Dark Wild Night

by Christina Lauren

  I want to feel a better sense of what shape my life is taking.

  I want to draw every single story my brain is churning up right now.

  I want to have Oliver, and not lose him.

  “I don’t know.” I pour three creams into my mug.

  He exhales, a tiny skeptical sound, and nods. “You don’t know.”

  I look up at the sound of him scratching his jaw, the stubble scritch-scritching against his short fingernails.

  And fine.

  I want to make out until my lips are raw from the scrape of that stubble.

  I want him to fuck me into next week.

  I want the press of his cock to wake me up in the middle of the night.

  “Well, Lola Love, you let me know when you figure it out,” he says. The tip of his tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and he sees me watching.

  He knows.

  It’s that easy? “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  I realize he’s walked over to my side of the court and carefully placed the ball directly in the center.

  “You’re a jerk,” I repeat quietly, fighting my grin. I adore him, so much. It’s this massive, blooming emotion making my cheeks heat and my stomach curl with pleasure. I don’t know how I’ll manage once I let go of the rope and float.

  The panel shows the girl holding a glowing meteorite in her hands.

  Oliver lifts his coffee to his mouth, smiling.

  * * *

  I FALL ASLEEP in the car somewhere near Long Beach and Oliver gently jostles me awake when he’s parked just outside the store.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say as he pulls my duffel bag from the trunk. He sets it down on the curb and digs one hand into his jeans, tugging them down at the waist.

  His boxers are red today. Stomach flat. Hips defined.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I say, blinking to the side in a completely unsubtle attempt to stop trying to get an eyeful of happy trail. “I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun by myself.”

  “Anytime,” he says, adding in a nerdy voice: “I think you’re wonderful, Lorelei.”

  I smile up at him. “I think you’re wonderful, too, Oliver.”

  He surprises me, cupping my face and bending to press his lips to my cheek. It’s far too close to my mouth to be innocent, but not actually touching my lips. It doesn’t quite count as a kiss. Does it? My pulse explodes in my neck and I have to hold my breath to keep from making a sound. He holds there for the length of a slow, quiet inhale before moving away.

  “So,” I say, “maybe we can hang out later?”

  “Did you guys just kiss?”

  On instinct, we both practically explode apart and turn to see Not-Joe squinting at us. His hair is a total wreck, more spiky cactus than mohawk, and his shirt is on backward.

  “No,” I tell him. “We were just . . .”

  Okay, maybe we were about to kiss. Fucking Not-Joe.

  “Goddamnit,” he half-yells, half-groans. “If you’re not making out then move out of the way so I can get in. I need to lie down.”

  It’s Monday—the only day of the week the store is closed—so Oliver unlocks the door and we watch Not-Joe stumble over to the reading nook.

  “I need to start using a hurricane naming system for my hangovers,” he mumbles, stretching out on the couch. “I’m calling this one Abby. She’s a total whore.”

  Oliver watches Not-Joe with a justifiable degree of wariness: I’d give eight-to-one odds Not-Joe is going to barf on the furniture.

  “What are you even doing here?” I ask him. “Why aren’t you at home?”

  “I think someone needed his wallet.” Oliver picks it up from behind the counter and tosses it onto Not-Joe’s chest. “There you go, Ace.”

  “Too loud,” Not-Joe groans. “Too bright. I think this is what autism feels like.”

  Oliver barks out a horrified laugh before saying, “Motherfuck, Joe, you can’t say shit like that!”

  “You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

  With a small, exasperated shake of his head, Oliver moves behind the counter to put on some music. Journey blasts through the store and Oliver pulls out his air guitar.

  “Yes!” I air-drum on the counter.

  “What the fuck, man?” Not-Joe rolls over, face-first into the cushion.

  Oliver walks around to the reading nook and yells, “Time to rock out!” right next to his head. Not-Joe convulses into a tiny ball and I burst out laughing.

  “Is this ‘Revelation’?” I ask Oliver.

  He nods, tongue poking out as he tears through a guitar solo.

