Make a Move

by Meika Usher

  Before I could even type a letter, I navigated away from Rowena and opened a different file.

  A zap of excitement shot through me as my eyes traced over the words. For months, whenever I got stuck on anything Zombitch-related, I ended up here. In this new world. With these new words. With a secret project I hadn’t told anyone about.

  It had been the only thing keeping me going lately.

  If Sunny knew...

  Guilt snapped at me like a rubber band.

  Before I could get lost in the words, I pushed away from my desk.

  I didn’t need this project. I had Zombitch. And Floppies.

  Floppies.

  The thought immediately dragged my conversation with Aidan tonight to the forefront of my mind.

  Before I left Ma and Dad’s tonight, he’d made sure to not-so-subtly remind me about our previous conversation. “Have you thought about it?” he asked. “Did you look through the binder?”

  “Yes and no?” I answered, because it was true. Aidan’s proposal had been in the back of my mind ever since he first brought it up. Granted, I’d been sidetracked by...other things. But Floppies Two was always there. The other night, when the other things had kept me awake, I thumbed through the binder.

  Aidan’s research was solid. He’d built a strong case. But...

  “You’re still thinking, aren’t you?” he’d asked, brows quirked.

  “Ya got me, A.” I shrugged a shoulder. “Thinking real hard.”

  He shook his head and put his arms into the coat Davis held open for him. “Don’t think too long,” he said as he buttoned up. “That property’s perfect, and it won’t be on the market forever.”

  I winced now, thinking about it. He was right. It was miraculous the property hadn’t been snapped up yet. And it really would be a great location for Floppies Two. But...

  Huffing out a sigh, I headed for the kitchen. This called for the hard stuff.

  As I pulled open the fridge, I came eye-to-eye with the Birthday Bunny I’d rescued from the trash and sighed a happy sigh. Nothing eased the sting of writer’s block or existential crises better than birthday cake. Even if the birthday cake did frighten the bejeezus out of me.

  Pulling the plastic wrap away from the pink-frosted mess, I tried not to let my mind wander back to the end-of-dinner conversation. Failed miserably, but I tried.

  Lucy was pregnant.

  Lucy, who’d been my girlfriend, and then my fiancée, for years. Lucy, who’d broken up with me because she wasn’t ready to settle down.

  And now she was pregnant.

  Guess she was ready to settle down now, huh?

  I shoved a chunk of bunny into my mouth and chewed, waiting for the usual jab of pain to hit me.

  It didn’t.

  I chewed slowly and waited a few seconds longer.

  “Huh,” I muttered aloud, going for another bite. “That doesn’t suck.”

  Years and years of avoiding the topic of Lucy. Years of pretending it didn’t bother me when someone else brought her up. Years. But now?

  Now...nothing.

  Fuck, that was nice.

  I had just made eye contact with the remaining bit of cake when there was a knock on the door. Squinting at the microwave clock, I frowned. Ten o’clock. At night. “Who goes there?” I muttered, walking toward the living room.

  The knock sounded again as I reached the door, and I stepped back, glaring. Impatience was such an annoying trait. Whoever was at the door needed to work on their manners. I tapped my fork against the plate, half-tempted to make the late-night intruder wait. Their punishment for being rude.

  Three more knocks sounded, this time quieter. Less certain. As if the person on the other side realized that it was after ten p.m. and I just might be asleep. Amused, I ate a forkful of cake, savoring the cheek-tingling sweetness. Maybe if I waited it out, they’d go away.

  As if the universe wanted to contradict me, a muffled voice sounded from the other side. “Your car is in the driveway. I know you’re in there!”

  Ahh. Birdie. That explained it.

  Wait. I narrowed my eyes on the door. Wait. Birdie?

  “I’m not leaving till you open this door,” she said, punctuating her words with another trio of knocks.

  I leaned against the wall and stared hard at the door. I had to be dreaming, right? Why the hell was Birdie at my door?

  “Fuck,” I whispered. I hadn’t seen her since I told her about The Jizzening. Since she laughed in my face.

  I didn’t want to see her now.

