Faking It

by Jennifer Crusie

  As long as Davy didn’t arrest her.

  He sat down beside her. “Your drink, Celeste.”

  She took the glass and sipped. “Very good, Ralph.” She smiled at him, grateful for the paintings and the drink and that he was there in general. He really is a nice guy, she thought. Even if it turns out he is the FBI. “So your dad, what is it he does?”

  “He annoys people.” Davy relaxed into the leather next to her. “Speaking of parents, what is it with Gwennie and the teeth?”

  “Huh?” she said, not expecting that one.

  “The quilt in my room had teeth on it,” he said, “and so did the sampler. What is that?”

  “Oh,” Tilda said, regrouping. “Well, I think she had a lot of repressed anger when my dad was alive.” She frowned at him. “That’s a weird thing to ask.”

  “They’re weird to look at,” Davy said. “Repressed anger. This is not something you suffer from, Veronica.”

  “I’m not living with my dad,” Tilda said. “He was sort of domineering. She loved him, but she didn’t speak up much. And the older we got, the more he tried to control us and the madder she got, so she took up cross-stitch to relax. She did a couple of samplers the way the graphs showed and then she started changing things, and pretty soon there were all these little animals with teeth in them. Which I thought were neat.”

  “And the quilts?”

  “Toward the end the samplers weren’t helping her relax, so she switched to quilting. And for a while she did these beautiful nine-patch quilts, but then she started skewing the nine-patches and they turned into these crooked crazy quilts and then the teeth started showing up again, so she had to quit those, too.”

  “And that’s when she started the Double-Crostics,” Davy said.

  “No,” Tilda said, “that’s when she started the paint-by-numbers.”

  Davy choked on his drink. “What?”

  “Paint-by-number paintings,” Tilda said, grinning as she thought about it. “The kits. She’d paint them and hang them up in the office and he’d take them down. They drove him crazy. But then she started messing with those, too, and eventually—”

  “Let me guess,” Davy said. “Teeth.”

  “Yep.” Tilda took another drink and watched him. “We must have boxes of those things in the basement. Then she went to crossword puzzles, and when those got too easy, she moved on to Double-Crostics.”

  “Any teeth yet?”

  “Not so far,” Tilda said. “Actually, she stopped with the teeth right about the time I moved out, and that was seventeen years ago. And now my dad’s dead, so she’s not so mad anymore.”

  “Right,” Davy said, smiling at the photos on the opposite wall. He had a great profile, straight nose, strong chin. “You have an interesting family, Matilda.”

  He had a great smile, too. In fact, when you came right down to it, he had a great everything. And he’d been wonderful all day, working his butt off to get her painting back, offering to beat up Burton, giving Gwennie the muffin money. And all she’d done for him was screw up his chance to get his money back and fake an orgasm with him on the couch and get testy because he might be the law. She should be grateful that he was the law. Assuming he didn’t send her up the river. “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  “About what?” Davy said, looking confused. “Your family? I like them.”

  “About your money. And about Friday. You know.” She patted the couch. “Here.” She took another drink.

  “Get over it, Matilda,” Davy said.

  “That was an apology.” Tilda got up and poured more vodka into her glass, making the orange juice fade. “A sincere, heartfelt apology.”

  “Have you always had this drinking problem?” Davy said.

  “No.” Tilda took the bottle back to the couch, drank more of her vodka and orange juice, and then closed her eyes as the alcohol seeped into her bones. “You are great at that. Getting people to give you things.”

  “Thank you.” Davy took the bottle from her.

  “It’s because you’re in sales, right?” Tilda hit the vodka again. Come on, tell me the truth.

  “Sales?”

  “You said you were in sales.”

  “I said my father was in sales.”

  “So what are you in?”

  Davy looked at her for a moment. “Sales,” he said, and topped up her drink.

  Tilda sighed. “Like father, like son.”

  “Not even close.”

  She sipped again and waited. Okay, he wasn’t going to tell her about the FBI. She clearly did not have Louise’s skills. At least she was pretty sure she didn’t. “So here’s a question.”