  “Have you ever thought about that, though?” I ask, and Oliver walks back around the counter to turn it down a little.

  “Thought about what?”

  When I look at him—wide grin, fingers flying in a ridiculous air guitar, lip curled like a rocker—I realize his glasses break up his looks, cool them down, add ice to the glass. Without them, he’s all bone structure and color: brilliant blue eyes, warm lips, coffee-brown stubble.

  “Steve Perry versus Arnel Pineda.” At his confused expression, I explain, “The guy on YouTube who gained a following for covering Journey songs . . . then eventually became the new lead singer for the band?”

  Oliver’s head bobs in an enthusiastic nod along with the music. “Right. I think I heard about that.”

  “I mean, would you rather see the real thing or the best tribute band?”

  “Wait, I thought you meant Arnel Pineda is the real Journey.”

  I make a play-exasperated face. “You know what I mean.”

  He shrugs. “I guess it depends on who we’re talking about.”

  “Dylan?”

  From the couch, Not-Joe moans a little mmmh? and opens one eye. He looks at us momentarily, blinking slowly, resulting in the most awkward three-person silent stare in modern history. Eventually he rolls his head to hide his face and returns to his hangover.

  “Aw, come on,” Oliver says, shaking his head and returning to our debate. “Bob Dylan is a legend. Besides, everyone is a Dylan tribute band.”

  “Okay, then,” I say. “What about Heart? You could get these young chicks belting out ‘Barracuda’ or you could get the Wilson sisters in their sixties—”

  Oliver looks horrified. “You are a terrible feminist.”

  Laughing, I tell him, “This isn’t about feminism. I’m just saying. Imagine a reality show where they make the band compete with the tribute band. How much would you hate to have this amazing forty-year career and then compete with your tribute band?”

  He walks over to me, musses my hair. “This is why I could never leave you.”

  I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as the cautious part of my brain snaps to attention again.

  My reaction must be written all over my face because Oliver knows immediately what he’s done.

  “Fuck, Lola.” He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling my face to his neck. “I just meant you were being rather sweet. Of course I would never leave you.” And it’s true, I tell myself. He means it.

  “Will you two just bone and get it over with?” Not-Joe groans from the couch. “Jesus Christ, someone needs to christen the storage room.”

  We pull apart, but it’s different. Our hands slide apart more slowly: palms then fingers then fingertips.

  “I need to go make some calls,” I tell him. “What are you doing later?”

  He shrugs, looks at my mouth. “Dunno yet.”

  I walk backward toward the door, watching his slow-growing smile. Something clicks over in me. I bend and pick up the proverbial ball from the middle of the court. “Okay, I’ll check in with you in a bit.”

  Chapter EIGHT

  Oliver

  I’VE LEARNED THAT Lola rarely does anything on impulse. Our Vegas wedding aside, she takes her time—be it seconds or days—to weigh every angle of a situation. I’ve never known anyone so deliberate.

  The first time I noticed this,
we were at the beach on a perfect August night. Her book had just been released that day, and already it was topping the charts in her genre. Drunk, I’d sprinted to the water and kicked off my shoes before diving fully clothed into the surf.

  Lola had been drunker than I, but she’d staggered toward the foamy edge of the water and hesitated, teetering on her toes, before plunking down onto her bum on the sand.

  “I don’t have clothes to change into,” she’d slurred. She’d fallen back, arms outstretched against the sand. “I’ll be wet, and sandy.”

  “You’re sandy now,” I pointed out, pushing the dripping bulk of hair off my forehead.

  “But I’m not wet. And I don’t have clothes at your house.”

  I’d wanted to celebrate with beer and declarations and some rowdy fucking. I’d wanted to say, Fuck it, Lola, you can wear my clothes. Or you can wear nothing at all.

  But I hadn’t, and I hadn’t because I knew already not to push. She didn’t want to swim, didn’t want to trip home in soggy clothes that seemed to weigh eighty pounds.

