by Lisa Gillis
“Well you didn’t say it. But your body did.”
“Noo… That’s such a guy thing to say. I’m kinda disappointed in you.”
She doesn’t sound disappointed. She sounds intrigued. Infatuated.
“You’re right.” Simply looking into her eyes causes my heart to pound as usual. “You. Are. Right. You can’t help being so hot you’re irresistible. Not your fault.”
“Trey…” Her eyes are limpid.
I know it might be the chest cold or whatever she is sick with making those beautiful blues watery. But I want to believe that look of entrancement is mine, and I act on that hypothesis.
“Mmh?” My hair brushes hers as I move in close, leaning my forehead to hers. Since I’m trying not to attack her, fighting to hold back the kiss I want for a few more moments, my fingers are drawn to her lips. I trace them with my thumb, resting my other digits on the gentle curve of her jaw.
“Where did you come from?”
Her question throws me. Hits a little too close for comfort after my experience at work today. “What do you mean? What do you mean where?”
“You say the sweetest things.” Her chest heaves, and I can’t stop my gaze from dropping to the stretch of her shirt over those hot curves. “You say all the right things.”
My breath hitches. Is that a green light? A go ahead to kiss her again? An invitation to see where it leads? My face tingles where it touches hers, and her breath mingles with mine as I analyze her words. I do NOT want to fuck this up.
And while I am being ultra-cautious this time around, Sash darts her tongue out, wetting and caressing the tip of my thumb as it sweeps over her lips. A shiver tears through my body. I want to crush my mouth to hers, but at the same time, there is something sweet and tender in the moment. Instead, I paint her lips with the damp tip.
Sash forks her fingers into my hair, and the pressure of her hand makes it clear what she wants. Our lips come together in a crazy crush. All tenderness is gone after the first few seconds. Lust is the driving force behind every stroke of the tongue, every frictional touch of our mouths. Yielding to the momentum, she relaxes, pulling me down to the bed with her. I catch myself on one elbow just before my full weight sandwiches her to the bed.
The softness of her chest against mine enflames my insides, and I rip my lips from hers, dropping them to a new destination. The curve of her neck. I take a taste, halfway expecting raspberry, but her skin is a unique flavor, making me crave more. I trail to the hollow of her neck and am surprised when I realize my fingers are working the buttons of her shirt as if they have a life of their own.
The fabric vees open enough for me to touch my lips to the smooth softness of the skin revealed. Her bra is purple, perfectly contrasting with the slightly tanned skin around it and the creamy skin it covers. Sliding my fingers beneath the lace, I quiver at the contrast of the little peak of hard softness against the inside of my knuckles. I rub it with the pad of my thumb, imagining how it will feel against my lips, my tongue.
She arcs against me, and her gasp is sweet to my ears.
Our legs are still dangling, and I pull one of my knees up with the intention of using it for leverage while I tug us up farther onto the bed. But when it lands intimately between the juncture of her thighs, she hums out a groan that makes me crazy.
Putting plan A on hold, I roll with plan B, utilizing our position to stoke her fire with my knee as I give into the urge to tongue lash that circle of skin I’ve been teasing with my touch.
Her fingers are twisting in my hair, to the point of being painful as she clenches me to her. The next groan I hear is mine, not because it hurts, but because it feels amazing to be the cause of Sash careening out of control. Despite her hold, I pick my head up to look. Her face is flushed, her eyelids half closed. They flutter open and her dilated gaze holds mine.
I move my hand to the other side of her bra, watching every move on her face as I claim that territory as mine too. Her chest is heaving, and she curves a sweet smile as the weight of her breast fills my hand. I drop my lips for a kiss to her lips.
My fingers are about to make a quick release of the front clasp of her bra, when she turns her head long enough to cough, and I feel the congestive rattle inside her chest.
I freeze. Closing my eyes, I war with myself.
Her hand relaxes its grip on my hair strands and moves down to join the other pushing against my chest.