  “Nathaniel Kim, I swear to Christ if you don’t open this door right now, you are going to wish you were actually dead.”

  “Too late,” I muttered, pushing away from the wall. With one last, steadying breath, I walked to the door and opened it.

  The sight that greeted me kicked the breath right out of me. There she was, leaning against the screen door, all long legs and short skirt and...angry, angry eyes. Illuminated by the porch light. Right out of a dream. Except for, you know, the angry eyes.

  I couldn’t decide if it was the anger or the legs that killed my oxygen supply.

  “You’re avoiding me.” Birdie marched through the doorway, not waiting for an invitation.

  “Sure, come on in,” I said as she passed me.

  She ignored me and kept talking. “You bailed on game night and left me fifth wheeling and you’re avoiding me.” She rested her hip against the back of my couch and folded her arms over her chest, eyeing me. “You gonna leave that door open? You’re letting the heat out.”

  Wordlessly, I pushed the door closed. But I didn’t move from my spot—I needed access to the exit in case of murder—and I didn’t speak. She was on a roll.

  “I was all set to apologize,” she continued, eyes flickering over me. “And then you didn’t show up. You robbed me of my apology!”

  “I...I’m sorry?”

  “No!” She pushed away from the couch. “You don’t get to apologize! I get to apologize.”

  “I—” I started, but then stopped before another I’m sorry could form. “Uh. My...bad?”

  “That’s just another way to say sorry!” She shoved a hand through her hair and released a frustrated growl. “Stop apologizing, so I can apologize, dammit.”

  I suppressed a smile and grabbed my abandoned fork. “You know, you could solve this whole circle of sorrys by...just saying the words yourself.”

  Birdie snarled, but remained quiet.

  I leaned against the wall and dug my fork into the half-eaten cake, avoiding the still-staring eyeball.

  As I lifted the fork to my lips, Birdie stepped closer. “Is...is that birthday cake?”

  I glanced down at the cake in question, then back to her. “It is.”

  “Whose birthday was it?”

  “My niece’s.” I licked frosting from my lips. “She turned five today.”

  And, just like that, she deflated, all anger and self-righteousness leaking out of her like air from a balloon. “So...you really were at a family thing.”

  “Yep.” I walked into the living room and sat on the couch. “Admittedly,” I said, glancing her way. “I wasn’t looking forward to seeing you. Especially after...” I trailed off, my face heating.

  To her credit, she looked thoroughly humbled. “Yeah, about that,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just...I wasn’t sure how to...I didn’t know what...” She stopped abruptly and pressed her lips together, exhaling through her nose. “I’m an asshole. And I’m sorry.”

  No excuses. Just an apology. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. So I just nodded and gestured for her to sit. “Cake?” I asked once she was seated.

  I handed her my plate with the creepy cake-eye. She looked at it, then back to me. “This is creepy as fuck. What kind of cake is this for a child?”

  I smirked. “Used to be a bunny.”

  “I...see.” She lifted the fork and hovered over the pupil for a few long seconds. “You know what?” she said finally, resting
the fork back on the plate. “I can’t do it.”

  She tried handing the plate back to me, but I waved her off. “Nuh-uh,” I said, angling my body toward hers. “If you’re really sorry, you’ll eat the eyeball.”

  Birdie’s eyes rested on mine for a beat, then she looked back to the plate. “You’re twisted,” she said as she reclaimed the fork.

  I shrugged and suppressed a smile. “How sorry are ya, Birdie?”

  Tapping the fork against the plate, she bit her lip. I tried not to notice the soft give of flesh beneath her teeth, or the way my blood lit at the sight. “You’re really gonna make me eat the eyeball of a poor, decimated bunny rabbit?” she asked, halfway to a pout.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, unmoving. Well, almost unmoving. Parts of me were definitely moved. But those parts needed to mind their own business. “Yep.”

  “Dammit,” she whispered, carefully dragging the fork through the black eye frosting.

  “Do it,” I whispered back. “I’m sure you’ve put worse things in your mouth.”

