Love, Lust, and Other Mistakes (2 page)

“Thanks fo
r the run,” I say, intending to leave before I can get myself in trouble.  “I should head back to my hotel and wash the day off.”

At my words, she stops stretching.  “Why don’t you shower at my place, and we could grab some food afterward?” she proposes. “I hate thinking of you having to eat dinner by yourself tonight.”

“That’s really nice of you,” I remark, “but I’ve got a perfectly good shower at my hotel and I don’t mind eating alone.  It gives me a chance to catch up on reading.”

Her broad smile is too inviting. “I insist.”

Damn it.  I’m in trouble.

+++++

Her apartment is within walking distance from campus.  We make light, easy conversation on the way.  It’s a brick three level walk up and her apartment is on the ground floor.  Inside, she opens the door to reveal a well-lit, inviting space.  I look around quickly, appraising the visible rooms. It’s clean, but not meticulous, kind of like her car.  It looks cozy and lived in.

“You can have the shower first,” she offers as she closes and locks the door behind us. “The bathroom’s the second door on the right.”

“No, no.  It’s your apartment,” I insist, waving her off with my hands.  “You get first crack at the hot water.”

“Yes, but you’re my guest,” she pragmatically points out.

“I have to make a few phone calls,” I lie for some unknown reason.  I don’t even have my phone with me. “Go ahead and I’ll get the one next.”

She hesitates, but finally nods.  She disappears into the second door on the right, leaving me alone with my thoughts. 

I amble into the front living room and stand before a large picture window.   Outside the sun is just starting to dip below the horizon and the one-way street is filled with the cars of students, staff, and faculty leaving campus for the day.  I can hear the sound of the shower in the next room being turned on.  And hell if it doesn’t turn me on, too. 

I should leave.  I should just run out of this place before Andrea gets out of the shower.

Honestly, what was I thinking coming home with this girl?  I’m on a job interview for gods sake.  Yes, academia is a little different from the rest of the world.  Things are done a little unorthodox in the Ivory Tower all the time.  But that doesn’t give me permission to hang out with an attractive graduate student with ambiguous sexuality during my on-campus interview.

I hear the shower faucet squeak off and I silently curse.  I glance in the direction of the bathroom.  I could still leave before she emerges, but that might be even worse than me staying.  I should just wait and then gracefully make up an excuse why I have to leave.

Satisfied with my decision, I make my way down the short hallway to the bathroom.  The door opens and a cloud of steam seems to billow out along with Andrea.  She’s dressed in nothing but a tan bath towel, wrapped tightly around her lithe form.  She must have toweled off quickly because her hair is still very wet and small rivets of water drip down her slightly tanned shoulders.

She’s close.  Close enough I can smell the sweet remnant of bar soap on her body.

“The shower’s all yours, Dr. Bethel,” she chirps brightly.  “Hopefully there’s still some hot water left.”

My mouth starts to work, and I’m surprised by the words that tumble out. “Why don’t you call me Izrea, instead?” God help me.  I’m out of control.

She quirks a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Izrea?”

“It’s my first name,” I tell her with a small grin.  “When I was born, my parents couldn’t agree on a name, so they mashed together Isabelle and Andrea.”

“It’s pretty,” she remarks.

I give her a cheeky grin. “Thanks. It’s half your name,” I point out.

We dance around awkwardly in the hallway, trying to get past each other, me to the bathroom and she presumably to her bedroom to finish changing.  With a few laughs and the ducking of heads we finally get past each other. 

I move to shut the bathroom door, but I stand for a few seconds longer than I need to, watching her pad down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom.  Her hair is damp, her curls reawakened from the shower. They lay against her naked shoulders and back.  When she closes her bedroom door behind her, her towel slips down, revealing the small of her back and just the top of a slightly curved buttock. I swallow hard, still inappropriately staring.

+++++

The shower is hot.  Too hot, when all I really need is a brisk cold shower to wash away the inappropriate thoughts I’ve been having about my graduate student hostess. 

