Adrenaline: An Ode to Love and Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  Ingela’s sitting in the midst of my sheets. They’re swirled around her as if she’s fought herself free of them. A few of her ribs show in a soft contour against that smooth skin, and I get an unobstructed view of her gorgeous little tits in full daylight. Those small nipples are a light tan color—it’s like she’s been lying out, topless. I lick my lips, recalling their texture.

  My dick’s coming to life.

  She heaves up on her hands and knees like a cat and prowls over to the end of the bed, seduction blazing from icicle-blue eyes. I freeze, watching. Thinking of how we’ll pull this off. Dan’ll be out of the shower soon. I can yell for him to go somewhere else while we finish this second round of business. Dude’s a good friend. He’ll leave.

  She’s so freaking hot. Look at her, all naked and prowling toward me… I take a step in her direction, enthralled. She’s on her feet, now, swaying her hips on her way toward me.

  “Vixen,” I murmur.

  “Making tents, there, honey?” she purrs, eyeing my shorts. Then, she’s into me, all smooth and delicious. She rubs against me, causing me to groan, and my dick finds its way in between her thighs, rubbing, grinding from inside the underwear. She presses herself against me. For some reason, she reaches behind me. There’s a click, and suddenly, in the middle of our passionate kiss, the breeze from the hallway hits my back.

  One quick shove, and I’m outside. My front door snaps shut, and Ingela’s cracking up on the inside. “Do the walk of shame yourself, prick-wad!” she screams loud enough for the entire building to hear.

  Of course, like the idiot I am, I start pounding on the wood, which does nothing to make her open.

  “It’s dick wad,” I shout back, and she howls with laughter.

  “Fine, so you’re a dickwad.”

  “Open, Inga, please? I’ll make you squeal again.” No way in hell she’ll open now. I’m not sure why I’m making it worse—the hallway’s anything but warm this time of year.

  God, this is a disaster. I chuckle.

  When two doors open to see what the commotion is about, I become very aware of my boxer briefs. Their biggest problem isn’t the reindeer scattered all over them. No, I should’ve thrown them away because they shrank in Dan’s round of hot whites wash. Dude’s Mister Mom, and neither of us know why my undies ended up in his hamper. What matters at the moment, though, is that they form around my fucking halfer of a cock like sausage skin. Damn, I look ridiculous.

  The doors shut quickly with no offer of assistance. Great. So here I am, indeed doing the walk of shame to the RA’s digs. “Thanks, Inga!” I yell as I head down the corridor. I faintly make out her reply.

  “Pleasure.”

  It’s Thursday night, and Robin’s cranking the volume on some old song, Haze of Winter. Only a handful of patrons have arrived when I catch a commotion on the stairs to Leon and Arria’s apartment. A tiny something is wiggling his way down backwards, one determined step at a time.

  Neither of his parents is in view. Lyric’s babysitter should be there with him tonight. On historically slow days, Arriane and Leon take turns upstairs and use a baby monitor while in the club, but on the most traffic-heavy nights, Thursdays through Saturdays, they pay a sitter. So where’s she now?

  I make my way over to my godchild. Not that he really is my godchild. I just always thought I deserved it for all but holding his mother’s hand through her difficult pregnancy, and yet she chose her brother and Leon’s sister as the godparents. It’s a standing joke between Arria and me, one I still give her hell for.

  “Lyric,” I call out and am rewarded with a swift glance of the lightest of glittering blue eyes. They contrast beautifully with his golden skin and silky black hair. His eyebrows are already perfectly shaped little bows above the irises he’s inherited from Daddy, and that cute mouth is a plump berry you just want to place a loud smooch on.

  Oh, yeah, Lyric is something else. Because of his parents, he shows signs of being part Japanese, part Indian, and part white. If Hollister kids existed—in the United Colors of Benetton—this one-and-a-half-year old little piece of candy would be the poster child. He’s so darn adorable you want to eat him up, mischief and all.

  The little guy skipped the stage where he was supposed to crawl and catapulted straight into running. Now, he dodges me and does a few fast yet aimless circles in the main room of the bar, then zigzags table legs and barstools until he corners himself between a couple of old-timey arcade games.