  At that, Birdie snorted. “You ain’t wrong, Nathaniel,” she muttered, giving the cake a jab right through the pupil. I winced. “You ain’t wrong.” And then, she cut into the cake and shoved a huge piece into her mouth. “See how sorry I am?” she said as she chewed. “I am so, so sorry.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. Tried to be stern. But Birdie staring at me with wide, blue eyes, cheeks puffed out as she chewed, black frosting on her cheek and chin and nose...well, there was no point in trying. I laughed.

  And then I reached out and wiped the frosting from the tip of her nose. “You are forgiven,” I said.

  She finished the bite and licked frosting from her lips. Heat spread through my lower region as I recalled the way those lips felt on mine. Clearing my throat, I forced my eyes away. “That was straight-up barbaric.”

  “Hey, you made me do it,” she shot back, shifting closer to me. “You know?” she said, dropping the half-eaten eyeball onto the coffee table. “I kinda missed your stupid face.”

  Another laugh stumbled from me. “Thanks?”

  She shrugged, but didn’t say more.

  I watched as she settled further into the couch. An apology and she missed my stupid face? That...well, that was something, wasn’t it?

  What that something was, I didn’t know. But...I’d take it.

  After a few seconds of quiet, I spoke again. “What are your thoughts on Buffy?”

  “You know?” She sat and reached for a throw blanket from the back of the couch. “Sunny tried to get me to watch it a couple years back and I couldn’t get into it.”

  I stared, mouth open.

  “Yes?” she asked, lifting a brow.

  “Okay. That’s it.” I hit a couple buttons on the remote, pulling up the show. “This is happening.”

  She laughed. “All right, but don’t hate me if I fall asleep.” As she said it, she sank further into the couch cushions. I tried not to notice the way her skirt slid up her thighs.

  I gave her a stern look, curbing my pervy thoughts. “Don’t you dare.”

  Birdie turned toward me and our eyes locked. The air crackled between us, and my brain drew up memory after memory. Her lips on mine. Her fingers threading into my hair. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her—

  “I make no guarantees.” Her voice was husky as she cut into my thoughts, and for a second, I almost convinced myself that her mind had taken the same path mine had. But then she blinked and shifted away from me. “I didn’t even make it through the first episode last time.”

  I cleared my throat and gestured toward the TV. “Ahh, rookie mistake,” I said as I bypassed the first few episodes. “Sunny should know better.”

  “Wait.” Birdie straightened. “You’re not starting from the beginning?”

  “Nah.” I scrolled to season two. “The pilot is kind of boring.” Hitting the down arrow on the remote, I landed on my episode of choice. “And you clearly have a short attention span.”

  “Hey!”

  I tossed her a smirk. “Am I wrong?”

  “Maybe.” She scooted a few inches closer, and I could feel her body heat.

  I ignored it. “One episode,” I said as I hit play on Prophecy Girl. “If you’re asleep after this episode, I’m a failure.”

  “You’re serious,” she said, brows lifted in surprise.

  I glanced over and, for what felt like the thousandth time since I opened the door to find her on my doorstep, I shoved aside any and all dirty thoughts. “Oh, I never joke about Buffy.”

  20: Birdie

  Morning arrived in the form of a blinding patch of sunlight aimed straight for my face. Turning my head away, I groaned. “Fuck you, sun.”

  A warm chuckle from the space beside me startled me into an upright position. And it was then that I remembered: I was not home.

  Bit by bit, last night’s events rolled through my mind. Birthday cake and Buffy and a blanket that smelled like laundry soap and Nate.

  Nate.

  Somewhere around the third episode of Buffy—Nate was an episode-surfer, so we were somewhere in the third season—the space between us disappeared. We huddled under the same blanket, my head rested against his shoulder. Around episode four, we were horizontal. No funny business. Just cuddles.

  It’d felt good, my head cradled in that space between Nate’s shoulder and chest. His warmth soaked into me, his arm wrapped snuggly around my waist. Before the episode had ended, we were fast asleep.

  Turning my head, I found him lying there, smooshed against the back of the couch and smiling. “Morning,” he said, his voice sleep-groggy.

  “Morning,” I replied, plopping back into the couch and turning onto my side so that we were facing each other.

