so I have to wonder if maybe she plays for the other team. Then again, the way her eyes rake over me and how her cheeks flush, it’s not possible.
“So where to now?” I ask, hoping she understands I’m not ready to go back to her house. I find myself fighting hard against the urge to shoot up. I would kill for a drink even. Not to mention this God-awful cast on my hand that inhibits everything. At least it wasn’t a bad break, more like a few fractures in the metacarpals or terabytes. I don’t remember.
She backs her little Civic up and then turns around, flashing the high beams on the swing, and just remembering the sensation of her straddling me makes me need to change positions in the passenger seat. Jemma watches the road, makes the turns opposite in which we came—at least I hope she remembers how we got here. I sure as hell don’t. She drives us through the center of town and parks in the grocery store parking lot. I can tell she’s struggling with something as she stares at those automatic doors again.
“What is it with you and those doors?” I ask with a laugh. She turns to me and her blue eyes pierce a hole through my heart. Her cheeks are rosy, her hair is loose and tousled around her face. She’s a picture of beauty.
“The doors?” she asks, her eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Nothing’s wrong with the doors. Do you want anything?”
Jack Daniels? Grey Goose? “No, I’m good.”
“Be right back,” she says as she grabs her little purse and hops out of the car. This time, she leaves the car running.
Ever since my songs started playing on the radio, I find it hard to listen to anyone else’s. But I can’t handle the low rumble of the Civic’s engine so I turn it on and lean my head against the seat. Surprisingly, the singer’s voice doesn’t annoy me, nor do the lyrics, and I find myself tapping my fingers on my thigh to the beat of the drums. Three songs pass and my curiosity begins to pique. She’s got to have some things hidden in her car that will help me know more about her.
Her glove compartment contains the usual: insurance, registration, and owner’s manual. There’s also a pink purse-like object that when I unzip it, I zip it shut right away and shove it back into the glove box. Tampons. Don’t want to know about those.
The center console holds a dozen or more CDs, five of which are mine, or White Shadow’s anyhow.
The driver’s door opens and she plops down on her seat, handing me a plastic bag.
“I needed a soda,” she says as she reaches to my lap where she digs through the bag.
“Careful there, sister.” My legs do a knee-jerk as her hand brushes over my Johnson. Intentional or not, that’s dangerous ground. Her cheeks flush as though she’s just realized where her hand actually is. She snatches her soda and places it into one of the cup holders.
“Sorry. There’s one in there for you too. Along with some chocolate.”
“I don’t think I’ve had a Sprite since I was ten,” I say when I pull out the green bottle, and then immediately regret it. Her lips form a tight line and I can tell I’ve disappointed her. “Thank you. This should be yummy.”
Yummy? Did I just revert to a six-year-old?
“So if we hurry we can make the eight fifteen movie at the drive-in. Wanna go?” There she is again, almost looking through me.
“I’d rather get to know you,” I say as I shrug my shoulders.
“We can do that too. Let’s go.”
As it turns out, the movie is an older one, The English Patient , which I’ve seen on more than one occasion.
“You know this is almost three hours long, right?” I ask as the movie begins. She nods and points to the screen.
“Shh. Just watch, okay?”
It’s not that the movie is boring, it’s just not a lot happens, other than the sexual tension between a couple sets of characters. Don’t get me wrong, the scene during the Christmas party had both Jemma and I squirming in our seats. When the screen goes black
“So where to now?” I ask, hoping she understands I’m not ready to go back to her house. I find myself fighting hard against the urge to shoot up. I would kill for a drink even. Not to mention this God-awful cast on my hand that inhibits everything. At least it wasn’t a bad break, more like a few fractures in the metacarpals or terabytes. I don’t remember.
She backs her little Civic up and then turns around, flashing the high beams on the swing, and just remembering the sensation of her straddling me makes me need to change positions in the passenger seat. Jemma watches the road, makes the turns opposite in which we came—at least I hope she remembers how we got here. I sure as hell don’t. She drives us through the center of town and parks in the grocery store parking lot. I can tell she’s struggling with something as she stares at those automatic doors again.
“What is it with you and those doors?” I ask with a laugh. She turns to me and her blue eyes pierce a hole through my heart. Her cheeks are rosy, her hair is loose and tousled around her face. She’s a picture of beauty.
“The doors?” she asks, her eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Nothing’s wrong with the doors. Do you want anything?”
Jack Daniels? Grey Goose? “No, I’m good.”
“Be right back,” she says as she grabs her little purse and hops out of the car. This time, she leaves the car running.
Ever since my songs started playing on the radio, I find it hard to listen to anyone else’s. But I can’t handle the low rumble of the Civic’s engine so I turn it on and lean my head against the seat. Surprisingly, the singer’s voice doesn’t annoy me, nor do the lyrics, and I find myself tapping my fingers on my thigh to the beat of the drums. Three songs pass and my curiosity begins to pique. She’s got to have some things hidden in her car that will help me know more about her.
Her glove compartment contains the usual: insurance, registration, and owner’s manual. There’s also a pink purse-like object that when I unzip it, I zip it shut right away and shove it back into the glove box. Tampons. Don’t want to know about those.
The center console holds a dozen or more CDs, five of which are mine, or White Shadow’s anyhow.
The driver’s door opens and she plops down on her seat, handing me a plastic bag.
“I needed a soda,” she says as she reaches to my lap where she digs through the bag.
“Careful there, sister.” My legs do a knee-jerk as her hand brushes over my Johnson. Intentional or not, that’s dangerous ground. Her cheeks flush as though she’s just realized where her hand actually is. She snatches her soda and places it into one of the cup holders.
“Sorry. There’s one in there for you too. Along with some chocolate.”
“I don’t think I’ve had a Sprite since I was ten,” I say when I pull out the green bottle, and then immediately regret it. Her lips form a tight line and I can tell I’ve disappointed her. “Thank you. This should be yummy.”
Yummy? Did I just revert to a six-year-old?
“So if we hurry we can make the eight fifteen movie at the drive-in. Wanna go?” There she is again, almost looking through me.
“I’d rather get to know you,” I say as I shrug my shoulders.
“We can do that too. Let’s go.”
As it turns out, the movie is an older one, The English Patient , which I’ve seen on more than one occasion.
“You know this is almost three hours long, right?” I ask as the movie begins. She nods and points to the screen.
“Shh. Just watch, okay?”
It’s not that the movie is boring, it’s just not a lot happens, other than the sexual tension between a couple sets of characters. Don’t get me wrong, the scene during the Christmas party had both Jemma and I squirming in our seats. When the screen goes black
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