by Sam Mariano
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking,” she adds, quickly. Probably because I lost my shit on her last time this came up. “Why does he hate you so much?”
“I hate him just as much,” I assure her. She goes back to rubbing my back, but I hesitate to answer her question. I can’t tell her what I actually did. “He stole my girlfriend. That sounds… it’s more fucked up than that. It’s too much to explain. He manipulated her and she fell right into his trap. Then she somehow developed feelings for him. She started sleeping with the asshole when we were still together, then she tried to leave me for him.”
“Tried to leave you?”
“I wasn’t amenable to the suggestion.” I feel a little tension come back into my shoulders just saying that much, but I figure I’ll throw out something small and see if it scares her off. I know she made a whole speech about how she wasn’t going anywhere, but she did not know what she was signing up for.
The sure movements of her hands across my back don’t falter this time. If she thinks that sounds a little psycho, she doesn’t say so. “Gotcha. So, you tried to keep her. I take it he was not amenable to that suggestion?”
“Correct,” I verify. “That was the first time he exiled me from Chicago.”
“There are multiple exiles?”
I nod my head as her hands continue to work their magic. “Sort of. The first exile never actually ended, I just disregarded it. I stayed away for a long time, but then I went back.”
“For what?”
“For Mia.”
“Ah.” I can’t quite decipher her tone; I wish I could see her face. With lightness that sounds a little forced, she says, “So, this is the Mia whose shampoo I use.”
“Yeah. She was my only real serious relationship. We lived together for a while. Our relationship was so bumpy and fucked up, I wasn’t real eager to get into another mess like that once I got away. Then I guess I was, but I realized other girls weren’t like Mia and it became a whole different problem.”
“What was so special about her?” Carly asks.
“It’s hard to explain.” I already feel like I shared more than I should have, but her asking about Mia makes me clam right up. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to think about Mia right now. I don’t want to invite even her memory into my relationship with Carly.
Relationship is the wrong word. I promptly ruffle at that thought—relationship isn’t what I meant. We’re friends, that’s all. Not even friends, just friendly. Neighborly. We’re neighborly.
As if to call bullshit on thoughts she can’t hear, Carly dips down to whisper in my ear, “Guess what?”
Her warm breath and her playful voice in my ear combined with her hands still working my shoulders turn me into a ball of arousal. “Hm?” I murmur, since it’s about all I can get out.
“I’m not an idiot. I can grasp the complicated.”
“Why do you want to know about her?”
Her hands stop and she wraps her arms around my neck, leaning her head on my shoulder. “You’re still hung up on her,” she states. “I want to know what makes this chick so goddamn special that after years and two exiles from your own home, you still get riled by the scent of her shampoo.”
I scowl at her, unclasping her arms from around my neck and leaning forward to get her off me. “I don’t get riled by the scent of her shampoo.”
“I call bullshit,” Carly states, taking a seat in the chair next to me. “You’ve never wanted to fuck me as badly as you did that night.”
My eyes widen. “You were practically naked. You weren’t wearing panties, and—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter. I told you, I don’t want a relationship. It has nothing to do with Mia. I’m not hung up on her.”
“All right,” she says, too easily. I can see she doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t want to push. “So, how did exile number two happen?”
Five minutes ago I didn’t want to tell her because I didn’t want to scare her off, but right now I feel like doing just that. “I kidnapped her. Dragged her halfway across the country and hid her from him.” Even though I tell myself I want to scare her off, I stop short of admitting anything more.
That should be enough, but since Carly apparently studied at the Mia Mitchell School of Common Sense, my admission that I kidnapped the last girl I loved doesn’t send her running for the door. Her gaze drops to the table, but she doesn’t retreat.
“Sounds intense,” she says, after a moment. “You must have been in a lot of pain to do something so drastic.”
That’s about the last fucking thing I expect her to say.
“Are you fucking cracked?”
Her eyebrows shoot up in response to that. “Excuse me?”
“I just told you I fucking kidnapped someone.”
“I’ve done stupid things, too. Not that, but…” She shakes her head, watching as I push back my chair and abruptly stand. “What are you doing?”
“What are you doing? What is this? No sane person reacts to shit the way you do. I’m a dick to you, you bring me fucking turkey baskets. I break into your house, you parade around the living room half-naked and talk about break-in fantasies. I tell you I kidnapped a person, you sit at my kitchen table and say, ‘oh, well, you must have been in a lot of pain to do that.’ What is that? That’s not fucking normal.”
Shrugging as if at a loss for how to respond to any of this, she says, “I don’t know, Vince. I’m just trying to understand you. There’s no manual that can adequately prepare me for you. I’m doing my best, all right? What would you have me say? Bad Vince? Should I slap you on the wrist? I mean, I could leave, but you can easily get into my apartment, so that’s not very fucking effective anyway, is it? You tell me what the right response is, if I’m getting it so wrong.”
“You should…” I jut a hand in the air, but I’m at a loss, too. “I don’t know, be fucking horrified. I’ve done horrible shit. Just terrible, awful, no good shit. I’m not a good person, Carly. You should leave. You should extract yourself from whatever the fuck this is and run, that’s what you should do. I just told you I kidnapped the last woman who didn’t want me, for fuck’s sake. What if you change your mind?”
