by Sunniva Dee
Arriane lets out an impatient huff. “Smother’s a business. Of course we do.”
I relieve her of Lyric. Push the little man up above my head and hold him like he’s flying. He’s not surprised. In the mirror behind the bar counter, his eyes widen as he sings low: “Aaahhhhh.”
“I’ll get him a wingsuit for his birthday so he can come fly with me,” I fib to Arria.
“Right, or not.”
Ten minutes later, Tiny Guy’s buckled into his car seat in Leon’s truck. Arriane wasn’t keen on me taking Lyric in the hobble-mobile, though she agreed I might need him as leverage to make Inga open the door. If she’s as bad as after the last time she met up with her ex, that is. I’m not going to overthink it and expect the worst.
As we park, Lyric goes, “Pop.”
“Maybe Inga has pop,” I whisper, and he claps, gleeful.
“Inga. Pop!”
I’m in luck yet again. Her roommate, Maria, is home, and she opens, pinches Lyric’s cheek, and steps aside for us to come in.
Lyric knows his way around and immediately shoots off full speed through the apartment toward Inga’s bedroom. “Inga. Inga!” he squeals. “My Inga!”
The door to her bedroom is cracked open, which I take as a good sign. The odds of finding her in the fetal position on her bed seem smaller.
The tiny dude literally kicks her door open, brute-style, and barges in. “Pop?”
I only hesitate for a moment, until I hear sweet cooing sounds in there. “Oh, lookie at my baby! How big you are now!”
Yeah. She’s been gone for four days.
“Big,” he agrees.
“I missed you, baby-baby,” she croons, kissing him. I’m in the doorway, staring. She’s so fucking gorgeous, I’m about to keel over.
Ingela’s bedroom gives to her bathroom—where she’s standing right now. She’s only half decent, which is totally dandy. Smooth skin and no makeup, skin-colored, kissable lips. Some undershirt thingy with pink straps falls off a shoulder, and her favorite ripped jeans are undone in the front. I love them open.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says, and I’m not sure if that’s a good oh-it’s-you.
“Hey, stranger. You disappeared again.”
“Nu-huh, I just got home.”
“Yesterday afternoon. That’s a while ago. Everyone’s wondering where you are.” That’s not true, but she needs to be a bit more mortified than she is.
Her suitcase is by the bed with the zipper open. A glint of red lace taunts me. Goddamn.
“So… you had a good time?” I cross my arms. She puts the baby down and turns her back to me. Starts rummaging in drawers. “Ingela?”
Her hands. They’re shaking. Fuck.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Instead of answering my question, she says this and pulls a soggy breath in through her nose. Bullshit.
“Call me crazy, but I think you’re full of it and that you’re crying.”
“Pop.”
She’s so sad, and yet the voice from the one-tracked little person holding her leg on the floor makes her emit something close to a laugh.
“Feel like being a rebel and giving him actual soda?” I ask. Lyric’s dancing in place like he understands, knees bending and stretching, arms still tightly snuggled around Inga’s leg. “That make you happy?”
She splashes water on her face before she swings to me. Smart girl. Now I can’t tell what’s tears and what’s water. Her smile is wobbly, but it’s there. “Yeah. Let’s spoil a brat.”
Maria clears from the kitchen as soon as we arrive with the yodeling little one. Works for me. Inga grabs a can of Pepsi and serves it with a straw. She plops Lyric on my lap, who wriggles his diaper butt so he’s comfortable while taking his first sip. Lots of coughing and sputtering ensue. He keeps clearing his throat, and his eyes go so watery I’m afraid he’s choking.
“Shit, this was a terrible idea. Has he ever had soda before?” I ask and pull the can away. As soon as he’s got air in his lungs again, he squeals in protest.
“POP!”
“Jesus H. He’s the devil’s spawn!”
A small giggle erupts from Ingela. How’s she not worried about this? “Yeah, Christian’s girlfriend fed him Seven-Up at Smother a couple of weeks ago. Leon all but banned her from the bar when he caught them.” Inga has a mischievous smile growing on her face. Last time, it took her days to work up that signature insolence. She brings the can close to Mr. Spoiled Rotten, holding the straw straight.
