by Jewel, Bella
Swallowing, I straightened my shoulders and tried to be clever. “I will speak in past until the past becomes present.”
He chuckled. “The past cannot become present.”
“Yes, it can.”
“Nope.” He tugged me along. “The past will always be the past.”
“Damn it, Lots, stop confusing me.”
“You’re confusing yourself.”
“Fine,” I said, trying to free my hand. “If the past cannot become the present, then you can’t excite me again.” I lifted our hands and pointed at his chest. “Ha!”
He held on tighter and guided my fingers to his lips, brushing them with a kiss ever so slightly. “Of course I can. And I will.”
* * *
“Oh my God,” I mumbled. “I take it back. You can excite me … multiple times.” I dipped my spoon back into my Yogurtland cup and greedily shoved more New York Cheesecake flavoured yogurt into my mouth. “This is amazing!”
“Told you it was better than the gala cheesecake.”
Swallowing, I craned my neck as we walked side-by-side and peeked into his cup. “What flavours did you get?”
“Red Velvet, Peanut butter, Toffee Pecan, annnnnd Coconut.”
“Shut up! There was Toffee Pecan? Damn it! I didn’t see that.”
“That’s because you were too busy squealing over the cheesecake and cookie dough pieces.”
“Can you blame me? They’re the best ice cream toppings ever!” I shovelled in another spoonful, nearly smearing it on my face when my heel caught a crack in the pavement and I stumbled, landing safely in Elliot’s arms.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I giggled, a little embarrassed. “It’s just a little difficult to walk, talk and eat. I don’t want to sacrifice one for the other, you know?”
“We could’ve sat at Yogurtland and eaten, Danielle.”
“No. It’s okay. To be honest, I want to get back to your apartment.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Really?”
I playfully shook my head at his suggestiveness. “Yes, really. I’m kinda worried about Dudley and the state of your laundry.”
His waggling stopped. “What do you mean the ‘state’ of my laundry? What ‘state’ is it gonna be in?”
“Oh, it should be fine.”
“Should?”
I tried to avoid his gaze by looking into my cup. “Yeaaaah.”
“Right,” he said, spooning the last of his yogurt into his mouth and tossing his empty cup in the bin. “Get on.” He patted his back.
“What?”
“Get. On,” he repeated, finishing his mouthful.
I stopped in my tracks, spoon poised. “Where? On your back?”
“Yep. You can eat and talk, and I can take care of the walking.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because isn’t an answer.”
“Elliot, have you ever been piggybacked while wearing a dress before?”
“Of course not.”
“Then that’s why.”
“That’s a stupid explanation. Get on.”
“Nooo.”
I tried to walk past him but he secured my waist. “Come on. It will be just like when we used to walk home from school together, when you complained that your legs were tired, except you won’t be holding our backpacks this time.”
Pursing my lips, I tried not to smile at the memory of me draped over Elliot’s shoulders, one backpack on my back and the other in my hands, dangling in front of his chest.
He swivelled my hips. “Come on. I know you want to.”
“Ugh! Okay. You do realise that anyone behind us is bound to see my arse.”
“Good. I’ll ask them to take a picture for me.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” I placed my yogurt cup on top of a mailbox and hiked up my dress, stopping it riding any higher than the apex of my legs. “Ready?” I asked, preparing to jump.
“Go for it.”
Placing my hands on his shoulders, I leapt onto his back and wrapped my legs around his hips. He secured them with his arms and hiked me up even further.
“Oh my God!” I squealed. “Please don’t drop me.”
“I won’t.”
“Good, because I’ll take you down with me. Just sayin’.”
He laughed. “I’ve no doubt. Now, don’t forget your yogurt.”
* * *
“Elliot! I’m slipping,” I cried, desperately trying not to tip the last of my yogurt down his chest. Mind you, licking it off could be fun. No, Danielle! No.
“Hold on, we’re nearly there.”
“Quick!” I slid down his back a little more, my arms locking around his neck.
He made a choking sound. “Can’t … breathe.”
“Hurry up then.”
“Egggg.”
“What?”
“LEG. POCKET. KEY!”
“Oh, let me down then.” I tried to unwrap my legs but he wouldn’t have it, instead choosing to fumble in his pocket for a few seconds before producing a key and slotting it into his door.
“Hurry up!” I giggled. “I’m sliding down you like I would a fireman’s pole.”
I scrambled up his body, releasing my stranglehold around his neck.
“Fuck! Don’t talk about sliding down poles right now.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be distracted by the thought and therefore drop you on your arse, that’s why.”
I slipped again, and this time I yanked on his shoulders as I fell. He stumbled backward into the wall, my back coming into contact with the plaster, his arse pressing into my open legs. My clit buzzed to life at the sensation. I gasped, wishing that he was facing me and not the other way round, his hands cupping my breast, his tongue and lips tracing a hot, wet trail along my neck, his cock positioned at my—
“Shit. Sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
I shook the thought of Elliot’s cock out of my head. “What?”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Oh, no. I mean, yes. I mean, HURRY UP!”
