Aroused

by Clover Hart

“Nothing with eel,” she says firmly.

  “I thought I had the ordering reins.”

  “If I see any eel, I walk.”

  So I order that snooze-worthy California roll as well as a Philadelphia, then I throw in some curveballs: octopus nigiri, a creamy scallop roll, a fried Pacific roll, and the pièce de résistance — a salmon roe roll.

  I’m not telling her what that one is just yet.

  The conveyor belt has been moving with sushi plates on it, and we’ll have to wait for ours to arrive as soon as our order is prepared. In the meantime, a server brings us a pot of green tea, and I pour some for her.

  I watch her face as she tastes it, then lifts a mischievous eyebrow at me.

  “Don’t look so pleased with your prowess at introducing me to something new,” she says. “We sell green tea at Screaming Beans.”

  The only word I heard was prowess.

  I recover in enough time to say, “But have you ever had green tea ice cream?”

  “Yuck.”

  “Now where’s that open mind?”

  She puts down her cup, then taps her head. “Right here. It’s as open as a Venus flytrap.”

  I almost choke on my tea. Jesus, I know the Venus flytrap is a carnivorous plant, but has Mandy ever gone online to read the Urban Dictionary for the alternate definition?

  Is she baiting me with innuendos, or is my over-stimulated libido misinterpreting everything?

  She doesn’t give me a look that tells me she’s in on the double meanings, and her innocence gets me even hotter.

  I ask her if she wants some sake, telling her it’s a fermented rice drink, but she wrinkles her nose at that, saying it sounds disgusting and that sushi is enough of an adventure for tonight. I suspect she’s wary of drinking around me, and with the looks I must be giving her every time she inadvertently makes my dick twitch, I don’t blame her for not wanting to let down her hair.

  God, what would her hair look like if she did let it down …?

  Thank God for the conveyor belt, which brings us our first two rolls — California and Philadelphia. Distracted as hell, I prepare a cup of soy sauce mixed with the barest bit of wasabi for her.

  “The green stuff’s got a kick to it,” I say.

  I transfer slices of both rolls to her plate, and she looks at them as if they’re obstacles to tackle. Then, without any fanfare, she picks up the California bit with her fingers, dips it into the sauce, and throws it into her mouth.

  I’ve seen girls who nibble at their sushi or delicately use chopsticks, but not Mandy. This girl has an appetite.

  She chews experimentally, and when she smiles, looking less skeptical, I smile back.

  After she swallows, she doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of being right about the fact that, by the end of the dare, she will like sushi.

  “What’s next?” she asks.

  I introduce her to the Philadelphia roll, and she tries the smoked salmon, cream cheese, and cucumber combination. She closes her eyes for a second before opening them again, obviously still withholding her approval, even though she can’t hide it from me.

  Finally — something she can’t stop herself from admitting, even silently.

  When she goes to work on another slice, I grab the creamy scallop and octopus rolls when they arrive on the conveyor belt. After I dared Mandy to get sushied with me, I had my doubts about how my impulsive dare would turn out, but I’m enjoying this. I’m waiting for us to start arguing again — or whatever it is we do — but I’ll take what I can get for now.

  “So you go to school,” I say over the music, which has switched to a bouncy song from the Japanese version of a boy band.

  She stops chewing, swallows heavily, and drinks some tea. Then she says, “Sure, I go to school. But it’s definitely not Stanford.”

  She says it as if she’s kind of embarrassed, so maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  Then she shrugs. “I got a late start on my plans, so I’m at Cherry Valley Community College working on my general ed requirements before I go any further.” She plays with another sushi slice. “I actually didn’t plan to go to school until I realized that my options for employment would probably be limited to things like food service or farming, or logging if I moved up to the mountains. Ever since the crash of 2008, the choices have been lean.”

  I pick up a creamy scallop slice with chopsticks and put it on her plate. “What’re you going to be when you finish your degree, Mandy?”

