by Lisa Gillis
With one last plunge to the luscious depths of her mouth, I retreat, gliding my kiss over her bottom lip, before pressing only my lips gently to hers. Splaying my fingers, I ease her head back to my shoulder, and stare at the seat in front of me, trying to cool down.
I want to rip her tight tee shirt and my favorite jeans from her body. I want to peel whatever pair of lacey bra and panties, which are often mixed with mine in the laundry, down her arms and legs with my teeth. Instead, my fingers trace circles on her scalp.
Her phone alarm goes off again, and without a word, she quiets it and then settles back against me. That’s a good sign… I think.
“Night, Sashy. Night, Frankenstein.” Mark pulls Sash to him, using the same stranglehold I’d emulated in the van.
We’ve unloaded the van, although it was tempting to leave our stuff locked in it just this once. It’s not a bad neighborhood, but they’ve accumulated some good stuff and they’re understandable protective of it. Thankfully, a pulley system takes it right up into the window of the practice room. Tonight I got off light and helped Sash work the pulley from upstairs while the other two loaded it.
Mark and Sladen are exhausted. Sladen stumbles down the hall toward his room without a word to anyone.
I’m tired, but on an adrenaline high. And Sash? I risk a look as she returns Mark’s hug. She looks exhausted too, but I hope she’s as charged as I am. I don’t want to push her to finish what we started. I simply want her not to regret it. I want her to want to finish it sometime soon when the house is to ourselves.
My bed is a messy jumble of sheets and blankets spread on the couch. Normally, I neatly roll them to one end after waking up, but I’d been in a rush earlier.
I pass the sofa up, going to the kitchen for a drink, hoping Sash will follow. And she does.
I select a beer, pop the top, and take a swig.
The air between us isn’t tense, but it isn’t relaxed either. I watch as she drains a glass of apple juice, and pours another. I wonder how it will taste to kiss her now.
And then I quit wondering.
Bending enough to rest my lips on hers, I mumble through the gentle kiss, “Night, Sash.”
Mmh. Apples.
I straighten and take another sip of the beer. She’s startled, but she quickly recovers. She’s eyeing me as if she’s going to kiss me back, and I swear, if she does, I can’t be held responsible. I’ll drag her to the couch and kiss her until the inevitable end—her panties in my teeth.
Reading my thoughts well, she steps back. Her throat flexes in a gulp, unnerving me more.
“Night, Trey.” Kissing the tips of her forefinger and index finger, she touches them to my lips. “Set your alarm. One hour.”
So she is opting out of monitoring-concussion-boy duty. Smart girl.
The corners of my lips curve in amusement, and I cross to the couch, watching the sway of her hips as she leaves the room.
I want her more every minute, and I think she just might be mine.
Chapter 27
Sickness and Health
“Jack! What the hell!” Mariss assaulted his ears with her ire the moment he walked inside the house. “I was about to call your mother!”
He knew she said it because a lot of the time one or both of his parents were at the studio. But somehow, she managed to make it sound as if they were errant children and she was threatening to tattle on him.
For what?
For a split-second, his hopes shot up—that she’d heard news about J.J. For a splinter of time, he felt a fear he’d never known that the news wasn’t good.
When the rational side of his brain reasoned out that he was hearing more anger in her words than anguish, he paused long enough to shed his jacket. Without taking the time to hook it onto the hall tree, he dropped it to the bench and followed the direction of her voice.
Just before he reached the family room, she screeched again. “Are you coming in here or not?” And then seeing him, she cut her aggravated discourse short.
As he hurried to her, he took in the scene before him. Mariss was seated on one of the couches with a daughter stretched out on either side of her and their heads in her lap. “What’s wrong? Are they sick?”
“Very.”
“What? What’s wrong?” He echoed his earlier words while fitting his fingers to one hot forehead and then another.
June’s eyes fluttered open, and she whispered a “Hi, Daddy.” Zoë continued her sick slumber.
“Some sort of flu strain going around. I had to check June out of school. I took her straight to the doctor. Zoë came down with it hours later.”
“Fuck.” He heaved the curse, hating to see his sweet girls down with sickness. “You should’ve called me.”
When Mariss’ eyes underwent a change, becoming deadly lasers, he knew she had and for some reason he hadn’t received the call. But he wasn’t prepared for her reasoning.
“I did! Too many times to count! Maybe you were so busy with Tallulah Tullos that you couldn’t be bothered!”
The image fell between them. The trendy twenty-something rock artist he’d been mixing for during the last two weeks. The same one he had joked about as he and Mariss had a late dinner one night.
“What’s with these crazy kids and their colored hair?” And Mariss had teased him that he sounded like an old timer.
“Seriously? You’re not even going to try and defend that?” Her voice was on the brink of yelling. With a quick look at the girls in her lap, she toned it down.
“Because it doesn’t deserve an answer! Mariss. What the hell? You know better than that.”
While this stupid conversation played out, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Sure enough, the calls were listed.
Eight of them sandwiched between the dozens of others. There was no way he’d missed eight rings of his phone. And ten—TEN—texts! What the hell was going on?
