Beauty and the Beefcake

by Pippa Grant

  Not even a lip twitch.

  I stare.

  He stares back.

  I barely make it three seconds.

  “Quit it,” I vent as Harold. “You’re making me get curious, and I hate curiosity. It killed the cat. Although, now that I think about it, if curiosity would get that perky Lucy the Cat out of my way so I could have more room to stretch out in the trunk, I wouldn’t mind. Why don’t you make Lucy curious? Oh, right. Because she doesn’t have a brain.”

  “Harold,” I chide, “that’s not nice. Lucy does too have a brain. And a heart, which is more than I can say for you.”

  “Fuck the heart. It gets you in trouble. Look what yours does for you.”

  “That’s a hormone deficiency. My heart works just fine. I cried over you, you know.”

  “Only because you know I’m the star of your shows. Without me, you’d bomb.”

  “With you, I bomb.”

  “Yeah, and who’s got her hand up my ass, lady? Not me. If I had my hand up your ass, you’d actually be funny.”

  “Or in need of psychiatric help.”

  Ares leans forward—holy shit, he’s flexible—and snags Harold by the head. “Bad dummy.” Before I can move, he shoves my puppet behind Gammy’s couch.

  Not that there’s enough room for Harold’s snout.

  Ares gives him another shove.

  “Don’t hurt him!”

  He cuts a look at me. “Be nice to you.”

  “I can’t make him be nice to me. It’s not in his personality.” Yes, I know. I sound like a crazy person. But Harold’s my—well, my grumpapotamus. He doesn’t work so well as the straight guy to my funny woman if he’s nice to me.

  “No. You be nice to you.”

  “Oh.” Right. Because I make him talk. “It’s all just a joke.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Says the man who has a monkey that likes to throw egg rolls.”

  He glances down at his crotch.

  My face flames. Who knew Ares had a dirty joke in him? “Loki.”

  Loki gallops into the room from the kitchen laden with two apples, a fridge magnet in the shape of Virginia, and Gammy’s antique china sugar bowl.

  I whimper.

  Ares rescues the sugar bowl. Loki pouts. Ares hands him something he pulls from under a couch cushion—a piece of dried mango? Why is there dried mango in Gammy’s couch cushions?—and the monkey dashes up the stairs.

  “Gammy’s going to kill me,” I mutter.

  “Gammy likes monkeys,” Ares says. With a smirk.

  Now my face is boiling, because I’m almost positive he’s implying Gammy likes the sausage kind of monkey, not just the primate kind of monkey. “How do you know?”

  “Told me.”

  There go the shivers.

  “Her ghost,” he adds.

  I don’t know if I’m more freaked out that Ares is talking and making sense, or that he’s claiming to have talked to Gammy’s ghost. Either way, my shivers are getting the shivers.

  “You saw Gammy’s ghost.” There. A little sarcasm. I’ll play it off like he’s making things up.

  He nods to the bobble heads. “Talks to me.”

  I gasp.

  He cracks a grin.

  A broad, no-shame, gotcha grin. I grab the throw pillow behind me and fling it at him, and something clatters on the coffee table while he easily catches the lumpy, 70’s shag orange pillow.

  “You are so—” I stop myself with a gasp.

  Gammy’s antique sugar spoon. That’s what clattered to the table.

  I know I didn’t bring it in here.

  Did I say shivers?

  I meant full-body skin spasm. “Did you put that spoon in my chair?” I whisper.

  Even a blind man could read the no, dumbass in his expression.

  Loki did it, I tell myself.

  Gammy’s ghost can’t move physical objects. It had to be the monkey.

  But if anyone’s ghost could move physical objects, Gammy’s ghost could.

  “Ice,” he says with a point at my face.

  “I took that spoon out of the dishwasher and put it in the drawer Monday morning. So how did it get in here? Loki wasn’t in the kitchen when it went missing. I know he wasn’t.”

  He watches me for a minute like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “Cows,” he finally says.

