Dempsey’s mouth pulls to the side, thoughtful.
“I have a better idea. How about since we both won, we both get our prizes?”
I like the sound of that. “Everybody wins” is always a good policy in my book. It startles me when she pushes out of the comfy chair she’s been nesting in and comes over to the couch. I lean back to look up at her, and she takes the opportunity to—holy shit—straddle me.
“You wanted a kiss, right?”
Fuck yeah I did. And I may not have anticipated it looking like this, but I sure as hell am not going to object. This is better than I’d hoped for, and all I can do is nod, dumbfounded.
Dempsey leans forward, her breasts pressing against my chest, and slips her hand behind my neck, which gives me chills in the best possible way, and she presses her soft mouth against mine. No tongue and no moving around, but this is still pretty freaking great. Like leaves-me-breathless great. I would like to do it again as soon as possible. She pulls away, though, and looks at me. Oh, right. I promised her anything she wanted. Depending on what she asks for, Stan might kill me. I’ve gotta stop doing stupid shit like this.
I have to clear my throat before I speak because it feels sorta rough, kinda tight. “And, uh, what did you want? A yacht or a Mercedes or a summer house or something? Because I have to tell you, that all might take a while to arrange. I would encourage you to take something that will be more immediate because delayed gratification sucks.”
“Realizing you should’ve put some stipulations on that offer, huh? I bet your lawyers earn their keep with you as a client. But you’re in luck. I wasn’t going to ask for any of those things. I hadn’t totally made up my mind until just now. If it’s okay with you, I was going to ask for another kiss.”
“That is so much more than okay with me.”
As soon as I get the words out, she’s tilting her head and coming in to press her lips to mine, and this time she is not fucking around. There is movement and there is tongue, oh god, is there tongue. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed so… Aggressively isn’t the right word because it’s not like she’s mauling me, but assertively maybe? She just totally knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to get it. And all I have to say to that is: Get. It.
My hands are wandering over her, her hips, her waist, her back, her hair, and she moves closer, rocking against me. My jeans are going to get super-uncomfortable very soon. But it’s worth it. Kissing Dempsey is worth it. And though she’s seemed shy sometimes, in this she is absolutely not.
I let her drive the bus of how long we’re going to make out and how far we’re going to go because I’m game for anything, but she doesn’t seem like the type who’s trying to bang a pop star. Hell, I basically had to talk her into letting me come over, so I know I’m not another notch on her belt. My heart starts to sing because I think this might mean she likes me? And that’s after having spent most of a day together and her witnessing me in all my scatterbrained glory. If you can call it that. Maybe she wouldn’t call it glorious, but she’s deemed me fit to make out with, and I feel like that’s maybe as much as a guy like me can ask from a girl like her.
6
Dempsey
* * *
It’s possible that I could make out with Nick forever. Scratch that, not forever. Probably not much longer because I’d tire of getting riled up and would want some relief in the form of an orgasm. Goodness knows I’ll probably go digging in my bedside table after he’s left for a vibe to help me with that. While it’s tempting to just go ahead and invite Nick upstairs so we can fuck, it’s been a long time since I fucked someone who I haven’t paid to get me off, and the idea of doing it now tweaks my anxiety. It’s almost a relief when his cell vibrates in his pocket.
The buzzing doesn’t stop either, and he pulls away with a groan. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s my alarm. I’m supposed to go play video games with my buddies. Normally I would tell them to fuck off because I’m making out with a hot chick, but it’s been a while since we could all hang out.”
Even though I feel like I could probably spend a few more hours with Nick and still be sad to see him go, it’s probably best this way. So I climb off his lap and show him and Fi to the door. Once we’re there, he snags my hand and I don’t resist. At all. I actually feel downright glowy-good about the way he strokes the pad of his thumb over the inside of my wrist as we stand there making eyes at each other.
“So can I take you out sometime? For real? We had a good time today, right?”
