by Zart, Lindy
Maggie stared at him, hair fallen from the clips that held it up. The display was erotically at odds with the innocence stamped upon her face as a brand to keep him away. Chest lifting and lowering with each fast intake of air she took, she gasped, “Why did you run off?”
“Because if I hadn’t, I would have beaten the shit out of that guy.”
“What was he talking about? Who’s—who’s Lacey? What happened with her?”
Lance’s jaw shifted. “Just a girl I knew.”
Hands clasped before her, she bowed her head. “Okay.” Maggie looked up and to the side. “And the girl that kissed you? Just another girl you know?”
“Yes,” he said roughly.
She nodded, the determined cast of her profile saying she’d come to some kind of decision. “I’m going to go home now.”
Maggie got in a dozen steps before he was running after her. He caught her wrist and swung her around. Lance looked down at her, remorse squeezing his heart at the words he was about to say. He didn’t want her to know the kind of person he was, not yet.
“We went on a date or two, messed around. It meant more to her than it did me, and when I told her, she . . . she got upset. Really upset. She drove off. There was a car accident, and . . . she didn’t make it.”
He went silent, swallowing thickly. Waiting. Waiting for the judgement. The coldness. The blame. The rejection. He didn’t get them. Instead Maggie lifted a hand to his cheek and held it there. It was a kind gesture, comforting. Empathetic.
Unwanted.
Needed.
Lance blinked his eyes and averted his head, embarrassed by the prick of tears.
“How long ago did it happen?”
He shrugged. “Five months.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
Looking at Maggie, seeing the sincerity on her face, Lance’s chest compressed more. That time, she kissed him. Other than their lips, no part of them touched. It was slow and deep. He’d kissed a lot of girls, had a lot of them kiss him. Passionate kisses. Hard kisses. Kisses that made him mad with need and out of control. He’d never been kissed like that before.
That was a true first kiss. Shared with Maggie Smiley. It should have felt wrong. It didn’t. It felt like it meant something.
When she pulled away, he opened his eyes, mesmerized by the fan of eyelashes on her cheeks. He wanted to kiss those as well. She looked at him and touched trembling fingers to her puffy lips. Lance ached for her.
“That’s the kind of first kiss I wanted,” she told him shyly.
Lance grinned. “Are you going to make me work for the five dollars, or are you going to concede? I can play the wounded soul if that helps.”
“Are you playing?” she wondered, head tipped to the side.
“Of course,” he replied coolly.
Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. I’m not sure.” Grin stretching her lips as her expression cleared, she skipped backward, eyes on him. “I think you need to work for it a little more.”
“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that.” Lance chased after her, grinning as her eyes widened. “Get moving, or you’re mine.”
Maggie laughed as she spun around, sprinting along the beach, kicking off her sandals to move faster. Lance did the same, water folding over his feet as he ran. It was cool against his skin, but he was on fire. She whooped, hands above her head, jumping and dancing farther down the beach. Lance stilled, mesmerized by her graceful movements and carefree spontaneity. She turned into the water, became a part of the ocean instead of a person separate from it.
He blinked, shook his head, and jogged the remaining distance.
When he reached her, Maggie grabbed his hands. They spun in a circle, faster and faster, kicking up sand as they moved. Laughing into each other’s eyes. Lance felt like a kid. He was only sixteen, but he felt so much older most of the time. Not with Maggie. With Maggie, he felt free and invincible.
“Tell me a secret,” she called, grinning mischievously.
Lance shook his head, heart pounding, pulse racing. It was silly, but he wondered, if they kept spinning, would they twirl into non-existence, like a time-traveling machine? If he could go back in time, where would he go? And in that question, there was a secret, one he’d never admitted to himself, let alone anyone else. He focused on Maggie’s face, the two of them moving so fast they seemed to not be moving at all.
“I wish I could have known my mom better.”
