Divine Vices by Melissa Parkin Page B

displays in question, like my father’s framed original
Woodstock placard and the Allman Brothers Band: Live at Fillmore East poster.
He was right. The house did have a certain ‘man cave’ feel, but that’s what I
loved about it.
    “It
kinda feels like living inside an old-time record studio,” Jack said, taking
notice to my dad’s collection of Fender Telecaster Custom guitars mounted in
his office just outside the family room. He sauntered back into the kitchen.
“Has a good vibe. Unpretentious. And I like the whole bar-motif.”
    “Yeah,
well, that seems to be his thing. He actually owns Rockhouse Bar & Grill on
Main Street.”
    “The
classic rock joint that’s under renovation?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Huh,
I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting it yet, but I’ve heard good things.”
    “How
far have you gotten into our reading assignment?” I said, trying to refocus his
attention on anything other than the surroundings or my private life. His
peculiarly striking eye of observation was beginning to make me feel as if the
house was suddenly like my underwear drawer and he had taken a tour through it.
I felt... oddly exposed.
    “I
have the basic outline down,” he said, grabbing my copy of the book and turning
it over to show me the written summary.
    “You
only read the back cover?” I said, clearly stating my frustration. “Let me
guess, you were too busy with your new expanding social life to take the time
to read?”
    He
looked at me with an indecipherable expression.
    I
threw my pencil down. “So what is this? The whole stereotypical
bad-boy-who-doesn’t-care-about-anything bull? Because I really don’t have the
time or patience for this.”
    “It’s
dyslexia, actually,” Jack replied.
    A
guilt-ridden knot choked at my vocal cords as I tried to think of something
polite to say in return. When I finally mustered the courage to look him in the
eyes, I saw him staring directly into me, but his appearance was surprisingly
open.
    “It’s
okay,” he said, seeing me still struggling to find words. “I suppose it’s just
easier for me to have people thinking that I’m indifferent verses that I’m in
some way stupid. Most people don’t really understand the condition, and it’s
usually viewed as a weakness. So, needless to say, I’m not one to generally
divulge said information. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let word get
around too much.”
    “Sorry,”
I muttered.
    To
my amazement, Jack started chuckling.
    “What?”
I asked.
    He
ruffled a hand through his hair rather exhaustedly. “That’s exactly why I don’t
like telling anyone about this.”
    “Because
of people offering their sympathy?”
    “Because
of their pity,” he clarified. “Could you do me a favor and stop staring at me
like I’m one of those abandoned puppies on an animal rescue relief commercial?”
    I
let out a gentle laugh. “I’m sorry.”
    His
eyes flickered warmly. “And stop apologizing.”
    “Well,
aren’t we being domineering?” I teased.
    “You
like that.”
    I
belted him with the eraser end of my pencil.
    “Hey!”
he chuckled, rubbing the spot of impact. “Looks like you enjoy being a sadist,
I see.”
    I
grabbed my book and flipped it open to the beginning, letting my hair fall into
my face as I tilted my head down to hide the cherry flushes coming into my
cheeks.
    Butterflies
manifested in my stomach as Jack’s fingers brushed the front locks of my hair
gently over my ear. Goose bumps barreled down my arms with the ferment that
arose from his thumb trailing down the side of my neck as it combed through the
remaining strand. Once his fingers hit my collarbone, I thought to pull away
out of the fear of him going further down, but he acted first. He returned his
hand to the top of the kitchen table, leaving my skin to tingle in the result
of his touch.
    “Your
parents separated?” he asked.
    “No,”
I said. “Well, yes, they were...”
    “But
they’re not anymore? Then where’s your