Reality TV Bites

by Shane Bolks

  He groans, and I smile before scooting back to my side of the tank. He gives me a long look, puts the tank in gear, and steers us back onto the road.

  “If we find a gas station and you take me back to my car, I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Dave slips a CD into the player, and “Santeria” by Sublime comes on. “Maybe I don’t want to be left in peace.”

  I catch my breath. “But you’re always saying that I’m high-maintenance.”

  “You listened.”

  “I always listen. Hey”—I point to the road—“there’s a gas station.”

  “Yep,” Dave says, but we don’t slow.

  “We’re not going to the gas station?”

  “By the time we get gas and find your car, it’s going to be dark. We can come back tomorrow.”

  I nod. “Okay, that makes sense, but I left my house keys in the car. All I have are credit cards and—oh, no!—I don’t even have those. They’re in the pocket of Rory’s shorts, back in the Bait Shop parking lot.”

  “You can call and cancel them at my place.”

  I close my mouth and sit very still. I’ve never been to Dave’s place, and I can’t think why he’d take me now unless he intended me to stay the night. And he’s not having me stay the night as an act of charity.

  He could take me to Rory’s. I could also crash at Josh’s or Gray’s. But Dave’s taking me home—to his home. I steal a glance at him, then look quickly away. He’s an arm’s length away, and that expanse of bronze bare chest felt really good under my fingers a moment ago. I turn the AC on, feeling a bit too warm all of a sudden.

  I take a deep breath of Freon. “So, we’re having a sleepover?” I say.

  “Right.”

  “Will there be pizza and ice cream?”

  He raises a brow.

  “Rory and I always order pizza and get ice cream.”

  “This isn’t that kind of sleepover.”

  This is it. Me and Dave. There’s no question what’s going to happen tonight. The question is what it means. And what I want it to mean. I look out the window, then back at Dave.

  “A sleepover without pizza and ice cream sounds kind of serious, and I seem to remember a discussion about me being high-maintenance and you not being a good mechanic.”

  He glances at me, then back at the road. “I’m a quick learner,” he says, and then, “You can fill out a service evaluation in the morning.”

  I snort. Arrogant man. “Maybe I’m not interested in your services. Maybe you’ve done enough today, getting me involved in that butterscotch pudding fiasco.”

  Dave stops for a light, and I notice that we’re getting close to the city again. Thank God.

  “Then we order pizza and pick up ice cream.” But he doesn’t sound like he’s too worried we’ll be arguing over toppings and the last slice. He sounds pretty damn sure of himself, in fact.

  Twenty minutes later we pull in front of a gorgeous three-flat brick apartment building on West Waveland in Wrigleyville. It’s like practically inside Wrigley Field.

  “I’ve got the front unit on the middle floor,” he says, “but we all share the roof. Got a perfect view of left field.”

  As we climb out of the Hummer—me in Dave’s T-shirt, dried pudding, and nothing else—I say, “I didn’t know this area was so popular.” It’s a Saturday night, and the sidewalks and sports bars are crowded with people, but it’s a very different crowd from the trendy people out and about downtown and in Lincoln Park, my neighborhood.

  “Yeah. I’m a walk away from Cubby Bears and Murphy’s Bleachers.”

  “Never been.”

  Dave slings an arm around my shoulder. “Not your scene, Red. For starters, no pudding wrestling.”

  I scowl at him, and he fishes a key out and opens the door to the building. Taking my hand, he leads me up a flight of stairs, then unlocks the door to his apartment.

  “This is nice,” I say. “I didn’t think they had cute buildings like this in Wrigleyville.” What’s more, I wouldn’t think Dave would live in one. But he is an ad exec, so it’s not as though he’s living in poverty.

  “They renovated this one a year or so ago.”

  That becomes increasingly obvious when Dave opens the door. Right away I notice the hardwood floors, the granite countertops, and the adorable bay window. The decor is understated but tasteful—dark wood, dark fabrics, no clutter. The place could use a few personal touches, but it has tons of potential. I step inside, the hardwood floor cool against my bare feet.

