by Liora Blake
Every morning I wake up, stare at my body in the mirror, and then poke at my ribs to see if they still hurt. Each day they hurt less, the bruises fade a little more, and then other kinds of aching sensations in my body take over a bit more. I go through this stupid ritual day in and day out, even though I don’t know why. When everything stops hurting and the bruise is gone, what am I really going to do? Schedule a convenient time for him to do all those orgasm-inducing things to me?
“Details, please.”
Stacia turns her head to me. “You haven’t seen it?”
“The art on his chest? No.”
Dropping her sunglasses down, she looks at me and arches one eyebrow. “Really? You’ve never . . . ?”
“Yes, really. When he lifted his shirt up once, I saw work there, but he was across the yard, so I couldn’t see what it was.”
“What yard?”
Why does my best friend seem to be focusing on the stupidest shit right now, the details that don’t matter and won’t just give me the important info on his torso ink so I can fill in my fantasies properly? It’s quickly becoming very annoying.
“He was mowing Mom’s lawn. Would you just put me out of my misery and tell me what he has tattooed on there? Otherwise I’m going to bend your fingers backward until you cry for Preston to come save you.”
“Jesus Christ. You always go straight for the violent approach when you’re wound up.” She rolls on her side to face me. “Roman numerals. The date his mom died. Under that, he had me add a couple of small sparrows with the date his parents got married. It looks good.”
A silent groan rumbles through my chest. Too much information. I know I asked, but it’s too damn much. Knowing that the work is sentimental and sweet, combined with the fact I can’t stop imagining tracing my fingers over every damn inch, makes my heart thump. I can’t be expected to handle this.
“I’m sure it looks great.”
“He is so . . .” Stacia pauses and grins a little. “I just can’t believe you two aren’t together. When he walked in, I felt like he zeroed in on me with those eyes of his. Then he took his shirt off and I almost told Preston to pack up his shit. That guy is six feet of ripped-ass trouble. As in, make-you-forget-how-to-speak trouble.”
While I know I could give Stacia every dirty detail about how Simon and I keep getting this close to naked, and she wouldn’t judge or make me feel weird, I don’t. Who knows what I would really be saying, anyway. That I want him? That he keeps rejecting me and I can’t get enough?
“He seems to think you’re the cat’s meow, that’s for sure.”
Like a stupid junior high girl, my stomach tumbles and I have to catch my breath for a second, but I’m determined not to show it. Only the ghost of a smile tugs at my lips, which I promptly subdue by biting the inside of my cheek.
“I think he talked about you from the minute he got here, until the minute he left. Devon this, Devon that. ‘How long have you known Devon? Devon’s not seeing anyone, right? Boy, the art on Devon’s back is amazing. Devon, Devon, Devon.’ I almost showed him my official Devon Fan Club membership card so he would know I didn’t need him to tell me how awesome you are. Then he told Preston he thinks you might be his Big Barda.”
“Big Barda? He called me fat? That’s fucking spectacular.”
“It’s some idiotic comic book reference. Preston thought it was hilarious. They actually high-fived and giggled like a pair of teenagers who just saw their first pair of boobs.” She rolls her eyes and shifts to her back again.
The sun is high in the sky now, shining down so intensely it feels like perfection on my skin, moving away all the Simon-induced goose bumps. We lie silently for a good five minutes as my mind bounces against the draw of a nap, until Stacia suddenly sits up, with her legs resting gracefully out to the side.
“God, I’m sorry, I know you don’t like being grilled, but what is up with you two? You’ve apparently known this guy for a few years, but you’ve never mentioned him. When Trevor started talking about him the other week, you went so pale I thought you were going to pass out. Then he shows up here, and he’s this funny, cool, crazy-sexy mess and one of the few guys I’ve ever met who might actually be able to keep up with you. And now you’re sitting here grinding your jaw together so hard I can hear it. All signs point toward you guys making the foundation crumble like Buffy and Spike, but you say that’s not happening.”