Elliot giddy-upped down the hallway to his living room and dropped us onto the sofa just before I slipped completely. My body bounced onto the cushions, my head falling back against the headrest with a thud, my eyes closing as I laughed like we did when we were kids.
“You’ve lost your piggy-backing touch, Lots. That was the bumpiest ride ever.”
“I can’t help it if my jockey’s riding skills aren’t what they used to be.”
My eyelids flung open, and I turned my head to face him, a small stretch of our necks the only distance between us. “Your jockey’s riding skills are better than they’ve ever been.
His eyes were sparkling like two Caribbean rock pools, his skin pink and slightly sweat-dampened. I glanced at his lips. They were full and very tasty looking.
“Is that right?” he asked, his voice low.
Elliot’s gaze dipped to my mouth, his tongue gently sweeping over his perfect, fucking, tasty looking lips.
Abort. Abort.
Those lips.
That tongue.
That licking.
Gah! It was something he’d done when we were teenagers, and all because I’d stupidly opened my big mouth one time and told him that Brad Pitt did it and that I thought it was sexy. From that day on, he’d done the same thing as a joke to deliberately drive me mad, but little did he realise that when he’d done it, it was just as sexy, if not more.
Opening my mouth to allow oxygen to my brain, I swallowed heavily instead, my heart galloping as he leaned in closer, my neck stretching to meet his advance. I wanted his tongue, his lips, his mouth. I wanted his hands on my body and in my hair. I wanted to kiss him just like I’d dreamed of kissing him all those years ago, except now, I wanted so much more than a kiss.
I wanted it all. Except, I didn’t want it, either. I didn’t want to ruin what we were once again bu
ilding — our friendship. The best friendship I’d ever had. That was for more important.
But fuck all the shits, because those lips were going to be my undoing, and they were slowly edging toward mine. Nothing was going to stop me from tasting them again. Nothing. Well, maybe except for Dudley. Because just as Elliot’s lips feathered mine, Dudley’s desperate yap yanked me upright.
And the only thing running through my mind was the fucking laundry
… and if it still existed.
Chapter Twelve
Danielle shot up like a meerkat and dashed for the laundry. “Dudley! I’m coming, boy. Mummy is coming.”
Fuck me, I wished she was coming, just not in the way that she was. I wanted her writhing underneath me, dripping onto my bed sheets, and screaming out my name. Not Pugly’s.
Pushing the thoughts out of my mind, I stood up and followed, her hasty retreat now stirring my gut with unease. Seriously, what the fuck could one small, ugly pug do that had her so worried?
“Dudley! NO! You naughty boy!” she shrieked, as she opened the laundry door.
Pugly shot out of the room, skidding along my floorboards until the wall and my leg righted his traction.
“I’m so sorry, Elliot. I’ll buy you a new one. I promise.” Buy me a new what? A new laundry room?
Stumbling over the hyperactive, furry fucker, I used the doorframe for stability before poking my head around it to find torn pieces of my blue workout towel strewn across the tiled floor.
I let out a breath, my heart rate settling; it could’ve been worse. “It’s fine. It’s just a towel.”
“Yes. But what about your shirt?”
She slowly and hesitantly raised her arm, pointing to her left, to where my favourite three-hundred-dollar Armani shirt lay on the floor beneath a freshly laid pug turd.
I spewed in my mouth a little.
Danielle bit her fingernail and squinted. “I hope it wasn’t a good shirt.”
“Naaaa,” I shrilled while shaking my head, unconvincingly. “Not really.”
“Oh my God, you’re lying! How much was it?” She carefully stepped over the pieces of towel and went to pick it up.
I held out my hand to stop her. “Don’t! I’ll do it. You’ll get shit on your dress.”
I really didn’t want to fucking do it, but I would if it meant she didn’t have to.
“No. Dudley is my dog. I’ll clean up after him. I’m so sorry, Elliot.”
“Stop apologising. It’s no big deal.”
“It is. I feel awful. You have really nice things: a nice apartment, nice towels, nice shirts—”
Stepping closer, it was a kick to the gut when she stepped away. “What’s wrong?” I asked, reaching for her hand and carefully pulling her to me.
“Nothing.” She stepped back again, gently pushing off my chest. “I … I just really want to clean this up.”
“Okay. I’ll help you.”
“No. I’ll do it. If you want to help, please go find Dudley. I’d hate to think what he’s shitting on now.”
And just like that I was out of the laundry.
“Dudley!” I called, practically jogging along the hallway. Where the fuck are you, you ugly, little shit?
“Pat your lap a few times and say, “Dudley Doo, where are you?” Danielle shouted.
I paused and looked over my shoulder toward the laundry. Dudley Doo? … Are you shitting me?
Gritting my teeth, I called out, “Dudley d … doo, where are you?”
“You have to say it louder, Elliot. And with more love in your voice.”
More love? More fucking love?
“Are you sure you don’t want me to clean that up and you can find him?”
“No! You’re not cleaning up my dog’s shit.”
At least she was courteous. “Okay. But he’s not coming when I call him.”