  Dave shuts the door and tosses his keys in a bowl with loose change and a couple of dollar bills.

  “So, do I pass?” he asks with a smile.

  I smile back. “I thought your evaluation came in the morning.”

  “I better get to work, then. What do you want for dinner?”

  I take a moment to answer. If I say pizza and ice cream, then all bets are off. If I leave it up to him, anything or nothing might happen.

  I pad to the bay window and look out. “Order whatever’s easiest.”

  “Nuh-uh.” He heads for the kitchen and flips on the light. “I’m cooking. Do you like pasta?”

  I turn around. “I don’t know. Are we talking Chef Boyardee or Vivo?”

  Dave folds his arms over his chest. “This is that high-maintenance thing I was talking about.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Okay, this is how it’s going to play. You go take a shower and get cleaned up, and I’ll make dinner and pour drinks.”

  “Fine.” I head toward the hall where I assume his bedroom is. “See how low-maintenance I am?”

  “Right. When you get done, I’ll pour you a glass of wine. Alcohol makes you more tolerable.”

  “How sweet. Ply me with wine, then take advantage of me.”

  “That’s the idea.” He waves down the dark hallway, presumably at the bedroom and bath. “Check in my closet. There might be some girls’ clothes left.”

  I raise a brow.

  “Not mine.” He shakes his head. “Ex-girlfriend.”

  Hmm. I head back to the bedroom, switch on the light, and smile. He’s got a king-size bed with gorgeous wrought-iron head-and footboards. There’s also a very nice armoire in the corner, but I have a feeling it houses the TV, not his clothing. The bed is made, there aren’t any clothes on the floor, and the place even looks dusted.

  Is Dave gay?

  I step into his large walk-in closet and blink in surprise. His clothes are hung neatly—pants on one side, shirts on the other, suits in the back. Since I’m not too excited about wearing his ex-girlfriend’s clothes, or even trying to wrap my mind around the idea of Dave and an ex-girlfriend, I grab one of his T-shirts and a pair of boxers from a shelf, then head into the bathroom.

  Again, I’m impressed. Bright lights, marble floors, really cute pewter towel rods and drawer pulls. And it’s clean, too.

  I take a long shower, washing my hair about seven times to get all the pudding out. Dave has some kind of shampoo/ conditioner/hairspray all-in-one brand, which I’m sure is wreaking havoc on my hair. I wrap myself in a thick Egyptian cotton towel, and as I’m drying off, I yell, “Don’t you have any body lotion?”

  “Get real,” he calls back.

  “Leave-in conditioner?”

  “Two words, Red. High-maintenance.”

  I laugh, though I do wish he had some lotion because my skin feels dry after all that rolling around in pudding. And I’ve seen more split ends in my hair lately, so leave-in conditioner would be nice.

  “Jesus Christ. Dave’s right,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. “I am high-maintenance.”

  I slip on Dave’s T-shirt and boxers. As I pull the shirt over my head, I savor its scent. Mmm. Classic eau de Dave. I can’t really describe it. The closest I can get is to say he smells like laundry detergent, soap, and all the things I adore—pine trees, vintage Valentino, French doors opening on a garden in bloom, Frank Sinatra, new cars, and Cole Porter songs.
/>   I brush my hair and rub it with the towel, leaving the long curls to dry naturally. Too damaging to blow-dry it without any real conditioner. When I pad back to the kitchen, I see that Dave’s put on a fresh T-shirt and gray athletic shorts. He’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, one eye on it and one watching the basketball game on the portable TV on the counter.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” Without looking away from the game, he hands me a glass of red wine.

  “What are you making?”

  “Penne pasta in vodka sauce.”

  I frown and peer over his shoulder. Penne pasta is waiting to be added to a pot of boiling water, and the vodka sauce is simmering away. When I glance up at him, he’s looking at my chest. “You’re wearing my Cubs T-shirt.”

  “You’re cooking. Like, really cooking.”

  He shrugs. “I’m Italian. My family owns a vineyard and a restaurant in Sonoma, so what do you expect? I pretty much grew up around food and wine.”