As Lyric dives in again, I mutter, “I’m mentally preparing for the Heimlich Maneuver.” That gets her; a small chuckle trills out.
“The Heimlich on this little thing? That’s got to be the sight.”
“I know,” I say over the constant sputtering and clearing of baby throat on my lap. “God, he’s obviously not made to drink soda, ever. You realize he’ll give us away in a heartbeat, right? He’ll probably yell it out as soon as he gets home.”
She covers her mouth giggling. “We’ll just say it was some juice concoction.”
“He better not have Coke burps.”
“Oh my God. Shit—we’re so hosed.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ingela’s dressed, and we’re heading down the stairs to the car. I’ve got Lyric over a shoulder, butt with heavy diaper in the air, and Inga’s patting his back, saying it’s what people do to burp babies.
I think he’s too old, because nothing happens. Ingela’s grin grows. She’s loving this. I widen my eyes in fake horror. “So he’ll come home full of Coke burps. He needs a diaper change bad, too, I think—I wonder if it’s cola-colored.”
“Oh shut up, dick. You have no idea about babies. Of course not. It’s pee-colored like yours.”
“What do you know about my pee? The only thing you’ve ever seen of my secretions is—”
“Pee-pee,” Lyric agrees.
“Smarmy-head.”
It’s easier this time. Probably because deep down I didn’t harbor hopes of Bo wanting to commit. Gothenburg is full of memories of him. Skala, our little hometown is. But not Deepsilver. My room doesn’t smell like him anymore—if anything Cameron has branded my room, now. Even his scent reminds me of sunshine.
I don’t forget my love for Bo, of course, or every last thing we did to each other. My skin sings when I allow myself to indulge in the past, reliving each caress that showed his love better than words. But I don’t go under the way I used to.
Still, dreams beat the brutal reality; the first days back in Deepsilver, I skipped classes, because my bed was the cocoon I craved. But when I did, Cameron or Arriane would come and get me, either alone or with a tiny sidekick who never stops demanding forbidden drinks. Makes me wonder what kind of a party lion he’ll become as an adult.
True friends. That is what these two are to me. I am so lucky to have them.
It’s been almost a week since I returned. I’m getting on track again; I’ve been to work, and for each night I have fewer crying bouts in the restroom. I’m returning to class tomorrow too. It’ll be a bitch to make up the homework, so here’s hoping I can weasel notes out of my classmates.
Bo and I don’t call each other. I send him short text messages to make sure he doesn’t hole himself up and slide into depression.
How’s Wen-Wen? I’ll ask.
Learning English slower than new chords, he’ll answer, and I smile at that. Damn, the man was hard to understand.
You guys gone out again?
Yeah. Watching a film with the group tonight. My house.
That was yesterday. Knowing he’s happy, I can live without him, I realize. It’s slow going, but I’ll get there.
Today is Saturday. I’m taking my time getting dressed, something I haven’t done since I came back. I pat on foundation, powder my skin matte after shadowing my cheeks with a natural rouge. I do my eyes with purple eye shadow, a pearlescent white below the eyebrow, and strong black eyeliner. Tons of mascara goes on, and lastly, I find the lipstick I thought I’d lost behind the toothbrush cup. My f
avorite bright red one. I smile.
I’m feeling good tonight.
Can you pick me up? I text Cameron last minute. We’re both working tonight, and I want to flirt. He’s my chosen flirt-buddy—if he isn’t sick of my mood swings yet. The man is patient, though. He hasn’t even tried to kiss me since my trip. I miss his kisses. Maybe he’s had it with that side of our relationship?
No more Cameron kisses… I don’t like the thought of that at all. I brush off my negative thoughts and smile again. Smiling makes you feel better I read somewhere. I think it works.
Hold on, is his cryptic answer. A moment later, he continues, Yep, two mins. Asked Leon.
Shit. Yeah, it’s late. Cameron is at work already. I run to my closet and find a black miniskirt instead of the regular pants. It’s still uniform, though, so no breach. Pumps tonight. That’s how good I’m feeling. I’m proud of my own reflection in the mirror—I’ve even curled my itty-bitty ponytail. I clean up all right.
“Hot damn,” is Cameron’s verdict. “Are you planning to hand out heart attacks by the fistful tonight?”
