Ravished

1 ZEKE The Winoma Theater was the perfect symbol of pornographic abundance. My cork boots crunched toward the building, which looked like a Swiss Chalet, with an actual colonnade of redwood trunks. I took in the two lines of huge, dead trees—bark still on—standing in rows big enough for a brontosaurus to walk through. This town had a lot of show-off buildings left over from the days when a single tree filled an entire train car and men came up with fanciful architectural ideas to display their wood like a woman wears heels. Those days were gone. At present, this place was like many other blue-collar towns in the U.S., short on raw materials and long on hardship. The luxurious show pieces left over by lumber barons were a slap in the face in contrast to all the people living in a single-wide and relying on general assistance every month. Tonight's gathering was just one more opportunity for public comment on a topic that affected us all—continued land use, or not, in and around the watershed of the Emerald River. And she would be here. There wasn't a seat in the house, and before I could make my way down the faded, red-carpet aisle of the theater, about twenty people tried to stop me and chat. The only person I cared about seeing was her. Where was she? I kept moving, on a mission, patting every shoulder I came across and responding with a courtesy nod and, "Good to see you." My gaze homed in on two empty seats on either side of a female who brushed her long red hair back over her shoulder, where it fell loose and lustrous like a horse's tail. On command, as soon as she flipped that shiny silk, my c**k slammed against my pants. I'd spot that lustrous hair of hers in any crowd. It called to me, my palms itched to run it through my hands, and I had the urge to bury my face in it. Inhale her. I knew I was keen to see her again, but this was ridiculous. Like being back in high school. Kind of fitting, since that was where we met. "Don't bother, kid." The unmistakable, gravelly expression of Bert the diesel mechanic from Redwood Lumber, who’d gotten laid off about the same time I did—ten years ago. When the logging operation that employed most families in the county had gone bust. "There's a reason nobody's sitting next to her." "Why's that?" I asked, not revealing that I knew good and well who she was. "She's snappy as a baby rattler, that one. Not to mention two scoops of grumpy in a bowl full bitchy. Not bad to look at, though. Bet she's a spitfire in bed." He rocked back on his work boots, speculating. My voice became ice—cold and sharp. "Don't talk about her like that. She's a lady, and a professional. She deserves our respect." Truth was I didn't want him talking about Bunnie like that because I considered her to be mine. No matter if we hadn't seen each other in fifteen years. Time had a way of making crystal clear what really mattered. Bunnie mattered. I noticed Bert staring long and hard at her in spite of my territorial warning, waiting as I did for her to turn around. He rocked back on his heels, enjoying the little bit of insight he had on the topic in which I was demonstrating clear interest. I couldn't take my eyes off her. "Oh, trust me. The whole town is aware of her professionalism. Bunnie Petite is lead scientist over at LDH Resources Management. Just one more reason nobody wants to take a seat next to her. No project moves ahead unless she signs off on it." "Now, Bert, just ’cause she's in charge of our compliance with new regulations doesn't mean we can't all get along, does it?" I felt the unfamiliar sensation of animal l**t gnaw at me again, one that urged me to get closer to her so I could see if she still smelled the same. Like freshly squeezed oranges. And her natural scent. "There's a reason you're in your line of business, Zeke. Takes a lot of balls to fell and climb trees. Not just any man can do it." He took one last admiring look at Bunnie, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "I wish you all the best." I walked down the aisle to where she sat, and that was how I learned it took a special kind of stupid to piss off a redhead and expect calm. She wore some kind of garment—a wrap or poncho—one of those damned things females put on, designed to hide every hint of flesh or swelling curve possible. It made me obsessed with what I would find if I parted the fabric of gold and fire and took it off her. Somehow, I managed to sound semi-normal when I asked, "Anyone sitting here?" She shook her head, not gifting me with a greeting, an introduction, or a glance. Her distance made me want to stroke and pet right out of her the aloofness in which she wrapped herself. So, we’re going to play it that way, are we? I offered her my hand. "Zeke Midas." She actually refused to take it. "Bunnie." And she had the audacity to follow it up with, "We've met before, and I wasn't impressed the first time." That stung. More than a little. I took a seat, hiding the fact that her sass made my tongue twitch to tantalize and tease her open. "Granted, there are no strangers in a town the size of ours, but I wouldn't have forgotten meeting you." I knew she had every reason to be pissed with me. Not contacting her for fifteen years after she went off to college, even though we’d been best friends. Kind of. I’d done it for her. She was meant for better things than this backwater town, and I didn't want to hold her back. It surprised the hell out of me when I heard she was coming back of her own accord, to live alone on the piece of land left to her by her grandma. Her comment snapped me back to the present. "Biology 101. Ms. Lindsey's class. I tutored you every Wednesday after school, and in turn, you kept Trisha Hensen and her mean girls off my back." "Blanca!?" I carved my hands through my hair, held it off my face, and released it again, staring at her openly. "Hmph. Go ahead. Say the rest of it." She tilted down her adorable little well-defined chin. "Blanca the Tonka." I had always found her pretty, but since the last time I saw her, it was like someone had shoved layers of frosting off her face to reveal the bone structure below, and she was stunning. "You do look different now. And I like your new name, Bunnie. It suits you." I c****d my head. "I never thought of you that way. That was a cruel nickname." "Trust me, I get it. When you're fat, people ascribe a certain personality to you. Same goes for when you're not. I've learned that as a shapely woman, you're just a piece of meat to most men.” She tapped her foot and crossed her arms, and I leaned into the hot sigh of disgust she expelled so hard, it hit my cheek. “And people wonder why I can't be bothered. Superficial fucks." Baby rattler, shoot. Bert didn't know the half of it. Some of the rednecks around here accused Bian—Bunnie's grandma of being a witch. I was beginning to believe Bunnie herself was a practitioner of bitchcraft, not witchcraft—the art of pissing people off while smiling sweetly. And moments later, when she took the stage, my inkling came to life in front of my eyes. She climbed the stairs on the side of the stage on her way to the podium and tossed the end of that fiery-colored cloak around herself again, shrouding her body in secrecy. It was as if she couldn't rid herself of the gesture from the past, hiding her body any way possible, whenever possible. Only now, the only thing she had to hide were curves that made her look n***d even though she wore clothes. I was never a man to believe that sexy was a size, but Bunnie sure as hell was a size sexy now. And she hid it with that confounded cape of hers. It was impossible to see her figure now that she was covered up again, so why did I have the overwhelming urge to nuzzle the inside of her thigh and discover her distinctive scent? I wanted to rip that stupid poncho off of her, throw it on the ground, and bury myself in the fantasy I'd harbored for the past fifteen years. Sure as s**t, if Bunnie knew I'd been thinking of her all this time, waiting for a chance to be with her, she'd consider me crazy as a loon. And judging by how she had me horny as a red deer, I wasn't sure I'd disagree.