“Well…” She seems to consider for a moment, then she shrugs. It’s so fucking pretty. It’s weird to think it’s pretty, a shrug, but she’s wearing this pink sweater that bares both of her shoulders, her blonde hair is pulled half back, so casually cute… it’s fucking pretty. She’s fucking pretty. It makes my skin crawl how pretty she is.
Then she finishes her thought and makes it worse. Her plump lips curve up a little mischievously, and she says, “Then I guess I’ll just have to adjust my fantasies. Captive fantasies instead of break-in fantasies. Still hot.”
I can only stare at this crazy fucking girl.
She won the conversation with that one sentence, so she pushes back from the table and stands. “You didn’t finish the grocery list. I’m just going to make Nana’s recipe. We can make your mom’s next time. We’ll have a sauce cook-off.”
I still haven’t moved, but she does, moving in close, brushing against me. I don’t understand how she’s still light and playful after what I just said. I half-expect her to be playing me right now, just wanting to safely extract herself. That’s probably the smartest thing she could do. Play nice and leave—then keep driving until she’s back in Chicago, since now she knows that’s the one place I can’t go.
I’m half hoping she does that, but the playful glint in her blue eyes as she runs a hand down my chest before brushing past me to grab her purse gives birth to a million doubts.
She can’t still like me after what I just told her, right? She can’t.
“I’ve done worse than that,” I state. My back is still to her, but I can hear her steps halt.
“Okay?” she says, tentatively.
“I’m just saying.”
We stand there for a moment, back-to-back. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
Finally she breaks the silence, saying simply, “So have I.”
I await further explanation or questions, but they don’t come. The next thing I hear is the sound of my front door opening and closing as Carly leaves for the grocery store.
Chapter Seven
Vince
Carly and I do not revisit the kidnapping conversation. She didn’t head for Chicago. She went to the grocery store, came back to my apartment and made me dinner. Despite my caution, it shoots down several of my guards. She’s too goddamn nice. I haven’t known someone this irrationally tolerant since… well, Mia.
Since Mia.
But Carly’s different. I feel like she actually likes me. I guess I felt like Mia liked me once, but not recently. The feeling I was trying so hard to relocate and cage was this. The way Carly looks at me, even though I’m being a huge pain in her ass and I don’t deserve any kind of fondness. Already this girl knows more about the darker side of me than any girl I’ve slept with in years, and I haven’t so much as kissed her.
Tonight we’re at Carly’s apartment watching more of this dumb Superman show she likes. She’s cuddled up against me, stealing popcorn out of the bowl in my lap.
“Remember when you said you didn’t want any?” I ask, grabbing a fistful of buttery goodness.
Carly nods, her eyes still trained on the television. “I should probably tell you, in case we ever go to the movies together, I always say I don’t want any, but it is never true.”
“So I should upsize the popcorn?”
She nods, her messy bun bobbing. “And order yourself an extra Diet Coke.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to order what you want?”
She shrugs, grabbing another handful of popcorn. “What fun is easy? Much more fun to silently desire something and wallow in disappointment when the guy who brought you doesn’t read your mind.”
I chuckle. “You must be a blast to date.”
Poking me in the arm, she says, “I just gave you a cheat sheet. Now you know when I say no, sometimes it means yes.” As if she knows things she shouldn’t, she gives me a little wink before grabbing more popcorn.
“You might be the death of me,” I inform her.
“Nah,” she says, dismissively. “I’m your saving grace.”
“So, what happens if I order you popcorn and you really don’t want popcorn? Then are you pissed off all night?”
“Then I eat the popcorn. It’s popcorn; what am I, an asshole? Who doesn’t like popcorn? If I have to run a couple extra miles the next day, it’s worth it. Movie theater popcorn is delicious. I never get mad at my man for taking care of me. Not that you’re my man—don’t freak out, it’s just a general statement.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing a few pieces of popcorn. “I understand. You don’t have to tiptoe around my commitment issues.”
She gives me a side-eye, clearly not trusting that statement, but she turns her attention back to the movie and lets the topic drop.
“What was the last guy you dated like?” I ask, since I’m still curious about her. She still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense in a lot of ways. I like her responses, but they’re fucking weird. She seems smarter than Mia, but the same misfires seem to happen in her brain. It doesn’t feel the same, but it still feels nice. Mia fell into her feelings. Carly’s seem more focused, more intentional. I can’t decide if that’s more comforting, since she’s actually choosing it and not just following her heart around, or more suspicious, since why the hell would anyone choose to be like that?
She doesn’t seem excessively comfortable with my question. Funny, since she’s asked me about Mia so you’d think she’d be open to the same question back.
“I’m not entirely sure how to… The last guy I was entangled with, I wouldn’t say I was dating, but if you’re using the term loosely...” She pauses, as if debating. “He was older, mid-to-late thirties. Not a great guy in the general sense, but I liked him. He was kind of exciting, I guess. He got hung up on me; I got hung up on him. It was fun until it spun out of control. Then it was a disaster.”
“How’d it spin out of control?”