I flail around a little, rolling my head back and forth on the pillow, and let out a huge groan. This will help. I was banned from telling Kate because of the stupid marriage clause, but I can spill it right now to Stacia.
“I don’t fucking know. He’s Trevor’s guitarist, which is problem numero uno. He’s always been around as Trevor’s boy wonder or something. We give each other a tremendous amount of shit, and then at the wedding, things got heated. Then I had to massage him, which was an entirely new brand of torture. Then he helped me after my accident and I tried to take my clothes off in front of him because he made toast. I’ve basically propositioned him twice now and been shut down both times. The last time, he said it was because I was hurt, then he laid out how he wants to get all filthy and dirty with me once I’m better. So that is what the fuck is up. A glorious-ass mess of weirdness. The cherry on top is that I’m so sexually frustrated, I could probably fuel a small country at this point with the friction between my legs.”
I have to catch my breath from all the spewing of words I just let out. Stacia sputters out a long, loud, deep laugh and rolls back down onto her side. Pushing her sunglasses up off her head, she dabs at the corners of her eyes a little.
“That’s fricking awesome. I’ve never seen you this twisted up. Over a guy. Sorry, but it’s kind of fabulous.”
Her laugh trails off and I smile despite myself. “Thank you. I’m glad I could give you a belly laugh.”
Giggling again, she snorts once, and then clears her throat exaggeratedly.
“Sorry. Sort of.” Taking a deep breath, she rights her shoulders, and when she does, I know she’s about to set my ass straight.
“Just don’t tank this because you’re afraid to see if he might be worth it. Don’t be the Devon who runs just because that’s easier. Be the Devon who kicks ass to get what she deserves. Who knows, he might be just what you need.”
And, there it is. The Stacia brand of pep talk I’ve come to rely on.
8
When my mom volunteered the Jenkins family to take the lead on the annual Carlton Country Day Bake Sale, I suspect she knew exactly how little would be expected of her. Since the woman is somehow able to simultaneously burn, dry out, and undercook all baked goods, it’s best that she showed up at Kate and Trevor’s, dropped McKenna off, and then promptly proceeded to disappear for the afternoon, claiming she had to take her car for an oil change.
So now it’s primarily Kate and I who have the distinct pleasure of spending an entire weekend baking three zillion types of cookies, all so a bunch of rich kids can raise money for a new lacrosse field house. As if a bake sale will really have one iota to do with getting a new anything at that school. We all know one of the kids’ parents will just make a whopper of an endowment to cover whatever it takes to build the stupid thing, anyway.
I’ve spent the last three hours trying to keep McKenna from sneaking too many samples and praying I don’t end up with a sudden case of carpal tunnel from all the scooping, portioning, and shaping my poor hands have endured. When my phone chirps from my back pocket, I’m elbow-deep in a bowl of peanut butter cookie dough, so I throw my hip out in Kate’s direction and shake my ass a little to draw her attention away from the oven.
“Grab my phone, will you? See who’s texting me.”
Kate slides her hand into my back pocket and removes the phone. She lets out a little sound of surprise and then lowers her voice. “It’s Simon. Why is Simon texting you?”
McKenna has supersonic hearing, apparently, because she stops her busy work of pressing the dough balls
onto the cookie sheets and squeals. “Simon Says! Is he coming over?”
Trevor is sitting at the breakfast bar, where he has spent the last hour reading a stack of BMX magazines, being no help whatsoever, in between inappropriately distracting Kate from her simple job of rotating pans in and out of the oven. Without looking up from the page he’s reading, he lets out a snort.
“Maybe you could reassure him that you’re fine, completely healed and shit. Because if he interrogates me one more time for a medical update on you, I’m gonna duct-tape his mouth shut.”
He adds a whiny lilt to his voice. “ ‘How’s Devon? Is she a hundred percent yet? Did she go to the doctor?’ Dude could drive a saint crazy.”
