Romance: TOXIC (Forbidden, Pregnancy, Taboo Romance, Stepbrother Romance, New Adult Short Stories) by Celia Styles Page B
Authors: Celia Styles
Ads: Link
times. “I’ve got reservations at this really nice little place just down the way,” he said.
“What’s it called?” I asked, as I got in.
“McDonalds,” he said. “Just kidding!” he laughed, when he caught my look of utter disbelief and shock. “It’s called Tropic Thunder.”
“That sounds like a burger joint,” I said.
“Well, I’m sure burgers are on their menu sometimes,” he said.
“Is this really your car?”
He cocked his head and shrugged--I could tell he was flushing red even in the flashing orange of the streetlights. “Well, to be completely honest, it’s my buddy’s. He owns a gym that I refer clients to if they want to work out, and in return, he lets me use his car.”
“That sounds like a most perverted car-share.”
“No, you see--perverted would involve chickens,” he said.
The line outside Tropic Thunder had maybe thirty people in it, and as we parked I became a bit worried that maybe there wouldn’t be enough seats for us. The restaurant was tiny, wedged between a bank and a hardware store. Blake didn’t seem a bit worried, though. He took his time finding a parking spot in the crowded garage and we joined the line. We were behind an old couple from Kansas and in front of a young gay couple, also from Kansas. “I guess it’s lucky we’re here,” Blake murmured, after hi’s and hello’s were exchanged. “Nothing to ruin an evening like politics and gender.”
“Karma says they get seated next to each other,” I whispered.
At 8:00 the doors opened, and we all filed in. Each of us got a number and we had to find the corresponding number on the chairs. There were no tables--just counters, a little higher than waist-level, shaped like a U, boxing in two identical work spaces. “How did you hear about this?” I asked, as we sat down.
“The buddy who lends me the car,” he said. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
The chefs filed in, three on each side. There were quick introductions, a flashy display of knives, and then they set to work. Suddenly the pristine, minimalist countertops and stovetops were transformed into a chaotic, organized mess of tupperware containers, alcohol fires, the rapid report of knives against cutting boards, and heady aroma of things being cooked and baked. And then, suddenly, somehow, a creation was set before everybody, at almost the exact same time, and the chefs would bow, and we would applaud and eat.
It goes without saying that the food was divine. The many textures, the many flavors, were all somehow married together into an experience that was part theater and mostly miracle. The wines that were served with each course were a joy to taste, putting the cheap wines that students could get and pretend to be grown up with to shame.
Afterwards, drunk on the splendid food and high on the amazing wine, we went for a walk. The beach was nearby, the moon bright in the sky, the ocean calm and placid like a liquid mirror. I kicked off my shoes, delighting in how warm the sand still was. “Come on,” Blake said suddenly, grinning. He began pulling off his socks and shoes.
“Are you seriously--”
“Well, only if you want to,” he said, rolling up his pants. “I was just going to wade out a little.”
He gave me a wink that strongly suggested that skinny dipping wasn’t something he’d be opposed to. I grinned back, and hiked up the skirt of my dress. I’m going to make you work for the rest .
We walked into the water, holding hands. The undercurrent was more of a suggestion than a force, but still dangerously irresistible. It was still warm, at that perfect temperature where everything just relaxes. I wanted to melt into the ocean, and every time a new body part--ankles, then shins, then knees--became submerged in the soothing waters the idea of just floating away with the current became slightly stronger, more present.
A ripple lapped the inside of my
“What’s it called?” I asked, as I got in.
“McDonalds,” he said. “Just kidding!” he laughed, when he caught my look of utter disbelief and shock. “It’s called Tropic Thunder.”
“That sounds like a burger joint,” I said.
“Well, I’m sure burgers are on their menu sometimes,” he said.
“Is this really your car?”
He cocked his head and shrugged--I could tell he was flushing red even in the flashing orange of the streetlights. “Well, to be completely honest, it’s my buddy’s. He owns a gym that I refer clients to if they want to work out, and in return, he lets me use his car.”
“That sounds like a most perverted car-share.”
“No, you see--perverted would involve chickens,” he said.
The line outside Tropic Thunder had maybe thirty people in it, and as we parked I became a bit worried that maybe there wouldn’t be enough seats for us. The restaurant was tiny, wedged between a bank and a hardware store. Blake didn’t seem a bit worried, though. He took his time finding a parking spot in the crowded garage and we joined the line. We were behind an old couple from Kansas and in front of a young gay couple, also from Kansas. “I guess it’s lucky we’re here,” Blake murmured, after hi’s and hello’s were exchanged. “Nothing to ruin an evening like politics and gender.”
“Karma says they get seated next to each other,” I whispered.
At 8:00 the doors opened, and we all filed in. Each of us got a number and we had to find the corresponding number on the chairs. There were no tables--just counters, a little higher than waist-level, shaped like a U, boxing in two identical work spaces. “How did you hear about this?” I asked, as we sat down.
“The buddy who lends me the car,” he said. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
The chefs filed in, three on each side. There were quick introductions, a flashy display of knives, and then they set to work. Suddenly the pristine, minimalist countertops and stovetops were transformed into a chaotic, organized mess of tupperware containers, alcohol fires, the rapid report of knives against cutting boards, and heady aroma of things being cooked and baked. And then, suddenly, somehow, a creation was set before everybody, at almost the exact same time, and the chefs would bow, and we would applaud and eat.
It goes without saying that the food was divine. The many textures, the many flavors, were all somehow married together into an experience that was part theater and mostly miracle. The wines that were served with each course were a joy to taste, putting the cheap wines that students could get and pretend to be grown up with to shame.
Afterwards, drunk on the splendid food and high on the amazing wine, we went for a walk. The beach was nearby, the moon bright in the sky, the ocean calm and placid like a liquid mirror. I kicked off my shoes, delighting in how warm the sand still was. “Come on,” Blake said suddenly, grinning. He began pulling off his socks and shoes.
“Are you seriously--”
“Well, only if you want to,” he said, rolling up his pants. “I was just going to wade out a little.”
He gave me a wink that strongly suggested that skinny dipping wasn’t something he’d be opposed to. I grinned back, and hiked up the skirt of my dress. I’m going to make you work for the rest .
We walked into the water, holding hands. The undercurrent was more of a suggestion than a force, but still dangerously irresistible. It was still warm, at that perfect temperature where everything just relaxes. I wanted to melt into the ocean, and every time a new body part--ankles, then shins, then knees--became submerged in the soothing waters the idea of just floating away with the current became slightly stronger, more present.
A ripple lapped the inside of my
Similar Books
