I touch and rub her more until she seems downright flustered, squirmy and starting to whine. “Nick, god, please, would you just…”
“Would I just what?”
“Touch me, for fuck’s sake.”
“I am touching you. I’ve been touching you.”
“Not where I want you to, you fucker, and you know it. Please, Nick, just… I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“So you want me to stop?” I lift an eyebrow, faking my confusion. I’m confused a lot, so I’m pretty good at playing that way. “But I thought you wanted more. This is super-confusing, babe, you should be more direct.”
“You should be more direct, you asshole.”
It takes everything I have not to snort-laugh.
“What are you gonna do about it?” It might not be the best idea to provoke Dempsey, but it’s kinda fun and I’m not mad that she’s swearing at me. Just more proof that I’m getting under her skin. “I’d heard redheads were feisty, but you’ve got a mouth on you, Miss Proper Pants.”
She’s propped herself up on her elbows, but she hasn’t closed her legs or, perhaps more importantly, kicked me in the face. I guess we’re okay? Except that she’s glaring at me like she’d gladly shove me off a cliff.
“A) I’m not wearing any pants, and B) I was sold a bill of goods.”
“I don’t know what that means. It sounds like something a lawyer would say. I barely got my GED and I definitely didn’t go to law school, so ease up on the vocab, would you?”
“It means you said you were going to get me off and you haven’t yet. So unless you want me to sue you for breach of contract…”
If there was ever a setup for a porn, that is it. The courtroom would just turn into an orgy. I mean, they’d already have the handcuffs so they could get into some kind of kinky shit. Although on one of my other internet wanderings, I read handcuffs are actually pretty dangerous for bondage so you should use something else. But that is beside the point. The point is that I don’t want to make Dempsey actually mad at me, so with just my thumb, I make a small firm circle, and that does it.
Her head drops back and her hips rock up, and if I thought she was sweary before, she’s become a fountain of obscenities. Where does a girl like her learn all those words? I mean, I know where I’ve learned my cusses—a tour bus with roadies and time spent with other musicians are sources of all kinds of filth. But I guess she hasn’t always been in this house. Which I kinda forget sometimes—that she never leaves. If she hadn’t told me, I might not even know. And hell, it sounds like I might’ve sent her into the stratosphere with that orgasm. Does that count?
After a last few presses of her hips up into my hands, she collapses and tosses her head. And laughs. Hysterically.
“That was—you’re—I—okay.”
I weave my fingers through hers and pull her to sitting. She promptly flops against me in a cuddly heap of Dempsey, and she kisses my neck, nuzzles her head into my shoulder while I hold her.
Dempsey
* * *
I fell asleep. I fell asleep after Nick gave me a mind-blowing orgasm while talking nonstop and driving me to swear up a blue streak. Not that I never swear, but I never swear like that. I try to be professional with my clients, and I don’t tend to swear in front of Oona because she’s kind of like my mom. That leaves my other—and relatively infrequent—guests like Wash or Jake.
Now, I’m lying in my bed on my side and chatting with Nick. Sometimes if I’m not talking to a client, it’s hard to figure out what to say. I don’t do great at that. The only time I was ever able to act like an extrovert was when I was some kind of intoxicated. Chatter isn’t something that comes to me naturally, but Nick is… He’s easy to talk to. And when I don’t talk at all, he’s happy to just fill the space with ridiculous stories or random-ass things he’s learned or bought because, as he said, he has serious impulse control problems. He’s showed me the scars. I told him it was only fair he was naked, too, and the dude has no shame. Just stripped off and told me how he’d gotten various marks and divots and a toe that bends in a way it really shouldn’t.
It’s fun, right up until he says, “Wait a second, I know you.”
Shit. Nick’s looking at me in that tipped-head, eye-squinted kind of way that means I’m about to have an uncomfortable conversation. Well, then, we will.