As I ease up, I understand. I truly do. But damn.
“Trey?”
Opening my eyes, I find her propped on her elbows, and she sweeps off her shirt. The bra is next. With ease, she pops it open.
“Close the door…”
Sash David shirtless is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever beheld.
I had always expected her clothing to cover tattoos—would have bet money on her having a butterfly or something beneath one side of her bra. But other than a vine from the daisies adorning her arms, snaking down from one shoulder to curl and almost touch the lighter skin, her breasts are a bare and natural beauty.
“Umm… kay…” Straightening my knee, I stand, backing the couple of steps to the door. My grip closes over the knob, but instead of swinging it shut, I turn away from that sweet temptation sprawled before me.
I concentrate on the threads of the rug in an effort to ignore the beast trying to bust from my jeans. I can feel her eyes trailing my back as surely, as if it were her fingertips. And then I hear a slight rustle as she moves impatiently.
“We shouldn’t. You’re sick.” I know I’m going to hate myself for this.
“Oh come on!” Her reply rolls out on a laugh. “You’ve already got the cooties.” With the grace of a feline, she moves from the bed to stand before me. “When you get sick,” her hands clasped my wrists, and she steps into my arms, “I’ll take care of you…”
“It’s not that, Sash…”
Falling back a step, she looks away to cough. The same medicine currently drying up her congestion could be affecting her actions. Essentially making her drunk. And I don’t want a drunk Sash. I want to know when she gives herself to me that she’s doing it with a clear head. But I don’t get to explain it to her. The moment she’s done with the current coughing fit, she turns away.
“You’re right. I don’t feel good. Thanks for the tea.”
The mattress jiggles slightly with her weight as she lets herself fall onto it. She makes no move to cover her half nakedness, simply closes her eyes, and I know I’m right. She’s in no state of mind for sex.
Moving to the bed, I nudge her enough to pull the edge of the covers from beneath her weight and tuck them around her. She doesn’t open her eyes, but I have a feeling she’s completely conscious and avoiding me.
My suspicions are confirmed the next morning when I wake to my phone alarm instead of my Sash alarm and find she’s already gone.
“Mark dropped her off,” Sladen informs me between bites of Frosted Flakes. “You two have a fight or something?”
I pour my own bowl of cereal and deliberate his question. The way he asked is almost as if he’s linking Sash and me together as more than friends. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have said ‘Is she pissed at you?’ “No, I don’t think so. Maybe she had to be at work early or something.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs but continues to eye me with speculation.
I ignore him, taking my bowl to the couch I’ve just woken from. Plopping down, I turn on the tv.
I’m crushed that she would do this. With Sash, it seems like it has been one step forward and two steps back since day one of my attraction to her. I thought we were past that crap. I thought she was beginning to care for me as much as I do her. But maybe she was drunk on Nyquil yesterday.
I don’t entertain the possibility of any other mind-altering substances, hoping whatever else she’s doing is confined to a weekend recreational type of thing—and hoping I can convince her to want to give the habit up.
After a shower, a shave, and dressing, I r
ide to work with my helmet on and without Sash’s warmth pressed to my back. I shed my outerwear—the toboggan, coat, gloves—and stomp the snow from my boots. Balling everything up, I shove it into my locker and clock in. Greetings chorus, but Sash is nowhere to be seen. I’m on food prep today, so I cease my aimless wandering around and stop at the chopping block.
“Seen Sash?” I ask one of my coworkers as I pile cheese into the grater.
“Out front.”
Turns out, she is pulling hostess duty, and since I’m not bussing tables, I have no excuse to go into the dining area. For the next six hours when I see her in passing, she smiles but doesn’t speak. I’m seriously surprised when she’s waiting to ride home with me. I want to confront her, but the hope that the big freeze is over, and that she is back to normal stops me.
Silently, I hand her my helmet and swing my leg over the seat.