I thoroughly towel myself off and realize in a start that I don’t have another change of clothes.  All I have are the slightly damp, slightly sweaty clothes I wore during my run.  I’d changed out of my interview outfit at the hotel and met up with Andrea on campus.  I’d always planned on going straight back to my hotel after the run, not taking a detour to her shower.

I make a face and slip back into the used workout clothes.  Andrea and I are about the same size so I suppose I could always borrow something from her before I can get back to my hotel.  I just don’t want to ask her in my towel.

I gingerly open the bathroom door and peak out into the hallway.  I don’t see her in the living room and the door to her bedroom is still closed.  

I knock on her bedroom door.  “Andrea?” I call through the wooden barrier.

The door violently opens and I’m nearly sucked into her bedroom by the force of it.  She stands in the door jam, her hair damp and falling loose on her shoulders, her tan towel still wrapped tightly around her body.  Her cheeks look flushed.

“I…” I trail off, no longer able to remember why I knocked on her door in the first place.

Her eyebrows rise on her forehead and she waits expectedly for me to finish my thought.  Instead, I find myself leaning in and pressing my lips against the fullness of her slightly parted mouth.

Her mouth is sweet and tentative.  My body running on auto-pilot and sheer idiocy, I run the pad of my thumb along her jaw line, just brushing against her ear lobe and down.  When I hear and feel her sigh into my mouth, I abruptly pull back.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize in a rush. “I shouldn’t have…”

She chews on her lower lip and her dark eyes wobble unsteadily.  She tightens her towel once again around her ample breasts.

“Thanks, uh, for the shower,” I stumble, tearing my eyes away from the naked flesh.  “I should go.”

I hastily grab my things and escape out the front door of her apartment, not really caring if I’ve left anything behind.  I just need to get away from this situation.

Not only have I kissed a woman I hardly even know, I’ve probably just thrown away my chances at getting this job.

+++++

I sit in a coffee shop, killing time before I have to go to the small regional airport.  It will take me less than half an hour to check in and get through security, and from the looks of it when I first landed, the airport has few amenities to occupy my time before my flight.

The rest of my on-campus interview went without incident.  But that might be because I successfully avoide
d Andrea the rest of the trip. Between all the interviews with Deans and Chairs of Departments and Archivists I endured, I’m eager to get on my flight and take a nap.             

I order a coffee and sit down at a small circular table with two chairs.  I rummage through my bag and find the worn novel I already read while traveling.  I thumb through the dog-eared pages and find my spot again, ready to lose myself to a fictional world until it’s time to go to the airport.

I sense someone hovering above me and, out of the corner of my eye, I see a hand set a cup of coffee down at my table.

I glance up quickly, ready to thank the barista for bringing me my order, but the gratitude falls away from my lips when I suddenly recognize who’s brought me my coffee.  It’s not the coffee shop employee.  It’s Andrea.

Her name gets stuck in my throat, and I’m unable to articulate my surprise beyond my stunned silence.  She doesn’t seem to be having the same issues, however:

“You kissed me.”

I drop my eyes, not able to meet her penetrating gaze. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

She sits down in the vacant seat across from me and studies my face. “I’m not a lesbian.”

“I never thought you were,” I quickly counter, “I just…” I don’t know what to say to this beautiful woman. I’ve never felt so tongue-tied before.

“When’s your flight?”

I look at the clock on my phone. “Not until 5,” I tell her.  It’s just barely 2pm now.

“Do you want to hang out at my apartment until it’s closer to your flight?” she offers.

I’m sure my face reveals my surprise.

“It’s gotta be better than spending all your time here,” she says, gesturing to the coffee shop surroundings. “I’ve got cable and wireless, and the coffee’s free.”

I nod, wordlessly accepting her offer.  I stand, my coffee forgotten, and pack my well-worn novel back into my messenger bag.  A question suddenly filters into my mind. “How did you know where to find me?” I ask. “Or is this just a coincidence?”