Yeah. We had the best time I’ve had…in months. Maybe years. I forgot what it was like to have someone new to talk to who isn’t seeking my professional acumen, who just wants to hang out. With me.
“Nick, I…”
He brings my hand to his mouth, brushes his lips across my knuckles, looking me in the eyes as he does. I am not a romantic person. Never have been, really. But this is what people mean when they say something made them swoon. It doesn’t even matter if he’s used this move on a thousand other girls. I still like it. His guileless flirty sweetness makes butterflies—pretty ones—beat their wings and flit about my stomach. It’s nice. Really nice. Makes me feel…hopeful.
But bottom line is that hope is something I can’t afford. Being realistic and rational is what I do, and having a romance with a rock star doesn’t happen for people like me. Back in the day, sure. Date with a pop star could’ve happened on any day ending in y, but not anymore.
Nick shakes his head, but he’s still got a smile on his face and he’s playing with my fingers, staring at the motions before he looks into my face, all smugly pleased with himself.
“You know how I know you had a good time today? You forgot to move your laundry.”
He kisses my knuckles again and then turns my hand over to expose my wrist, which he also kisses and works his way up my arm to the crook of my elbow. That isn’t an area I would’ve ever described as an erogenous zone. My knees must be getting weak for some other reason. Any other reason. It’s warm in here. Maybe my A/C is busted.
But, oh, Nicky.
It’s past time for me to end this, to stop being such a selfish coward and tell him for real… Yeah, it’s laundry day, but I finished it before he got here. So I close my eyes and swallow the lump that’s gathering in my throat because I’m never going to see Nick Fischer ever again, except on my computer or TV screen. Although that would’ve been true if I’d told him before, and now at least I have a couple of phone calls and one lovely day for my troubles. And I’m about to smash it all on the floor. In a second, because he’s now doing something with his tongue that makes me want to melt in his arms.
“Nick…”
He pauses oh so briefly from the attention he’s lavishing on the inside of my forearm. “Yeah?”
“There…” One more kiss. I can let myself have one more kiss, right? But there will never be enough kisses. I’ll regret every one I never had and resent the time I have had with him because it dared me to believe. Well. “There’s no laundry.”
“Hmm?”
I snatch my arm away because I can’t take his kindness, his seduction, his charm. It’s so not fair. And I even allow myself a tiny little bit of wallow room, which I hardly ever do, because it sucks. This is my choice, and I have to live with the consequences. All of them.
Nick’s shaggy head snaps up, and he tips it. I bet Fiona does the exact same thing, and he has that puppy-dog perplexed expression.
“What do you mean there’s no laundry? I mean, I don’t really care. Like, it’s a little weird you felt like you had to lie, but if you were just feeling lazy and didn’t want to go out, you could’ve said that. Everyone probably thinks since the guys and me are famous we go out all the time, but mostly we hang around at Teague’s house playing video games and eating sandwiches or jamming in Benji’s garage. I mean, I’m headed to Teague’s when I leave here, not going to some hot new club or anything. Yeah, we get wild sometimes, but I don’t mind chilling. Give me a beer, some take
out, and a comfy couch, and I’m happy.”
There’s a schnarf from below, and we both turn to a very affronted Fiona.
“And you too, puppers. Couldn’t be happy without my princess, could I? No.”
Fi huffs and then flops onto her side and proceeds to lick herself.
“It’s…” If only it were that. If only I’d just not felt like getting real clothes on and doing my hair and makeup. If only I’d lied about the laundry because I wanted to keep on my weekend loungewear. If only, if only. No more lies. Inhale, exhale. Exhale all the things, like the unfortunate truth. “It’s that I actually have debilitating agoraphobia and anxiety, and I haven’t left my property in over five years.”
There. I’ve said it. And now I have to let the chips fall where they may. Likely on the “wow, how fast can I get away from this whackjob” side of things. I wouldn’t blame him, but it doesn’t make it easy. Doesn’t make the prospect of him walking away not hurt.