  He reached over, pushing my bangs off my forehead. “How’d you sleep?”

  Instinctively, I leaned into his touch, but then I stiffened. This was highly unusual behavior. I didn’t have sleepovers. I especially didn’t have sleepovers when I didn’t even sleep with the guy.

  This was exactly why I didn’t want to get involved with Nate. Too nice. Too settled. Too ready for a serious relationship.

  I was none of those things.

  I wanted none of those things.

  And the way he was looking at me...well, it was sweet as fuck.

  Dammit.

  “I slept all right,” I answered, shifting slightly away. “But I should get going.”

  “Oh.” Nate failed at hiding his disappointment. “Well, let me make you some coffee first.” He paused. “Do you even drink coffee? Or tea? I think I’ve got some orange juice. Maybe some—“

  “No, no. It’s okay.” I sat up and eyed the floor for my shoes. And tights. I’d discarded them at some point last night. I couldn’t sleep in those things. “Stay.” Smiling over my shoulder, I added, “You look cozy.”

  He did look cozy. He looked the kind of cozy that I wanted to be wrapped up in. But he also looked safe and comfortable and...all the things I didn’t want in my life right now. Maybe not ever.

  “At least let me walk you to the door,” he said, tossing the blanket aside. “I’m a gentleman, dammit.”

  I hid a smile behind my hair as I leaned forward and grabbed my tights. “Fine, you can walk me to the door. If you insist.”

  “I do insist.” He stood as he said it and I shamelessly let my eyes drag over him. Just like I couldn’t sleep in my tights, Nate couldn’t sleep in his shirt.

  Tall and lean, but not scrawny. Nate had nice arms. Probably from hefting boxes of books all day at work. I traced over his chest and down his abdomen. He’d never be an underwear model. Probably wouldn’t get cast as a Marvel superhero anytime soon. But my mouth still ached to trace its way over his flat stomach, across his hipbones, taking his—

  “You keep looking at me like that, I might not let you leave.”

  I forced my gaze upward to find his eyes burning on my face. Instantly, my body flushed hot. I might not wa
nt to leave.

  But I had to.

  Standing, I reached for my discarded clothing. “As tempting as that sounds,” I said, carefully unraveling the tangle that was my tights. “I have a busy day ahead of me. I don’t even know what time it is. Probably, I’m already late for my first thing. So I really should get going. But it was really fun. Like, seriously.”

  I really wished he’d put on some clothes. Honestly, I didn’t expect Nate to be the shamelessly almost-naked kind of guy. But there he was. All shirtless and casual. Forcing myself to look away, I cleared my throat. Stop rambling, Birdie.

  “I’m...glad?” Nate stayed put. “Not about you probably being late for your thing, but that you had fun.”

  I stared at the tights in my hand, debating whether I wanted to wrangle myself into them with an audience. Nate didn’t seem like he was going anywhere anytime soon, and it was cold outside. My naked legs would turn into popsicles the moment I stepped out that door. But the acrobatics required to wriggle into tights were not to be witnessed.

  “Everything okay?” Nate asked. I looked up to find him watching me, a wry smile on his face.

  I held up the tights, scowling. “These things can be tricky.”

  He inspected them, then my bare legs. Slowly. When he met my eye again, the smile had vanished. “Want a hand?”

  Oh.

  My body temperature rose about twenty degrees. I looked from Nate to the tights in my hand, then back to him. No, my brain said. However, my mouth had other plans. “Okay,” I said aloud.

  I watched as Nate crossed the room, my mouth somehow going dry and watering at the same time.

  “Sit,” he commanded when he reached me, and I obeyed, sinking to the edge of the couch. He took the tights from my hand and I watched as his hands worked to gather one leg’s worth of material up. Then, he took my heel in his hand, his touch a whisper against my skin. Slowly, he rolled them up over my foot, then ankle, then calf. My breath hitched in anticipation as he reached my knee. My thigh could already feel his fingertips, though he hadn’t gone any higher.

  He didn’t go any higher. He switched to the other leg, repeating the meticulous process so that my tights hovered mid-knee on both legs. Then, he looked up from his place at my feet, his eyes locking with mine.