She ducks her head and grabs my wheeled luggage in one hand. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

+++++

GOD BLESS CRANKSHAFTS

“Bad news.”

The middle management man holds a clipboard between hands that look like they’ve never been dirty before.  The only calluses they’ve ever seen were caused by typing at a computer keyboard for too long.

My eyebrows rise at the phrase,
Bad News
.  What he really means is bad news for my checking account.  My car is a lemon and we all knew it; I’m just too stubborn to give up on it.

The man ushers me into his office – a tiny cubical at the local car dealership.  I sit down heavily in a slightly padded office chair.

“What’s wrong with it this time?” I sigh.

The man, whose name I vaguely remember as being Ken from the numerous times we’d interacted over the years since I’d bought my car just over three years ago, puts on his reading glasses.

“Our tech says it’s the crankshaft,” he tells me, looking at a computer print out. “It’s cracked and needs to be replaced.”

I roll my eyes. “And ho
w much is that going to cost me?”

The man, Ken, pauses and taps a few figures into an oversized calculator.  “About $2000.”

That gets my attention.  I sit up in my seat. ‘What?” I exclaim. “Is the crankshaft made out of
gold
?”

He slides the estimate sheet across the desk towards me.  The numbers jump off the page, mocking me.  Sure enough.  Parts.  Labor.  $2000.

I groan and sink back into my chair.  “Is there a cheaper solution?” I squeak. $2000 wasn’t in my car budget.  With the economy, I wasn’t even sure my car was
worth
$2000.

Ken scratches at the back of his neck. “Well,” he starts slowly, “I’ll have a talk with the tech that worked on your car.”

“Could
I
talk to the tech?” I quickly chime in.  I’m no slouch in the flirting department.  Maybe my Damsel in Distress routine could cut a few hundred dollars from the price tag.

Ken picks up his office phone and presses a few numbers.  “Hey, it’s Ken,” he barks into the receiver. I silently congratulate myself for having remembered his name. “Is Bobby free?”  He pauses, waiting for a response.  “Okay.” 

I look expectantly at the man when he hands up the phone.

Ken pushes his chair away from his desk and stands up. “C’mon,” he grunts. “I’ll introduce you.”
             

Ken brings me to the back of the shop.  A number of cars are elevated on lifts having their tires rotated, oil changed, and more complicated and expensive fixes.  In a far back corner I see my poor little lemon, up on a lift, alongside some other cars.

Over the shrill shriek of ratchet guns, Ken shouts to get the attention of Bobby, the car tech assigned to my vehicle.

“Hey, Bobby!” Ken yells again, his voice not masking his annoyance.

“What?”

I freeze upon hearing the unexpected and yet definitely
female
voice of my car tech. I don’t know what I was expecting.  Maybe a guy with a mullet and a beer belly, who sucked on his teeth.  But whatever I’d mentally prepared for, it certainly wasn’t
her.

The woman inspecting the underbelly of my vehicle rights herself and stares in our direction.  Dark eyes inspect me.  She wears her dark blue jumpsuit unzipped with the top half loose at her waist.  The front of her white tank top is slightly smudged with grease.  She’s rolled the pants at her waist, but they still hang a little low, revealing tanned hipbones and the slightest hint of a tattoo.  I try not to stare too obviously, but it looks like the outline of a star.  Heavy work boots complete an ensemble that should have looked masculine, but everything about this car tech is entirely woman.

The overhead speakers crackle with static and then a loud, bored female voice calls out, “Ken to the front. Ken to the front. You have a phone call.”

Ken looks flustered. “I’ve gotta go get that,” he apologizes to me.  He glances at the female mechanic.  “Are you okay?  She just wants to know more about the repairs.”

She nods at the man. “Don’t worry, Ken. I’ve got this.”

Bobby grabs a rag and wipes her grease-covered hands. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?  I normally never see costumers.  Ken takes care of that end.”

