by Julia Kent
“That’s what I get once a year at the gynecologist,” Shannon says, giving me a very bewildered look.
“Paparazzi. Not pap smear.”
“Oh! Yeah, no. I don’t have one of those in my hoo haw.” She frowns. “Not yet, at least.”
“Not unless you’re Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan,” I mutter, looking over Andrew’s shoulder to see what’s going on.
“Did someone say there is a photographer in my bushes? Mine? Why?” Mom inquires, her voice quaking.
Flash!
The next few seconds are hard to reconstruct, but it basically boils down to Spritzy biting a person for the first time in his little beastly life.
The photographer takes a hit in his calf, screaming and shaking his leg like he’s being electrocuted. Andrew runs out the door, Declan on his heels, just as Gerald appears from around the corner, running at full speed. Mom’s bushes turn into a clown car as two more photographers appear, one of them clearly running a video.
“Get inside!” Gerald barks at us. “I’ve got it from here.”
Andrew tries to herd me into the house, Declan behind him, as I hear Spritzy let out a horrible, blood-chilling sound.
The photographer has peeled sweet Spritzy off his leg and in slow motion I watch, helpless, as he flings Mom’s little three-pound doggie with an overhand pitch like he’s trying out for the minor leagues, the target not home plate, but the side of the house.
“NO!” I scream. Andrew sees what the guy’s doing, and so does Gerald, both of them moving fast, Andrew leaping hard and high off the front stoop, hands up like a strong safety intercepting a pass.
Only Spritzy isn’t a football.
If he hits the side of the house at that speed, he’ll break into a million bitty pieces.
And so will Mom’s heart.
A spotlight turns on, blinding me.
All I see is Andrew’s massive shadow flying diagonally through the air, head raised, hands spread wide but together at the thumbs, shoulders broad and engaged as he defies gravity. A soft whuff, then a thump, and he falls into a scraggly mess of untrimmed evergreens covered in burlap and wrapped with rope to prevent them from being misshapen by New England snow dumps.
“SPRITZY!” Mom screams.
“ANDREW!” I shout.
And then, the unmistakable sound of a dog peeing.
“Got the footage?” someone in the distance says, a gruff-sounding voice with that Aussie tone.
And then two men sprint off toward the road, Gerald at their heels. I jump off the landing and hit hard mulch, still frozen, unyielding as I scramble to help Andrew.
Who smells like urine.
“He’s okay,” Andrew groans, his shirt pulled out of his waistband, a hole in his pants showing bare thigh. Spritzy is on his chest, licking his face, whimpering. I pluck the dog off my fiancé and hand him to Declan, who holds him like he’s an explosive device that needs a bomb squad.
Mom is at the edge of the landing, saying a string of heavily accented words that carry a tone of gratitude and shock. Declan hands Spritzy off to her and she scurries inside.
The window opens, and there’s Mom, peering out, clutching Spritzy to her chest. “Thank you, Andrew! Do you need an ambulance?”
“No. I’m fine.” Each word comes out with effort.
“Let me get the first aid kit,” she says, the window shutting with a crisp finality.
“I will never, ever make fun of you for that hawk video again,” Andrew says as I look down at him. He’s on his back, tilted slightly to the right, elbow at a funny angle. The tear in his pants and a few nasty red scratches on his cheek are the only damage I can see.
“Can you move? Did you break anything?”
“My pride?”
“I can attest to the fact that it will heal,” I tell him.
“Does your mom have a spare set of clothes I can wear after I take a shower? Spritzy turned me into a fire hydrant.” He looks at the wet spot on his pants cuff with disgust.
Declan appears, worried and brooding. “Here,” he says, bending down to offer Andrew a hand. Climbing out of a five-foot-tall evergreen bush in the middle of winter is a more complicated affair than one might imagine. By the time they’re done, Andrew is covered in twigs to the point where he could be Groot’s sidekick in the next Guardians of the Galaxy movie.