I choke a little at the one about me going to the doctor. Only Simon and I know exactly what he is angling after, but I’m sure he got a kick out of saying it to Trevor, considering the covert implications. Kate looks at me with her eyebrows raised, silently asking if I want her to open the text for me. Our eyes lock and I give her a little head nod. In the seconds that follow, I chant silently to myself.
Don’t let it be dirty. Don’t let it be dirty. Don’t let it be dirty.
She slides the lock on the face of the phone, reads it, then makes a confused face before shoving it in front of my eyes.
I have a present for you.
I make the same face Kate just did. My next thought is the idea of what I really want to text back. Is it you? Are you my present? Does it involve a big red bow tied around your inked abs?
Shrugging my shoulders, I toss Kate a look that says I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. She sets the phone down and returns to the oven, opening it and swapping two sheets on the racks. It feels like my phone is screaming at me, taunting me from where it sits, just a foot away. The display hasn’t dimmed yet, so I can see the text still illuminated there.
A present. The five-year-old in me starts to do a little dance. Given the way Simon seems to pay attention to things far more than I ever gave him credit for, I’m hedging my bets toward him being able to pick out something good. The speculation could kill me, so I give up and stop with the dough, leaning over to wash my hands in the sink. Trevor and McKenna have the same attention span, so they’ve both already forgotten about Simon, but Kate watches me from where she leans against the far counter.
Quietly, I call over my shoulder as I leave the room, “I’ll be right back.”
Stepping out onto the back porch, I sit down on the steps and stare at the phone for a minute before grinning and sending a text back.
Is it creepy? Like some weird art you make with fingernail clippings? If so, not interested.
I wait patiently and stare at my shoelaces to distract myself. He texts back right away.
How is it that you are so sexy and beautiful while also having such a weird, disgusting sense of humor? You’re on the right track, though. It is art, no fingernail clippings. Gross, BTW. I’m deeply offended.
You’re the freak that commented on how I smell like chai. Not a huge leap from scenting me to fingernail art.
Come see me later. I’ll give it to you.
Yoga class at 5.
Skip it. Come by after. Don’t care. I want to see you.
And then, a moment later:
I need to see you. Don’t make me beg. . . . I’ll do it, but it’s embarrassing.
My little heartbeat begins flailing about in my chest, swatting away in unreliable beats. Taking a deep breath, I try to decide if this is a good idea. We could keep everything the way it’s always been, trading jabs and lusty looks, or we could do this other thing. Whatever that is.
The idea of saying no, ignoring this thing between us, is pointless. Aside from how I flat-out want him, going back to our status quo after everything that’s happened feels nearly impossible. After my propositions, his filthy declarations, and our mutual simmering cravings, we will never be the same anyway.
After? Around 7?
Any time you want. I’ll be waiting impatiently.
As I walk into the house, he sends me his address, and when Kate fixes her gaze on me, I feel my face turning a deep shade of red before averting my eyes and shoving my phone in my pocket. When I finally have the courage to look up again, she’s staring at me with her arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head a little. Then, bless her fucking heart, she turns around and refocuses her attention on the oven without saying a word.
No matter how hard I try, nothing calms the insanity in my brain. The sixty-minute yoga class that would normally fly by drags on and on. Probably because of all the thoughts ricocheting around in my brain at an alarming rate, including panicked calculations of the exact number of times my heart feels like it might it pound out of my chest. The warm room is smothering me in oppressive anxiety, and when I leave, I’m twice as restless as when I arrived. Even the unreasonably long shower I take when I get home does zilch. The lavender body butter I slather on after does not offer any relaxing properties as the label proclaimed it would. Completely false advertising, I say.
Pulling on another pair of clean yoga pants and a tank top, I tell myself that my casual outfit means this isn’t even a date. He didn’t call me up and ask me out to dinner, a boring movie, and a drink. No, he texted me to drop by. This is a drive-by, a hookup at best.