  This is so not a place for kids, but it’s home turf for Lyric. He knows every nook better than anyone. But when his goal is escaping our long arms, he has no plan. I’ve got him. Oh yeah, I’ve got him, and his mouth is open wide in a cry of delight I can hardly hear over the music.

  “You rascal,” I tell him as I lift him up and plant lip-smacks from his cheek and up to his soft little ear. He’s still whining with excitement and squirms to get out of my hold. Definitely not falling for that.

  “Where’s Becky?” I ask him about his babysitter. I rock him once in my arms, waiting. Lyric’s got all sorts of diversions crossing his features like a film. He’s always trying to outwit us. When will he learn that people have been around so long we don’t fall for it? Finally, he settles on one diversion, raises a chubby index finger, and points at the bar: “Pop.”

  No. Leon would have a fit if I gave him soda.

  “Water, okay?” I say, but the little man shakes his head vehemently. Purses cherry-plump lips at me in disappointment. I take him to the bar, to Cameron, who arches a brow, eyeing the heartbreaker I’m holding.

  “Tam!” Lyric screams, happy again. He reaches wide arms at Cam, expecting to be hoisted over the countertop. Needless to say, it’s what usually happens. Cameron always horses around with him before doors open. It’s a bit different at nine p.m. when Mr. Tyke here should be sound asleep and the students are getting their booze on. Lyric really has no business downstairs.

  Cameron grabs him anyway and lets him bounce on the bar top like a marionette. Lyric launches into a funny tap dance on pajamas feet. “What’re you doing up, silly?” Cam asks once he’s got him in his arms.

  Lyric tries to explain, pointing in various directions. Once he remembers his story, he points at the beer tap. “Pop!”

  “Your daddy would kill me if I gave you pop,” Cam laughs.

  Then, his mother’s there. “Lyric. What in the world? Where’s Becky? What are you doing here… Jesus. Did he come down on his own?” She’s a bit of a mother hen. It doesn’t help that Leon’s overprotective of the two of them either. Long story.

  “Sure did,” I say. “He wanted pop.”

  She snorts, relieves Cam of his sweet little burden, and inundates Lyric with mommy kisses. As always, he wriggles to get away. “Ma,” he objects, already too cool for her intense affection.

  “Let’s mix him a drink,” Cameron votes.

  “Yeah! Make him something fun!” I clap my hands while Arriane exclaims, “Cameron. No.”

  By the time all is said and done, though, Lyric totes a small glass of cucumber and tomato juice with a splash of sparkling water, and he’s slosh-stirring it with a celery stick on the way up the stairs in his mother’s arms.

  That baby always makes me smile. Now, I feel Cameron’s eyes on me. It’s been two days since our fling at his dorm, and after the initial bickering due to the little stunt I pulled, we slid right back to the touchy-feely, insolent friendship we’ve shared since day one. With Cameron, that’s what I expected with one hundred percent certainty. I knew we’d ruin nothing with a sleepover.

  “You look good with Lyric,” he tells me, irises sparkling in the low light.

  “Thanks, he’s my color. I’ll wear him for Halloween.”

  “You want to have my babies?”

  I choke on the Seven-Up I’m in the midst of swallowing. When I start coughing in earnest, Cameron’s smile stretches into the widest grin. Yep, he’s mentally congratulating himself.

  “Shut up,” is my f
irst, lame response. Damn, I’m predictable with this guy.

  “Oh, is it too early? Okay. Let’s stick to practicing, then. You know what I think?” he asks, actually stopping to wait for an answer, like I’m going to buy into that. Whatever Cameron thinks is not PG-rated.

  “Ja, I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I shout across the counter. I’m better off joining him in the back, though. The closer I am, the less asinine blabber reaches the customers. Not that they’re not used to it.

  I pass Christian by the register and reach Cameron. He’s mixing a Bloody Mary for some idiot with weird nighttime choices. My guess is he saw Lyric’s drink and got inspired.

  “You think I really enjoyed practicing with you, and now I can’t wait to carry your children, am I right? Because you’re God’s gift to women?”

