by P. Dangelico
Maybe abstinence has robbed me of the ability to decipher all things male because I have no clue want he means. Is he bummed that I’m not into him? I sense a hidden question lurking beneath the surface, but who knows. Maybe I’m imagining it.
His eyes are still fixed on the bottom of the pint of ice cream. Annoying. I desperately want to see what the windows of his soul are telling me and I can’t from this vantage point on the dratted couch.
“No. Nothing about you is appealing to me. Not even a lil’ bit.”
Heavy lidded eyes peer back at me, a smirk decorating his mouth. “I’ve caught you staring at my ass, Jones.”
He thinks he can shake my confidence with this? This is child’s play to me.
“That’s because it’s so big. How exactly does one get a butt to bubble like that?”
His lips purse, pink blooms on his high cheekbones. I smother the urge to laugh in his face. It’s about time I had some fun at his expense.
“Skating. Lots of ice hockey when I was a kid. Tennis.”
“I’ve been to a couple of Rangers games and I have yet to see one that looks like yours,” I say, head shaking. “Yours is abnormally bubblicious.”
A coughing fit ensues, a lot of pounding on his chest. “I think you’ve made your point.”
“Besides, I’m not like other women––” For this, I get a snort. I go to lightly shove his hip with my foot and he grabs my ankle, wrapping his long fingers all the way around it, and squeezes.
That feels…crap, that feels good. Too good, in fact. I retract my leg and he lets go. “I’m done with relationships, and marriage is dead to me. It sleeps with the fishes. I never want to hear the word ever again. Besides I’ve got Garrett and Gabriel and the rest of the boys to keep me company.” If that doesn’t shut this topic down for good, I don’t know what will. I watch the corners of his lips creep up around the spoon in his mouth. “But enough about me. Why no girlfriend––or wife, for that matter?”
“Getting the job with the Titans is the only thing on my radar right now.”
“That savors strongly of bitterness,” I respond, quoting Pride and Prejudice. He doesn’t get it because, poor thing, he’s male. The confused quirk of his brow impels me to continue. “What happened? Did you get dumped in the tenth grade by Whitney the WASP queen for Chet the king of the yuppies?”
His expression turns pensive.
“Her name was––is, Hope. She’s a professional tennis player. And she didn’t dump me for Chet, she dumped me for Jake––my older brother.”
My face falls, all humor wiped away. I didn’t expect him to answer, which is why I’m surprised. My surprise, however, is quickly overshadowed by shame. All of a sudden I feel an inch tall. This has got to be tender territory, and with my mouth’s tendency to run as rampant as a bull in a china shop, I may have trampled it, as evidenced by the look on his face.
“Fancy––” I sigh.
“It was a long time ago. I’m over it.” He shrugs, shoveling more ice cream into his mouth. Eyes still ahead, not a single glance in my direction. After which, he licks his bottom lip and I’m back to ogling him. Somebody save me from myself.
“Did you beat the snot out of them? Was there a nice spinning hook kick to the face?”
His chuckle is low and husky. The vibration travels through the air and lands between my legs. I grip my knees together and pray he doesn’t notice.
“Only in my mind. Everyone was very civil. I even went to the wedding.”
“Do NOT tell me you were the best man.”
He gives me a one sided smile that I know is hiding some leftover pain. “No…he asked, though. We were close once, really close.”
For some incomprehensible reason I want to go Hulk right now. I want to turn green, stomp off to find his infernal brother, and beat some sense into him––for Ethan’s sake. I don’t want Ethan to be hurt. I don’t want him to have that look on his face. He’s a grown man and yet I want to pet his pain away. To be clear, this is bad.
“Then what? They ride off into the sunset of their epic love story and you skulk away quietly?” I do my best to temper the anger in my voice, though apparently my best is not very good at all. I can hear myself shrieking and it’s not pretty.
