by Claire Adams
I can’t help the fact that I’m still smiling.
When I get to the door, I take a breath, and take one final moment to imagine her hitting me over the head with a frying pan and kicking me in the ribs while I’m lying on the floor.
If my inverse-square law of hope has any validity, that thought should seal the deal.
I unlock the door and open it to find Leila and some guy sitting on the couch, making out.
I should probably clear my throat or say something, as neither one seems to have noticed my arrival, but I can’t do anything.
It’s been about an hour and a half since I decided I want to throw caution into the death machine and make the move to be with Leila, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her with someone.
Inverse-square law, my ass.
I try to slowly back out of the door and leave the two in peace, so hopefully, they never know I was even here, but of course, that’s when my phone rings.
Leila and the guy who was trying to swallow her face jerk and look over at me while I fumble for my phone.
“Dane!” Leila spits. “When did you get in?”
“Just a second ago,” I tell her, still trying to pull the stupid fucking phone from my pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” I tell them both, finally, and walk back out the door, closing it behind me.
Once outside, I finally get the phone wrested from my pocket and look at the number.
It’s Wrigley.
This should be interesting.
“Yeah?”
“Dane,” she says, “I need to fuck someone and it needs to be now. You’re not mad at—”
“I’m on my way,” I tell her.
I was off to such a fresh start.
Chapter Eleven
The Favor
Leila
“Mike,” I tell him, “we can’t do this. You’re my best friend in the world, and I don’t want things to get weird.”
“Who says they have to get weird?” he asks. “I’m not talking about changing anything about our relationship. I just want to know if I’m really that bad of a kisser.”
“It’s weird just talking about it,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re a fine kisser. Can we leave it at that?”
“I guess,” he says, and turns back toward the television.
I know what he’s asking, and I know he’s really not trying to pull one over on me, but still: Mike is way too good a friend to even take a false step down that road. If things went pear-shaped between us, I don’t know what I’d do.
For a very long time, Mike is all that I’ve had.
Then Dane came along, but I can’t even think about that right now.
He’s off somewhere with that skank with the ridiculous name.
That’s all right. He doesn’t owe me anything; we’re roommates. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
“You know I’d do it for you,” he says.
“That’s because you’re a freak, Mike,” I laugh, and jab him with my elbow. “Just watch the movie and keep it in your pants, will you?”
“I never said I was going to take anything out of my pants, although I see where your mind is.”
He can be such a child sometimes.
“All right,” I tell him. “If I kiss you once and give you notes, will you drop it and never ask me to do anything like that again? I mean it. This is awkward enough as it is. We’re not going to start some weird sex clinic—”
“Easy there, girl,” he says, somehow thinking that talking to me like I’m a horse is going to help his cause. “I’m just talking about a kiss—one kiss. Give me some notes on how I can do better, and we won’t even talk about it again.”
“No tongue,” I tell him.
“Oh, bull,” he says. “How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it all right if you don’t let me slip you a little tongue?”
“Eww…” my body involuntarily shivers, and my eyes start to water like I’m stuck in a sewage pipe.
“Gee, thanks,” he says.
“You’re like my brother, Mike. This is too weird. No kiss, the whole thing’s off.”
“Aw, come on,” he whines.
He’s not only whining, but he’s actually pouting: the bottom lip is out and everything. It might be cute if it weren’t so stupid.
“No!” I tell him.
“But Mom,” he whines again.
“Yeah, like that makes it better.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening up and speaking normally again. “How about one kiss, 30 seconds—”
“Thirty seconds? Are you insane?”
“What the hell am I going to learn from a peck?”
“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal anyway,” I tell him. “So you’re a bad kisser. It’s not the end of the world.”
“How do you know I’m a bad kisser?” he asks.
“Because of the way you’re acting,” I tell him. “No self-respecting anything would put on such a bitch fest.”
“I’m not bitching,” he says. “I’m just tired of kissing my date goodnight and getting that look that just says, ‘that’s it? Seriously, I sat through dinner for that?’ It’s humiliating, Leila. Just one kiss, 30 seconds or less and a little bit of tongue—before you throw something, I don’t mean puppy tongue or rim tongue—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Whatever. I’m talking just a normal amount of tongue as if we were out on a date and I’m trying to convince you with my mouth that your every problem can be solved by my penis. Is that so much to ask?”
“Yes!” I squeal, half in laughter, half in horror. “You’re making this so much worse than I thought it was going to be. I am not kissing you. Next time you walk a date to the door, just put out your hand and give a good, solid handshake. I’ll tell you what: I’ll help you practice that. Everyone needs to know how to give a good handshake.”
