My bed is unmade, covers and pillows askew, the only light in the room coming from one small lamp and flashing MTV images. From a lifetime of reading scene settings, I know this setting is the definition of intimate. “You already know more than a lot of people know about me,” I say. “I’m relatively boring.”
“Mmm, I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t even know the basic stuff. Like, how old are you?” He leans forward in the chair, elbows on knees.
“Well, that’s certainly a stimulating topic. I’m seventeen, for another two months and…” I count in my head “…three weeks.”
“So, eighteen in less than three months.”
“Yeah… is that surprising?”
“Well, you look as though you could be younger than that, but you seem older, more mature. It isn’t surprising; I just wasn’t sure.”
“So how old are you? Twenty?”
“Yep, since June. How’d you know?”
I am not telling him that I Internet stalked him. “Well, you seem younger than that, very immature, in fact, but you look older…” I laugh at the shocked look on his face, and then he growls and starts out of the chair. Backing farther onto the bed, I shake my head, still laughing. “Noooo…”
“So I look like an immature old guy, is that what you’re saying?” One corner of his mouth turns up as he puts a knee on the bed, following me.
“Positively decrepit.” I hold my hands out in what’s clearly simulated protection as he advances. I’m almost to the other side of the bed when he grabs both of my hands in one of his, sweeping his opposite arm around my waist and pulling me towards him. In two seconds, I’m flat on my back and he’s on his knees next to me.
He releases one wrist long enough to catch it with his other hand, and he flattens my hands to the bed on either side of my head. His eyes are black in the low light of the room. “Do you surrender?”
My heart is pounding, and I’m tingling from head to toe. “Surrender to what?” I whisper, my chest rising and falling, my eyes locked on his.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “A kiss.”
Images flash through my mind: the sincerity of his concern when I told him about losing my mother. The feel of him sitting next to me this morning, soaked through and touching my face. The jolt of seeing him exiting Brooke’s room a few minutes ago. None of this adds up, or makes sense, and I want to care about that, but I can’t find the will to resist—not just him, but my own desire, or curiosity, or something. I don’t care what. I want that kiss.
He loosens his hold, starts to draw back because I haven’t answered.
“Yes,” I breathe, and he freezes.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He trails his fingers over the side of my face, temple to neck, tracing a path, neck to waist. His right hand moves palm to palm with my left, intertwines our fingers as he lowers his head, and then his mouth is moving over mine, softly, carefully. I squeeze the hand holding mine and shift closer to him, clutching his shirt in my free hand, and he deepens the kiss, stretching out next to me, one knee hooked over my thigh. The hand at my waist progresses down over my hip, moving over my bare leg to the sensitive spot behind my knee. His hand is warm on my skin, drawing my leg over his until we’re tangled together in the middle of the bed, his opposite shoulder under my head, his arm encircling me. His tongue traces my lips softly, parting them, thrusting inside. I moan, opening my mouth and pressing as close to him as I can get.
Too soon, he pulls away, both of us panting, sucking air as though we’ve been underwater. Teasing his fingers through my hair, he pushes a strand behind my ear, and I close my eyes as he cradles my head in his hand, the pad of his thumb stroking my cheek and jaw. Our heartbeats slow as we lie there, hardly moving, for several minutes.
“I’d better go.” His voice is low and rough, full of what he doesn’t say.
I open my eyes to stare into his, wanting to protest, but no coherent words come. His eyes are so dark there is no color to them at all, just guarded depths, full of thoughts and motivations I can’t decipher.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, extracting himself slowly from my legs and hands. He leans over me, kissing my forehead, turning and padding from the room without a backward glance. I lie motionless except for the in and out of my breath, the beat of my heart, the pulse through my veins. Almost convinced I’ve dreamed the entire interlude, I fall asleep, and do dream it. Over and over.
Chapter 20
REID
Walt is into a my-body’s-a-temple phase. I don’t judge—I mean maybe he hit a wall. He was going pretty hardcore for a while, getting into shit I won’t even touch. And I’ve touched a lot. We’re at the bar they’ll be playing tomorrow, and while I’m on my second beer, Walt has charmed the chick bartender into heating water for a cup of tea (he brought his own Tazo).
Yeah, the half-Asian guy is having tea in the bar. And I’ll be goddamned if it couldn’t get him play from some of the girls nearby.
Bob, obviously still offended that I shot his avatar, sent Jeff with us tonight. Jeff is plenty imposing. He’s as much of a land mass as Bob, covered in tattoos, and has a single, thin scar running through one eyebrow, touching the cheek below and continuing off the jaw. At some point I’m going to be drunk enough to ask him how he got it. I just hope I remember his answer, if he gives it. Must be some story.