This theory helps right up until I pull in front of his house. From the street, the pretty craftsman bungalow looks like the kind of place a perfect young family would live, with a wide porch, bracketed by heavy fieldstone pillars and an imposing wood door with a huge iron door knocker I can see from here.
A type of house where a wholesomely beautiful woman with curly hair and a clean-cut, responsible guy with glasses would start their future together, complete with a baby boy, a baby girl, a cat, and a dog. Not the place I would picture Simon living, because the yard is well kept, dim lights peek out from behind window coverings, and there is a hanging porch swing to the left of the front door.
When I close my eyes to stave off the anxiety of leaving my car, I realize what’s really going on. I’m nervous. A feeling I’m not typically prone to experiencing. I grip the steering wheel and roll it under my hands, the newness of it squeaking beneath my touch. I had to buy a car after my Jeep was totaled in the accident, and the new-car smell is still heavy in here. The outgassing of all those toxic chemicals feels as though they are wafting into my brain and making my shortness of breath even worse. Maybe I should leave. Maybe this is the worst idea ever.
Unfortunately, I can’t. I can’t leave because I want everything that lies beyond that heavy wood door. I want Simon, his hands, his mouth, his body. I want all of him, and I’m about to lose my mind because of it.
Wrenching the car door open, I steer my body out, grabbing the little box of cookies I nabbed from the afternoon of baking as I do. My gift for him. That and, oh yeah, me. I’m giving it all up tonight if it kills me. Or him.
He must have been watching for me, because just as I shuffle up the wide stairs the door opens and he’s standing there, grinning down at me. Shirtless and barefoot. I stop on the middle step and wait, taking him in, rationalizing that if I need to I can turn on my heel and sprint back to the safety of my vehicle.
Why he needed to answer the door without a shirt on is beyond me. Now all that ink down his arms and the bits on his chest are on display under the dim light of the porch lamp. The button on his loose cargo pants is undone, like he knows with absolute certainty they won’t be on for long.
What a conceited ass.
“Hey there, sunshine. You just gonna stand on the porch all night?”
He leans up against the doorjamb and folds his arms over his chest.
Conceited, sexy, tempting ass.
I shove my arm out, extending the box of cookies toward him, without moving forward from my precarious perch on the stairs. “I brought you some cookies. We made four hundred thousand dozen cookies today.”
“I can’t tell you how much I wish you were dressed
in a slutty Girl Scout costume right now. I could get years of pleasure out of that.” He pushes up off the doorjamb and holds his hand out to me. “You and your cookies should come inside.”
Dislodging my feet, I take the last step and walk toward the doorway, where his hand remains outstretched. Instead of taking his hand, I shimmy through the doorway past him, watching him from the corner of my eye. Inside, I hear the door shut behind us, then the sound of the lock turning. The click of the dead bolt almost sends me headfirst into a fainting spell. You would think this was my first time with a guy, like I’m about to lose my virginity all over again.
His hand comes to the small of my back, urging me farther into the house, around a dark brown leather club sofa, past a gray slate–covered fireplace, into the kitchen, where there are more lights on. Leaving my side, he slips around the kitchen island to the fridge, pulling open the door and grabbing out a glass jug of milk.
“Hand them over.”
Silently, I hand him the box and he pulls open the lid, plucking out a couple indiscriminately.
“Why did you bake so many cookies?” Shoving them in his mouth, he eats each one in two bites.
“McKenna’s school thing. My mom roped us into it.”
As he swallows a gulp of milk, the movement of his throat distracts me, along with how he’s holding the stupid jug up to his pretty mouth, and then when he pulls it down, he licks his lips and nods.
“Ah, the annual Carlton bake sale. What are they trying to build now? A school space station? A jet propulsion lab?”
“New lacrosse field house. How do you know about the Carlton bake sale?”
“I went to Carlton.” The milk jug clinks as he shuts the door. “These cookies are so damn good. Tell your mom I said so.”