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The whole purpose of attending carnal classes with a certified carnal coach was to invest in her future. Sadly enough, she was thirty years old and she could count on one hand the number of romantic entanglements she’d had in her lifetime.
Actually, she could count them on two fingers. Three if she included her encounters with her good buddy and childhood friend, Dillon Cash. While Meg had been a mega tomboy, Dillon had been a major geek. Either way, they’d both never really fit in with the opposite sex—not romantically—and so they’d turned to each other back in the ninth grade when they’d realized that they were the only ones—with the exception of Connie Louise Davenport, Reverend Davenport’s daughter—in the entire freshman class who hadn’t known how to French kiss.
Okay, so they hadn’t known how to kiss, period. No quick pecks. No slow, lingering smooches. No open mouths and plunging tongues. They’d been fifteen and very green, and so it had seemed like a good idea to work out the awkwardness with each other.
Several hours, a bootleg copy of a Nine 1/2 Weeks video, and a dozen clumsy attempts later, they hadn’t been any more skilled than when they’d started.
In fact, the entire experience had solidified what she’d known from the get-go—Dillon was and would always be just a good friend. She hadn’t liked him like that.
No heart stutters. No tummy tingles. No rip-off-your-pantiesand-go-bonkers lust.
Which was why, despite the experimental kissing, she felt inclined to leave him out of the tally when it came to her sexual past.
That left Oren and Walter. She’d lost her virginity to Oren, aka the Orenator, at the ripe old age of eighteen. He’d been the best defensive end the Skull Creek Panthers had ever seen, and he’d taken them to the state championship during his senior year. And he’d actually liked her, enough to ask her out for Homecoming. They’d gone to the school dance, and then they’d gone parking down by the river.
Ten minutes in the backseat of his daddy’s Chevy listening to recaps of the Cowboys vs. Redskins game, and she’d had enough. She’d thrown her arms around him, pressed her body up against his and offered herself shamelessly. Other than a few initial moments of shock and a frantic “What are you doing?”, he’d finally given in to her persistent lips. She’d lost her innocence along with one of her new hoop earrings and her undies.
Yes!
Not that the experience itself had been all that great. While he’d given in, he hadn’t taken the initiative and swept her off her feet. Rather, she’d taken the lead, pushing and urging and giving a whole new meaning to her nickname Manhandler Meg.
Still, it had been the principle of the thing. It had been the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A chance to start over. To completely forget the tomboy she’d once been and embrace all that was feminine.
Change.
That’s what it had all been about. Meg had grown up being a carbon copy of her father. He’d been a single parent—her mother, a diabetic, had died of renal failure shortly afterMeg’s birth—and an athletics coach at the local high school. Growing up, Meg had been determined to follow in his footsteps. She’d watched him, learned from him, idolized him, and then one day he’d been gone.
She’d been barely seventeen and it had been the start of the summer after her junior year. She’d gone home early to pack (they were going camping to celebrate the end of classes) and he’d stayed late to finish cleaning out his desk. He’d been in a hurry to get home, not wanting to lose their camping spot at a local state park. He’d failed to stop at a nearby intersection and had been hit by an approaching car. That had been the end of him.
And the end of Meg.
The old Meg.
She’d gone to live with her grandparents and, much to their surprise, had packed away her soccer ball and kneepads. She’d ditched her favorite baseball bat and glove, her autographed Troy Aikman football and her lucky San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey. Even more, she’d packed away her all-time favorite sweats and the lucky Dallas Cowboy T-shirt her dad had bought her. She’d taken out a subscription to Cosmo and had learned all the latest fashion trends. She’d even forfeited helping her granddad on his tractor so that her grandmother could teach her how to sew.
In one summer, she’d traded in her love of sports for an infatuation with shoes and clothes and all things feminine, and had started her senior year as a different Meg. A woman determined to forget her past, to bury it right along with her father.
When Oren had chronicled their night on the wall of the boys’ locker room, her undies hanging from one of the locker pegs as proof, she’d been thrilled. The male population of Skull Creek High would finally see her as more than just a competitive edge during game time. She’d been so good at sports that she’d become the best buddy of every male athlete in school. They’d asked her advice on everything from touchdowns to golf putts.
They’d never, however, asked her out.
She’d been convinced that that one wild night with Oren would be enough to change her image.
She’d been wrong.
This was Skull Creek. The classic small town where people left their doors unlocked and the sidewalks rolled up at six o’clock every evening. Forget crime. The most exciting news centered around the occasional boob job or cheating spouse. Strangers were scarce and everyone knew everyone.
And that meant that once she was Manhandler Meg, she’d always be Manhandler Meg.
While she’d managed to change who she actually was, she’d never been able to change everyone’s perception of her.
Not way back when Oren had written about her and the entire football team had assumed it was a really great practical joke—she’d gotten so many high fives that her hand had been raw—and not now that she wore high heels and sexy clothes and ran her own dress boutique, It’s All About You, a small, exclusive shop located on Main Street, smack dab between Dillon’s computer repair shop and the town’s one and only full-service spa, Pam’s Pamper Park.
People still saw her as a chip-off-the-old-Sweeney-block. The women rarely felt threatened and the men…Well, they actually respected her.
While she knew that most females would kill to be valued for their minds rather than their bodies, once, just once, she would like to have a man actually see her as a sex object.
So make a real change, pack your bags and get out of Dodge.
She’d thought about it. But the notion of leaving her grandparents—even though they now lived an hour away in a retirement community outside of Austin, and she only saw them a few times a month—was even less appealing than being known as Manhandler Meg for the rest of her life. They’d helped her through her father’s death, loved her, raised her, and she intended to return the favor. They’d been there for her when she’d needed them the most, and she intended to be there for them when the time came and they eventually needed her. She couldn’t do that if she was God knows where.
Which meant she was here and she was staying.
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