  I sip the wine. “It’s good.”

  “One of our best years, a pinot noir from 1989. You don’t want something too heavy with this.”

  The announcer yells, “That’s another foul, and Chicago calls a time-out.” Dave turns back to the TV, but I reach around him and flick it off.

  “Hey!”

  “We’ve had enough sports today.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Very possible. Got any good CDs?”

  He points to a shelf. “Over there. Pick what you want.”

  I stroll over, frown at his collection of Bruce Springsteen, Pink Floyd, and John Mellencamp. Finally I stumble on a Sinatra CD and the soundtrack to When Harry Met Sally. I put it on, and Dave shakes his head.

  “I knew you were going to pick that one. What’s the deal with you and sixty years ago?”

  I lean on the counter next to the stove as Dave adds the penne to the boiling water. “I like vintage—music, clothes, dancing.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because my grandma used to watch old movies and play a lot of big band music. I grew up with it, danced to it. And I like everything couture. If I’m going to wear Gucci and Ferragamo, why not Chanel and Schiaparelli? They’re the best. The originals.”

  He transfers the pot of pasta to the sink. “And look at you now. How the mighty have fallen.”

  “Dressing up is overrated,” I say.

  He laughs, and pulls two plates from a cupboard. “I agree. I liked your outfit in the car.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, taking the plates as he ladles vodka sauce on the pasta. The dining table is covered with papers and memos from Dougall Marketing, so we sit on the floor and eat off the coffee table. I can’t remember the last time I ate a real meal like this. I can’t remember a time when my life felt this genuine. Between the staged “reality” TV shows, and the unreal twist my life has taken in the past few days, I almost don’t know who I am anymore. But with Dave, everything is easy. I don’t have to be a princess. He likes the regular me.

  “More?” he asks when I’ve cleaned my plate.

  I shake my head. “I’m stuffed.”

  “No room for dessert?” He lifts my plate and carries the dishes into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Dave,” I say as I follow. “Let me do that. You cooked.”

  He turns on the faucet. “I’ll do it. Just relax.”

  “But I feel so spoiled.”

  He grins. “And that’s new?”

  “Shut up.” I hop onto the counter next to the sink and watch him rinse the plates and silverware. “You’re very good at that.”

  “What are you good at?” He leans down to grab the dishwasher liquid from under the sink.

  “Interior design. But I sort of lost my job.”

  He shrugs. “So, get another interior design job.” He finishes with the soap and closes the dishwasher.

  “Wish I’d thought of that, Einstein. Problem is that Interiors by M is the best in the area, and after all the glowing press about me lately, I doubt many firms are going to want to hire a designer fired by the best and involved in a public scandal.”

  Dave leans against the counter. “So? Start your own firm.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  He raises a brow. “Why not?”

  “I—I—” Hmm. I don’t really know why not. Dave’s waiting for my answer, and since I don’t have one I decide to change the subject. “So, what’s for dessert?”

  “What do you want?”

  I think for a moment and say, “A cappuccino and tiramisu.”

  Dave raises a brow.

  “Hey, you ask an open question…” I say defensively.

  “My mistake. I might have gelato.”

  “That’s what I said. Gelato.”

  Dave pulls the freezer open. “I’ve got strawberry gelato. Sound good?”

  I nod and he pulls out two spoons, then reaches above me. “Bend down. The bowls are in the cupboard behind your head.”

  I lean down, so that my face is inches from his. Dave’s arms are on either side of me, his body between my legs, dangling from the counter. “Dave,” I say.

  Our eyes meet.

  “I think I’m going to pass on the gelato.”

  15

  All the Way

  I slide my arms around Dave’s neck and wrap my legs around his waist. “Will you be crushed if we skip dessert?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is low and husky, his eyes dark, dark gold.

  I pull him closer and tilt my head, then run my lips over his jaw, pausing to kiss the hollow of his neck. He sucks in a breath, and I feel the thrill of heat and excitement sizzle down my spine.