“Leila…”
“Seriously, it’s not just good for dates, but it’s good for business.”
I hold out my hand, and when he doesn’t grab it, I place his hand into mine and give it one good shake.
“See?” I ask. “Good pressure, only one up and down motion, and release. That’s a good handshake.”
“I shake hands with the best of them,” he says. “I think we both know that.”
“Watch the movie.”
“Leila!”
“Watch the movie!”
He crosses his arms and starts grumbling.
He’s actually sitting there grumbling.
“If I kiss you on your terms, will you shut up and drop the whole thing from here until the end of time?” I ask.
“Yes!”
I sigh and fold my arms.
“Does that mean you’re going to do it?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Can you keep your mouth shut before and after?”
“Of course,” he says. “This is great, Leila, you’re such a—”
“What did I just ask?”
“Oh, right,” he says. “So how do we do this?”
“You really are bad at this,” I tease.
“Shut up,” he says. “I mean, do we stand or do we sit? I’m assuming we’re not going to be rolling around on your bed or anything?”
I can actually feel the reflection of my death stare coming off of Mike’s face.
“That’s a no. Why don’t we just do it here,” he says.
“Don’t say that,” I tell him, covering my ears.
“Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say ‘do it,’ it makes me feel like flies are laying eggs in the back of my throat.”
“Now that’s a good visual for me to start with, kissing you,” he says.
“Shut up, Mike,” I tell him.
“What’s the ruling on hands?” he asks. “Like, where do I—”
“Nowhere near my body,” I tell him. “In fact, you should probably have them behind your back.”
“Behind my back?”
“Just nowhere on my body,” I tell him.
“I was hoping to test out my hair-caressing—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I interrupt. “I’m already going to need an anti-emetic as it is.”
“Anti what?”
“Something to make me not throw up,” I tell him.
“That’s cold.”
“Whatever. Let’s just do this before I lose my nerve.”
“All right,” he says, moving closer to me on the couch.
He closes his eyes and starts to lean in, and without even thinking about it, I naturally move away from him.
He opens his eyes again.
“What?”
“I want you to tell me the rules one more time. I’m not going to listen to any excuses if you cross the line here.”
He rolls his eyes. “One kiss,” he says, “30 seconds or less—”
“I will be timing it,” I tell him. “There’s a clock on the wall right there, and if we’re coming to 30 and you’re not pulling away and apologizing for badgering me into doing this, I’m going to leave a big red print of my hand across your cheek, got it? Now what are the rest of the rules?”
He sighs. “Thirty seconds, one kiss, and a little tongue is permissible, but nothing over the top or down the throat.”
“Where are your hands?”
“Somewhere else,” he says.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning not on you.”
“That’s right.”
“Can we just do this thing? I’m starting to lose my nerve.”
“If you lost your nerve, I think I’d be pretty okay with that.”
“All right,” he says. “Tell me when to start.”
“No moaning or any other—you know what? Don’t make any sound at all. I don’t even want to hear you breathing.”
“I’ve got it!” Mike says with a laugh.
“All right,” I say, watching the secondhand on the clock. “And, go.”
He leans in and our lips meet.
It’s weird, but it’s not terrible, I guess.
What the hell is he doing with his tongue?
I pull back a little, trying to give him the hint, but he doesn’t get it, so I bite his tongue a little.
That gets him to pull back.
Twenty seconds to go.
This is taking forever.
All right, he’s doing a little better, but it’s like he’s trying to say something the way his lips are moving.
I would close my eyes and try to pretend like this is someone other than Mike, but I’m not breaking my gaze at the clock.
Mike tilts his head to the other side, and I’m pretty sure that if I had a brother, this is what it would be like to kiss him. This is, in no way, a turn-on.
Ten seconds left.
It’s almost over. The worst is already done, now it’s just a matter of hanging in there for a few more seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
A sound from somewhere else in the apartment startles me, and I pull away.
Shit. It’s Dane.
He’s standing at the door with the oddest look on his face.
“Dane! When did you get in?” I ask.
“Just a second ago,” he says, clearly having a lot of difficulty pulling the ringing phone from his pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” he says, and is out the door before I can say anything else.
“Oh crap,” I say, putting my hands on my forehead.
“What?” Mike asks. “So he saw us kissing. What’s the big deal?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “He looked like he just walked in on me killing his dog.”
“Does he have a dog?”
“No, he doesn’t—you know what I mean. Things have been pretty weird with us, and I think this is just going to make it worse.”
“Why would this make it worse?” Mike asks.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
The truth is that I’ve wanted to talk to Dane ever since that night when things started getting weird.