We arrive at the house with the usual routine. We make tacos from the fixings we brought home. Things seem more normal. She’s not talking much, but Sash has never been much of a chatterer. There have always been as many quiet comfortable moments between us as talkative. I sneak a few looks her way and notice her color looks better. Maybe she’s kicked whatever bug had her down.
Taking our plates to the den, we settle in front of the tv to eat. Sash is soon giggling at the sitcom, and relaxing even more, I add my own chuckles. Maybe I’d imagined the weird vibe. Or maybe it had come and gone.
I can’t help wanting to kiss her, to crawl all over her again, but I know it’s not going to work out that way. Sladen texts to see if we brought food home, so I know that means he will be closing shop and heading back soon. Mark won’t be far behind him. It’s already dark outside. I would’ve even been happy with a short makeout session, but Sash picks up one of her guitars and returns to her chair. Her legs are draped over the arm, one of her feet bouncing with the beat.
Screw it. If I can’t spend the next quarter of an hour lip locked to her, at least I can spend it in musical synchronicity. Unzipping Cali from her case, I plug into the amp Sash is not using, and stroll around as I play since it won’t reach the couch. A minute or so into my fingers mashing the frets, I realize Sash is in full-on competitive mode.
She meets my speculative glance with a defiant sheen in her eyes and rips off another series of complicated chords. I give it right back to her, and add another just as difficult measure. All the while, we never pause, not even while the other echoes the challenging riff.
At last, she stops and pushes aside the hair sticking to her sweaty neck. A sheen of perspiration heats my face from the exertion, but I continue to play on, just for the sake of playing.
Rising from the chair, she tends to her axe, propping it carefully in its downstairs stand, and without a word, she disappears into the hallway. Using the pick to pluck individual strings rather than strumming chords, I continue my session, picking out a new melody residing in my brain.
She closes herself in the bathroom, and I hear the shower running. I continue my therapeutic song. It begins to take on a different mood as I recall Sash’s restless breaths and soft moans when my lips and hands were on her. I’m obsessed. I know my every thought of every day shouldn’t be of her, but damned if I can help it.
A flash of her towel-clad form catches my eye as she crosses from the bathroom to her room. A square of light lies on the planked hall floor, a sign she hasn’t closed her door, and I wonder what she will do if I follow her inside—back to that bed of unfinished desires.
The rational side of me—the one I hate at times like this—keeps my fingers on the guitar strings. Sladen will walk in the door at any moment. I concentrate on chords again. E, A, B, B, A…
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped playing until the sound dies. Sash has emerged from her room dressed to kill. The ripped jeans I love seeing her wear catch my gaze first, and my eyes skim up to the long sleeved tee shirt hugging her body. A couple of necklaces are looped around her neck, and a wide cuff is clipped to her wrist. Her hair is pulled back into a clip, but instead of looking casual, it displays her exotically made up eyes.
“I hope my phone’s not dead.” Her heels clip on the oak as she strides purposefully to her purse, which is still in the kitchen next to the food.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Mindi and me. We’re going to Bill’s.” Sash names one of our coworkers who she hangs with occasionally, and shortens Bill’s Billiards, a bar just down the road.
I clamp my teeth together to keep from saying some stupid something.
No, I don’t want her going out like that. I don’t want her going out at all tonight. But certainly not dressed as if she’s looking to hookup.
Getting up, I turn away, laying my guitar in the case and speak over my shoulder. “Thought we had practice?”
“I’m about to text Slade and Mark. I think they’ll be good with it. I mean we’ve moved practice around a couple of times when things come up with them, right?”
Her tone sounds different. A blatant, innocent pitch. Similar to the couple of times I told my mother Dusty and I had a test to study for, and then he and I cruised the mall parking area, whistling at every hot babe we saw.
“Did something come up?”
“Some guy asked Mindi out today, and she doesn’t want to meet him alone.”
“You and Mindi are meeting some guy who asked her out?”
“He’s bringing a friend.”