A crease forms between Nick’s brows.
“But…”
“I’m not lying to get out of this date. I really have had a super-good time today and I’d like to see you again, but I have no delusions that you’re actually going to show up now that you have all the information.”
Why would he? He’s probably trying to process what kind of woman would stay in her house for years on end. I can answer that for him: one with serious mental health issues, and he’s unlikely to want a piece of that. And who, honestly, can blame him? Not I.
He stands there, quiet for once. It’s disturbing, like rolling metal blinds have slammed down on a window that was always open before. Without his constant narration of his every thought, it feels too quiet. I want to know what’s going through his mind. Or maybe I don’t. Probably don’t.
“Can we talk about this?”
The laugh that escapes me isn’t kind. “Why? I’ve been talking to professionals for almost twenty years, and if you think you’re going to cure me when they—along with a shit ton of pharmaceuticals—have been unable to, you are mistaken. You’re not going to be the hero here. There are no white horses or castle moats or needle-pricked fingers. You should assume that I’m never leaving this quarter-acre lot ever again and make your choices based on that. There’s the door.”
I gesture to it with a flail of my hand and then cross my arms tightly, tucking my hands under my elbows and trying not to cry while he’s still here. I’ll cry after. Could he just leave so I can get on with it? My eyes are starting to sting as I look anywhere but at him, and I’m really, really going to hate telling Vivian about this. How embarrassing. Absolutely mortifying.
“Demps?”
Oh, I hate him for that. For being familiar and cautious and kind.
“What?” My tone is cutting and cruel, and my sneer as I shift my attention back to his face isn’t any kinder. It’s unfair, but it’s a way to protect myself from the inevitable. He’s going to leave, and I’d rather he do it sooner rather than later.
“Do you want me to leave right now? If you want me to I will, but that wouldn’t be my choice.”
I don’t want him to leave at all, but I can’t honestly come up with a reason as to why he should stay, even if it’s only to talk this through. Hell, if I could wave a magic wand and step out of this house, walk onto the sidewalk and down the street, I would. Why isn’t he? “Why not?”
He shrugs, his expression thoughtful. “I dunno. I like you. I like being with you. And if I have to come here to hang out with you, then I will. I don’t really feel like that’s a big thing. No one’s perfect.”
All the air flushes out of my lungs and is replaced by something that feels a little like actual, genuine hope. It’s been so long that I almost don’t recognize it. Is it possible that someone could really like me that much and/or be so laidback that this thing I’ve let determine my every decision is just a quirk? That my agoraphobia—which a ton of people, including myself, have spent so much time and energy trying to eradicate as though it’s some sort of life-threatening cancer—is no bigs?
Is this guy for real?
“Let me get this straight. Your response to me having paralyzing agoraphobia is the same as if I left my socks on the floor? I feel like you’re not really thinking this through. I will never meet up with you at a bar. I will never go see one of your shows. I will never go for a drive with you and Fi.”
There are a lot of other things I’ll never do, but my throat is closing already, so I’ll stop there. I sure as hell don’t have to be reminded of everything I’m missing because of the choices I’ve made. I am all too aware.
I don’t like to make a huge thing out of my agoraphobia. All else being equal, I’d rather not talk about it at all, and I hate it when people make it sound like I must have the most pathetic existence ever because of it.
In some ways it’s shitty, yeah, but I still get to eat really good food, I get to have excellent wine and cocktails, I can read any book I want basically at the snap of my fingers, I have friends who come to see me, I talk to interesting people who I have a lot in common with online, and I have a top-of-the-line entertainment system. Some people might be incapable of seeing my life as full, but it’s not pathetic. That’s usually the direction I have to argue in, and yet here’s Nick, surprising me by sneaking up from the other side of the argument. What’s the big deal?
Nick’s mouth wrenches to the side, his whole face screwing up, and he scratches his neck right below his ear.