Her expression changed, and they slowly came to a stop. He was dizzy, awkwardly trying to keep his balance, and then Lance released her hands and let himself fall to the lumpy sand. Maggie plopped down beside him, face lifted to the moon, chest moving up and down as she breathed. A hand, small and cool, clamped over his, squeezing it. Lance shifted his position and stared at the star-filled sky, wondering if his mom was watching him. He closed his eyes against the thought.
Maggie didn’t offer condolences, or try to make him feel better, and he appreciated that. He’d heard it all through the years, good and bad, and none of it changed what was.
You’re better off without her.
She couldn’t be what you needed.
She loved you, in her own way.
Think of what things would be like, if she were still around. Think of how much more messed up you’d be.
“I hate spaghetti.”
He turned his head and met her odd-colored eyes.
“That’s my secret,” she elaborated. “I hate spaghetti. The noodles make me think of worms, and with the red sauce, it’s like bloody worms.” She shuddered, a small smile on her face. “I don’t tell people that, though, because then they make fun of me.”
“What would you do if someone cooked you spaghetti and expected you to eat it?”
Maggie’s smile grew as she showed him her profile. “Suddenly feel ill.”
“What about Ramen noodles?”
“Same. And have you ever actually tried to eat them? It’s impossible to chew them. They just sort of slide down your throat, like slippery, thin, malnourished worms.”
Lance laughed, tugging his hand from hers to place his arms behind his head. It was peaceful, lying there, talking with Maggie, nothing directly around them but the ocean and sky.
“I live off Ramen noodles most days,” he confessed.
“Gross! That’s so sad. You shouldn’t have to live like that.”
“I like them.”
Maggie placed her head on a hand and stared down at him.
“What?” Uncomfortable with the straightforwardness of her gaze, he averted his eyes.
“What’s your favorite food, and if you say Ramen noodles, we can no longer be friends.”
Friends. He tested the word out in his head, and determined whether or not he liked it. For the moment, it would do, but he wasn’t satisfied with that term defining them.
Lance smiled up at Maggie. “Lasagna. Is that acceptable?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. This is the plan.” Hopping to her feet, she wiped sand from her body and looked down at him, waiting to speak until he stood before her. “I’ll cook you dinner this Tuesday. Lasagna. Wednesday we work from noon to ten, so we don’t have to get up early. Judith will be gone Tuesday night too, so she won’t be there breathing disapprovingly down your neck.”
“Caught that, did you?”
“She doesn’t like you.”
Lance laughed. “No, but more importantly, she doesn’t like my dad.”
They began to walk.
Maggie glanced at him. “Why is that?”
“She dated my dad before he got involved with my mom, who was one of her friends. It was a big deal back in the day, I guess. Lots of gossip, tabloids, embarrassing incidents. Name-calling, public fights, anything you can think of that would draw negative attention to celebrities, really.” Lance shrugged and faced the apartments as they came into view.
“That’s not your fault.”
His cheek lifted with the pull of a half-smile. “Isn’t it? I am my father’
s son, after all.”
“That’s stupid,” she huffed.
Lance stopped fighting the grin, letting it take over his mouth. “So dinner every Tuesday?”
Maggie paused. “Every Tuesday? I only committed to one.”
“What if I cook the next time?”
“You know how to cook?” The surprise in her voice would have offended him, had anyone else been the one to show it.
“I do. I make a mean spaghetti,” he said evilly, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.
Maggie scowled at him, but it quickly faded as she laughed. “Then I pass.”
“What about chicken with broccoli? Would that be acceptable?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “It would.”
They reached the sidewalk that led to their separate apartments.
Lance put out a hand, palm up. “Pay up, Maggie.”
“Who said I find you irresistible?” she teased.
“The fact that you offered to cook for me.”
“That could have been pity.”
“I doubt it,” he derided.
When she continued to watch him, smirk in place, Lance stepped closer. “I’m willing to make a trade. Five kisses in place of the five dollars—one kiss for each dollar.”