I start brushing his back with both hands, using wide sweeping motions. “Ouch,” I murmur, seeing red scratches all over the back of his neck. Any exposed skin looks angry and painful.
“Dec has some workout clothes in a gym bag in the car,” Shannon says, jogging out to their car. Declan pulls a keyfob out of his pocket and the lights flash as he unlocks it from afar.
“Not sure if they’re long pants.” Declan frowns. “That was one hell of a save.”
“Thanks. I watched his eyes and jumped the route.”
I start to shake. Mom’s inside, alone. I take in the situation, hands on autopilot, acting like a lint filter for greenery on Andrew’s back.
“You’ve cleared my butt about nine times now, honey. How many pieces of pine can there possibly be? You don’t need an excuse to touch my butt that much.”
He turns around and looks down at me. I burst into tears.
Declan comes over, standing in front of me like a human shield. “Let’s all get inside and out of view in case there are more.”
“More?”
“More paparazzi.”
Andrew starts to walk toward the front door but stumbles, losing his balance just enough to make me shift all my weight to my right hip, balance precarious. Dec grabs him under his left arm.
“Easy there,” he says to his brother. “You might be more injured than you think.”
“Ankle,” Andrew explains. “It rolled.” He takes a tentative step. “If I move slowly, I can do it.”
“Fucking photographers,” Declan says in an angry voice, looking behind us furiously.
“I’m sure Gerald’s got it under control now.”
We move like a herd of injured turtles, the steps up to Mom’s landing tough but doable for Andrew, whose gait improves by the time we reach the living room. I urge him to sit in a comfortable chair and slide an ottoman under his injured ankle.
Shannon appears with a zipped plastic bag filled with ice. “Here. I made a few of these.” She hands the biggest one to me. I slide it under his ankle, then start untying his boot lace.
“I’m fine.” He tries to shoo me away. “Don’t touch the other ankle. That’s the one Spritzy marked. I’m his bitch now.”
The joke goes over like a lead balloon.
Tears are streaming down my face, my fingers shaking as I ease Andrew’s boot off. The ankle doesn’t look bad. Swelling won’t happen this fast, anyhow.
“I’m just an injury magnet tonight, aren’t I?” Andrew says wryly. “First I banged heads with Pam, and now this.”
“N-n-n-none of this is your fault!” I say through sniffling. “Those bastards did this! And Spritzy – y-y-you saved him!”
He sits up and stretches his arms toward me. “Come here.”
“Y-y-you need -- ”
“I need you. Come here.” He tugs on my shirt. I move to him, sitting on the edge of the chair as his big, strong arms pull me into his lap.
“I d-d-don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not. Come here,” he says. “It’s okay. Shhhh.”
“I d-d-don’t know why I’m crying! This is ridiculous!” But I am.
And I can’t stop.
He smells like fresh pine, the sharp, tangy scent all I can sense for a few seconds. Then the warmth of his palms against my back, the interlacing of our arms and chests fitting like puzzle pieces, and finally the warmth of his breath, grape-sweetened and a little sour, mingling with my hair and our clothes until my shaky breathing evens out and the tears start to dry on my face, tightening my skin.
“That’s better,” he says, stroking my hair. “It’s okay. Everything is
fine. We’re all safe.”
“Even Spritzy, thanks to you,” Mom says from across the room. I open my eyes and see her on the couch, scratching Spritzy’s belly.
“Gerald’s bringing in a fresh round of security. We have enough witnesses to what the photographers did out there. Can’t control any footage they already transmitted to websites and media outlets, but...” Declan shrugs. “And Gerald says we might need to make police statements.”
“Police!” Mom sounds horrified.
“If we want to press charges.” Declan looks at Mom. “If you want to press charges, Pam. Technically, it’s your property. Your dog, too.”
“The police? The last time I had to talk to the police was when Mandy went missing.” The end of her sentence gets swallowed by emotion. “I don’t want my house crawling with police.”
“But if you don’t report it, Mom, they’ll just keep doing it. And who knows what’s next.”