  I run my hands down his back, slide them under his T-shirt, and allow my fingers to caress bare skin on the return journey. I pull the T-shirt over his head, and before he can kiss me, I lean forward and press kiss after kiss to his chest. By now his hands have found their way under my shirt, and he’s rubbing my back in slow circles.

  He circles around to my ribs, then freezes when my hands dip to his abdomen, and I run a finger just inside the waistband of his shorts. He’s hard, and I brush gently against the tip of his erection.

  He groans, and I feel it all the way to my belly. I kiss his ear. “You like that?” I run my finger over him again, more deliberately, and his hands tighten on my waist. He splays his fingers as he does it, a reflexive gesture, and the tips of his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts.

  I’m not prepared for the jolt of pleasure that rocks through me at that intimate touch. I have to work to keep myself from giving into that rush of sensation, pressing hard against him, offering myself up.

  I really want this man. I don’t want some guy with a title and the ego to go with it. I want to feel like this all the time. I want Dave. And even worse, I want him to want me. Really want me, ache for me like I do for him. I want him as overwhelmed by these feelings as I am. I want him scared and excited, and on the verge of…of what?

  I don’t even know what I feel—triumph, wariness, horror. I mean, what am I doing here? All this feeling, this emotion, this control I’m giving him, it’s terrifying. If I let him in, if I let him have the real me, then what? What if he doesn’t want me in the end? What if the real me isn’t likable?

  His thumbs move slightly, heating my skin, and I can’t stop the breath from catching in my throat. He hears my breathing hitch, and his hands slide up, cupping my breasts. I gasp, unable to stifle the sound, or keep my head from falling back, arching to give him more access.

  I shudder, try to get a grip on the sensations, the emotions, but he won’t stop kissing me. His tongue teases me, taking just enough that I want him even more. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can only feel. Then, just when everything starts to grow dim and fuzzy, he pulls away. Not much. Just enough that I can breathe again, get a grip on reality.

  “Shit, this T-shirt is huge. Are you under here?” he mumbles, hand caught in the voluminous f
olds of his shirt covering me.

  I don’t help. I take a shaky breath, blink, then stare at him. His head is bent just so, his hair tousled and sun-streaked. My gaze travels lower, over his broad football-player shoulders, corded with muscle and sinew, tan arms around me.

  He looks up, his hazel eyes so dark they’re almost gold. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me, but his pupils enlarge, go black.

  “Take it off,” he says, allowing the bunched cotton to fall from his grip. He nods at the shirt, his eyes challenging.

  I see the opening, the chance to snatch my veil back. Right now I’m so raw, so exposed. Given one moment, I can bury my real self again. Every instinct I possess tells me to go for it. Now is my chance. But will I ever get another? And what if my brother is right, and I’m stuck in a loop of trying to fix me when I’m not even broken?

  His hands settle on my knees, slide warmly over my thighs. “Take it off. I want to see you.”

  And that statement affects me more than any other he could have made because in a minute it won’t just be my body naked before him, but my soul. I’m so afraid, afraid of being vulnerable and rejected.

  I grasp the hem of his shirt and tug it off in a shaky, awkward jerk. Teeth clenched, I stare at him in apprehension. He doesn’t hesitate, reacting instantly, gripping my hips and pulling me roughly to the edge of the counter until I’m locked against his abdomen.

  One hand wraps in my hair, pulls hard until my head is tilted back and my body bowed, then he brushes his lips over one breast. In contrast to the almost painful grip on my hair, his lips are soft, barely there. He does it again, this time with his tongue, and the moan I’ve been stifling breaks through.

  He takes one nipple in his hot, wet mouth, and I arch harder against him. My legs grip his waist tighter, and my hands fly to his shoulders. Leaning forward, I cup his jaw and kiss him lightly, trying to tone things down, but Dave’s not having it. He deepens the kiss until I’m right back where we left off. He gives me no quarter, is relentless, and demands the same from me. Slowly, I give in. I can’t stop myself. I kiss him back just as deeply, just as thoroughly, and I fall into the chasm. I plummet down, down, spinning and whirling in a torrent of confusion laced with pleasure and need.