  It’s this trait that makes it easier for me to let her walk out of the store after she’s asked me what I’m doing tonight with such intent, I have to step behind the counter to let my body calm. And it helps me understand why every interaction with her the past week feels like two steps forward, one step back. But when she texts me only fifteen minutes later asking if she can come over later . . . I feel in the pounding of my heart that Lola has reached a decision. I just have to hope it’s the one that I want.

  I text back a simple Sure.

  * * *

  ONLY THREE HOURS later, the doorbell rings as Ansel reaches for his keys.

  “Expecting company?” he says, and looks in the direction of the door before turning back to me. He’s stopped by to borrow my Wet-Vac for the new house, and stayed for about an hour, waxing on about the place, wanting to get Mia knocked up, all sorts of utopian Ansel dreams. Lola’s silhouette is clearly visible through the window, and this is exactly the reason I’ve been trying to get him out of here before she showed up.

  “Just dinner with Lola,” I tell him.

  “ ‘Just dinner with Lola,’ ” he repeats with a smug tilt of his mouth.

  “Go home, Ansel.”

  “I’m going,” he says, and laughs to himself the entire way down the hall.

  I open the door and my heart jumps at the sight of her standing there, dressed like she’s just come from some sort of media interview or event.

  “Oliver’s grouchy tonight,” Ansel tells her.

  “Is he?” she says. “I was going to suggest we play some poker but now I’m not sure this competitive maniac could handle it.”

  “Get him drunk and take all his money. It’s the least he deserves.”

  She turns her smile on me, obviously pleased with this idea. “I was planning on it.”

  I give her a small grin. “Best of luck.”

  “As much as I would love to stay and watch what I’m certain will be a bloodbath, I’m taking Mia to dinner. Goodbye friends,” Ansel says, and bends to kiss her quickly on the cheek. I’m almost certain I hear the words, “Finish him,” before Ansel is bounding down the front porch, and it’s just the two of us. Again.

  Lola walks into the house past me, and there’s something new in the way she moves. Something more feminine, more aware.

  “All good?” I ask.

  Near the kitchen she turns and looks at me.

  “All good.” She slides her thick hair behind her ears. It immediately falls forward again and she grins up at me, looking even younger than she is. “Did you have a nice visit with Ansel?”

  I give her a confused smile. “Yes? It was a nice visit.”

  Her smile stays put, eyes glued to me. “I’m glad you guys got to see each other today.”

  “What’s going on with you? You’re as terrible at small talk as my aunt Rita from Brisbane.”

  With a laugh, she turns into the kitchen, and I hear the refrigerator open, bottles clinking, and the door closing again. “Maybe I’m nervous,” she calls.

  My pulse is rolling thunder in my neck. “Nervous about what?”

  There’s more rustling in the kitchen, more glass, and the sound of liquid being poured before she returns.

  In a few of those long, hip-swinging strides, Lola hands me a beer and a shot of tequila, and looks up at my face.

  “We have a lot to talk about tonight,” she says.

  I swallow, wanting to melt into her. Smiling reflexively with her this close, I say, “We do?”

  She nods, using her free pinky to free a strand of hair from where it’s caught on her lip. “You said a lot of interesting things up in L.A.”

  “Surely nothing you didn’t already suspect?” I say quietly.

  “I may not have suspected it,” she says, mimicking the low volume of my words and looking at my mouth for a lingering moment before blinking back up to my eyes. “But I’d wanted to hear it for a long time.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts in, brighter now. “But rule number one tonight: no making out.” She takes the shot and winces, chasing it with a swig of her beer.

  I choke on my own shot, coughing. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me,” she says.

  I take a long pull of my beer, and swallow through a grimace. “No making out when?”

  “Once we’re drunk,” she explains. “I want to talk.”

  My chest feels too full for everything inside it; lungs, heart, the expanding emotions inside don’t leave enough room to breathe. Is this it? Is it happening now?

  I reach for a strand of her hair and ask, “Is there a rule number two in case rule number one gets broken?”

  Her smile is a slow-growing work of magic. “Don’t be cute.”

  Smiling back, I whisper, “I’ll try.” Every single drop of blood in me is rioting. Fucking finally. “What’s happening here, Lola Love?”