“I doubt that.” My sniffed statement doesn’t ruffle him, and I don’t know why I’m delaying the inevitable. Usually when people figure out who I am—or more accurately, who I used to be—they either over-the-top fan boy or they act like I have some kind of contagious disease. The former makes me flash back to all those times when guys would get handsy and insinuate things. Or act as though I was at fault for what ultimately happened to me, and if they get too close to me, they’ll catch it. If it goes the first way, I usually get rid of them. And if it’s the second, they show themselves out. Either way, it doesn’t end well.
Though I’d like to think Nick will be different, I can’t bring myself to hold out so much hope. Partly because my anxiety is a big fan of assuming the worst. Someone’s been shitty? Of course they were. Someone’s been awesome? It’s only a matter of time until the shitty shoe drops. And while I’ve done a lot of work with Vivian, talked so many times about how anxiety is a fucking liar that lies, I also have a lot of data points that support my anxiety’s worldview. Whereas mentally stable people would be able to give Nick the benefit of the doubt he so obviously deserves.
Well, I am a far cry away from those people. Nick’s already given me far more than I could’ve ever dreamed. How can I possibly expect more? And like clockwork, my defense mechanisms kick in, tick-tocking real loud. I never wanted Nick here in the first place. I should be relieved to get rid of him and his big…presence. He takes up all the air in a room. In a house.
Except that’s not right. He definitely sucks the oxygen out of a place, but maybe only what’s not being used. He’s the kind of guy who’ll keep an eye on your plate, and only after you’ve stopped picking will he ask if he can have the rest of your fries. In truth, I like him taking up all the space in my house. I’ve felt so long like I rattle around in here, but being around Nick with his loud voice and his antics and his never-ending stream of conversation is like being cushioned by some psychedelic cotton candy. Overwhelming, yes, but no crashing into stuff. Nick, for all his brashness and scars and vulgarity and tattoos, is soft.
“Yes, I do know you. I just can’t figure out from where.” He bounces a finger up and down in my general direction and screws up his face. This isn’t the face he makes when he’s playing at a concert or in a video. Yeah, he’s frequently a wild man during their shows, but he also has this single-mindedness glossed over with effortlessness. It’s not difficult for him. Whereas this… I don’t know Nick well, but he looks like he’s struggling. Maybe I should put the poor guy out of his misery. But then the lightbulb clearly goes off, realization making his expression open and satisfied.
The bobbing of his finger stops, and instead he jabs it in my direction. “You’re Lauren Dempsey. From Spencer’s Woods. I had the biggest crush on you when I was a kid. You were like every guy’s jerk-off fantasy in the early aughts.”
Yes, I know. That’s what happens when you’re the star of one of the biggest teenage dramas on television for six years. And while I knew at the time it was true and have come to terms with the fact and even think it’s kind of cool that I was responsible for so many kids’ sexual awakenings, there were a lot of men for whom I was really not an appropriate object of desire, and yet those were the people I had my first sexual experiences with. Some of them were at least kind, but most of them were not, and I was so desperate for love, for protection, for affection, for anything from anyone that I put up with it. Who was going to stop it, anyhow? If I’d told my parents, especially my mom, they probably would’ve encouraged me to fuck the ones who could get me somewhere.
I pull the sheet up closer to my neck because
I suddenly feel very exposed, and I’m doing my best to keep a lid on my panic. But I don’t say anything because Nick’s not a scrawny and pimple-faced kid lusting after a girl on screen anymore if he ever was. He wouldn’t be the first one to think it would be cool to score with the starlet he’d had his first wet dreams about. To feel like he has some kind of claim on me because I was part of his childhood. It’s too late to take back what we’ve just done, but it’s never too late for me to feel shitty and awful about something that’s happened.
Uncharacteristically, Nick gets still.
“Wow, that was inappropriate. Teague would give me a serious noogie for that, for sure. I mean, I usually save the masturbatory talk for like the third date.” His eyes bug, and he smacks his forehead with an open palm. “And that wasn’t much better. I’m bad at talking?”
He catches the doubtful-as-hell look I’m leveling him with and smiles.