“You have a date?”
“Not a date. It’s not like that. She can’t go meet a stranger alone. And when she told him, he said I should come. That he has a friend.”
“That’s a date.”
“No. Technically, it’s not.” Her dark brows rise, and her head tips a bit. “Because… No one ever asked me out!”
I’m sensing a double meaning here. Because I’ve never asked her out. But the thought of some shithead’s eyes—and possibly hands—on Sash is making me crazy. “If you’re meeting some douche at Bill’s then it’s a date!”
“Oh. ’Kay! Okay, Trey. I’m meeting some douche. I have a date!”
“No. No, you don’t!” My feet have slowly eaten up the space between us, and now I’m in her space—in her face. “You’re not going on a date!”
“And who’s going to stop me? Last I checked, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Again, I feel these are not idle words. That they are as much a test as they are a taunt. And all I can do is hold my ground with no good argument. “You’re not going.”
“I’m going!”
“You’re not!”
“Get outta the way! What’s your problem?”
When she tries to push past me, my hands automatically shoot up, gripping her upper arms to stay her. With a shriek of rage, she attempts to twist from my grasp.
And behind me, Sladen’s voice booms. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off her!”
The anger balled in my chest is constricting. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this mad at anyone. It’s written in her face. She’s intentionally pushing my buttons. My rage recedes, but two emotions equally strong boil and bubble.
Hurt. Embarrassment.
Raising my hands, as if the scenario is a hold up and Sash is the robber, I back away, and she scoots around me. I turn in time to see her shake her head at Sladen, and I guess that’s the all clear to not beat the shit out of me. I know what it must have looked like to him. Since he had walked into that argument from behind me, it could have looked like I was hurting her.
Car lights turning into the driveway flash across the front window as I’m crossing the room in a direct beeline for the back door and my bike outside. Sash is now wearing her coat, having put it on while talking quietly to Sladen. Carrying her purse, gloves, and scarf, she lets herself out the front door with a last look my way.
I pick up my helmet and ignore the one strand of Sash’s hair clinging to the inside. I push my arm into the sleeve of my coat and shrug Slade
n’s hand from my shoulder.
“Dude,” he steps in front of me, replaying the dance Sash and I had just minutes ago. “Where’re you going?”
I shake my head and without bothering to zip the coat against the weather push past him.
“Dude, you’re not in any state of mind to take your bike out in this weather.”
Looking beyond him, through the kitchen window at the snow flurries illuminated by the driveway light against a dark backdrop, I suddenly want to be home. I bet it’s a beautiful night in Dallas. Jacket weather—not polar bear parkas and wooly underwear. For sure, no snow.
Sladen’s bigger than I am, and he’s playing my keeper tonight for some reason. I try to shoulder my way around him, and we scuffle for a minute or so when he continues his adamant chant that I’m not leaving. Again, I’m in danger of getting my ass kicked, this time over riding my own motorcycle.
“I haven’t been drinking!” I land a shoving hand on his chest.
“Doesn’t matter. Ever heard of black ice, cowboy? Not a biker’s friend.”
No, I haven’t. Sounds like a drug. But the blanket of falling snow just outside the glass tells me it probably really is ice. Still, I fight him for a minute or so. The outcome is my keys in his hand, and me on the couch watching tv with him and nursing my bruised rib.
I’m furious again. At everyone.
At Sash for being a bitch.
At Sladen for holding me hostage in the name of my safety, yet letting Sash go out onto the same streets. Is Sladen thinking I’ll follow her?
And at Mark—who is now home after being dropped off by a girlfriend—for laughing at every funny line in the current sitcom as he devours a burrito without a care in the world.
At least a furious fire in my chest feels better than an achy, hurting heart.
Chapter 29
So Close
“Coffee?”
Jack looked up to see his father holding two mugs.
“Thanks, Dad.” With a kick of his foot, he rolled the chair away from the soundboard and reached for one.