Carly grimaces. “I don’t want to say. You’ll judge me.”
I give her sort of a “come on” look before reminding her, “I told you I kidnapped someone.”
“Trust me, you’ll judge me. I’d rather not talk about it. He doesn’t matter. He was a mistake. I was young and stupid. He turned my head with things I couldn’t touch without him. I should’ve never involved myself with him. He’s not indicative of my type, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t even really have a type.”
“Everyone has a type.”
“I don’t,” she insists. “I’ve been with a variety of types. There’s something positive and something negative about every last one. It’s just a matter of what you focus on. Me, I focus on the good stuff and deal with the bad.” Probably because I’m so insistent about the type thing, she adds, “Why, what’s your type?”
“Irrationally accepting and hopelessly optimistic.”
Flashing me a grin, she holds out a hand. I don’t move to shake it, so she reaches for my hand and shakes it anyway. “Hi, I’m Irrationally Accepting and Hopelessly Optimistic, glad to make your acquaintance.”
I shake my head at her. “You’re a nerd.”
“Whatever, you like it,” she states, reaching for another handful of popcorn.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” I return, leaning in to nudge her a little.
She flashes me a smile, then bites down on her bottom lip and lowers her lashes demurely. Damn, that draws my attention to her mouth. Her lips are the stuff wet dreams are made of. There’s no chance any man with a pulse has ever looked at this girl and not promptly thought of blow jobs.
I guess I shouldn’t have looked at her lips for so long because she seems to get the wrong idea. Leaning away from me, she peels off the striped shirt she’s wearing.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching her. Now she’s wearing a pair of thin leggings and an equally thin purple top. It’s little more than a bra, though it covers a little more of her torso. Still, she’s got a lot showing.
“It’s hot in here,” she explains, fluffing her hair. “Did I fuck up my bun?”
“Isn’t it supposed to be fucked up?”
“Well, sure, but adorably fucked up.”
I point at her. “That’s my type. Adorably fucked up.”
She rolls her eyes, smiling indulgently. “Boy, are you in luck.” She gives up on the bun and leans back into my side. Now I’m more thoroughly distracted though, with so much of her bare. Her toned abdomen is just right there, fully visible. The shirt is so thin, I can see her nipples. Why does she do shit like this and make it so hard not to fuck her?
“Do you have a lot of male friends?” I ask her.
“Nope.” She grabs more popcorn, eyes trained on the television.
“You don’t have a bunch of assholes back in Chicago, waiting around for you to come home?”
“You asked if I had male friends. I don’t. I didn’t say there were no men in Chicago who grew attached. I had this one admirer who sent me Victoria’s Secret gift cards once a month. On our anniversary, he said. Only we never dated. He was a customer I had a few times that I dropped because he was creepy. Still sent gift cards to my work every month until I left. Maybe he still sends them now,” she says, smiling. “Who knows?”
“He just sent you gift cards? Made no attempt to see the purchases?”
“Nope. Consequently, I have a lot of panties. Like, an embarrassing surplus of panties. I don’t even wear panties half the time, but at least I have them.”
“Are you wearing panties now?”
She smirks at me and grabs more popcorn, slowly shaking her head.
“That’s mean,” I inform her.
“It’s not mean,” she disagrees. “You’re the one who refuses to let things get physical.”
“I told you,
I don’t want a relationship.”
“And I told you, I don’t either,” she shoots back.
“Yeah, but I don’t believe you,” I state, honestly.
Grinning, Carly states, “Well, I don’t believe you either.”
“I don’t fuck my neighbors,” I inform her. “It’s a rule. Too messy. When you have to live near people, it’s not a good idea to fuck them.”
Pointedly running a hand down her chest, then her abdomen, and down her hip, she asks, “What about copping a feel? That’s not against the rules, right?”
“Tease,” I toss back, turning my attention to the television and ignoring her bare belly, full tits, and blow job lips. If I avoid looking at her, I’ll be fine.
Since she’s so close, I feel her shrug even though I’m not looking at her. “I’ve been called worse.”
“What does Laurel think about all this?”
Laughing a little, apparently caught off guard, she asks, “What? About you?”
Even though it’s a disaster waiting to happen, I glance at her. “Yeah. I figure you’ve mentioned me.”
“Many times. She thinks you sound hot. I sent her a picture of you with the turkey basket, but she was not impressed with your attitude.” Gasping, as if just thinking of a brilliant idea, she leans over and plants her boobs directly in my face as she reaches for her phone on the end table. “Let’s take a picture to send her. You’re full of popcorn and cuddles—surely I can get a more pleasant facial expression today.”
“I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“That’s weird,” she states, touching her screen a few times. Then she leans even closer, drapes my arm around her shoulder, and holds her phone out in front of her, “Say, Smallville!”
I do not say anything, but I do give her more of a smile this time.
Leaning into the half-assed embrace she posed us in, she touches the screen and pulls up the picture. “Aw, that’s a cute one. We look adorable.” She holds it up to show me, in case I need proof. “Look how freaking adorable you are. I can’t handle it. Laurel’s gonna flip out.”
I watch her open up a message chain and send it, then she opens up an app and starts to post it there.