“No, I mean, not like that. I could talk to a cactus. Actually, when we get plastered, sometimes the guys will dress up coatracks and shit and see how long it takes me to realize I’m not talking to a person. I think the record is like two hours. So yeah, I can talk. But, like, at people. Not with people. And with girls… I have no filter. Not much of one anyway.”
His expression goes from easy and open to a consternated creased brow. “And I can seem like an asshole, I know, but really, it’s just that the connections in my brain don’t work quite right. It’s like Pig Pen from Peanuts up in here.” He points at his temple. “You remember that guy? No matter how much he tried to clean up, he just got all dirty again. That’s what my mind is like. No matter how much I try to focus, it’s always a mess. Except for, like, very few things. You probably figured out I have real bad ADHD? I tried meds when I was a kid, but I would rebound like whoa, so when they wore off, I would be a total jackass—ragey and starting shit with my siblings and terrorizing the dogs, which was even harder on my parents than the ADHD stuff, and on top of that, I developed a tic. Playing the guitar was one of the few things I could focus on, and you know what makes it hard to play a guitar?”
Oof. Yeah. I can just imagine tween Nick trying to play his guitar because it was one thing he was good at, one thing that could make his brain settle down, and not being able to. Kids aren’t the best at dealing with frustration in the first place, and kids like Nick? That’s a recipe for an angry and depressed kid. I would take bouncing-off-the-walls-happy Nick over brooding-aggravated-emo Nick any day, and apparently he and his parents decided the same thing.
“So yeah, after trying to tinker with the dosage for a bit and it not helping, I stopped. I guess I could try them now because they totally work for some people but…I don’t want to risk it happening again, you know? Plus, I’ve figured out workarounds for a lot of things that make ADHD shitty. A lot of them are rich asshole solutions like hiring people to take care of all my shit, but I can afford it and it works, so I try not to feel like a massive turdbomb about it. And now I’ve been doing the whole talking-at-you thing for like an hour, which kinda proves my point: bad at talking. I’m going to be quiet now.”
He physically bites his lip, probably to keep himself from saying anything. Somehow, that’s kind of charming. Like, even if he has to bite so hard he bleeds, he’s going to give me some airtime. It makes me loosen my death grip on the sheet and lets me breathe a little easier even as my anxiety gets squished down. Nick didn’t come here looking to score with Lauren Dempsey. He didn’t even know until moments ago—like he said, he can’t keep a secret for shit. And if that’s true, logic dictates that he likes…me.
I roll my lips between my teeth and take a breath in through my nose before blowing it hard through pursed lips.
“Yep, you got me.” I try for chipper in my tone, but it sounds more strident than that, like I’m talking too loud. Like it’s echoing because Nick’s made himself small. Even though I want to believe, my anxiety hasn’t given up the ghost and it’s an insidious voice in my ear—whispering, not shouting, but very much there—telling me that there is a good chance he could still be a dick and that he might go from artlessly inappropriate to creepy sexmonger in seconds flat. “Probably should’ve gone with a less obvious name when I started my life over, but turns out, I’m way better at following creative people’s directions than I am at being creative myself.”
I wait for it, for Nick to leer or say something crass or ask me something gross or be inappropriate in a less innocent way than he was before. I’m teetering on the edge of wanting him out of my house. There’s pleasure at how he forms a buffer between me and the walls I know every inch of, but the possibility of him turning out like so many men before him is very real. It’s not like assholes have a chartreuse letter inked on their foreheads; most of the dudes who have turned out to be real dickwads have seemed like nice guys. And unfortunately for everyone who now crosses my path, they have to prove they’re “not like other guys.”
Am I going to have to yell at him to get out? He hasn’t given me any indication that he has the capacity for violence or threatening my safety, but most “nice guys” don’t until they snap or something trips them up. I’d really rather not, but it wouldn’t be the first time I had to make use of my self-defense lessons while butt-ass naked. I cross my mental fingers. Don’t be a raging asshole, Nick. Don’t fuck this up.
“Nah, I like it. Fits you better. I mean, you definitely were a Lauren back in the day, but it would feel weird to call you that now.” He shrugs one tattooed shoulder. “Not that you were the same in real life as the character you played, but that’s all I’ve got to go on.”