Her expression said she had reservations about committing to that.
“What’s the matter?” he taunted. “Afraid you’ll end up falling in love with me? I can’t say there isn’t a good chance of that.”
Determination sparking to life in her eyes, Maggie grabbed his shoulders, closed her eyes, and tilted her face with pursed lips. Lance moved his head back, waiting for her to open her eyes. The seconds ticked by, spent with her posed for a kiss and Lance studying her pale face.
With a sigh, she finally looked at him. “What are you waiting for?”
“I didn’t say when I was going to collect them. I’ll decide when each kiss is to be given. And right now isn’t when.”
“You’re cocky, you know that?”
“Yes. I am.” Lance winked at her, moving away from the door of her apartment when the living room curtains parted to reveal a displeased Judith. He waved and turned to Maggie as the curtains snapped shut. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.” Maggie sounded irritated. “Practicing lines, probably.”
“That sounds boring. How about I teach you to surf with a boogie board instead?”
“That sounds dangerous,” she retorted.
“Maggie,” he chastised softly. “It isn’t worth doing if it isn’t. I’ll be right there, at eleven tomorrow.” He pointed near the shoreline. “If you show, you show. If you don’t . . . have fun practicing your lines.”
The mockery was plain, and she caught it, a frown marring her face. “Thank you for the memorable evening. Good night,” she told him with polite reservation.
Lance blinked.
That wouldn’t do, not at all. He’d turned her off with his arrogant attitude. Maggie wasn’t intrigued enough to continue to spend time with him. She’d cook him dinner once, out of obligation, and then she would move on. He needed her to want to be with him. He didn’t understand why, only that it was necessary. Maggie could not give up on him, not before she knew all there was to know about him. Then, he would accept it. He expected it even. But not yet, not before she gave him a chance.
Desperate to keep her tethered to him, he blurted, “It was my mom’s idea to have me act. I was a baby, what did I know about it? My dad seemed to agree, since both of them dabbled in the business themselves—before my mom became a cokehead and my dad a lawyer.
“I was taught at a young age that, for me, it was the only acceptable means of having a career, and it’s all I know. Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like . . . to be something else. To have a choice in the matter. Do you ever feel like that?”
Maggie’s mouth pulled down. She pushed hair from her eyes and directed her face toward the sea. “How can you talk so cruelly about your mother?”
“I didn’t know her. I mean, I don’t remember her. She died a few days after I turned two. Some say it was the best birthday present she could have given me.”
Maggie glanced at him, a second of shattered eyes combined with a heartbroken expression filleting his heart. He didn’t want her to look at him like that. He was about ready to say forget about it, it was nice knowing her for about two seconds, and go to his apartment. He didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him.
But then she spoke, and he couldn’t leave.
“This is what I want to do. This is the only thing I want to do.” She looked at Lance. “I was told I couldn’t do it, it was hinted around that I would never be anything special, and that’s why I am determined to prove them wrong. All of them.”
He tilted his head as he studied her. “Then are you doing it for you, or for someone else?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Are you doing it for you?”
“No.” Lance smiled cynically.
Maggie looked down, wiggling toes with pink-painted toenails. “My sandals are on the beach,” she mused.
“Mine are too. I’ll get them.” Lance would hold them for ransom if he had to, all in the quest to get her to hang out with him again.
“I’ll go with you.”
He put out a hand to stop her. “Nope. I’ll have them waiting for you, tomorrow, at eleven. Wear a comfortable swimsuit. The waves are strong.”
Thoughts clear as they shifted across her face, Maggie finally laughed, shaking her head. “Okay. Fine. You win. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven.”
Pleased with himself, Lance waited until she’d gone inside before patrolling the sand in search of their shoes. The wind picked up, pushing and pulling at him as he walked. He looked up at one point, toward her bedroom window. The light was on, and he pictured Maggie lying on her bed, soft and warm. Inviting. Instantly, painfully, stiff, he held still until he had control over his body. Walking around with a boner wasn’t something he felt the need to do.