“What?” I swipe my eyelashes low, going for a Marilyn Monroe move. It must work, because when I look back up, Cam’s in my face, tilting my chin up.
“Okay. One taste of tasty lips,” he says. Then, before I can agree, he sucks a kiss to my mouth that makes my knees go weak. Guess he isn’t over kissing me.
“Hey, you’re ruining my—Hey!” On the second hey he’s got me in the air, squeezing my body into himself, arms under my butt.
“You’re fucking edible. Holy shit—I think we’re staying in. Hold on, I’ll call Leon right now and explain I’ve got a situation on my hands,” he jokes.
I wiggle free, laughing. “You’re a horn-bull or whatever you guys call it. Get off me.”
I’m out the door, running for the car with Cam sliding the banister to catch up with me. “Horn dog,” he corrects. “And you’re a cock tease in case you wondered.”
At his vehicle, he catches me, presses me into the side of the hobble-mobile, surely making my clothes dirty. He pushes his mouth to mine and mutters, “God, I have been patient with you. No. More.”
It’s been a while since she’s been like this. She’s happy Ingela. I think back, trying to remember: did she become herself again between the times she saw her ex? I decide that she did. Even so, this? Is crazy, fun Ingela, the happy girl who doesn’t give a shit about a dickwad she left behind on another coast.
She lends erratic attention to her fan club of weird guys, there, in the front row of the main bar, and she keeps yelling out stuff that makes little or no sense over the music.
We’re busy as hell tonight, which fits both of our moods perfectly. Every chance I get, I squeeze past her behind the bar, lean over her shoulder, and make sure she feels my halfer against her spine in the process.
“Cameron. You’re a total load of—” She laughs. Throws her head back with that tiny ponytail dancing. I’m pulling it out after work for sure. No way is she going home alone tonight.
I flick a glance around and find the boss sauntering off to the kitchen. Perfect. With Inga’s fan club watching, I cup her neck and suck off more of that bright lipstick she’s got on.
Painted, fluffy, soft lips.
She’s a rush. The entire girl is a rush to me, and the realization is a punch to the gut.
“Mmm, you just wait,” I tell her.
“Asshole!” Her smile is wide. “That gay there?” She points at an unsuspecting not gay man with his arms around a girl. “Needs a Bud. Work, dude, or no more lipstick for you.”
One of the regulars, a short, fat backwoodser, glares at me over Inga’s shoulder. I’m guessing because I squeeze her tight before doing her bidding.
“Cameron. Inga.”
I hadn’t noticed Leon returning. Our boss is incredibly cool but so guarded that the only people who can instigate cracks in his façade are Lyric and Arriane. A few years ago, the coeds in Deepsilver used to go ape over him. Now, he’s such a family guy, it’s hard to fathom his old reputation.
Leon’s gaze penetrates Ingela first, then me. “Rosa and Brigitte are cold on the patio. Why don’t you swap with them for the last hour and let them warm up inside.”
“Sure thing, boss,” I say.
Brigitte’s already here, rubbing her palms together. “Heat lamp’s broken. The one by the register,” she specifies.
“I miscalculated the gas needed.” A slight line between Leon’s eyes indicates a frown. “I thought I had enough left through Sunday.” Clearly, the man just blew his own mind.
“What? You made a mistake?” That’s Inga, making Leon’s issue worse. She’s clapping her hands. “Arriane. Arria?” she hollers.
Arriane stops in front of the counter, a broom in her hand, waiting for Inga to continue. Everyone knows you don’t need to lean in to hear Ingela.
“Your boyfriend FORGOT something!”
Leon lifts his eyes in the faintest eye roll. I was worried he’d get upset, but I think that’s a lip twist in the right direction—up. Arriane presses a hand to her chest in mock horror before she blows him a comfort kiss. Then, she leaves on what she calls “the cleanup-on-aisle-three gag.”
Outside, Inga and I are left mostly to ourselves. People flee indoors from the sudden gusts of late-spring winds curling into the patio. Even Inga shivers, which makes no difference to me; I seize every opportunity to hold her anyway. The outdoor bar’s dark with its thick Tiki roof—and damn, can I get away with stuff if Inga’s in the mood.
She is in the mood tonight. I slide my hands around her from behind while she mixes a champagne cobbler for a chick who should stop drinking.