“Next? NEXT?” Shannon goes to her and speaks in a calm voice, so low I can’t hear the words. Declan’s watching Andrew with eagle eyes, alternating between observation and managing the situation via his smartphone, texting and looking up at intervals.
“I need a shower,” Andrew whispers. “Can you help me upstairs to the bathroom?”
I jump up out of his lap and ease him to standing, Declan at his other side. We’re too wide as a group to make it up the staircase, so I hold on to Andrew, Declan behind us as backup. Once we’re at the top of the stairs, Dec hands me his workout bag and I follow Andrew into the bathroom.
His hands are steady as he undoes his belt, removing his pants, stripping off his underwear in one long motion. Leaning against the counter, he nimbly undoes his shirt buttons, completely naked faster than anyone really should be able to undress.
Seeing he doesn’t need help, I turn on the hot water, the room filling with the sound. “It takes a while for the hot water to kick in,” I share. It’s been so long since I showered here at home, but habit makes me comment.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes closed, slowly shaking his head.
“You’re sorry? What are you sorry for?”
“This life I’m dragging you into.”
Before I can respond, he opens the shower door and walks in, the steam closing around him like it’s trying to make him disappear.
“No one’s dragging me into your life, Andrew. I’m here on my own. All the way.” Parts of him show through the billowing white, shadows of elbows, the water wetting his hair, making his head a dark orb, the crown peeking out over the top of the shower doors.
He sighs, the uneven sound of water drops crashing around him as I watch him reach up and run his fingers through his hair. “I know. I know you are. I know it in a place so deep inside me that it’s like you were born to find it. And only you.”
The heat in the room makes me start to sweat, but that’s not why my heart is racing right now.
“I love you,” I answer.
“Love you, too.” His words sound so weary, tinged with sadness and probably some pain. He’s a strong man, stoic in the face of adversity, but right now he’s my man, naked and pleasing.
Peppermint fills the room, a sudden burst of scent, warm and ripe. I can see Andrew lathering up his hair, rinsing quickly, spatters of soap bubbles dotting the door. As the steam rises, his body comes into view.
My internal burn dials up a notch.
What if I climb in there with him? The craziness of the last twenty minutes seems like its own bubble of agony, set aside as the steam hides us, whispering promises of a brief refuge from police statements and bodyguards and media stunts. Before I can form a clear plan, my hands decide for me.
In seconds, I’m naked, cracking open the shower door, hands searching where my eyes can’t see.
“Hello,” he says as my palm finds the first part of him, one ass cheek that is hard and tight. Wet hands cover me all over, searching and seeking. The press of his slick, flat abs against my soft curves is punctuated by a kiss that sends me into overdrive.
“Here? Now?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want this now.”
In one swift move, he picks me up by the ass, large hands holding me up as I instinctively wrap my legs around him. He takes a step forward and my back hits the wall. Reaching between us, our mouths in constant contact, tongues moving like time itself is about to end and we’d better hurry up, my hand finds him and he’s in me so fast all I can do is groan.
Stumbling slightly, he rights himself, favoring his hurt ankle, all his power focused on one thickly-built thigh, need overcoming pain.
The shower pounds his back as he thrusts into me, holding me up with hands that touch me like I’m his tether to the world. The angle makes a long, thick cord of muscle inside me begin to tighten, the clench unreal in its pleasure and power. I’m sliding up, up, up against the tile, my hands digging into his shoulders, hips pushing back against the impossible depth of Andrew inside me until I bite him, hard, trying not to scream.
“You,” he rasps, head pressed into the wall beside me, biceps thick under my hands as I feel him holding me up, the connection of muscles erotic in its own right. As he comes, a low groan vibrating deep inside me, I tighten one leg around him, dropping the other to the ground for more stability, the water turning lukewarm as if it, too, had let go of its heat.
All I hear up close is Andrew’s breath. As the water turns cold, he backs up carefully, limping slightly but gentlemanly in his lowering of me so I can stand again.