  Mandy. I think it’s the first time I’ve said her name to her since we introduced ourselves, and it sounds intimate, as if we’re doing more than having a casual time eating “ew” food. The sound even makes the hairs stand up on my arms, as if her name has skimmed down my flesh in a slow tease.

  From the way she’s just sitting there with a look in her eyes that I can’t translate, I wonder if she’s feeling the same way I am.

  But then she picks up the creamy scallop. “I’m studying science with the hopes of maybe becoming a large-animal veterinarian. But it’s going to take a lot of time and classes.”

  Impressive. I suspect she’s a few years younger than I am, and she said she was a late starter, but if she wants to be a vet, she’s got ambition, especially since she implied that her family is like Barry’s — not incredibly supportive.

  “Did I hear a ‘maybe’ in there?” I ask, wondering if her family is the cause of that.

  “I don’t know. Did you hear one?”

  As if wanting to change the topic, she snags an octopus bit and quickly dips it and downs it. She looks very pleased with herself because she hasn’t gagged or barfed up seaweed and aquatic creatures yet.

  I allow her to get away with dodging my questions, but only because the salmon roe roll is coming down the belt. As I grab the plate, she takes one look at the orange eggs topping the rice and seaweed and makes a repelled face.

  “Is that some mutated form of eel?” she asks. “You’d better not be messing with me.”

  “Not eel.”

  “Then what is it? Bath beads?”

  “Chicken,” I say, putting some on my plate.

  “It’s chicken? Did it go through radiation or something?”

  I shake my head. “I just called you a chicken. And here I thought you were doing pretty well, plowing through the sushi like Hulk smashes walls.”

  She points at the roe. “I was until … this.”

  “They’re only fish eggs.” I don’t add that salmon roe is also known as caviar. “So are you or are you not as tough as I thought? Do you have a belly of steel? Do you—?”

  At my taunting, she grabs the slice, dips it, and pops it into her mouth, all with a rebellious expression.

  Hell yeah — my teasing worked like a charm.

  From her demeanor, I think she’s about to make like a little kid eating liver for the first time, opening up her mouth and letting everything fall out in a clump, then doing one of those slow crying jags because of the fishy, salty, gooey assault. But then she swallows it.

  True, she grabs her water and drinks it as I laugh, but before I know it, she’s laughing, too.

  “Damn you and your nasty sushi,” she says.

  Yet she’s already going for more Philadelphia roll as if she’s taken to at least that.

  Maybe, if I’d met her in the city and she were more my type, I’d even be hoping that there’s a chance she’d take to more than the sushi tonight, but it looks like this dare is done.

  After tonight, it’s over and out.

  Chapter 12

  Mandy

  So maybe I was wrong about tonight.

  Just a smidge.

  I actually had a good time with the nerd in that crazy sushi place. And now that Zach is driving us back to Cherry Valley, I can safely admit that the food wasn’t half bad (although I do think I want to marry a Philadelphia roll someday). It was actually nice and light, and even though I snarfed up a good deal of it along with some green tea ice cream (Come on over t
o my house anytime, baby!), I don’t have that heavy feeling in my stomach.

  I even asked Zach if he was still interested in having one cup of that sake stuff after our feast, and the drink was sweet but strong, giving me a wee buzz that’s still winging through my head.

  As I cuddle into the soft, soft seat of the fancy-schmancy BMW, I vow that I’m not going to tell Zach any of this. He’d be all I told you so and that would be a win for the city boy over the country girl. Also, I hate being talked into things, and he’s going to think he accomplished that. Sure, he got me to the sushi place, but only because I had to show him once and for all that I can’t be messed with, sort of like a feline marking its territory and announcing the lines it won’t allow anyone to cross.

  By the way, I didn’t have to pee to do that or anything. Just sayin’.

  I stare out the window, watching the fields pass by and going back to thinking that sushi really is okay maybe, but it still doesn’t belong in Cherry Valley.