“Do you have cheese?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“He loves cheese. If you have cheese, he’ll smell it and come.” Lucky Pugly! I love pussy, and when I smell it, I come. Doesn’t mean I get it given to me after I’ve crapped on someone’s shirt.
Walking to my fridge, I opened the door and pulled out the cheese tray, finding a half-eaten block of Mersey Valley Vintage. He’s not having my good cheese. Fuck him. I surveyed the shelves: T-bone steak — in his dreams. Leftover lasagne — he can kiss my arse. A spotty banana — bingo!
“Does he like banana?” I called out, grabbing it.
“Banana? He’s not a monkey, Lots.”
“Monkeys don’t actually eat bananas,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“NOTHING!”
Rounding the corner into my living room, I scanned the sofa and rug but he wasn’t there. Pugly, where are you? I have this yummy, over-ripened banana for you.
Shit! Did I leave my bedroom door open? Hightailing it back down the hallway, I passed the laundry and bathroom, skidding to a halt when a blur of grey and black caught my eye. Was that Pugly … in my shower?
I backed up a few steps and poked my head into my bathroom, finding Dudley with his leg cocked and pissing on the glass screen. What the fuck is wrong with this dog?
“At least he got something kinda right,” Danielle said, her voice just shy of my ear.
I turned to face her. “Your dog needs training.”
“Fine. He needs training. I just haven’t had the time to do it.” She stepped past me, turned the shower on, and closed the door, locking Pugly inside. “Serves you right, you naughty boy.”
He jumped up the glass and barked at her.
“No. You’re not coming out until you’re clean.”
“And dry,” I added, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed.
She looked over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have a hairdryer?”
“No.” I smiled. “But I have a better idea.”
* * *
“Elliot! Are you sure this is allowed?”
I turned the key to the gymnasium door and opened it for Danielle who was cradling Pugly in her arms, his baby-like position emphasised by the towel he was swathed in. Honestly, the only thing missing was a bottle.
He looked ridiculous.
I shrugged. “Not really. But don’t worry, I know a kickarse solicitor.”
She tippy-toed past me. “Shit! I hope he’s as good as you say he is. We might need him.”
“He’s the best. Real good looking, too.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Lots? As in you have the hots for cocks?”
She let out a little snort-laugh as we dodged weight machines and treadmills enroute to the changerooms.
“I’m just going to ignore that comment,” I said with the disdain that it deserved.
“Whatever. Suit yourself.”
As I passed the gym balls, one of them wobbled and knocked all three from their holders attached to the wall, giant blue balls bouncing across the gymnasium. Blue balls, how ironic. Shit!
I chased after them.
“Oh my God,” she laughed. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Why not? It’s just like that time when—”
“When we hid inside the supermarket just before it closed for the night.”
“Yep. That’s the one.” I secured two of the balls and put them back on their stands, smiling at the memory of Danielle and I crouched behind freezers as we watched my sister lock up after her closing shift. If it weren’t for the fact we’d left our bikes leaning against the store wall, we’d have gotten away with it.
“No wonder Laura hates me,” she whispered, as if someone could hear her. “She must think I’m such a bad influence on you.”
I held the changeroom door open. “Hiding was my idea.”
“I know! Everything was your idea.”
She was right. Everything was my idea. Just like when we were trapped in the storm drain.
That memory stole my movement, like it always did. It was a constant anchor th
at held me responsible for the terror we’d both experienced.
Unable to respond, I just stood there instead, trying to smile while continuing to hold the door. She paused for a second as she walked past, but I didn’t raise my eyes to meet hers. I reached out and patted Pugly the baby-dog instead before she continued on to the hand dryer. In that moment, I just couldn’t bring myself to stare into the same eyes that had spilled the most fear I’d ever seen in a person. Eyes that begged me to help them live because they didn’t want to die. Terrified eyes. I’d been in the presence of some terrified guilty and non-guilty clients on the cusp of receiving their sentences, but Danielle’s fear-filled eyes trumped them all, and I just couldn’t bring myself to remember them right now.
“I don’t think he’s gonna like this,” she said.
Closing the door, I helped her unravel Pugly from his towel without looking up, my thoughts drifting somewhere between the time we were ten years old and now.
“Lots?”
“Yeah?”
“Please look at me.”
I raised my eyes to meet hers, concern swirling in their deep brown depths.
“Don’t,” she said, her soft fingers gently trailing down the side of my face, sending a sensation through my skin that I couldn’t quite make out was hot or cold. “It wasn’t your fault. Why can’t you understand that?”
I wondered for a moment if the word ‘guilt’ was written in magic marker all over my face that only she could see, because she’d always somehow been able to read me like an unreadable book.
“You nearly died because of me,” I choked out. “That will always be my fault.”
“We nearly died because we were kids who did stupid kid-things. It was nobody’s fault.”
I nodded, but she was wrong. I’d led us into the drain that day, and I’d convinced her it was safe and to stay there with me just so we could be alone. It was definitely my fault.
She sighed and slammed her palm against the dryer button. It roared to life, the noise scaring the bejesus out of Pugly, his barrel-like body tumbling and scrambling in her arms like a crocodile performing a deathroll.