiled, tipping his cap before backing out of the parking space and speeding off into the frosty morning.

I was very glad I had forced myself to go to Statistics as a very important mathematical formula was written out and broken down on the blackboard. Had I not been there to listen and write everything down, I would've opened my textbook later to teach myself and wept.

Greek was wonderful. I slid into a seat between my friends Alice Janakowski and Susan Knoll and became enraptured by a young TA's lecture about "The Odyssey". I couldn't help but compare Odysseus to my own wandering soldier. Maybe all that nonsense back in the car was some kind of test. If so, had I passed? At the end of the class, the TA, a dark-haired young man I only knew as "Mr. Nichols", assigned us to read the first four books of "The Odyssey", warning us that we'd better come to class prepared to discuss the text. If only he knew how happy I was to do so.

When he dismissed us, Susan turned to Alice. "Are you coming to the library with us? I'm happy to look over your assignment for you."

Alice was a pretty, pear-shaped Polish girl with chestnut hair and dark eyes. She rolled them at a perpetually morose Susan. "I haven't done it yet. It's not due for weeks."

"It's worth half the grade. You could at least pretend to care if you pass this class or not," snapped Susan.

"You could at least pretend to be nice," said Alice.

Susan scowled. "But then you'd never attend class or get anything done."

I slid my notes and pens into my bag, standing to throw it over my shoulder. "Come to the library with us anyway. Did you go Child Psyc?"

"You want to borrow my notes?"

"If you don't mind," I said.

"No. Not at all," said Alice.

Susan stood, pulling on a heavy coat that was at least three sizes too big for her, and wrapped a dingy, bile-colored scarf around her neck and head, sliding her hands into a pair of dark mittens and picking up her bag. "Let's go."

Mr. Nichols nodded before we headed out of the classroom. I gave him a polite smile. We headed back out into the cold, Alice hooking her arm around mine while Susan led us across the quad; a frozen concrete wasteland populated by a courageous few.

"We've got to get you a new coat, Sue, You look like a homeless person," said Alice.

Susan let those words roll right over back. "I like this coat. It's very warm. It's very warm and its horribly cold in my dorm at night."

"Are you sleeping in that thing?" Alice's shocked laughter failed to conceal her horror.

Susan stomped toward the boxy sandstone library without looking back. "What's it to you?"

"See, there's these things called blankets-"

"Are either of you going home for Thanksgiving?" I asked. They would bicker like bored dogs over a dirty sock under the living room sofa if I didn't nip it in the bud.

"I don't want to to, but my parents will be here bright and early next Wednesday to pick me up," said Susan.

"Why don't you want to?" Susan had always fascinated me. She preferred non-fiction to fiction, hated contemporary music, and lived and breathed the law. My mind exploded trying to think of reasons to be here when her family arrived. What sort of parents produced such a person?

"It's not worth the drive. Hours and hours back and forth in the car in a span of less than a week just so I can eat a nice meal at my grandma's house? I wish they'd let me stay until the semester break," said Susan.

Alice nodded. "I'd rather die than head back to Pittsburgh and my father and stepmother don't even care, so I'm spending Thanksgiving with Randall Stone and his family."

Susan paused as she approached a staircase, gripping a metal railing as she glared over her shoulder. "I thought you broke it off with him. You said he was a spineless worm."

"He is, but his mother is an excellent cook and he's a pleasant enough conversationalist. I've had worse Thanksgivings," said Alice.

"You can come to my house," I piped up. "My grandmother's cooking can't be beat."

Alice laughed, the dry cackle dissolving into a cough. "I appreciate the offer, but your grandma is terrifying. She simply radiates hostility."

She had come to visit me once, opening the unlocked kitchen door to poke her head inside and yell, "Knock, knock" instead of actually knocking. My grandma had reacted as if Alice was so smelly old feral dog that had somehow slipped inside the house.

I bit my lip, nodding. "That's fair."

We climbed the concrete steps, salt crunching under our boots, the promise of warmth especially appealing as an icy breeze whipped around us. Alice caught me up on the juiciest bits of campus gossip that I regularly missed out on as a commuter as Susan pulled open the heavy glass door, heat rushing over me like a blast from a hot oven.

The musty smell of old books comforted me. This was a place of refuge, a quiet space that almost existed outside of time and space. It was easy to get lost in the lives of others, both real and fictional, while rustling through pages in search of knowledge and sometimes escape.

Susan led us to our usual table by the noisy radiator. Once we got used to the mechanical clinking and grinding, It was secretly the best table in the library. Not only was it warm, but everyone else avoided it because of the constant rattling, so it was always open and people typically let us be. She flopped into a chair and began to unwind the scarf from around her head.

Alice and I lowered ourselves into opposite chairs, her dark eyes studying me beneath her perfectly stenciled brows. "How come you missed Child Psyc?"

I busied myself rummaging through my bag for my Greek assignment, wanting to gush about John, but not sure how much I should say. I couldn't even say for sure if we were official. I tapped the edges of the paper against the worn wooden tabletop, the sharp sound muffled by the roar of the radiator, gears grinding against each other as hot air blew around our legs under the table. "I had breakfast with a friend."