  Zach turns off the radio, and it’s like he’s snapping his fingers to get my hazy attention.

  The lack of Toby Keith is a bad omen. “Are you ’bout to put on some of that indie junk you switched to earlier?”

  “You don’t want more Captain Beefheart?”

  I laugh. “That stuff sounded like someone put on five songs at one time and then flushed everything down a toilet. Sadly, the toilet was the best part.”

  “Ah, Mandy, I only wish there was a restaurant I could take you to for musical taste.”

  Is he saying he wants to open my little mind again to bigger and better culture? Hah! But at the thought of another dare, my pulse wiggles through me.

  There’ll be no more of that.

  Before I can offer a comeback, I’m surprised to see the faded wooden “Welcome to Cherry Valley” sign pass by us, and I sit up straighter.

  The dare’s drawing to a close.

  Zach’s voice is low in the night. “Did you park downtown?”

  “No, my place is one street over from Screaming Beans. I walked.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  It’s dark out, and one look at the clock tells me it’s later than I realized. Zach and I ate and slung sharp comments at each other until Dragon Ass closed down.

  So I give him directions to Pitt Lane, where I’m currently housesitting a condo. When we enter the complex, Zach seems as if he’s got some questions as he drives us past the neatly trimmed trees, scrubbed brick facades, and subdued lights.

  I lean my temple against the headrest and face him. “I know what you’re thinking. How does a girl who can’t even afford a new computer live here?”

  “Are you with your parents?”

  Ouch. I wish I hadn’t told him about my late start in college and how I don’t even have my life remotely together yet.

  “No,” I say. “They live off the road going to Marloe. I’m actually housesitting here, if you can call it that. One of my high school friends, Lil, is a flight attendant, and she’s hardly ever home. She’s based out of Marloe and actually lives there with a bunch of girls, but she inherited the condo from her parents and doesn’t want to sell it. The situation works out for both of us.”

  I’m too mortified to add that I’m twenty-five and I’ve barely escaped living with parents. That’s just so sexy.

  I gesture toward a parking place near the shrub-lined path that leads to the condo, and he pulls the BMW into it. I’m ready to thank him quickly for footing the bill for a great, enlightening night out, then dash out the car door. Maybe I’ll see him again at Screaming Beans, maybe not. He’ll be gone soon anyway, because it didn’t look like Barry was a big fan of Cherry Valley, and they’ll no doubt find a better place for FCT.

  But Zach has already cut the engine, gotten out, and is coming around to open my door.

  Anxiety begins a slow walk through my stomach, electric fingers making the lining of it tremble. Shouldn’t he have just said so long and farewell here in the car and dropped me off?

  As he opens the door, I send him a small smile and step out of the car. I walk on the brick path, hearing his footsteps behind me, and I focus on the light over my door. The Japanese sake is still making my blood high.

  It has to be the sake.

  “I can get home from here,” I say. “But thanks so much anyway.”

  “I’m going to see that you get safely inside.” His tone doesn’t encourage me to bicker with him. He means it.

  Shivers zing around my belly now, and I reach into my front pocket for my key. I’m ready to burst through my door, give him a friendly wave, and wish him well forever and ever.

  “Okay,” I say over my shoulder as we reach my stoop. “This is it. Really, thank you.”

  Do not cross this line of pee, mister.

  He doesn’t cross it, but he doesn’t go anywhere else either, waiting behind me as I start to put my key in the lock.

  “It was a good time, Mandy,” he says.

  The night is slightly bracing. I can feel a bit of chill on my face. When I turn all the way around, Zach’s own cheeks have two ruddy patches on them, bringing out those blue, blue eyes. Sigh, those eyes. I almost want to go back to him, slip off his glasses, and …

  Nope.

  Too many reasons not to do that, and all of them are damned good ones.

  But he’s still standing there, towering over me as if he wants something. He’s got that look. I recognize it.