I clear my throat uncomfortably. “I just, uh, before I parted with my money, I wanted to see why the fix was so necessary and so expensive.”

She no
ds in understanding. “What do you know about cars?”

“Besides that the pedal on the right makes it go and the one of the left makes it stop?” I joke.

She smiles and my knees give out.

“So I guess that means you’ve never heard of a crankshaft before, huh?” the woman rhetorically asks.  She pulls on her amber-colored ponytail and I immediately wonder what she looked like with it down, falling in waves around her angular face.

“And here I just thought it was the name of a comic strip about a cranky old man who drove school buses,” I manage to quip.

Bobby chuckles, pulling an even wider smile across her face.  She smiles with her whole face.  Those high cheekbones and crinkles at the corners of her bright blue eyes make me nearly forget about the $2000 bill.  Almost.

“So an engine runs because of pistons, right?” she starts, trying to explain this foreign car stuff to me.  “And the pistons are those cylinder pieces of metal that slide in and out of the engine block.”  She screws up her face, trying to use non-mechanic terms for my sake.  “Um, imagine a big piece of metal with cylinder holes in it.  The crankshaft turns, like a pig on a roasting stick, and it makes the pistons go in and out of those holes.  Yours is cracked, and if it were to snap, your engine would basically explode.  Make sense?”

I blink. “You lost me at engine.”

Instead of getting frustrated like my dad used to do when he’d try to teach me how cars operated, she only smirks. She loosely balls up a fist.  “Let’s try some visuals instead. Imagine this is the engine block,” she says, showing me her hand.  “And this,” she continues, extending her pointer finger on the other hand, “is a piston.”

She slides her finger into the hole she’d created in the loosely held opposite hand.  She continued to talk, although I’m not sure about what, because all I can do is focus on the way her thin fingers are gliding in and out of her ‘engine block.’

As she continues to describe the movement of the crankshaft (at least I think that’s what she’s still talking about), I allow myself to admire this woman’s strong forearms.  A few tattoos decorate her skin; not enough to form a sleeve, but certainly more than I’d be brave enough to have done.  As her hands move, so do her forearms.  They look strong and capable with small, corded muscles.

Her fingers stop suddenly.  I’m not sure if she’s realized just how sexual her hands looked.  Or maybe my head is truly in the gutter.

“Does that make any sense?” she asks, studying my face.

I’m not sure if she knew I’d totally dazed off, watching the fluid movement of her hands, or maybe she just thought I was a total ditz.  Either way, I can only shrug because I still haven’t learned anything.

“Come here,” she coaxes, the hint of a chuckle on her lips. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

I obediently follow her beneath my elevated car and stand beside her. I’ve never seen the belly of a vehicle before and I’m immediately impressed that she knows the function of each part and where it’s supposed to go.  I’m also acutely aware of how close she’s standing.  I swear I can feel her breath, warm against the back of my neck.

“So right here is the crankshaft,” she says, pointing to some area of the car that if pressed, I couldn’t remember.  As she drops her hand back to her side, it brushes against my hip.  Embarrassingly, I jump at her touch.

“Am I making you nervous?” she murmurs.

“No,” I lie. “I missed breakfast this morning and the free coffee in the waiting room’s got me jittery.”

I hear her cluck her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“Is your name really Bobby?” I blurt out.             

“Roberta,” she reveals, her tongue slipping over the lightly accented syllables. “My family’s really traditional Italian and the first born gets the family name.  Plus dad always wanted a son,” she says with a cavalier shrug. “That’s part of the reason I’m so good with cars.”

“And the other reason?” I press.

Her lips twist into a coy smirk, but she doesn’t respond to my question.

I stare up at the belly of my vehicle and a sudden thought crosses my mind. “I thought you said the crankshaft was in the engine.”

I swear I can feel her eyes on me. “I’m glad you’re paying attention.”