  Now I know he’s fucking with me. “Very funny, smartass.” I flick one of his toes on his good foot. Quicker than I can blink, he snags my hand. Electricity buzzes up my arm, and I suck in a surprised gasp.

  Not that I’m surprised anymore at how my body reacts to Ares.

  No, that gasp is all courtesy of the current that snaps through the air when I meet his gaze.

  His blue eyes are clear and steady, radiating with intensity, watching, studying, learning.

  Leaning closer.

  Testing the boundaries.

  My heart’s drumming in my chest. I’m leaning in too.

  How could I not?

  He saved Harold. He shoveled away Soggy Dick Cookie Mountain. He came running when Gammy’s ghost moved the door and I walked into it.

  He’s a big, burly beefcake. With a heart.

  And I’ve already gone and imagined myself having sex with him more than once.

  I should say something. Quit leaning closer. Stop looking at his full lips. His wide mouth. The dark stubble. His strong jaw.

  I should definitely not touch him.

  Except my fingers have somehow found their way to his sandpaper skin, and his lids are lowered, and he’s caressing my temple, right above my sore eye, so gentle despite the size of his fingers.

  He could crush me with a single hand. Probably even with his pinky.

  But I don’t believe he could hurt anything. Not a fly. Not an animal.

  Not a soul.

  This is when I should say something. Break the spell. I should not kiss Ares Berger.

  But I kinda can’t help myself.

  My lips part. My eyes drift shut. A moment of panic settles in.

  I’m going to be that girl leaning in for a kiss, just to find out he’s not staring at my mouth, but rather investigating the bloody snot leaking out my nose. Or that he’s secretly fascinated with teeth and wants to know if I have all of mine.

  Or maybe he’s looking for the second mouth I hide inside for making my puppets talk. Swear on Gammy’s grave, I went out once—once being the key word—with a guy who really believed I had a second mouth inside my mouth, and if Ares thinks the same, and all he wants is to see where the ventriloquist magic happens, I’ll—

  Oh.

  Oh, my.

  His lips brush mine, smooth and firm, and a whole butterfly garden takes flight in my belly.

  He’s naked.

  Naked and kissing me.

  No, not kissing. Caressing. Worshipping my mouth with his. Tender, as though I’m a treasure to be savored.

  Even when he scrapes his teeth over my lower lip, it’s gentle. Slow. Luxurious.

  I’m usually a jump-right-in kind of girl. Tear our clothes off, get right to the tonsil hockey, see how fast we can both get breathless.

  But this—a slow, leisurely kiss—is making my nipples ache and my pussy clench.

  I lick at his lips. He answers with a gruff moan and slides his tongue against mine.

  Slow.

  Sweet.

  Torture.

  I’m getting so wet.

  And he’s barely touching me. Just one hand stroking my hair, his mouth seared to mine.

  I slide my fingers down his neck, to the hard ridge of muscle where his neck and shoulders meet. His skin is hot satin over solid rock. I trail my hands lower, and goosebumps erupt under my touch.

  He angles deeper into our kiss, his other hand cradles my neck, and I melt.

  I just melt.

  Into the kiss, into his touch, into his essence.

  There’s no noise here.

  It’s all sensation. The slide of his
velvet tongue against mine. His smooth, intoxicating scent. The roughness of his stubble against the sensitive skin around my lips. The pulse of anticipation in my clit. The empty ache in my core. The desperate need for him to touch my breasts.

  To suck on my nipples. Graze them with his teeth. Cup me in his big hands.

  Worship my body the way he’s worshipping my mouth.

  Put that tongue to my pussy—

  Oh, god. I need him to touch me.

  Touch me and lick me and fill me and—

  And Nick’s going to kill us both.

  Fuck.

  I break free, panting hard. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I mean, I’m not sorry. You’re—that—wow. But Nick—the team—your ankle—we shouldn’t—”

  He’s good, but not good enough.

  I catch the flash of hurt before the placid mask of Ares Berger, silent enigma, returns.

  “So, awkward,” I vent as Lucy. “You know what cures awkward? Ice cream! Except Felicity doesn’t have any because she’s dairy-free! How about a soy protein bar? Protein’s important for recovery!” I bolt to my feet and head to the kitchen.