“You got nothing better to do, Cam?” she quips.
“Nope.” I pop the “p” into her ear and enjoy her response, a quick shudder.
“There’s gotta be plenty of gays needing bear or something.”
I snort out laughing. Ah, I love how she wrecks the English language. “Sure, if that whole bear look is their fetish,” I say and nuzzle her lobe, not giving a damn about the new customer slurring out an order at me. I take another mouthful of Inga before I help him.
As we’re closing out the bar, BB girl Beth sways out into the patio. She slows her pace when she sees Inga, but then she changes her mind and comes over.
“Hey, stranger,” she says to me, voice soft.
Inga’s attention jerks from the spot she’s grating at with a rag. “Beth, need anything? A soda for the road?” In four really small, fast steps, she’s next to me sliding both arms around my middle.
“Yeah, um. You guys partying tonight?”
“Yup, we are,” I say.
“Nope, we’re sleepy,” Inga decides at the same time.
“Don’t know about you, sugar, but I’m partying.” I swing to hold Inga’s gaze. She’s so confused. How cute is that? Before I can finish teasing her, she drops me and grabs a to-go cup for Beth. I go in close to her ear: “With you. Only you. At your place.”
Inga’s quick movements stop, and her cheeks actually color. “Oh, smooth.”
I run my nose up her cheek. “Yeah, I’ll be smooth. You’ll be slick.”
“Shut up.”
By the time I focus on Beth again, she’s halfway across the tile to the exit. Inga’s faster than me. She scurries out on the floor and reaches her with the to-go cup, soda splashing over the edge as she goes. There are some general apologies over our lack of attention, I guess, to Beth. Apologies are few and far between from my girl anyway, and I’ve got a huge-ass smile on my face.
This is going to be a great night. It’s almost over, and yet it hasn’t even begun. My plan? I’ll make her fucking scream.
I’ve seen it in her eyes for hours. She’s here. With me. She’s not in Los Angeles with her ex, and she’s not lost to the darkness of what could have been. I’m winning tonight, and Inga’s about to experience me full force. I’m high on my victory as I kiss her at the door to her apartme
nt.
Ingela’s as quiet as I am. I don’t remember a time when she didn’t playfully insult me or tell me this wasn’t what she wanted. The girl loves her games—and I love her for them. But still, this? Is about to get different.
Her mouth. I can’t get enough of it, and I can’t slow down to get her into the bedroom before shit happens. I grab her ponytail and yank once. She gasps. Maybe she’s upset I withdrew from our kiss to rip out her hairband. Or maybe she’s shocked I’m being rough.
She deserves anything I can do to her. Because she’s so fucking delicious. Because she’s made me wait forever.
“I hate it when you take off,” I rasp against her lips. They’re wet, warm, soft, just what I want. She barely nods, understanding.
A metal button pops and clangs to the floor as I wrench her shirt off. I’m not careful, oh hell no. It’s payback time. She rumbles a noise deep in her throat, like she’s displeased, but then she’s not because I’m scooting bra cups up and carrying her with warm legs tight around my waist.
“The best… you taste so good.” My words jumble, from the blood rushing away from my brain, I’m sure.
“Please,” she murmurs, and I love that she’s begging already. She pleads… Ingela pleading. She makes me high and my cock hard.
She’s a fucking vision, the arc of her back in my hand when she presses against my mouth, letting me suckle on her. My soundtrack is sweet moans that change in pitch. I stumble down the corridor with female hunger clinging around my hips.
“Oh baby, do you even know,” I puff against her ear. There’s no more to the thought. It’s the moment and everything she does to me.
I rip the covers off, leaving the bed without obstacles, and dump her there. She bounces once from the impact. My eyes burn from staring. Fuck, how can it be like this? “I want you so bad.”
Her chest heaves at my words. I take in parted lips, already inflated from my treatment. They’re not bright lipstick-red or Inga’s pure pale pink; no, these lips are fuck-me swollen, the deep, natural red of her pussy.
My gaze slides to her breasts. Those itty bitty mounds—my hands itch to enfold them again and feel hard nubs between my fingers. I dive in. A quiet squeal escapes her. It’s anticipation and not knowing what I’m going to do next. I revel in the sound.