“I was, actually. At first.” The words, tinged with bitterness, escape, and I immediately want to take them back. What the hell? I don’t talk to people about this. My therapist, yes, but that’s it. Not even Oona. Though she knows. Oh, does she ever. Before Nick can ask what that means, I press on. “But I’m all grown up now. Not playing pretend anymore. This is just me.”
Yep. This is all you get. My very small life. My computer and my numbers and my bungalow. My cable and subscription services, my grocery delivery. It might be tiny, but at least it’s mine and it’s safe and no one can take it away from me.
Nick studies me, and I try to play it cool. His mind is probably whirling away like it always does, and I’m just trying to fend off any incursions he makes into Fort Dempsey. Is he going to ask me more about my life as the star of Spencer’s Woods? Is he going to ask me to rehash all the trauma, scrape at wounds that should be well-healed by now but still feel like fresh scabs when people start poking at them?
“So this whole agoraphobia, not leaving your house thing…”
Oh, joy. My other favorite thing to talk about. Two for two, there, Nicky. Is he going to ask about my parents in another minute? “Yes?”
“Do you like it? Or is there stuff you’re kinda sad is out there when you’re in here and it’s out there?”
Someone asking me if I enjoy being exceptionally anxious and severely agoraphobic should feel gross and insensitive. Like something they should’ve thought better about before asking or as though they’re digging at me on purpose. But from Nick, it doesn’t seem mean, it merely feels…curious. Like he really wants to know. So I give him an honest answer.
“Sure. I miss seeing movies in the theater. I miss walking down the street, seeing something in a store window I decide I want and going in to buy it right then and there. I wish I could have a dog and take it for walks. I liked going to baseball games.”
I wait for the inevitable. It always comes. Why don’t you just, you know, leave? Go do those things? Nothing is stopping you. It probably seems illogical to most people to give those things up and stay within the boundaries of my property, but they’re just doing the cost-benefit analysis calculation differently than I am. If you’re looking at this from my perspective, this is an intensely rational way to live. And I am, above all, rational.
“How do you meet people?”
God, he’s
cute when he’s perplexed. His full mouth bows downward and his forehead gets wrinkled, and a person couldn’t draw a better cartoon of confusion. How do I meet people? “Like, what kind of people?”
The dude actually blushes. I didn’t think Nick was capable of shame, but maybe I was wrong about that.
“Uh… Friends and stuff, I guess.”
“Is that the question you really want me to answer?”
“No, but I’ve been told it’s rude to ask people about their sex lives.”
Aw, man. He’s frigging adorable. And looks as though he dutifully follows this advice because he trusts the source, even though he doesn’t really get why this is generally not a wise course of action. He means so freaking well.
“You can ask me anything you want. I know I can be…closed off in some ways”—like by not leaving my house—“but I do try to be an open book otherwise with the people I trust, to make up for it.”
“You trust me?”
I shrug, because as much as my anxiety is shouting at me not to and it’s not 100 percent rock-solid, I do and I can’t get a handle on why, exactly. Nick may be chaos in a skin sack, but his pandemonium is benevolent, of that I’m almost positive.
“Okay. So, uh, how do you get laid? Or do you just get yourself off? Do you have an awesome collection of sex toys? Because that would be cool. I hope you have a whole cabinet full of them. That’ll fuel my fantasies for a good six months, for sure.”
I do, in fact, have a nice selection of toys, a whole drawer full, but I suspect he won’t be as enthused once he learns I’m not just writhing under a vibrator or fucking myself with a dildo. Nah. Not that solo sex is bad—sometimes it’s perfect; no muss, no fuss, you get exactly what you want without expending energy to talk about it—but sometimes you want another warm body. I usually do. And while I might shock him, I’m not ashamed and I’m not going to lie. If he wants to sex-shame me after admitting he’s spent a good portion of his life watching internet porn, then he can get the fuck out of my house. Part of me doesn’t think he will, though. And a good deal of the rest of me is crossing fingers that turns out to be true.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 9
