Postcards from America by Rebekah Dodson

Author:Rebekah Dodson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love, menage, international, tryst, beach, billionaire
Publisher: Rebekah Dodson
Published: 2017-12-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen: Jon (Elise)

“IS IT MIDNIGHT YET?” He trailed kisses down my neck.

“Jon, non,” I said, giggling at my rhyme, “not for five more minutes.” I snuggled into his arms and tried to push the horrible events of the day before out of my mind. Giselle’s assault, Michael’s kiss. Jon was making the memories flee so quickly.

“But what if the clock is five minutes fast? Hmm?” He breathed in my ear. “Does that count?”

I turned over in bed to face him. “You know what I crave right now?”

“Me?” he quipped.

After the events of yesterday, I was alarmed to realize the last thing I ate was half an ice cream cone at the zoo, over 12 hours ago. I pushed myself up. “A cheeseburger!”

“Elise,” he looked at me seriously as he said it. “it’s almost midnight. Where would we get a cheeseburger?”

“At the minimart.” I bit my lip. I knew it drove him crazy. Almost as much as how close it was to midnight.

He sighed. “You really want a cheeseburger?”

“And a Slushie.”

“A — really, Elise?”

I sat up, hugging my knees. “Please?”

“Oh Lord, how can I resist that face?” He mumbled, turning over and reaching for his glasses. “You coming?”

“Not right now, but could be later, if you choose,” I said coyly, batting my eyes at him.

He licked his lips. “Are you sure you need that cheeseburger in the next five minutes?”

“Yes,” I told him, nodding. I knew I was driving him crazy, but in my experience, that’s what made it even more better.

“Are you coming or not?” he repeated, and I could tell he was frustrated by my obvious advances. I was playing a dangerous game, I knew, because the last two weeks I’d put him off. France and America had that in common: he was over 18, and I was night. Not until today.

“And miss a chance to visit a twenty-four-hour mart with my favorite man? No way!” I jumped up and pulled my pants from beside the bed.

Jon snatched his keys off the table. “What is your obsession with mini marts?”

I shrugged. “We don’t have them in France. Or, at least that I was allowed to visit. Sean would have just laughed at me.” I puffed up my chest and pointed my finger, in an attempt at a Sean impression. “‘Not now, Cheri,’ He would say, ‘what would your maman say?’”

Jon laughed as he locked the door. “Was he really that bad?”

“No.” I wrapped my arms around me. The night was humid and muggy as ever, but I suddenly felt a cold shiver. “I actually miss him. And my mother and brother and sisters.”

The drive to the store was quiet. Not even the radio played, because Jon hated all the types of new, modern music and preferred his underground bands, as he called it. I didn’t prefer the grungy, quiet lyrics, and we could never agree, so it was easier to leave the radio off.

When we arrived, I was like a kid in a candy store. It was far too late for cheeseburgers, but I had a type of nacho addiction, as Jon called it.

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