  My mind does everything it can to smack some sense into me. It even reminds me once again about those baboons and how they operate: before one approaches another for some hot stuff, they stare. And when they stare enough, one of them grooms the other, and that leads to the very thing I’m trying to avoid here.

  If he wants what I think he wants.

  Does he?

  I’m sufficiently cooled off now, and I just smile at Zach, then say, “Well, it looks like I’m all paid up. I honored my side of the agreement.”

  “Yes, you did. You took my dare and expanded your small world with the help of much sushi.”

  Is he crowing about it? I knew he would.

  “Braggart,” I say.

  “Me?” He points at himself, and really, does he have to be so cute when he does things like that?

  “Yes you,” I say. “And I wouldn’t go around boasting about how I’m the one who could use some culturizing.”

  “Is that even a word?”

  “It’s my word. I claim it.” I motion grandly, thanks to the sake. “Cities aren’t the only places with culture, Hamilton.”

  “I think this is where you tell me Cherry Valley has some.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, and for a second, he looks disappointed, as if he thought he was getting somewhere. And maybe not even in a romantic way with me, but in the way he wants to get somewhere with Cherry Valley itself, courting us so we’ll accept Full Circle.

  Wait. Is that what he actually wants? He’s starting off with me and then spreading his charm to the rest of us?

  Boy, I’m so dumb. That has to be it, and the idea even makes me relax ever so slightly.

  Dumb dumb dumb to think this was about anything more than making inroads with the locals — if FCT should decide it likes Cherry Valley. But thank God that’s the case.

  “You,” I say, “sound like your friend Barry. Of course Cherry Valley has culture. It’s just not as stuck-up as yours.”

  He looks like a doubting Thomas, and that gets my small-town pride boiling.

  I point at him. “Your little world could stand to be widened a bit more, too.”

  I don’t think anyone has ever talked to him this way before, because he laughs. “Oh, yeah? And how do you think I could go about doing that?”

  “While you’re driving around town, looking at properties, and judging our suitability, why don’t you stop and eat some of our real food? I’m not talking about going to a coffee shop or the health food store or even the Burger Bomb. And what Cherry Valley has isn’t remot
ely sushi. Then again …” I shrug. “Never mind. I’m not sure you could survive some of what we’ve got going on.”

  “Namely …”

  I recognize pride when it’s been tested. I own that.

  Then the perfect idea pops into my head. “Milton’s. It’s a good old-fashioned country dive run by twin sisters. Fried, greasy, and creative in terms of utilizing animal parts.” At another doubtful look from him, I add, “Let me put it in a way a city boy will understand. It’s the BMW dealership of cattle testicles and every other horrifying food you can imagine.”

  “What?”

  He looks like he’s going to barf. I think I wore the same expression when I saw that damned salmon roe tonight, and I’m ecstatic. Wouldn’t it be hilarious to see Zach get through Milton’s menu, just as he made me get through the one at Dragon Ass?

  Now he’s giving me a sidelong look, as if he gets my drift. “Are you daring me?” he asks quietly, challengingly.

  “Maybe I am.” Because, when it comes down to it, what’s one more dare before he leaves?

  He starts to walk backward, never taking his gaze away from mine, and my heart blips around my chest as if it doesn’t know where to go.

  “Monday night, after I go to more property appointments,” he says with finality. “Six o’clock.”

  “Okay.” I’m really doing this. “I’ll meet you at Milton’s, and you’d better be wearing a tee shirt that means business, Hamilton.”

  “Challenge accepted, Burnett.”

  Before he turns around to leave, he grins at me. I don’t let myself sigh until he’s on the path back to his car.

  And I don’t let myself wish for anything more than this one last dare.

  Chapter 13

  Zach

  The foreboding collection of antlers decorating the outside of Milton’s should’ve warned me. And all the rough-and-tumble trucks that are parked in the dirt near the planked building on a lonely side road should’ve also told me that there wouldn’t be any Napa Valley chefs inside, arranging the food oh-so-fussily with tweezers on pretty designer plates.