  Nick is going to kill me.

  Or he’s going to kill Ares.

  One of us.

  Except it was just a kiss. Just a kiss is nothing. It’s not like we slept together and he went crazy and decided that I needed to always refer to him as The Green Lord when we went out in public and timed me to make sure I brushed my teeth for two whole minutes, no shaving seconds, every morning and evening.

  Yes, yes, I’ve had some seriously screwed up boyfriends.

  Maybe it’s not them.

  Maybe my vagina is hexed. Yeah. Gammy hexed my vagina.

  Clearly that’s the logical reason for my bad taste in men.

  I thump my head against the refrigerator handle, forgetting about my eye and nose, and stifle a yelp when pain radiates through my face so Ares doesn’t come charging in here.

  “Or I have eggs,” I call with a grimace.

  I hate eggs. They’re half the reason I went vegan. I get why other people eat them, but they’re just so weird. I’d never eat the eggs out of my own ovaries, so why do people basically eat chicken placentas?

  I’d complain about the texture too, except I’ve taught myself to eat tofu, so I kinda don’t have any right.

  Ares doesn’t answer.

  Of course he doesn’t.

  I lean over and peek in the living room.

  He’s gone.

  Gammy’s blanket is still on the couch though. Missing half a row now. But the yarn ball is there.

  Right next to a big old pile of guilt.

  I shouldn’t have kissed him.

  But I kinda want to do it again.

  If I kiss him again, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to stop at kissing.

  Ares Berger is under my skin.

  And I don’t know how to get him out.

  Or if I even want to.

  17

  Ares

  She’s hard on herself.

  Has all these expectations.

  But what does she want?

  Does she want me?

  Fuck if I know. Doesn’t matter. I’m used to it. So used to it, I don’t let myself want anything.

  Not easy some days.

  Like today.

  This morning, she used all her character voices to talk around me over breakfast. Even added me to the conversation using her voices. Talked about school. About clinicals. About her show. About the game.

  Only thing that lit her up was talking about the show. Was some want when she talked about the game though.

  Some want when she’d meet my eyes.

  Only happened twice.

  Let her go to work alone—didn’t like it, but if I miss my appointment with the team doc, I’m not getting back on the ice next week. Took Loki with me. Made some new friends. Got wrapped up in watching highlights from the game the other night. It’s my job. How I stay smart on the ice.

  Watch.

  Study.

  Learn.

  The figures, the patterns, the plays—they make sense.

  I want back in the game. On the ice. Where I belong.

  Felicity’s quiet when she gets home from work. The loaded kind of quiet. She’s got a black eye, and her nose is bruised too.

  Must’ve hit that door hard.

  Like she was running or something.

  Don’t like seeing her hurt. Or the idea of her pretty face messed up.

  It’s just a face.

  Pretty isn’t everything. Pretty isn’t hardly anything.

  But she shouldn’t hurt. Shouldn’t be injured.

  She comes down the stairs about dinnertime with a medium-size chest in her hands. With her puppets, probably. Got a show tonight. A slot in open mic night.

  We’re leaving Loki home, because he’s tired. Long day. Lots of people. Monkey passed out on my bed.

  “You don’t have to come,” she tells me, not meeting my eyes. “Maren and Kami will be there.”

  I follow her into the kitchen and watch.

  Study. Learn.

  She’s nervous. Not the same kind of nervous she was when I got here either. It’s a different energy.

  I know that energy.

  It’s wound up in my chest too.

  “Work?” I ask.

  “Hm?” She looks up from digging in her trunk. “Oh. Work. Work was fine.”

  I hold her gaze.

  She goes pink in the cheeks and looks away. “No one hit on me inappropriately, no ex-boyfriends showed up, and I didn’t walk into any other doors.”

  Like she’s thinking about last night.

  About the kiss.

  Now I’m getting pink too.

  Damn good kiss.