His attention moved from the phone face to her face. The infuriated fire was gone from her gaze, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know. But damn, Jack. Why didn’t you pick up or at least text back?”
“It never rang or anything. I mean it did. Sometimes. But not a lot. I remember kind of thinking it was weird that it was a quiet day. I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
As he apologized, she was busy telling him about a prescription and electrolyte drinks, and that the pharmacy closed in less than a couple of hours.
“I’m going, Mariss. Want me to do anything before? Need a drink?”
“I’m fine. I could use a few things though.” All traces of her anger were gone, and he took in her tired features. “Can I text you a list?”
He didn’t miss the joking exasperation. Bending to kiss her, he assured against her lips. “Text me the list. I’ll hurry back with it.”
A few hours later, the scent of her wafted across the room when she exited the bathroom still damp from her shower. Without bothering to dress, she fell across the bed, adjusting her head comfortably in his lap.
Setting aside his phone, he ran a finger down the skin at the edge of the towel tucked into itself. “This new phone has some sort of priority notification setting.”
“Well, I need to be on your number-one-priority freaking notification list.”
“Yeah.” He continued to enjoy the smoothness of her skin against his knuckles. “I imagine you do. I’ll bump you up above Tallulah Tullos.”
Her head lifted and she fixed her gorgeous gaze to his. “Are you joking about this already? Way too soon, Jackass.”
“I’m not. Not really.” His blasé answer had been more of an acceptance of an unintentional fuck up. He’d just spent the last half hour grouping all of his contacts and assigning them a notifications setting. Although he hadn’t known the phone had the feature, now that he knew, it would come in hella handy to manage the dozens of texts and calls that came in on a daily basis. Just recently, he had considered a third line for himself to further manage business connections. “Fu
ck, Mariss. You feel hot.”
“Mmh.” It was her typical noncommittal ‘too tired for sex’ response.
“I mean hot, honey. You have fever.”
“No, I don’t. I just got out of a hot shower.”
With all of his will, he wished that to be true. But by the next morning, Mariss was as sick as their daughters were. He stayed home, playing nurse to the women in his life, handling whatever Jewelstone business he could by phone, and canceling his other obligations.
Chapter 28
Angry Bosses and Girls
SENDER: Tristan
SUBJECT Hi
Dear Mom and Dad. I’m coming home for the holidays.
“Duplei! You workin’ today?”
I’m a hard worker but I’ve incurred the managing owner’s wrath more than a few times. In my first weeks, Enrique had become impatient because I knew nothing about bussing tables. But I’m a quick learner, and truly, it wasn’t hard to learn their system. These last few days—since Sash and I kissed—I can’t concentrate.
“Duplei! Get your head outta your ass!”
“Yeah. Yessir!”
A few of my coworkers snicker. I still haven’t learned to omit the ma’am and sir naturally dropping into my address to anyone older. Looking around, I ensure there are no females in the vicinity before shooting my hecklers the bird.
Sash called in sick yesterday. The morning after the show—the morning after our kiss—she’d woken with fever and chills. She came to work today, but is staying away from the food prep. As I pass her station of the day, dishwashing, I send a concerned look her way. Good thing there’s only an hour left in our shift. She isn’t looking good. I’m sure I’ll come down with whatever’s ailing her in the next couple of days. But it will be so worth it. I can’t help the smile curving my lips as I relive the kiss in the van for the two-hundredth time.
“Trey!” From his office—an area no bigger than a broom closet—the owner beckons.
The fuck? Can he see my distracted thoughts, even if I’m on my way to bus table nine?
For a moment, I wonder if my days are mixed up and it’s payday already. Normally, the only time I cross this threshold is for the envelope of cash money that some of the others and I are paid with. It saves him from having to carry insurance on us, and in my case, it allows me to work with an assumed name.
With some trepidation, I enter and conscientiously run a hand down any stray strands of hair popping out of my ponytail.
“Close the door.”
Fuck. This is it. I’m about to be able to add being fired to my list of the new me. The latch catches, and I stare through the glass pane, delaying turning around for a second more before facing whatever’s coming.
“Are you happy here, son?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry about today. I’ve got some stuff on my mind.”
“The stitches?”
With his old-school reference to the derma-bonded wound on my face, he has my attention. I wonder what he’s asking.
“Part of it, yeah.” The Sash part of that night. The giddy feeling hits again.
“Mind if I ask what happened?”
“Someone threw a bottle onstage this weekend.”
He knows of our band and has been to a local show or two. He is even considerate enough to schedule our shifts around our gigs, and when possible, works Sash and me on the same shift. His brows lift, but he says nothing more about it.
Instead, he laces his fingers across his chest, leaning back in his chair. “I was thinking of letting you wait tables. When the wound heals and you won’t scare off the customers.”
His joke has me pulling a grin while my mind spins. Sash often brings home tips totaling more than a hundred bucks a night, and more than two hundred when she works the weekend nights that we don’t have a gig.
“I’d like to, sir.”
“Great!” He leans forward and rifles through some papers on the desk. “Since you and Sash are always on the same shift, I’ll let her begin training you in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, get these back to me.”