“Look, I don’t know a whole lot about this stuff, but isn’t part of mental illness being impaired or dissatisfied? I feel like you’re neither of those things. If you want help and there is literally any way I can help you, I will. But if you’re cool, I’m cool.”
Seriously, what the fuck? Not that Nick is your standard dude, but surely he’s standard enough that the way I live is cause for him to run screaming for the hills. He’s not even done yet, though, shifting his weight from one foot to another and putting a hand on his hip while he’s still pulling a face.
“I mean, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have some pretty serious issues with impulse control and my brain acts like the New York City subway system during rush hour. And some other shit. Some people aren’t okay with those things. They get sick of me pretty fast, and I get it. My buddies, though? They make sure I’m safe and that I don’t fuck up super-bad, but overall they seem to think I’m okay how I am. That’s what friends do.”
Oh. I mean, obviously I’d noticed those things, but given that he’s obscenely wealthy, incredibly famous, and wickedly talented—not to mention a scruffy kind of hot—I hadn’t thought anyone would hold that against him. Apparently I was wrong, and my heart goes out to him. I know what that’s like, to have people decide I’m not worth it. For them to determine that, yeah, I have my good points, but they really don’t outweigh the bad.
And for Nick…maybe it is that simple? Maybe he doesn’t analyze and overthink things as much as I do. He’s got too much going on in his head to take deep, neurotic, obsessive dives because he’s skimming along the surface like a perpetually skipping stone. Maybe, maybe…
“You promise you’re for real?”
“Shah. I’m the worst liar on the planet, and don’t ever tell me anything you want kept a total secret. Pretty much what you see is what you get.”
“That’s…very true.”
Nick is about as artless as they come. If he were going to hide something, wouldn’t it be the roller coaster ride constantly running in his mind? And, god, maybe it makes me naive to believe him after knowing him for only a short time, but it’s so tempting.
Take the leap, Dempsey. Maybe you’ll fall, but maybe you’ll fly.
So I reach out and slip my fingers through his, tugging until our joined hands hang between us. And just because it feels good, I rub my thumb over the back of his hand, right where his tattoo stops. Then, as hard as it is, I force myself to look up, and what I find are his wide-open, hopeful, hazel eyes.<
br />
“So we’re friends?”
“I’d like to think so. I don’t want to minimize your issues or make them bigger than they are. I’m not great at being sensitive because that kinda requires forethought and that’s not one of my strong suits. But you tell me how to think about this, and I will. I fuck up a lot but I apologize a lot too, and I honest-to-god do the best I can.”
He offers me a smile, and it’s a real one, making creases appear along the sides of his eyes. Is Nick not only some kind of rock-god but also a sorcerer? To convince me to do something I’d never do, and that, hey, this thing that’s haunted me for years and years is, yeah, less than ideal, but isn’t the end of the world? That I’m still very much worthy of someone’s—his—time and attention? Even when he has so many other options at his disposal?
“For someone who thinks they aren’t good at this, you’re actually the easiest person to talk to I’ve ever known. You don’t have an ounce of judgment in your body.”
He smirks. “For better or for worse.”
For that, I land a punch on his arm. “I didn’t mean it like that and you know it. But seriously, I appreciate it. Makes me feel like not an ‘other’ but just another imperfect person. So, thanks.”
His smirk melts into more of a smile, and he’s so freaking cute it slays me. “Anytime. I mean, except this very second because I really do have to meet the guys, but otherwise—anytime.”
And then he bends down a little, like he wants to kiss me goodbye, but he stops short of my lips. Which is foolish because there’s nothing I’d like better than to have his mouth on mine again. So I go up on tiptoes to close the gap and slip my hand behind his neck, my fingers into his hair, kissing him perhaps more thoroughly than he was expecting because he looks kinda dazed when I pull away. Shakes his head like he woke up from a dream and grins in a goofy way before putting Fi’s leash on and leading her out the door. And me? It’s possible that after I shut the door behind them, I turn around and slide down to the floor in a giddy puddle.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 6