  Cam freezes, bulges his eyes, and slaps a hand flat against his chest in a show of utter shock. “Wow, you are good. How… how…” It’s an act, but the way he stutters, seemingly speechless, is dead on and makes me giggle.

  God, even after I’ve just had contact with Bo, Cameron manages to make me smile.

  This morning’s email was short and to the point. I’ve been jittery with a mixture of anticipation and dread the entire day.

  Ingela,

  I’m coming early. Classes start in May—doing summer trimester first—but I need to see you. I think I made a mistake by letting you go. Taking three or four days in Deepsilver. Got the ticket and will be there next Thursday.

  Bo.

  He has no regard for my wellbeing. I could say “no.” And if he still came, I’d make him sleep in a hotel and not in… my bed. My hands are trembling. It’s the overload of adrenaline inundating me again.

  It’ll be okay, I assure myself. I raise my hands to my cheeks, cooling the flush of stress, because I don’t know how to reject him.

  It won’t be okay; Bo rules me. I’ll be in heaven for those days he’s with me. Then, once he leaves, my heart will break again, and I’ll be back at the bottom where I was before leaving Sweden.

  Stitched hearts bleed when handled.

  “Inga, are you all right?” Cameron cups a palm against my hot face. Shit, I can’t take the concern in his voice.

  “Yeah, I—” Even my voice is unsteady. I cover my mouth so he doesn’t see my lips quivering too.

  “Inga. What’s going on?” He’s genuinely worried now. “Was it something I said? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I shake my head, force a smile that belies my blurring vision; Cameron doesn’t have it in him to upset me. He’s just funny, sweet, or annoying—or all at once. Yes, all at once sums Cam up.

  Crap. He’s linking my neck with his elbow, pulling me into him. I can’t help leaning in, absorbing some comfort, thinking how nice this is as opposed to what Bo instills in me. I—

  Hate my life.

  I lean my cheek against him and catch Leon’s stare from over by the DJ booth. The man misses nothing. The planes of our boss’ beautiful features remain perfectly still, and yet his gaze shifts to Cameron as he nods out a tacit demand: “Go.”

  I’ve brought Ingela to the promenade down by the river. Its function is to lead the awesome, big-ass cargo ships in from the ocean. Along the cobblestoned street behind us, off-season tourists pull stuffed pirates out of souvenir shops and down green ale, Saint Patrick’s style, even though it’s April. The tourist dives give them whatever they ask for, I guess.

  “Okay. Now. Why were you crying?” I ask what I postponed on the way here. Ingela hides behind hair that’s too short to conceal her, sniffing in response.

  “Come on. I’m your friend,” I say.

  She peeks at me through a platinum-blonde strand. “Never mind, Cam. It’s nothing.”

  “Didn’t look like nothing to me.”

  A ragged-looking old trumpet player meanders past us. He lingers for a moment, narrowing in on Inga. “Pretty girl needs a song,” he decides. I’m not sure he’s right, but he’s not waiting for anyone’s consent.

  I sigh as he lunges into Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton—and really loudly too. Goddammit, it’s a trumpet—of course it’s loud. Ingela crosses her arms. She might be waiting for him to finish like I am. She’s freezing, though, because she shifts to hug herself. It’s my cue to jump in.

  I move up behind her, making sure her back is all the way into me. She’s tall but so slender I have no problem engulfing her entirely. She heaves a sigh, leaning in against me. A cool gust of spring air hits my eyes above her head. As usual when I have the chance, I bury my nose in her hair. She’s so…

  I pass the poor man a fiver. He’s delighted. Unfortunately, he stalks straight across the street to one of the green ale outlets. I watch him until Inga turns in my hold, linking herself around my waist, probably for the heat.

  “It’s Bo, my ex. He’s coming in a week.”

  “The dick who kept breaking up and reconciling with you, rinsed and repeated?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Over and over?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her laughter isn’t humorous. It’s just going through the motions of adequate human response. It’s pathetic, especially from Ingela, who’s the most genuine person I know.

  “Are you saying you’re letting him visit?”

  Ingela puffs, impatient with me already. She still buries into me, though, even inhaling something… maybe my fabric softener? It’s not bad, I think. It’s Dan’s, that pussy.