“Then…” He sighs, gazing blindly at the television. “Then, I went back to school, partied too much, got kicked off the tennis team, slept my way through the female student population, and wound up in the ER with meningitis.” His gaze flickers to mine, searching for a reaction, maybe looking for judgment that he won’t find.
“Impressive.”
“Cal saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be dead.”
Wait a minute…dead? I try to imagine never having met him, not having him in my life, and a pain grips me, the likes of which I’ve only felt one other time in my life––when Eileen sat me down and said I wasn’t going to live with her anymore.
“He took me to the ER when I refused to go…even got a black eye for it.”
He’s rendered me speechless. We sit in silence as I process all the stuff he’s lobbed at me.
“Why on Earth couldn’t you leave that part out?”
“Pardon?” He looks confused.
“I have to be nice to him now. Like all the time. Do you have any idea how difficult you’ve made my life?”
He takes a long, hard look at me, his lips twitching in repressed mirth. “I’m flattered, Jones. If you’re even considering being nice to Cal, you must like me a heck of a lot.”
“Slow your roll. It’s not a done deal yet. Being nice to Cal requires a serious amount of like.”
A huge, white grin spreads across his face. A real one, the kind with the capacity to halt trading on the DOW and cause a power outage in lower Manhattan. “It’s an embarrassing amount, isn’t it? You hate yourself for it.”
In a swift change of mood, all evidence of the humor that was on my face seconds ago is gone. Boy did he hit a nerve. That’s what it feels like. Part of me does hate that I like him so much. And that’s the last thing I need, or want.
He sees the look on my face and the smile melts right off of his. “I didn’t mean it, Jones. I was teasing.”
“I have laundry to do,” I mumble, shooting up off the couch. I don’t get far though, because I’m suddenly tackled to the ground, sandwiched face down between the wood floor and two hundred plus pounds of muscle. I struggle for about a half a second before I give up.
“Get off of me, you load.”
His low chuckle tickles my ear and makes me shiver. “Not until you accept my apology.”
“Ever consider going on a diet?”
He flips me onto my back and secures my arms over my head with scary ease, his hips holding mine down, a slow heat working its way along my body. The weight of him alone is giving me enough pleasure to drive a loud sigh up my throat. And by the smug grin he’s just given me, he noticed.
“I was teasing you. I know you don’t like me. You’ve made that very clear.”
I struggle some more. I huff. I refuse to look at him. I do everything to avoid giving him even an ounce of satisfaction. “This is funny to you?”
“A little,” he states with a smile as smug as I’ve ever seen on him.
That’s when I feel a very, very hard protrusion against my leg. The smirk that overtakes my face is downright evil. “Who likes who now?”
“That’s biology. A reflex. I could rub up against a lamppost and it would happen.”
Umm, really? Because I’d be interested in seeing that.
“It’s biology alright, it’s a freaking anaconda!” I shout, feigning appall. “I’m reporting you to PETA for animal cruelty.” Is he blushing? Oh good, he’s blushing. “I’m telling them you keep that thing in inhumane conditions.”
His mild blush turns fire engine red. So naturally smelling blood in the water, I go for the kill. “How many unsuspecting women have you maimed? How many stuck their hands down your pants and drew back a
stump?”
“Shut up, Jones.”
“Or what?” Incredibly immature of me, but also––incredibly satisfying.
His eyes spark with challenge. “Or I’ll make you.”
Something in his tone quells my laughter. I look into determined brown eyes and ignore all the warning signs. “Very cute, counselor. No one’s managed it yet, but I’d like to see you try.”
His lids drop, heavy with what looks like…lust.
Burning brightly, his gaze falls on my lips and my smile falters. Oh crap. Too late. I realize much too late how I played this all wrong, how badly I’ve misjudged him. My wide-eyed gaze meets his. That’s all it takes for him to make his move, for his lips to crash into mine.
At first the kiss is hard, as if he miscalculated in his excitement. Just as quickly he pulls back and softens his touch, brushing his lips back and forth on mine, testing me. In the meantime, I’m frozen. Partly in disbelief, partly because I’m afraid I’ll wake up to find I’m dreaming.
