this, in jeans and a t-shirt, hair pulled back, makes me feel like I have secret access to the Harley no one knows, the side she doesn’t show anyone else. Cam never sees her without make-up. Her clients never did either. She looks beautiful as herself. All fresh and perfect and sweet. She’s the girl I know, the girl I want, the girl I can’t let myself have.
She joins me on the couch, tucks her legs under her, and cracks open the can. She takes a sip. “Why did you wait for me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “At your apartment?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Um…because I give a shit about you.” I knock back more of my beer. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“But you hate him,” she says as she runs her thumb around the top of the can.
“No shit. He’s a pimp. But I figured if you missed a meeting chances were you were up to something. And if you were up to something I figured you probably needed someone to talk to. Or someone not to talk to. Just someone to be with.”
“You’re not judging me for seeing Cam?”
“Kettle, can I introduce you to the pot?” I point to myself. “You think it’s so easy for me, don’t you?”
She shrugs. “Well, does this ever happen to you?”
I scoff. “What? You think I’m never tempted? You think I’m just this good little boy? Like I’m a saint or a Mormon?”
“You. A Mormon,” she says dryly.
I lift my legs onto the couch, cross them at the ankles, stretch out. She shifts closer to the cushion, giving me room. “The ladies would have loved that even more. Can you imagine? Seducing a Mormon boy?”
“I think it was the other way around,” she says, and wiggles an eyebrow, and I like that we’re back to us, back to how she can tease me about my past, and I can at least be honest with her about hers.
“A few weeks ago I went to see my parents. You know, the usual check-in, how’s school, when are you going to be a bio major and give up this art shit. But I gotta do it, right? So this investment banker woman moved into my building last week with her husband and two young kids and I swear she gave me this look in the elevator like she’d heard about me. Like they all share stories and here she is thinking, ‘Now it’s my turn.’”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Well, what happened?” She smacks my leg playfully. “I want details.”
“So she gets in the elevator same time as me. She looks at me. Her eyes light up. She says ‘Hi, aren’t you Trey?’ One name only, like Madonna or something. Like my name is known in the building, shared in their circles. Trey .”
“What did you do, Trey ?” She says, saying my name with smolder, like she’s the newest hot MILF in the building, ready and eager to pounce.
“I nodded and said yes , and then in the span of a twenty-second elevator ride, I played out a million ways I could take her so I forced myself to sing nursery rhymes in my head so I wouldn’t open my mouth and say something inviting.”
“Nursery rhymes,” she laughs. “Which nursery rhyme?”
“Jack Sprat.”
“Sing it to me.” She rests her head against the couch pillow, relaxing and smiling. I don’t know that I came here to make her smile, but hell if it doesn’t make me happy to see her like this. To know she’s here, and she’s safe, and she’s not with him, and even if it was hard, and even if she’s thinking about going back, at least for tonight she’s with me and she’s laughing as I tell a story. “Jack Sprat could eat no meat. His wife could eat no lean….” I sing softly, then stop.
“That’s it?”
“Might come as a bit of a shock, but I can’t remember the rest of the words, so I just repeat those two lines.”
“Jack Sprat could eat no meat. His wife could eat no lean,” she sings to me this time in a sing-song voice. I join in and we both sing it low and soft. Then our words fade and we stop talking, but neither one of us moves. I just stay there, next to her on the couch, and the mood shifts
She joins me on the couch, tucks her legs under her, and cracks open the can. She takes a sip. “Why did you wait for me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “At your apartment?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Um…because I give a shit about you.” I knock back more of my beer. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“But you hate him,” she says as she runs her thumb around the top of the can.
“No shit. He’s a pimp. But I figured if you missed a meeting chances were you were up to something. And if you were up to something I figured you probably needed someone to talk to. Or someone not to talk to. Just someone to be with.”
“You’re not judging me for seeing Cam?”
“Kettle, can I introduce you to the pot?” I point to myself. “You think it’s so easy for me, don’t you?”
She shrugs. “Well, does this ever happen to you?”
I scoff. “What? You think I’m never tempted? You think I’m just this good little boy? Like I’m a saint or a Mormon?”
“You. A Mormon,” she says dryly.
I lift my legs onto the couch, cross them at the ankles, stretch out. She shifts closer to the cushion, giving me room. “The ladies would have loved that even more. Can you imagine? Seducing a Mormon boy?”
“I think it was the other way around,” she says, and wiggles an eyebrow, and I like that we’re back to us, back to how she can tease me about my past, and I can at least be honest with her about hers.
“A few weeks ago I went to see my parents. You know, the usual check-in, how’s school, when are you going to be a bio major and give up this art shit. But I gotta do it, right? So this investment banker woman moved into my building last week with her husband and two young kids and I swear she gave me this look in the elevator like she’d heard about me. Like they all share stories and here she is thinking, ‘Now it’s my turn.’”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Well, what happened?” She smacks my leg playfully. “I want details.”
“So she gets in the elevator same time as me. She looks at me. Her eyes light up. She says ‘Hi, aren’t you Trey?’ One name only, like Madonna or something. Like my name is known in the building, shared in their circles. Trey .”
“What did you do, Trey ?” She says, saying my name with smolder, like she’s the newest hot MILF in the building, ready and eager to pounce.
“I nodded and said yes , and then in the span of a twenty-second elevator ride, I played out a million ways I could take her so I forced myself to sing nursery rhymes in my head so I wouldn’t open my mouth and say something inviting.”
“Nursery rhymes,” she laughs. “Which nursery rhyme?”
“Jack Sprat.”
“Sing it to me.” She rests her head against the couch pillow, relaxing and smiling. I don’t know that I came here to make her smile, but hell if it doesn’t make me happy to see her like this. To know she’s here, and she’s safe, and she’s not with him, and even if it was hard, and even if she’s thinking about going back, at least for tonight she’s with me and she’s laughing as I tell a story. “Jack Sprat could eat no meat. His wife could eat no lean….” I sing softly, then stop.
“That’s it?”
“Might come as a bit of a shock, but I can’t remember the rest of the words, so I just repeat those two lines.”
“Jack Sprat could eat no meat. His wife could eat no lean,” she sings to me this time in a sing-song voice. I join in and we both sing it low and soft. Then our words fade and we stop talking, but neither one of us moves. I just stay there, next to her on the couch, and the mood shifts
Similar Books