  She gives me an innocent shrug. “We’re playing poker.”

  “I’ll clean the floor with you,” I warn, before tilting my bottle to my lips and sipping my beer again.

  She watches me swallow. “You can clean the floor with all of your clothes while I watch.” I raise an eyebrow at her and she adds, “We’re playing strip poker.”

  With a surprised laugh, I say, “We really do have a lot to discuss tonight if we’re playing strip poker but we can’t make out.”

  Lola turns and retrieves a deck of cards from the drawer in the kitchen, and then gestures for me to join her at the dining room table.

  This all feels so sudden . . . but at the same time it seems I’ve waited an eternity for this. I want the friendship barrier to dissolve. I want the next step, and the one after that. Lola has entered my house like a bulldozer, and although I’ve never seen her like this, not in a million years would I try to slow her down.

  A determined Lola is a sight to behold.

  She pats the tabletop to rouse me from my thoughts and I blink, carrying my beer to the table. Sitting across from her, our eyes lock, and neither of us breaks the tension by looking away. We’ve danced around each other for so long and I swear my skin is on fire, my brain thrumming as I wonder how this night will unfold.

  “Ante up,” she whispers, reaching beneath her hair to remove her earrings. She drops them in the center of the table and looks up at me expectantly.

  I glance down at what I’ve got on. A watch. Jeans, a shirt, belt, glasses. I’m not even wearing shoes or socks. “This seems a little uneven.”

  “Lucky me.”

  She has no idea that I consider myself the lucky one. To have earned her trust. To have earned her affection. To witness her take-charge attitude. I smile at her, wanting to just say it again right here: I love you.

  Instead, I unfasten my watch and drop it on the table as she begins to deal out five cards each.

  We look at our cards, shifting them into our preferred order, and holy fuck, I have two fucking pair: two
jacks, two threes, and a seven.

  “Your actual poker face is so bad,” she says, giggling. “This is the shock of a lifetime.”

  “I may get you naked with this one hand,” I say, waving my cards at her, and feeling everything inside me pull to the middle in a warm tightness when I see she catches my double meaning. “I’m going to open.” I reach for my belt, slowly pulling it free and coiling it before dropping it in the center of the table. “See or fold, Castle.”

  “Do you know if we’d stayed married I would be Lorelei Lore?”

  I nod. “Thought about it once or twice, though I always assumed you’d keep your name.”

  “I’m traditional in weird ways,” she says, putting her cards facedown. Just when I think she’s folded, she reaches for the hem of her sweater and pulls it up and over her head.

  She’s wearing nothing but a bra beneath.

  “Raise or call,” she tells me and I realize I’m staring.

  Looking down at my cards, I know I really could get most of her clothes off right now, but I need to savor this as much as I can. “Call.”

  I lay the seven facedown and she hands me a fresh card. I peek at it: the three of hearts. And now I’ve got a full house.

  She gives herself three new cards—the maximum—and grimaces. “Oof.”

  “You’ve also got a terrible poker face.”

  Lola looks up at me, saying, “You can raise, if you want.”

  My shirt is off, dropped in the middle of the table. “You can fold, if you want.”

  Her bra comes off, landing on top of my shirt, and I stutter out a few sounds before reaching for my beer with a shaking hand. I can barely process the sight of her bare breasts. They’re so full, so firm. My mouth waters, and I rest my lips against my beer but don’t manage to tilt it fully to get a sip.

  “You’re staring,” she whispers.

  “I can’t help it; you just took off your bra.”

  “Let’s see your cards.”

  What cards?

  I blink hard, squeezing my eyes closed, and then look down at my hand again before laying it on the table. She groans, showing me a pair of fours and then a trio of mis-suited jack, ace, and six. Dropping her head onto her arms, she shakes with laughter, looking back up only when she hears me sweeping the pile of clothes over closer to me. I put my shirt, belt, and watch back on. I put her bra on my head, her sweater around my shoulders, and her earrings stay on the table near my beer.