The band is good. Not as good as Walt’s, but decent. The floor space below the little rise on which the band performs is full of people dancing—mostly girls. As the evening wears on, they begin to notice Walt and me… and Jeff. That’s the thing about bodyguards. The main purpose of them is intimidation, with protection a close second. Enough intimidation and the protection element is never called into play. This is all great when there’s a threat, which is not the case at the moment. I’m about to tell Jeff to get invisible when a couple of girls break off from the herd and come over. Jesus, finally.
“Excuse me,” one says. “We were thinkin’ you guys look lonely.” None too original. But they’re both drop-dead hot, so who cares.
Apparently, Walt cares. “Nah. I’m enjoying the music and just watching you girls dance. Reid?”
The girl’s face goes through the emotions of having been rejected and complimented, and then her eyes widen and she looks at me, blinking. “Are you for real Reid Alexander? I mean we thought you looked like him but you’re really him? You’re not shittin’ me?”
Jeff sits up straighter, crosses his arms over his chest. The posture doesn’t go unnoticed, but it doesn’t dissuade them, either. “Seriously?” the second girl says. “Ohmigod.” She looks back at Walt.
“I’m nobody,” he says, and sips his tea, observing her through a black fringe of bangs.
She looks as though she doesn’t believe him. “Then it’ll be okay with him—” she gestures to Jeff “—if I take you with me?”
Walt laughs. “I suppose so, in theory. But I’m not interested in going anywhere. You’re welcome to have a seat, though?”
She looks at his lap as he hooks an empty chair at a nearby table with his foot and pulls it over. As she’s considering, some recorded pop song comes on because the band is taking a break. The girls both squeal and ask us to dance. Something about Walt’s expression says holy mother of God, no, but he sort of smiles. “No, thanks.”
Right then the guitarist for the band, a curvy chick with purple hair, multiple piercings and huge blue eyes, glides between the two girls and sits in the chair, ignoring the girls and me completely and leaning towards Walt. His foot is still hooked around the leg of the chair. “You’re Walt Riggs.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Carrie.” Walt takes it, turns her hand over to read the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, which looks like Latin. “It basically says ‘been there, done that,’” she says.
“Cool… You sure you’ve been there enough, done that enough, to have it permanently inscribed?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I’m getting closer, and I’ve already got the ink saying so when I get there.”
He gives her a genuine smile, and she laughs, throaty and full. I have to hand it to him, she’s hands down the most intriguing chick in here.
“BRB,” I say, taking both of the other girls, neither of whom Walt is paying any attention to, onto the dance floor.
Jeff and I drop him off at his hotel a couple of hours later. I thought he might take Carrie back to his hotel room, because they talked whenever she wasn’t playing, but he said, “No, man, that’s a professional relationship, you know? Ever heard the rule ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
“But you just met her tonight, so how professional could that relationship be?”
He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. “That’s the thing. How professional could it ever be, if we just use each other for sex now?”
Huh. “If you were playing her, I guess that reasoning makes sense. But if it was mutual?”
He smiles, shakes his head. “It’s never mutual. Somebody always wants more. People’s psyches are complex, man.”
I consider that for about five seconds. “Okay, so text me tomorrow with what time you want us at the back entrance. There’ll be between five to ten of us.”
“Awesome. See you tomorrow.”
Emma
The last thing I expected, after a kiss like that, was to run the trails alone this morning.
The lobby was deserted but for the desk clerk and me. Nothing unusual for the early hour, and I’ve beaten Graham downstairs before. Grabbing a section of the newspaper off of a table in the lobby area, I stood while reading it, sure he’d be down any minute. I was nervous, hands cold and stomach shaky, but I was sure that once we started running, once we started talking, those sensations would subside.
“Ms. Pierce?” I turned to find the desk clerk standing four feet away. “I have a message for you.” She passed a folded sheet of paper to me, Emma Pierce scrawled on the outside. I recognized Graham’s handwriting from the note he left on my nightstand a few nights ago.
Emma –
Something came up and I had to go home. I’m sorry I won’t be able to make our usual run in the morning. I may be gone a few days. I’m not sure. Just didn’t want you waiting around for me.
Graham
For a few minutes, I wondered if there was a hidden message in the last sentence. And then I ran alone, glad for my renewed morning habit, which gave me something nothing else could: the ability to concentrate on little more than putting one foot in front of the other, marking time by counting each stride, until finally I was back in my room, standing under a hot shower.
“Earth to Emma.” MiShaun breaks through my inattention. While the film crew is working on backdrop shots in the front of the Bennet house, I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the back window, reconsidering Graham’s kiss in light of his abrupt absence and possibly cryptic message.