“Perfectly.”
“Were you?”
“After that nightmare? Harley, I’m going to drink a swimming pool of scotch tonight.”
That image bothers me. He doesn’t look good right now as it is. After yet another night of drinking how is he going to look? “I want to come.”
“No Squares allowed.”
“I don’t need you to go out and drink,” I remind him.
He looks at me harshly. “You are not going out alone.”
“Why not? You do?”
“I’m a man, need I remind you? It’s not safe for anyone, but especially not for girls. Not for you. Go home, read a book, and watch the Food Network. Learn how to make a soufflé or whatever shit they cook.”
How dare he? “If I didn’t already kick your ass I would so do it right now.” I get up to leave. I’m not a fragile doll. Pink Heels isn’t. I won’t be either. “Have fun.”
“Sit back down.”
“Stop telling me what to do, Bach. You are not my boss.”
“I’m not?”
“I’m out of here.” He lets me get to the door before he calls me back.
“Harley?” His voice is soft and childlike.
“What?”
“You want to hang out tonight? Just us two. We can … ” He frowns, thinking about how to word it. “What do people do together when they’re not naked?”
The messed up part is I don’t think he’s kidding. His gaze isn’t ridiculing and his words taper off slightly, as if he himself has never done this and has nothing to pull from. I take pity on him. “They go out to dinner? The movies? Dancing? I don’t know, Bach.”
He snaps his fingers together and sits up. “Dinner. That’s right. Friends go to dinner.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah, Harley. We’re friends now. I have to keep you close anyway. You saw me during a nightmare. You have information.” He tries to tease but we both know he isn’t being funny. He drops the act and looks at me honestly. “Will you go to dinner with me?”
He looks like he’s asking what the quadratic formula is and if it can be used to solve his panty problem. He’s so completely out of touch with normalness it makes me smile. “I’d love to, Bach.” Pink Heels didn’t get dinner.
“Cool. I’ll go get dressed. Sit here. And don’t move. That’s not an order,” he says, hopping over the back of the couch. “I know how much you hate those. It’s just a request.”
Did I really throw myself at Bach Bachmen? And had I really wanted him? A rush of heat travels over me at the memory of the feel of my soft lips on his hard jaw, answering my question.
What’s wrong with me?
Chapter Five
Bach
What do you wear to dinner?
I stare into my closet wearing only my towel. I kick the panties out of the way, remembering the way Harley stared at them. It makes me laugh. She probably doesn’t even own a thong. Although imagining her in one makes me really want to know what she’d look like. With her hair and eyes I think yellow would be perfect on her. I get as far as imagining ripping those fuckers off before I realize how wrong that is of me.
And I know wrong. My wrongness is normal. I breathe it, eat it, and sleep it. Harley wouldn’t survive in my atmosphere. The poor thing would suffocate. She’s barely breathing because of Dylan. If I even thought of ripping her panties off, never mind doing it, she’d be ruined forever. The worst part is I’d love every second of it. Destroying Harley is my fantasy.
I drop my towel and grab a pair of tan jeans, ripping the tags off as I hop into them. They’re loose around my waist. I’ve dropped some more weight. I’m not surprised. An all scotch meal plan has that affect. I choose a white shirt and pop back into the bathroom to do my hair.
“It’s just dinner, Bach,” she hollers. “We’re not going to meet the President.”
I frown at my reflection in the mirror, running gel through my hair. “Why would I want to meet the President?”
“You might,” she answers. “He seems open to the underbelly of society.”
Smartass.
“Were you?”
“After that nightmare? Harley, I’m going to drink a swimming pool of scotch tonight.”
That image bothers me. He doesn’t look good right now as it is. After yet another night of drinking how is he going to look? “I want to come.”
“No Squares allowed.”
“I don’t need you to go out and drink,” I remind him.
He looks at me harshly. “You are not going out alone.”
“Why not? You do?”
“I’m a man, need I remind you? It’s not safe for anyone, but especially not for girls. Not for you. Go home, read a book, and watch the Food Network. Learn how to make a soufflé or whatever shit they cook.”
How dare he? “If I didn’t already kick your ass I would so do it right now.” I get up to leave. I’m not a fragile doll. Pink Heels isn’t. I won’t be either. “Have fun.”
“Sit back down.”
“Stop telling me what to do, Bach. You are not my boss.”
“I’m not?”
“I’m out of here.” He lets me get to the door before he calls me back.
“Harley?” His voice is soft and childlike.
“What?”
“You want to hang out tonight? Just us two. We can … ” He frowns, thinking about how to word it. “What do people do together when they’re not naked?”
The messed up part is I don’t think he’s kidding. His gaze isn’t ridiculing and his words taper off slightly, as if he himself has never done this and has nothing to pull from. I take pity on him. “They go out to dinner? The movies? Dancing? I don’t know, Bach.”
He snaps his fingers together and sits up. “Dinner. That’s right. Friends go to dinner.”
“Friends?”
“Yeah, Harley. We’re friends now. I have to keep you close anyway. You saw me during a nightmare. You have information.” He tries to tease but we both know he isn’t being funny. He drops the act and looks at me honestly. “Will you go to dinner with me?”
He looks like he’s asking what the quadratic formula is and if it can be used to solve his panty problem. He’s so completely out of touch with normalness it makes me smile. “I’d love to, Bach.” Pink Heels didn’t get dinner.
“Cool. I’ll go get dressed. Sit here. And don’t move. That’s not an order,” he says, hopping over the back of the couch. “I know how much you hate those. It’s just a request.”
Did I really throw myself at Bach Bachmen? And had I really wanted him? A rush of heat travels over me at the memory of the feel of my soft lips on his hard jaw, answering my question.
What’s wrong with me?
Chapter Five
Bach
What do you wear to dinner?
I stare into my closet wearing only my towel. I kick the panties out of the way, remembering the way Harley stared at them. It makes me laugh. She probably doesn’t even own a thong. Although imagining her in one makes me really want to know what she’d look like. With her hair and eyes I think yellow would be perfect on her. I get as far as imagining ripping those fuckers off before I realize how wrong that is of me.
And I know wrong. My wrongness is normal. I breathe it, eat it, and sleep it. Harley wouldn’t survive in my atmosphere. The poor thing would suffocate. She’s barely breathing because of Dylan. If I even thought of ripping her panties off, never mind doing it, she’d be ruined forever. The worst part is I’d love every second of it. Destroying Harley is my fantasy.
I drop my towel and grab a pair of tan jeans, ripping the tags off as I hop into them. They’re loose around my waist. I’ve dropped some more weight. I’m not surprised. An all scotch meal plan has that affect. I choose a white shirt and pop back into the bathroom to do my hair.
“It’s just dinner, Bach,” she hollers. “We’re not going to meet the President.”
I frown at my reflection in the mirror, running gel through my hair. “Why would I want to meet the President?”
“You might,” she answers. “He seems open to the underbelly of society.”
Smartass.
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