It took a few times of walking up and down the beach, but he finally found the two pairs of shoes. Maggie’s sandals were small and black with silver shining on the parts that went over the top of her feet. He stared down at them, bemused by everything that had anything to do with her.
Restless and agitated, he dropped them off in his bedroom and left the building, heading toward the sound of music and voices. He took an offered cup of beer, slammed it, and went in search of a refill. If he drank enough, he could forget about Maggie, pretend his nerves weren’t spastic around her.
He found a girl that was more than happy to keep him company, and with her draped across his lap as he sat in the sand, he commenced to get plastered. If he got enough beers in him, he could obliterate Maggie from his mind. If he got enough beers in him, he might even believe that.
MAGGIE—2010
THE POUNDING ON the door at six in the morning was not appreciated. Maggie let Lance know by grabbing a hardcover book off the nightstand and hurling it at the door. It made impact, and even she winced at how hard it hit. The door was probably gouged, which, of course, was Lance’s fault as well. She’d spent the remainder of yesterday avoiding him, and he’d allowed it, both of them knowing the next day would be a different case.
“Go away!”
“Rise and shine, Maggie. It’s the first day of a new you.”
“Suck it, Lance Denton!”
Maggie burrowed deeper under the blankets. Just as she was about to doze off, the door crashed open. She sprung upright and stared at the doorway through a tangled web of hair. She should have known he’d unlock it with his damn handy-dandy bobby pin. She needed to find his supply and dispose of them. And then get a deadbolt.
Light from the hallway surrounded him as he advanced, but his features were hidden by darkness. He was purposeful, determined, stalking toward her like she was his prey, and Maggie’s insides responde
d in kind. She didn’t want to find anything about him attractive, but unfortunately for her, she did.
After all those years, after everything . . . it was loathsome to admit.
“I like the old doors, easy to unlock,” he supplied with a thumbs-up sign. “I approve.”
That made her want to modernize every inch of the house, stat.
“Get out,” she said nastily.
“You say that a lot.”
“And yet, here you remain.”
Lance propped his hands on either side of her, leaned down so that his face was close to hers and the scent of freshly shampooed hair hit her, and said quietly, “If you are not up and out of bed by six in the morning, every morning, this is not going to work. You hired me to do a job.” He straightened. “Let me do it.”
Her pulse thrummed, more from his words than his proximity, which was odd. It was the way he’d spoken them, confident and without any bullshit. Maggie let her head fall back onto the pillow and looked up at a black ceiling. “Okay. You’re right. Okay. But why can’t it be at seven?”
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say you were sorry? And it’s six. I have other things to do with the rest of my day.”
Maggie propped herself up on her elbows and glared at his head. Lance stood with his legs apart and arms crossed over his expansive chest. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to, to know that it was smug.
She raised a hand, one particular finger lifted. “Let me know if you catch—”
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he hastily interjected.
Deciding it was too much effort, and a wasted one, to make herself presentable, Maggie tugged on a sports bra that mashed her D-cup breasts into one, huge uni-boob. She finished off the ensemble with a yellow tank top that had seen its share of grease and dirt, and red shorts. She didn’t brush her hair, and she didn’t brush her teeth. If Lance saw her at her worst, his expectations would be low, so when she actually tried to look decent, he would be impressed.
Not that she cared what he thought.
The bottom of the stairs seemed unreachable as she made her zombie-trek down them—a slow, disjointed, swaying amble with the purpose to remain upright and mobile. Lance leaned against the kitchen counter and watched her advance, sipping from her favorite mug. It was pink with a heart on either side. She wanted to snatch it away from him. He should have been embarrassed to use such a cup, but as with all things concerning Lance, he looked good holding it, totally natural. Annoyingly so.