“Then why are we down here?” I turn my head to appraise her, and my breath catches in my throat when I find myself face-to-face with her.  Why was she standing so close to me? I turn quickly away and clear my throat uncomfortably.  “So.  The crankshaft…” I trail off.

“I’d love to bend you over the hood of this car,” she practically growls in my ear.

I spin back to her, my face riddled with questions. “Excuse me?”

Her generous mouth twists. “Anyone ever tell you that you wear your emotions on your face?”

I have no words, but I manage to sputter out a few disconnected syllables. 

Bobby grins, that maddeningly cocky smile.  She leans back against one of the poles holding up my car and I cringe, worried
she’s going to dislodge the car.  Pancakes.  People pancakes is all we’d be.

“From the moment you walked in here with Ken, I saw you ogling me.”

I stiffly cross my arms across my chest. “I-I didn’t
ogle
,” I protest.

She pushes herself off the car jack and crosses the short distance between us. “Then what would you call it, Princess?” she challenges me.

My eyes drop, unable to keep up this game of chicken with her. “Fine,” I grumble to the ground. “I was checking you out,” I admit. “But what do you expect a girl to do when you go around looking like that?”

Bobby raises a carefully manicured eyebrow.  The more I inspect her features, she’s surprisingly feminine, despite our surroundings. “I’m covered in grease,” she deadpans. “I’m not exactly looking like a beauty queen.”

“Yeah, but you did that thing with your hands, and I can see your-your hipbones,” I point out, pouting.  “And all those tattoos…” I’m such an idiot.

“You like my hipbones?” she murmurs. I watch her slowly lick her full, bottom lip.  She takes my hand in hers and guides it to that delicious body part. 

Her skin is soft and warm, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from making an uncool moaning noise.  Plus, I can hardly forget that we’re not exactly in private.

She unabashedly cups my breasts through my t-shirt and I can feel my nipples immediately responding through the thin material. 
She tweaks the sensitive peaks, pulling a sharp gasp from my mouth.

It’s not exactly the stuff romance novels are made of.  The air smells like motor oil and antifreeze
, and I’m definitely aware that we’re hardly the only people in the garage.  Luckily, hidden beneath the shadow of my car, wedged between a number of other cars, her wandering hands are mostly hidden from full view.

Emboldened, I rake my short, polished nails against her hipbone.  She grins at me beneath heavily lidded eyes. “Thatta girl,” she mumbles.

She grabs the back of my head and pulls my head back, exposing my neck.  Her lips are hungry against the side of my neck.  Her breath is warm, her mouth hotter.  She holds my head in place with one hand while her free hand continues to manipulate my aching breasts over my vintage t-shirt. 

With her teeth nipping at my neck, causing my knees to buckle, I’m powerless to resist when her hand leaves my breasts and pops open the top button of my jeans.  I only stiffen slightly at the realization that this is actually happening.  My mechanic is unzipping my jeans and sliding her hand down the front of my underwear,
and I’m letting her.

When she finds me hot, wet, and ready, she quietly moans against my skin.  She bites down harder, as if worried I might actually try to leave.  I’m sure to have a hicky there when she’s done with me, but as she spreads my early arousal over my already sensitive clit, I don’t care if she turns my entire neck purple.

Bobby lightens up her hold on me, and licks over the aching spot on my neck.  “Sorry,” she mumbles apologetically into me.  I’m unable to form words, so I only clench onto her hipbone tighter, letting her know that I don’t mind.

Still roaming beneath my underwear, she parts me with the tips of her fingers.  Her fingers slide easily into me and I’m surprisingly not disturbed, knowing the fingers that are currently working to find my G-spot were just a short time ago covered in grease.
Not that I needed the extra lubrication
, I mentally note.

My breath hitches when she pulls the sides of my jeans down my hips.  As much as I desperately want these jeans off, I’m also not about to get naked from the waist down in public.  She seems to sense my hesitance and keeps my pants on, but low enough to continue thrusting in and out.