One large hand cradles my face and I’m completely swept away by the tenderness of his touch. Gentle. Reverent. Magic. He slants his mouth and fits it onto mine. And it fits. It fits perfectly, as if he’s tailored just for me. His tongue sweeps the seam of my lips and God help me with a dazed sigh I open for him. He tastes sweet, the ice cream we shared minutes ago still on his tongue, on his pouty bottom lip. He’s ruined rocky road ice cream for me. You can bet that every bite I eat from now on won’t taste nearly as good.
He feels right. Everything about him does. The taste of his lips, the weight and warmth of his body, the smell and feel of his skin. Two pieces of a puzzle locking into place. My hands skate over the tense muscles of his glorious back. Under my fingertips, I can feel the energy coiling tightly within him pulsing, his bare grasp on it. And in the back of my dirty as dirt mind my inside voice keeps telepathically willing him to let go, cut it loose, unleash whatever it is that’s holding him back.
Do it. Do it. Do it, the devil inside my head chants.
He shifts his hips and the head of his erection hits me right where I need to be hit––and hit hard. Instinctually, my body bows into him, desperate for more, longing for everything.
A moment later I feel a cool rush of air as he rips his lips off mine and vaults up onto his feet. I watch him walk away, rubbing his face, his gait awkward as he adjusts the log that’s jutting out between his legs.
“Can’t,” I hear him mumble.
This blows.
Chapter Sixteen
“Her name is Cheyenne. She’s a twenty-two year old model from St. Petersburg––Russia that is, not Florida––and her name is Cheyenne. How much you wanna bet she doesn’t have a drop of Native American blood in her veins?”
We’re both crammed in the Bloomingdales dressing room. Camilla is busy examining the navy dress she has on, pushing her gigantic boobs around as if she could knead them into getting smaller while I sit in the corner doling out orders. Straightening and smoothing the lower part of the dress, eyes still trained on the image in the mirror, she says, “How’s that? How do my boobs look? Be honest.”
“Like you’re hiding two pot belly pigs in your bra.”
She tears her gaze away from the floor length mirror and levels me with a glare I’ve seen her use on her rambunctious third graders. Her lips twitching in repressed mirth, she says, “You know what I’d like to hide? My fist in your eye socket.”
I take a big bite of the Swedish fish I bought at Dylan’s Candy Bar. “Get in line. And you said to be honest.” Pointing my headless Swedish fish at a cream colored dress with dolman sleeves, I say, “Try that one on.” With her skin tone, cream always looks amazing on her.
“I don’t have a single thing that fits me anymore.” She huffs. “If I can’t find something today, you’ll be seeing me in a Hefty bag next.” She strips down to her underwear again. Her body is stunning, big belly and all. Left and right she turns. She turns again, checking herself out in the mirror. Huffing, her lush mouth creeps into a frown.
“Stop showing off,” I snap. “Your mother called me about a baby shower.”
Camilla’s attention whips back to me. There’s violence in her eyes. “I’m only going to say this one more time. I do NOT want a baby shower. I’m fat. I’m mostly in a bad mood. And nothing fits me. My husband keeps buying shit we don’t need. We have so much shit I’m not even unpacking half of it; I’m sending it directly to the Red Cross and some other children’s charities. Which is only making more work for me and Mercedes. So help me God, if someone organizes a surprise baby shower, I will commit bloody murder.”
I chew my candy slowly, my brows halfway up my head. “So you don’t want a baby shower?” Her nostrils flare and I know not to push her any farther. “No wedding and no baby shower. You’re no fun. For the record, I want you to make a big deal out of mine––unless I’m forced to marry my prison mistress, in which case let’s never talk about it.”
“No one is becoming a prison wife. At least, no one I know.” She gives me one of her signature side-eye smirks. “And I had a wedding.”