Nodding, I step forward to accept the papers he holds out.
“We need to get you on the regular payroll for that position.”
My chest constricts, but over the months, I’ve learned to veil any nervousness when my predicament is threatened. “Thanks.”
Across the expanse of the storage room, I notice Sash is returning from outside when I exit the office. Looking beyond her before the door swings closed, I see the homeless group that grows each week. Word is getting around that the employees at Chimps give out any leftovers each evening. Sash began the ritual and she even distributes hot tea to them in the mornings, as well as any perishables not being used for breakfast. When Sash is not on the schedule, a couple of others have taken to doing it in her stead.
She drops some trash into a bin and swabs her hands with a pump of moisturizing, antibacterial gel in a routine ingrained in all employees. When she picks up a carryout bag and hovers, instead of taking off her coat, I realize our shift is ended. As I get closer, she raises her brows in a silent question. I smile and ‘thumbs up’ to let her know I haven’t been canned, and roll the papers as I pass her. I clock out and grab my jacket, ready for my favorite part of any workday when Sash and I are on the same shift.
Five minutes later, I’m navigating the snow-slushed roads with her arms around me. Michigan’s not the best place to ride a motorcycle in the winter, but it’s only a mile or so between the establishment and our home. So just about the time we’re getting cold, we are also rolling into the drive outside a warm house.
The garage is empty. I coast the motorcycle to the back, arcing it around before killing the motor, so I can pull out even when the van is parked.
Sash rests her weight on my shoulder as she swings off. In a perfect dance done each time she rides home from work with me, she passes me the bag of food so she can slip my helmet from her head while we walk to the house.
Once inside, we both empty our hands onto the kitchen countertop. The house seems quiet without Sladen and Mark.
I open the bag from work, dish up a plate of beans and rice—today’s overflow food—and slide it into the microwave. While it hums as it heats, I head down the hall to the bathroom.
Sash is standing at her dresser, drinking a dose of Nyquil from its tiny medicine cup when I pass by.
I take care of business, and pause at the mirror after washing my hands to pull the rubber band from my hair. The release has an immediate calming effect, and I rub my scalp, wondering how girls wear scrunchies and hair accessories all of the time.
Sash is lying on her unmade bed, face up, feet still flat on the floor. I pause in her doorway, my hand on the jamb. “You going to eat?”
“Maybe. In a minute.” She speaks to the chandelier in the ceiling.
“Want me to fix you some soup?”
Sash is addicted to beef romaine noodle packets. She keeps a bag of mixed vegetables in the freezer and usually shakes some into her servings. A dabble of soy sauce, and she declares it’s as delicious as Chinese takeout. I’ve had it myself several times now, and she’s not wrong.
“No. Thanks. I’ll eat some rice if this medicine kicks in and I can taste again.” She curves a wry grin.
“I’m sorry you feel like shit.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a sigh. Her beautiful chest heaves beneath the black polo Chimps-dress-code-shirt, and her eyes flutter shut.
I straighten from my slouch, prepared to eat by myself.
“Trey? You can make me some tea if you want?”
“Sure.” I halt in my tracks and know I sound too eager. But Sash has never asked anything of me more than to ‘grab another drink as long as I’m getting’ or similar.
She’s sick. I want to take care of her. And she’s letting me!
Ignoring the blinking numerals indicating my food is ready and waiting, I reach above the microwave, selecting a mug and the flavored tea bags
Sash likes. I had never heard of drinking hot tea until moving here. And Sash had never been a coffee drinker. But after living together for a while, we’ve all adopted some of each other’s habits.
I carry both the steaming tea and my warm plate to her room. She opens her eyes, either feeling my energy or hearing something that gives my presence away.
“Thanks.” She sits up enough to take the Scooby Doo mug with both hands.
I sink to the mattress next to her and offer her a bite before I take one. I’m surprised again when she opens her mouth to accept it.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence, sharing the plate. I don’t feed her, although there was something strangely sexy about guiding a fork between those open lips. I simply pass her the plate every few bites. I notice she eats only a few to my many, but at least she’s eating.
Leaning forward, she sets her empty mug on the dresser, and shakes her head when I next pass the plate inquiringly. “No more for me. Thanks.” And she lies back down. “If you get sick now, I’m going to feel bad.”
“And you wouldn’t have felt bad yesterday?” I joke.
“It wouldn’t have been my fault yesterday.”
“It so would’ve.” As I scrape up the last bite, I arch my brows, defying her to acknowledge the kisses still between us.
Seeing a flush creep up her neck when she grasps the meaning behind my taunt heats me up. I make a conscious effort not to shift against the sudden strain of my jeans.
But Sash, being Sash, a rebel to the end, argues without concession. “How is it MY fault when YOU kissed ME?”
I place the plate on the dresser next to her mug. “Because you told me to.”
“I did NOT!”
Scrutinizing every move on her face, I use this opportunity to see how she really feels about what happened that night. If she regrets it, or wasn’t into it, this is our opportunity to play it off. To put it behind us in a humorous way with no hard feelings.
