Gun Games by Faye Kellerman Page A

open row and gave her the window seat. He sat next to her and for the first five minutes, all he did was listen to her wheeze.
    “You okay?” he finally said.
    She nodded.
    He started to say something, but just laughed instead.
    “I . . . had . . . to change . . . from shul.”
    “You look very nice, Yasmine,” Gabe said. “Maybe you want to take off your jacket?”
    She nodded, and he helped her pull it off. Underneath she was wearing a pink scoop-necked sweater that exposed those lovely collarbones. She said, “I brought . . . food.” She held up a purse slightly smaller than a shopping bag. “Hungry?”
    He was. His half bowl of cereal had been digested hours before. “What do you have?”
    “Cookies . . . and fruit.” She was still holding her side.
    “You have a cramp?”
    She nodded and pulled out an apple. “Okay?”
    “Sure.” He took it and she fished out another one for herself.
    “Sorry . . . I’m late.”
    He took a bite. The apple was big, juicy, and tart. “No prob.”
    “At least I made it.”
    “Barely.” Another chomp. His thigh was touching hers. “Who’s covering for you today?”
    “Ariella.”
    “Again?”
    She nodded and nibbled her apple.
    “You better hope she stays your friend. She’s got dirt on you.”
    Yasmine gave him a thousand-watt smile. “Oh my God . . .” Still breathing audibly but slower. “It’s like she is so keyed up about all this.”
    “What?”
    “That I’m sneaking around my parents to meet up with you.”
    He smiled. “Like I’m evil boy ?”
    “More like forbidden boy . At least I hope you’re not evil. I think the only thing that would excite Ariella more is if you were a vampire.”
    Gabe laughed as he inched closer to her. “Sorry to disappoint.”
    She was talking to him, her speech going a mile a minute. “She’s a little nuts!”
    And closer still.
    “I keep telling her it’s not a date, that you’re just being nice . . .”
    Until he could smell her sweat . . .
    “. . . that we just have common interests . . .”
    Sweat mixed with her perfume.
    “. . . that it’s nothing romantic and it’s just a concert and . . .”
    He turned and faced her.
    “. . . no big deal . . .”
    Eye to eye, he lifted her chin with his index finger and gently brushed his lips against hers. When she didn’t resist, he did it again. Did it a third time, making it last longer, nibbling her juicy lower lip, tasting the salt on her skin. She was sweet, sweaty, soft, and fragrant.
    Man oh man!
    He sat back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head, closing his eyes, his erection jammed between his leg and his jeans. “I’m sorry, Yasmine, I got distracted.” He turned to face her. “What were you saying?”
    She didn’t answer him. Instead, she sat stock-still with sweat pouring off her forehead and hands in her lap, her eyes on her hands. She was still holding her apple. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was breathing rapidly.
    He knew he had blindsided her. Not nice, but at least she knew where he stood. Gently, he nudged her arm. She looked up, and he raised his eyebrows. She looked down again.
    Maybe he had misread her. Maybe he had wanted to misread her. Even if he had, surely she couldn’t be that freaked out by a couple of chaste pecks on the lips even if it was her “first” kiss.
    Slowly she unfolded her hands. The fingers on her right hand spider-walking across her thigh onto his until her hand rested about four inches away from the danger zone.
    His brain screamed: higher, baby. Instead he took her hand, brought it to his lips, and then placed their entwined fingers back on his thigh, a comfortable distance from his boner. His body relaxed and so did she.
    They rode in silence for a while, every so often exchanging glances while holding hands. Finally, she dropped her apple in her purse and then let out an audible sigh. “I give up!” In a swift motion, she threw her arms around his neck, weaving