“City Hall does not count. Speaking of weddings, Parker’s getting married at the botanical gardens.”
Camilla’s large brown eyes widen then narrow. “That’s where you wanted to get married––how do you know?”
“Facebook.”
With a disapproving frown, she says, “I thought we agreed you were going to stop using.”
“It’s either Facebook, or flog myself.”
“I hope he gets gangrene of the testicles.” She says this with a look of pure disgust on her face. This pregnant version of my best friend is proving a lot of fun.
“I like where your head’s at. Speaking of testicles, my roommate is giving me blue balls.” She seems unimpressed by my prior statement so I up the ante. “He kissed me.”
Her eyes cut to mine again, this time sparkling with interest. “He did?”
I slow nod. “It was good, too.”
Good? The understatement of the year. More like burn the house down good, no chaffing dishes required.
“And?”
“And nothing. Nothing can happen. He could get disbarred. Apparently it’s unethical to sleep with your prisoner, or ward, or whatever I am.”
“Imagine that,” the wiseass drawls.
“My book boyfriends aren’t even cuttin’ it anymore.” I point my fifth Swedish fish at her. “This could get ugly if I don’t get laid soon.”
She slips the cream dress over her head. “I’m still processing that you aren’t sleeping with Justin.”
Time for the obligatory eye roll. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Oh, I don’t know––maybe because he was always coming over and hanging out in your bedroom when I lived with you. What else would you be doing in there?”
“Talking. He’s a big talker. There was a small window of opportunity in the beginning. Until he told me I reminded him of his older sister, the one who raised him, and that window closed in a New York minute.”
“Nooo,” she says, choking back laughter as she zips up the dress.
“Yep.” I shove a handful of the gummy bears in my mouth. “Young men. Gotta love ‘em. Be glad you dodged the dating bullet twice.”
Camilla turns toward me, the cream dress hitting her in all the right places.
“What do you think?”
“I think we have a winner.”
Audrey has been texting with alarming frequency lately. Three nights ago, as I was going through my lines for yet another commercial I found out this morning I did not get a callback for, I got this at eleven pm.
Funsize: what’s your favorite type of food?
Me: Italian. Shouldn’t you be asleep?
Funsize: me too!!!!
Me: Easy with the !!!!
Funsize: who was your first kiss and how old were you?
Oh shit sticks.
Me: I was 26 and it was at my engagement party.
Funsize: :(((((((
Me: :/ fine it was Robert Winchell and it was a spin the bottle situation. I was 14.
An egregious lie. I was barely thirteen, but she doesn’t need to know that. The texts didn’t stop there.
Funsize: what’s your favorite color?
Funsize: If you were a Game of Thrones character, who would you be?
Me: You’re allowed to watch GOT??!!
If this is anything like what I put my grandmother through, I would’ve gotten rid of me. The texts eventually graduated to phone calls. This happened last night at…you guessed it, eleven pm.
“What do I do to get a guy I like to notice me?”
Not even a hello. What happened to hello, please, and thank you? My grandmother would have a conniption if she knew.
“Nothing––until you turn seventeen.”
“Come on.”
I chew on her question for a long while. “I don’t think anyone can answer that question, Audrey––Oprah can’t even answer that question.”
“Please, Amber,” she whines.
“Who is this boy?”
“His name is Grady and he plays baseball and draws his own comics and he’s a really good artists.”
“He’s in your grade, right?”
“Yeah. We sit next to each other in art.”
Thank God for small favors. “Well, the short version is that boys are dense and they only see what they want to see. The long version is that sometimes it takes a grand gesture to get their attention.”
“A grand gesture?”
“Yeah, something that puts you under the spotlight and shows them how awesome you are and that they’ve been missing out.” I can’t believe the bullshit coming out of my mouth. However, I suspect she won’t stop until she gets something out of me.
“So…what do I do?”
“Since you noticed how talented he is maybe you can find a way to show him how talented you are.”