  Davy waited, and she smiled at him again, feeling fairly loose in general.

  “Question,” he prompted.

  “Right.” She took another drink and steeled her nerve. “How bad was I?”

  “You were great.” He stretched to put the bottle on the table. Lovely arms, she thought. Lovely lines to his body. That was probably why the FBI hired him. “You have a real flair for reading people,” he said as he leaned back. “I think Mrs. Olafson—”

  “No,” Tilda said. “On this couch the other night. How bad was I?”

  “You were fine,” Davy said, suddenly cautious.

  “Hey,” Tilda said. “I deserve the truth. We’re partners now. Steve and Veronica. Ralph and Celeste. Whoever that was in the closet and Vilma. Tell me the truth.”

  Davy sighed. “Okay. You were terrible.”

  “Ow.” Tilda slugged back the rest of her glass. “I was hoping for mediocre. You know. Not so good.”

  Davy offered her the bottle.

  “Thank you.” Tilda held out her glass.

  “It was my fault, too.” Davy poured a quarter inch of vodka in her glass. “I was still on a rush from burgling Clea, and I didn’t—”

  “It’s me,” Tilda said.

  Davy shrugged. “Well, you know, sex isn’t for everybody. Maybe—”

  “I want it,” Tilda said. “I just don’t want it when there are guys in the room.”

  Davy lifted an eyebrow at her. “Louise looks like she might swing both ways.”

  “I don’t want women, either.”

  Davy nodded and took a drink. “Do you have it narrowed down to a species?”

  “When I’m alone,” Tilda said, “I’m very interested in men. Very interested.” She thought about Davy in the closet and thought, And sometimes, even with them right there. “I mean, sometimes I have thoughts that are really, well, wrong.”

  “These are the thoughts you should share with me,” Davy said, over his vodka.

  Like sometimes I have this incredible urge to walk up to you and say, “Fuck me,” just to get it out of my system. Except that would be wrong, not to mention difficult to explain, like the rest of her secrets. Besides, saying “Fuck me” to the FBI? That couldn’t be good.

  “No, really, you can tell me,” Davy said. “I’m very open-minded.”

  “No,” Tilda said. “There are some secrets you can never tell.” She sighed. “There are things I’m tempted to do, but when there’s another person in the room, there are so many other things to consider.”

  Davy shook his head. “Short of ‘Don’t forget the condom’ and ‘Try not to choke on your spit,’ I can’t think—”

  “Like how well do you really know this person?” Tilda said, giving him another opening. “Because I think you should know him pretty well before you let him inside you.”

  “I’m the one going in,” Davy said, relaxing back into the couch, “so I’m good with strangers.”

  “Right,” Tilda said. “It’s my space being invaded.”

  “You want a guy who won’t invade your space?”

  “Not in theory. In theory, I want a guy who’s all over my space. It’s just—”

  “In practice.”

  “In the real world,” Tilda agreed. “Space Invaders, not my game.”

  “Problem is,” Davy said,
“Space Invaders is pretty much the name of the game. Everything else is just a variation on the theme.”

  “Maybe I’ll never have sex again,” Tilda said. “I’m trying to decide if that’s a bad thing.”

  “Tell you what.” Davy picked up the bottle again. “Small bet.”

  “Bet?” Tilda watched as he slopped more vodka in her glass. The pineapple-orange juice was only a pale memory now. “Like poker?”

  “I bet you,” he said, handing it to her, “that I can make you come, right here on this couch. No Space Invaders.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tilda said dubiously over the rim of her glass. The coming part sounded good, but it was Davy. There was bound to be a catch. On the other hand, it was Davy. And she did want him. Even the FBI thing was a turn-on. Maybe she had some Louise in her after all.

  “If you win,” he was saying, “I help you get the rest of the paintings. If I win, we play Space Invaders.” He thought about it. “Which means that you win either way. This is a great deal for you, Vilma.”