Alice arched a single eye brow. "Charley, you have no friends outside of us."

Susan slid her papers toward me, a red pen laced between the fingers of her right hand. She took mine with a small smile.

I chuckled in spite of myself. "I do so."

Alice smirked. "Who?"

I pulled Susan's assignment toward me, fishing a pencil out of my bag, words caught in my throat. Alice was a modern woman. If I could tell anyone about John, it was her.

Susan tossed me her red pen. "Use this. It's easier to read your notes." She reached for another.

At first glance, her first few lines were grammatically flawless, but lacking any real emotion.

"Was the friend a guy?" asked Alice.

I didn't look at her, instead helplessly reading over Susan's bland prose as a hot blush crept up my neck.

She cooed. "Oh my god, Charley met a boy. I bet he's real swell."

Susan looked up from my paper, red "x"s and circles marking the first page, to gawk. A flicker of irritation rippled through me, Alice's sneer only making it worse. I glared down at Susan's paper, almost ripping it when I added a comma.

"What's his name?" Alice crossed her arms over her chest, old chair creaking against her weight as she leaned back.

"John."

"I bet he's a real boy scout." Her gaze flickered over my shoulder, expression twisting into a contemptuous sneer.

I spun around to see the object of her disgust and flinched, quickly turning back toward Susan's assignment.

"Alice, I really need to talk to you." Ken Boimler was a sweaty, prematurely balding man of twenty-two. He and Alice had gone on a few dates at the beginning of the semester and now she couldn't get rid of him.

"There's nothing you could possibly say to change my mind. Get lost, Ken. I'm done being nice," said Alice.

Susan stopped writing to grind her teeth, but she kept her eyes on the page before her.

Ken took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, other hand on his hip. "How could you know that? Just hear me out. Please."

"I said no."

"But."

"Get lost, Ken."

His other hand fell to his hip and he glared at her for what felt like an eternity. If Alice was intimidated, she did an excellent job of hiding it, leaning back in her chair with her arms still crossed, a hint of mockery in her cold gaze.

He opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut, turning on his heel to stalk off in a huff.

"That's right. Walk away, Mr. One-Pump-Chump," said Alice, loudly enough for him to hear.

He stopped, the patch of white scalp on his head reddening, but then hurried off.

I couldn't help myself. "What's a 'one-pump-chump'?"

She cackled. "I fooled around with Ken both nights he took me out. Both nights he nutted as soon as he slid his dick inside me."

Susan sighed and I blanched, glancing around to see if anyone heard her. Alice got off on making other people uncomfortable. It was definitely one of her most annoying personality traits, but I had my flaws too, so I did my best not judge her too harshly.

"The uncut fellows seem to be more sensitive than those who've been snipped," she said.

I crossed out "anger", writing "provoke" in the margin, curiosity making me bold. "What do you mean?"

Her expression brightened. "Is John uncircumcised? Charley, have you been naughty?"

Anger and a trace of shame welled up within me. My head snapped down to Susan's paper, heat rising in my face as I tried to find my place on the page.

When I didn't say anything, Alice clicked her tongue at me. "Don't you know pre-marital sex is a sin? I think I'm going to have to call the pol-"

Susan dropped her pen, running her fingers through her neat mouse brown hair. "Alright, Al, that's more than enough."

Alice fell silent for a moment, watching me as I continued proofreading Susan's Greek. She sat up, scooting her chair as close to me as she could. "I'll keep it down, so we don't upset Susan."

Poor Sue picked up her pen with a scowl and hunched over my papers.

"I know my way around an uncut cock, so here's a few tips," Alice whispered loud enough for Susan to hear.

I stopped writing and turned toward her, my sense of curiosity at war with my sense of common decency. Part of me admired Alice. She was brave enough to be unapologetically herself, the expectations of others meaning nothing to her. Was such confidence earned or innate?

"The tip is very sensitive, so be gentle. If he wants you be rougher, he'll tell you." She paused to glance at me, probably gauging my reaction. "If his foreskin is loose enough - some of them are tight - slip your tongue underneath it and swirl it around his cockhead. He'll love it. Tease his split and the bumpy ridge on the underside of the tip, and he'll come so fast and so hard, he won't try to lay you down and screw you."

Susan didn't look up from her work, but the grinding of her teeth could be heard over the clicking of the radiator.

"Oh, and if you start to get tired and need to rest, lick and nibble at his foreskin. Again, very gently at first. If he wants you to go harder, he'll let you know." She grinned.

I pushed Susan's papers across the table. "Great work. A little dry for my taste, but I can't see you getting less than an 'A'."

Her small smile returned as she pulled her corrected assignment toward her.

I turned to Alice, ignoring the wicked excitement in her grin. "How 'bout those Psyc notes?"