  Gave up kissing for fun a while ago. Doesn’t do anything for me anymore. All these people around me, pairing off, growing up, making their own families, falling in love—I’m tired of kissing without love.

  But I want to kiss Felicity again.

  Keep her from kissing anyone at Chester Green’s.

  Keep her from ever going back.

  “She did spill her lunch all over her keyboard though,” she offers without moving her lips in her happy voice.

  “Nice, Lucy,” she answers herself in the voice that’s not Harold. So, Tim the Goat. Saw Tim on YouTube. Scruffy goat. Monocle. Suit with suspenders. “Why don’t you tell him about her walking around with toilet paper stuck to her shoe too?”

  “That didn’t happen, Tim,” Lucy answers.

  “It almost did.”

  “You shouldn’t follow ladies into the ladies’ room.”

  “He’s in her fucking head, you dumb cat. We all are.” There’s the grumpy Harold. I don’t like Harold. He’s mean to Felicity. Mean to everyone.

  She put her exes in Harold.

  Pain isn’t bad. Learn from pain. Grow from pain. But she hasn’t learned from hers.

  “You talk too much,” she grunts.

  As me.

  Her face flames. She shuts the case. “Sorry. Show nerves.”

  I can fly around a rink chasing a puck, pose for pictures benching a steel beam with half my team sitting on it, but I don’t do stages. Break out in hives thinking about her getting up on a stage.

  Talking.

  As three puppets and herself.

  Fuck, that takes guts.

  Singing on stage? Yeah. That’s fun.

  Talking?

  No. Fucking. Way.

  That’s pain that won’t help me grow. And I don’t need it.

  But her?

  “You’re good,” I tell her.

  She ducks her head. “You should really stay off your ankle.”

  Probably.

  Pain’s blending into the background though. Just part of my existence. Helping me grow.

  She fists her hands on her hips and frowns at me. “You know Nick dropped you off here so I’d keep you off your feet, right?”

  “Gammy likes me
,” I reply, because it’s a good, what’s he talking about? answer.

  Don’t want to talk about my feet.

  Gammy’s ghost rocks in a chair upstairs. Or so the sound suggests. Z would say the house was settling.

  Me?

  Don’t know if ghosts are real.

  Don’t know if they’re not.

  Felicity’s watching the ceiling. “Probably so,” she agrees. “But she likes Nick too, so clearly she has terrible taste.”

  One of the pipes bangs.

  She winces.

  I amble across the kitchen to grab her chest. Trunk, I mean. Not her boobs.

  She swats me in the arm. “Quit. Hurting. Your. Ankle.”

  “Leave. Ghost get you.”

  “Gammy’s ghost isn’t murderous. Who would she torture if she killed me?”

  “Not Nick,” she answers herself as Lucy.

  “But Mrs. Pendleton down the street is a distinct possibility,” she says as Tim. “Even though we’d all vote for Harold.”

  “I heard that, you fucking goat.”

  “You’re just jealous that my head fits in this case.”

  She’s funny.

  Possibly has a personality disorder, but she’s funny.

  “You should see somebody about the voices in your head,” she grunts as me.

  She’s been doing that—talking as me—but not reading my mind.

  I twitch.

  “You’re not always hard to read,” she grumbles to me. As herself. “And I do not need medication. Thank you very much. Maybe if you’d talk once in a while, I wouldn’t have to talk for all of us.”

  “Quit picking on him, Felicity,” happy-go-lucky Lucy says. “I happen to like quiet men. There are enough blowhards in the world. So refreshing to meet one who’s not a big old windbag.”

  She shoves two crutches at me like my heart didn’t just do another double-take.

  Z’s the only one who ever knows what I’m thinking—when it’s not obvious, I mean. Anyone can call someone else a dumbass without talking. And anyone can rub their stomach and get food.

  Not everyone can appreciate the value in not adding to the noise.

  “Rare man indeed who only talks when he has something worth saying,” she agrees with herself, this time as the goat.

  I don’t rub my chest, though I want to. Instead, I prop myself dutifully on the fucking crutches.

  And not just because the doc threatened to keep me off the ice next week too.