  “You don’t get it, Cam. Have you ever dated someone for years?”

  “Nope, can’t say I have.”

  She slaps me in the chest, a light slug for Inga. “See? You know nothing. There’s tons of history, Cameron, and I loved him so much. Deep down, I know he loves me too—he’s just having all these… I dunno.”

  “Issues?” I suggest.

  “Yeah.” She laughs again.

  “Stop doing that,” I say into her hair. Bubblegum. That’s what the whole girl smells like. Juicy Fruit. Except her sex. Damn.

  “Do what?” She tips her head back up far enough to meet my stare.

  “Fake-laugh. It’s not you, and I don’t like it.”

  “Oh sorry, sweetheart—didn’t mean to do something you didn’t like,” she starts but then I silence her. Kiss her.

  She kisses me back.

  “You’re letting him come here?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t, huh?”

  “You’d be a dimwit if you did.”

  Her entire body heaves with the offense she takes from my comment. If this weren’t serious and all about Ingela’s wellbeing, I’d laugh. She’s damn cute—I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to make her angry. She’s about to shoot out a retort, but I cut in. Grab her chin and target her sassy little mouth, keeping it an inch from mine. “Dimwit. Inga’s a dimwit.”

  “Cam’s a prick-wad and a douche-pack,” she responds, voice low. I look into her eyes, really look, but she lowers her eyelashes like a burlesque dancer and I get that she’s teasing me. She does know the real expression in both cases. She just likes to wind me up.

  “You want to wind me up?” I ask out loud.

  “Doesn’t take much.” She sniffs, her itty-bitty button nose going red in the spring cold.

  I suck on her lips. She lets me. God yes, she’s letting me, and it’s so good. Her lips are sweet with balm or whatever on them. I want to lick more than her mouth.

  “Plus, you’re leaving,” she tells me out of the blue.

  I draw back, search her eyes in an effort to decipher what she means. Ingela frowns as if she’s pondering it too. She doesn’t divulge further, though, even when her features settle in understanding. I might not have a doctorate in the intricacies of the female psyche, but—

  “Let me get this straight: you’re going to let him come stay with you because I’m leaving on a trip?”

  She tries to turn away from me.

  “Inga. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up, dork.”


  It’s her standard retort.

  “Listen.” I clamp her lower face between my thumb and index finger and don’t let go when she makes an attempt at wiggling free. “Look at me.”

  Instead of looking, she glares at me. “I’m listening, geez.”

  “Okay.” I suck on her lips one more time real quick because they’re tasty. “Me leaving for Whistler for one weekend has nothing to do with you messing with your happiness. Really, don’t—”

  “You ass!”

  “Can you stop insulting me just for one night?”

  She puffs her lip out, and it’s too cute. I need to grab it between my teeth. Suckle. Shit, she’s… I wish I hadn’t brought her home the other night. Then again, who am I kidding? I’m ecstatic that I brought her home the other night.

  “I don’t mean it.”

  “You don’t mean what?” Women are enigmas to me. But this girl? She’s the freaking… mystery of the universe. I have no idea, ever, where her crazy mind takes her.

  “To insult you. Just don’t go to Whistler. I think you’ll get hurt or die. Yeah, you’ll die up there in the mountains, Cameron. You can’t go.”

  Fuck?

  Okay, there’s way too much going on here right now. Ingela just jinxed my entire trip, and I probably will die now. Said is said. I’m not repeating this to Dan or Marek, though—we’re all superstitious. Damn. I’m going to die, huh?

  A familiar rush floods in over me.

  Get me straight: I don’t have a death wish. It’s just the thrill of living really fucking close to the edge that exhilarates me. And now? Right now, after what Ingela said, I. Am. Drenched in the high of tipping way over.

  Shit, she’s so awesome.

  “Shush, sweetie, I’m not going to die. We go on these trips all the time. You know that.”

  “Yeah, well, but now we’ve slept together, and it’s different. I’m bringing you bad luck, I bet. Whenever people have someone waiting for them at home, they’re… uh…”

  “Jinxed?”

  “Yeah, that. You’ll probably die now.”