Alice's handwriting was easy to read and her notes were detailed, yet concise. Susan criticized my inconsistent verb tense but complimented my word choices and prose. Coming from her, that was high praise. I left them at the round wooden table at three o'clock, delight blooming in my chest at the thought of being with John.

The cold was especially brutal after being tucked away in the safety and comfort of the library. I hurried along with my fellow students as they darted around campus, desperate to be out of the bitter wind. A black Buick appeared out of the distance, exhaust trailing along behind it as it rolled toward the mathematics building. I smiled, moving as fast as I could without running.

John climbed out of the car and stretched, his fine features slowly coming into focus as he placed a cigarette in between his lips and flicked his lighter on, the blaze flickering in the already dimming November sky.

"Charlotte!"

I stopped, whipping around, my Christian name bizarre coming from anyone other than my grandmother and uncle.

Mr. Nichols' breath was a frozen plume as he chased after me, stopping a few feet away, smiling as he leaned over, hands on his knees.

I shivered, a cruel breeze slicing through the thick fabric of my stockings as if they were sheer. "What can I do for you?"

He stood, sliding his bare hands into the pockets of a navy peacoat. "Well, I just wanted to ask you if you planned on continuing with the Classics next semester. You make very insightful insights in your papers and in class."

I shook my head. "That's kind of you to say, but I'm very cold, so I'll see you on Tuesday."

He startled as if he hadn't noticed the frigid air swirling around us. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry. See you Tuesday."

I made my way to the Buick, forcing myself to keep my eyes forward.

John stared over my shoulder, taking my bag and walking me around to the passenger door. "Who is that?"

Mr. Nichols strode back to campus, hands in his pockets.

"He's a Teacher's Assistant in my Greek class," I said.

"He called you 'Charlotte'." John pulled the door open with a click.

I flung myself onto the seat, the hot air blowing from the vents a burning relief. John slammed the door shut and walked around to the driver's side, throwing my bag in the back seat before climbing in.

"I put 'Charlotte' on all my assignments and tests. It's more professional."

He put the car in reverse and glanced in the mirror, backing out of the parking space. "What did he want?"

I shrugged, still shivering. "He asked me if I'm going to take Classics courses next semester. It was very odd."

"You think?"

I pulled off my gloves and put my bare hands over the heating vents, desperate to be warm. "I do. He's so tidy and precise. I thought he might be a homosexual."

He snorted, turning to stare. "What's a sweet little thing like you know about homosexuals?"

I smiled, eager to finally display my own worldliness. "You can't study the Classics and stay ignorant about homosexuals." I thought about telling him what I suspected about Susan, but it seemed wrong to speculate about someone else's sexuality, especially as it was none of my business.

"I suppose not." John cracked his window, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette into the wind. "Charlotte." He shook his head, casting me a side-eyed glance. "You don't look like a 'Charlotte'."

"What do 'Charlottes' look like?"

Warmth spread into my fingers, traveling up my arms and dissolving the cold tension from my muscles. I leaned away from the heating vents, rubbing the palms of my hands over the smooth, dark leather car seat. The inside of his car was immaculate, no loose cigarette butts, crumpled receipts, or lost gloves in sight. I couldn't help but wonder if he kept his home this clean. Maybe he had a cleaning lady.

His deep voice jarred me back to the present. "I picture an old, haggard church organist who has children she doesn't speak to and lives off tinned sardines and stale crackers."

"That's very specific. Did you know this Charlotte personally, or did you and the other neighborhood boys throw rocks at the poor woman's windows?"

"Never. I was a delightful child."

I tapped my chin as I squinted at him. "Yeah, I could see that."

He smiled. "Yeah?"

"You're dependable and you tease a little, but you're never cruel."

His smile faltered and he looked away, gripping the steering wheel and shifting in his seat. I must've touched a nerve. Even though it was unintentional, I was abashed; horrified I'd caused him any discomfort. I chewed my lip in silence, not sure who was supposed to speak next.

Traffic was much heavier at that time of day. Cars rumbled into motion only to stop suddenly at a red light a few yards ahead, the occasional honk of a horn giving voice to a driver's frustrations. Cars changed lanes and rounded corners with abandon. I wanted to be home just as much as everyone else, but I wanted to make it home alive.

John slowed the car to a stop, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while the other flicked his cigarette butt out the window, the tightness in his jaw troubling.

"What do I look like?"

He rolled his window back up. "What do you mean?"

"You said I don't look a 'Charlotte'." I did my best to keep my tone light.

His expression softened, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips as our eyes met. My heart soared as his tension faded.

"A 'Charley'. A sweet, playful name for a sweet, playful girl," he finally said.

"Girl" didn't even nettle me the way it normally would've. He laid his arm over the back of the seat and I scooted over to lean against him, kissing him on the cheek. "My brother Joe was the first person to call me 'Charley'."

He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close. "I didn't know that."

"The other boys were very hesitant to let a little girl play baseball with them. Joe thought they might warm up to me faster if I had a 'boy's' name. It caught on and soon everyone called me 'Charley'. Except my grandmother. She hates it."