Adrian Lessons by L.A Rose Page B

echo. My face burns, and I stare at the ground. Fenway Park is a good enough place to bury myself alive as any. Maybe Adrian has a shovel in his car.
    “First of all,” his low voice comes, “I wasn’t going to suggest we have sex.”
    I nod and smile and contemplate removing all the skin from my body with a potato peeler.
    “Second of all,” he says, stepping closer, “I don’t know why your ex didn’t want to have sex with you, Cleo, but there’s no way it was because of how you look. That’s just flat out impossible. You are mind-blowingly beautiful.”
    There’s something pleading and soft in his eyes. It’s too tender and I can’t handle it. I clear my throat. “So, if you didn’t bring me in here to bang me silly, why, exactly?”
    He smiles a smile that I’m pretty sure is the eighth deadly sin. “To go streaking at Fenway Park.”
    “Ha, ha,” I say. “Ha. Wait. You’re serious?”
    “Deadly.”
    Any tiny flame of sexual confidence that I’d been cultivating, blowing on frantically like a starving hiker in the forest trying to start a fire, poofs into nothingness. “You remembered me saying that? That’s I never planned on achieving. Like becoming an astronaut. Or sleeping with James Franco.”
    He shrugs. “I’m hotter than James Franco.”
    I hold up a hand, ready to lay into him—nobody puts down J.F in front of me—before slowly lowering it. He’s right. Dear lord.
    “SLEEP WITH HIM,” screams my uterus politely.
    “What’s the point of having a dream if you won’t achieve it?” Adrian sweeps his hand toward the empty stadium and the sky. “Nobody’s here to see you but the stars.”
    “And you,” I add.
    “If you want me to, I’ll look away.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes. “What other chance are you gonna have to go streaking at Fenway Park?”
    He’s right. Adrenaline itches its way up my arms. He paid for this privilege, with what I’m increasingly believing was a lot of money, and it’d be a crime to waste it.
    And there’s something about Adrian that makes me want to experience things. To be fully young. To let go.
    “All right,” I announce, my heart pounding. “I’ll do it. But you have to go up in the stands. Far enough away where I know you won’t be seeing all the details.”
    I expect him to protest, but he just nods. “Seeing you naked from any distance is more than enough.”
    He turns and starts climbing the stadium stairs. When he’s high enough that all six feet of him appears small, I cup my hands around my mouth. “That’s far enough!”
    “I’ll stay right here,” he yells back. Sound carries well here.
    I turn and look out across the expanse of field, taking a deep breath. Then I slide my skirt down over my thighs. And pull my shirt over my head.
    And just like that, I’m standing in Fenway Park in nothing but my panties and bra, with Adrian King less than a hundred meters away.
    I close my eyes and try not to remember how Eric used to look at me when I was like this, with total disinterest and a fake smile. And then I unhook my bra and step out of my panties.
    There’s something about being nude in the open air that’s like jumping into cold water. For a second, all your muscles seize up and it’s awful, but then the tension bleeds out as you get used to the new temperature and suddenly it feels wonderful. The breeze caresses my bare stomach, my breasts, my thighs.
    I look back at Adrian. I must be as small to him as he is to me, but he can definitely tell that I’m naked. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like his body is rigid. I bite my lip. Then I spot him raise his hands to his mouth.
    “What’s that in the field, folks? It’s—it’s a girl! A naked girl has run onto the field in the middle of the game! And, folks, she appears to be the most beautiful girl in the world!”
    I laugh. I swallow. And then I run. Adrian’s voice, in the fakey radio announcer tone, follows me.
    “Folks, this is truly incredible.