  “Spare me,” Tilda said, willing to be seduced but not scammed.

  Davy shook his head sadly. “I’ve never met a woman who was more afraid of orgasm.”

  “I’m not afraid of orgasm,” Tilda said, indignant. “I’ve had plenty of orgasms. I just—”

  “When Harry Met Sally,” Davy said. “First diner scene.”

  “That was not a movie quote,” Tilda said. “Is everything a game to you?”

  “Pretty much.” Davy met her eyes and smiled at her, and Tilda thought, Oh, Lord. “So, do you want to play or can we go to bed now?”

  “There are two more paintings left,” Tilda said, her heart picking up speed.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Davy said. “Time me.”

  She drank the rest of her vodka and orange vapor, regarding him over the edge of the glass. He was so much fun to look at. And as long as she kept her mouth shut, what did she have to lose besides her dignity? Which, let’s face it, had gone with the wind the last time they’d hit the couch. That had to be the all-time low. And if it wasn’t Space Invaders, if she wasn’t letting him inside, maybe she wouldn’t say anything—

  “Matilda,” Davy said. “I’m growing old here.”

  Her heart began to pound and she swallowed again. “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Yep.”

  So even if it was bad again, it was only fifteen minutes. And if it was good, it might be Louise. She took a deep breath —there was never enough oxygen around when she started contemplating having sex with Davy— and she nodded. “You’re on.”

  Chapter 11

  HE GOT UP and locked the doors to the gallery and the hallway, and she said, “That was thoughtful,” as he took her glass away from her.

  “You’re drunk,” he said.

  Tilda looked at him with contempt. “Well, duh. Would I be doing this if I wasn’t?”

  “Good point.” He went over to the jukebox and started punching numbers at random.

  “What are you doing?” She squinted at him through her glasses as the Exciters started to sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Cover,” he said, over the music. “In case you turn out to be a moaner for real.”

  “Somehow I thought it’d be more romantic,” she said. “You know. Since we sort of know each other this time.”

  He came over to her and took her glasses.

  “Hey.”

  “Reality is not a turn-on for you,” he said. “Stick with soft-focus.”

  “Well, that’s a good point,” she said, and didn’t say anything at all when he turned the lights off so there was only the glow of the jukebox behind them. Then he came over, picked up her knees, and swiveled her around so her back was to the arm of the couch.

  “Okay, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be more romantic than this,” Tilda said, as he pulled her hips down the leather seat. She managed not to roll off, but he stuck his hand out to catch her, just in case. A real gentleman.

  “Here’s the deal,” Davy said, leaning over her. “You shut up. Both your mouth and your brain. You’ve probably talked yourself out of coming more times than you’ve come.”

  “Hey,” Tilda said, annoyed, and he kissed her, that mouth on hers, hot and insistent, all that heat going straight into her brain and shorting out whatever it was she’d been going to say. “You do that really well,” she said, when he moved to her neck.

  “I know,” he said into her shoulder. “Be quiet.”

  He began to slide her T-shirt up, and she held onto it and tried to remember if she was wearing a good bra or not, definitely not one with safety pins but hopefully not a boring white one—

  “Matilda,” Davy said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You’re thinking.”

  “Am not.”

  “You had that look on your face, the one you get when you’re counting something.”

  Tilda shrugged herself down on the couch a little more, which brought her into contact with him. Somehow, in all of the sliding around, he’d put himself between her legs. “How did you get there?”

  “Practice,” he said. “Stop thinking.”

  “It was sexual. I was wondering if my bra was good.”

  He stripped her T-shirt over her head before she could stop him, catching it on her ear. She untangled it and looked down. White lace.

  “It’s good,” he said. “Now make your mind a blank. Try not to pass out.”

  “How long have we been doing this?” Tilda said. “Is my fifteen minutes up?”

  He bent and licked her stomach, and she shut up, and then he moved down, flicking her belly button with his tongue as he slid her zipper down, and Tilda felt the heat spread low, which was surprising because there he was, right there in the room, dangerous as all hell.