“Well,” I say, thighs quivering in a shaky dance, like they’re doing the cha-cha on their own, “that’s a first for me.”
“We’ve had shower sex plenty of times before.”
“Not in this shower.”
“True. We gave it its first orgasm.”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t say that.” I avoid looking at the shower head, but Andrew can read my mind and starts laughing.
“They’re going to wonder about us,” he says in a voice that makes it very clear that not only does he not care, he’s mighty pleased with himself if, in fact, we get caught.
I frown. “I’ll bet they’re busy with the security detail.”
“I’m sure Declan’s well aware of what we’re up to.”
“And Shannon,” I add. I’ll never hear the end of this. Leaving her and Declan alone with my mom to have shower sex?
Eh. I can throw the awkward treehouse moment in her face. In a long-term friendship like ours, maintaining balance is important. As long as we’re equally dysfunctional and equally possessed of humiliating anecdotes about each other, it’s all good.
“The only oblivious one down there is Spritzy, and he’s the one who started all this by peeing on me.” Andrew grabs the sink for reinforcement, favoring his hurt ankle.
“Then I’ll have to give him an extra doggie treat when I go downstairs as a thank you.” I start drying off and hand Andrew his own towel from the shelf of carefully folded ones behind the toilet. “But you’re wrong. Mom’s oblivious, too. You have no idea how much I got away with in high school because she’s so naive.”
“Mmmm, bad girl,” he says, biting my neck jokingly.
“No. I was a good girl. And that made for great cover. Everyone trusted me, so I could do whatever I wanted.”
“Is this the part where you show me your secret tattoo? If so, it must be in a very, very painful place, because I’ve seen every inch of your skin that is meant to be exposed to daylight.”
“What about you?”
“No secret tattoos.”
“I mean – what were you like in high school? Good boy, bad boy....”
“I was the jock. Football and lacrosse, then swimming after – after Mom died.”
“I stayed away from the jocks.” I start dressing, my hair a sopping mess. There is no way to go downstairs and rejoin dinner without getting some amused looks from Shannon. Ah, well.
We’re all grownups. We can be mature about this.
<
br /> Or we can be Shannon and tease me mercilessly forever about screwing my fiancé in the shower during a dinner party at my mom’s house.
Andrew wobbles slightly, his weight pushing against the sink.
“How’s your ankle?”
“I should elevate it.”
I give the shower a guilty look. “That level of athleticism probably wasn’t good for it.”
“It helped my body in other ways. Consider that medicinal sex.”
“Medicinal sex. Is there really such a thing?”
“There should be. You go to the doctor, describe your symptoms, and come home with a prescription for two blow jobs a day, exactly twelve hours apart, taken on an empty stomach. No operating motor vehicles while under the influence of the prescription.” Imitating a pharmaceutical commercial, his voice pitches perfectly for the role. Yet another skill he masters effortlessly.
“I would punch you, except I think you’d fall over.”
He puts his weight on his bad ankle and winces, but is successful. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep and some ibuprofen.”
I smile, running a brush through my wet hair.
“And a little reverse cowgirl.”
“That is not – in any way – going to help your ankle.”
“Since when did you become a doctor? If I just lay there and you do all the work, the endorphin rush probably repairs the torn muscle fibers around my ankle.”
“That isn’t even medically correct!”
“We need an expert. I know! Let’s go ask Pam. She knows everything.”
This time, I do punch him.
“Beating an injured man. I learn more and more about your true character every day, Amanda.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him, his heartbeat against my ear, our squeaky clean skin a fresh delight in contrast to the very filthy act we just committed.
“And you get dirtier and dirtier by the minute.”
“Is that a good trait or a bad one?”
“I don’t know. Give me a few decades of living with you to evaluate it fully.”
“I look forward to your report.”
The doorbell rings. I jolt, the unexpected sound making my mind race.
“Police?” Andrew wonders. “Here to take statements.”