I thought my feelings for him were a drunken thing, but the more time that’s passed, the more I find myself watching him and looking forward to him being home, even if we hardly ever talk.
“So?” Mike asks with a cartoonish smile on his face.
“So what?” I ask.
“How was the kiss? Do you have any pointers?”
“The kiss,” I say. “I totally forgot.”
“Great,” Mike says, sinking into his seat. “If I can’t get you to even remember, I’m in trouble.”
“Why the emphasis?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“If I can’t get you…” I answer.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Well, it’s been what? Ten years since you’ve kissed a guy? I just figured after that long, I could pretty much do anything and still get a good response from you.”
“It has not been that long,” I tell him. “And we’re way too close as friends for you to get a really good response from me.”
“Well, do you have any notes? I mean, if you can’t remember—”
“Yeah, the tongue was way too much. I felt like you were trying to paint the top of my mouth or something and it was just weird.”
“Weird because we’re friends, or weird because—”
“It was weird because it was weird,” I answer. “I don’t know what the whole blowfish thing you were doing with your lips was all about, but you can stop doing that, too.”
“What about when I turned my head so our noses were on the other side, that was a good—”
“I really wasn’t all that impressed,” I tell him. “It was pretty obvious that you were trying to give me an eskimo kiss.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a racially insensitive term,” Mike says, sulking.
“That’s what they call it. I didn’t make up the term.”
“So, was there anything you liked?” he asks.
“Liked is kind of strong for me…”
“Oh, come on!”
We go back and forth a while. I give him some fundamental tips, but make it beyond clear that we’re never kissing like that again.
I rewind the movie, as by the time Mike’s done asking questions, we’ve missed at least half of it, and we spend a quiet evening sitting on the couch.
The only thing that’s starting to bother me is that Dane still hasn’t come home.
It’s not unusual for him to be out late or even all night, but tonight feels different. That look on his face when he saw me and Mike kissing… it looked like he once had a smile, but that it slowly melted and died. I don’t know how to describe it.
It looked like his heart was breaking.
I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into it.
After all, Dane has what’s-her-stupid-name to keep him company.
What does he need me for?
Chapter Twelve
Standard Procedure
Dane
The view of Wrigley’s shapely posterior rising and falling as she works me into her is pleasant enough, but my heart just isn’t into it.
Not that Wrigley minds or even notices. The fact that I’m hard is more than enough for her.
We’re back on the roof, but the people across the street are all tired of the show.
I know how they feel.
I’m lying on the ledge with one foot on each side of it, and Wrigley’s got her back to me. Once I got over the initial fear, this really doesn’t feel like anything exciting or even new.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, slamming her core onto me again and again, “fuck me hard!”
I’m wondering if I were reading a book right now, would she even notice?
It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Things could be worse.
Though I’m not sure how.
I lift my hips as she comes down, burying myself deeper inside, and I may as well be somewhere else entirely. There’s no passion, n
o thrill.
To stay interested, I fantasize about rolling a little to one side, and wonder if I’d still be inside her when we hit the pavement.
I close my eyes and start to pretend that she’s Leila, but immediately stop. I’m not going to cheapen Leila like that.
Come to think of it, it’s kind of a bad sign that I’m not so concerned about cheapening Wrigley like that.
“Are you about there?” I ask, trying to put enough enthusiasm into my voice to not pull her out of her moment.
She stops riding me, though I’m still inside her.
She moves one leg over the side of the building so now only gravity is holding her in place. Yeah, I’m inside of her, too, but I seriously doubt that would be enough to stop her from going over the edge.
Wrigley lifts her other leg over my body so she’s facing me now, straddling me, and she leans forward, kissing my lips as she says, “I think I want a relationship with you, too, Dane.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I said I want to be in a relationship with you, too, Dane. You were right. There’s more between us than just sex.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. I don’t move, and hardly breathe. This is about the last thing I was expecting from tonight.
“What do you think?” she asks, grinding herself onto me to emphasize the question.
I look at her. She’s already looking at me.
Her eyes are pale blue. They’re not the darker blue of Leila’s, but they’re not without their warmth.
She kisses me and I just stay there, hands hanging down.
I look over the edge of the building and I look back at Wrigley.
And I decide to jump.
“I’d love that,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”
She lets out a glee-filled squee and puts her hands on my cheeks as she kisses me vehemently.
“I’ve never wanted to be with just one man before,” she tells me.
She throws her head back and to the side, letting her hair fall over her left shoulder.
“I don’t see any stars,” I tell her.
She stops moving and the smile slowly fades from her expression.
“What?” she asks.
“The sky,” I tell her. “I don’t see any stars.”