  She looked at the ceiling and thought, This could be good. As long as she kept her mouth shut. Positive thoughts. “I’m positive,” she said, surprising herself when it was out loud. “I’m positive I want the most incredible orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “Okay.” He eased her jeans down, and she lifted her hips to help him because given the amount of hip he had to negotiate, that was only fair. “What’s my standard of reference?”

  “Pretty damn good,” she said. “Scott knew what he was doing.”

  “Scott?” Davy looked up at her. “Who’s Scott?”

  “My former fiancé.”

  “And you wait until now to mention him?”

  “He’s former,” Tilda said. “Am I making snarky noises about Clea? No.”

  Davy shook his head. “Okay, if it’s only pretty good, you’ve got it,” he said and bent down to her again.

  “Talk’s cheap,” she said, but his hand slid between her legs as his cheek brushed her stomach, and his mouth was hot on her skin, and Tilda felt herself flush with something that wasn’t embarrassment. If she thought about it, she’d have to stop, but the deal was she wouldn’t think, and when he pushed her knee up, her hips rose to meet his hand and then his mouth. She gasped once as he licked inside her, and she grabbed the arm of the couch over her head to keep from sliding off, and then he licked again and got serious and she gave herself up to the pressure he built slowly in her, thinking, This boy has a great mouth. Don’t think about where it is.

  Behind her, Betty Everett sang, “It’s in his kiss,” and Tilda relaxed into the familiar lyric and Davy’s unfamiliar mouth, thinking, I’ll never hear this song again without remembering how this felt, easing into heat, breathing in pleasure. When she was breathing pleasure so hard they could have heard her in the hall, Davy pulled back.

  “Nice try,” she said, as Betty trailed off behind her.

  “Quitter.” Davy bit her inner thigh.

  She pushed herself up on her elbows. “The deal was—”

  Davy pointed his finger at her. “Fifteen minutes. And you’d be quiet.”

  The thought of where that finger had been made her blush. Not to mention where his head was now. “We
ll, what—” she began, trying to brazen it out, but then the jukebox started the Sisters, and by the time they’d finished the first line of “All Grown Up,” Davy’s head was back down, and he began to slowly lick all that heat back into her. She shivered and felt the tension start in her again, as tight as it had been before, and she slid back down the couch, closer to him, she hadn’t lost anything, and this time the heat rose much faster so that when the Ladybugs finished “Sooner or Later,” and Davy pulled away again, she smacked his shoulder and said, “Don’t stop.”

  He shook his head. “I should have gagged you,” he said, and kissed her stomach, and she shivered under him. He slid down again, and then stopped as the Shirelles began to sing “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” “This music,” he said, sounding exasperated, and then he bent back to her and started the heat all over, kicking it up higher, each time he stopped it went higher, only this time he kept going, this time his hands were rough on her hips, this time she felt the heat come welling up, and she squirmed and clenched and gasped and thought, Don’t say anything, until finally she broke, her body arching under his mouth as she bit her lip, and the aftershocks made her jerk even after he slid up to kiss her neck. When she’d stopped, still clinging to him, he said in her ear, “And a minute to spare. I win.”

  “Uh,” she said, realizing vaguely that the Shirelles were gone and Damita Jo was singing “I’ll Save the Last Dance for You,” and Davy was hard against her, and then he pushed her knee up again and slid inside her —Space Invaded, she thought— and he felt good as she relaxed into afterglow, holding him absentmindedly while he moved and shuddered and came, and she felt warm but not really involved in what he was doing.

  When he pulled away from her, she wasn’t sure what to say, so she tried, “Thank you,” and tugged her jeans back on and looked for her T-shirt.

  “You know, you have a really short attention span,” he said, as he got rid of the condom. “You come once and you’re gone.”

  “I faked it,” Tilda said, pulling her shirt over her head, and when he laughed, she gave up. “Okay, you won.” She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the leftover warmth. “Thank you.”