Shaking his head, he perches on the edge of the sofa, elbows balanced on his knees as he points the control er and pushes buttons, click-click, click-click. Eyes never leaving the screen, he smiles again. “I’m enjoying listening to you eat more than I enjoyed eating.”
Uncertain how to take that, I attempt to muffle the appreciative sounds.
The gore-level on his game is high, but thankful y the volume is down low. Without the soggy-sounding death blows, the carnage is somehow less revolting. Or maybe, considering that I’m watching him play while I eat, I’m becoming inured to the violence. Weird. Even weirder, I sort of want to play, too, though I’m sure I’d be inept. Maybe I’l ask him to teach me next time.
Having been here half a dozen times over the last couple of weeks, I assume there’l be a next time. I refuse to think about the point where that wil no longer be true.
When I finish eating, I lean back into the sofa cushions and thumb through the novel. I read it multiple times just before I started high school. Like many of my friends, I had a crush on the male lead—sensitive and strong and yes, a bit brooding. I remember lunchroom disputes over which current star would be perfect for the role if it was a movie, laughing with fel ow bibliomaniacs when we ultimately concluded that any of them would put the boys in our school to shame. Now I’m friends with a guy who may star in the movie adaptation. Friends with Reid Alexander. Surreal.
movie adaptation. Friends with Reid Alexander. Surreal.
He pauses the game and tosses the control er aside. “I think there’s pie. Want some?”
I nod and start to get up, but he tel s me to stay. Soon after he leaves the room, I hear a noise at the doorway.
“Forget something?” I ask, turning to look over the back of the sofa, and standing in the doorway is a woman who must be Reid’s mother. She’s petite and beautiful and holding a drink in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I stand up and smile, hesitant. “Mrs. Alexander? I’m Dori.”
She doesn’t move from the doorway, so I walk towards her. Her blue silk blouse swishes as she straightens. She’s wearing black dress pants and heels. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, and her words are slurred. “Where did you say Reid is?”
I’d hoped he was exaggerating about the alcoholic mother. As I get closer I see that her eyes—the same dark blue as Reid’s—are bloodshot, so disguised by intoxication I almost can’t see the resemblance. Her skin appears sal ow, even with the indirect lighting. I’m too familiar with the indicators of chronic drinking to discount the symptoms. He wasn’t overstating.
“He’s getting pie.”
She frowns. “Oh.”
“Do you want to join us? I think we’re deciding between Breakfast at Tiffany’s and, um, Goldfinger.”
“Ah, Sean Connery. One of Reid’s favorites. Favorite Bond, anyway.”
“Real y?”
“Mmm-hmm. I’l just leave you two alone.” She tilts her head and a trace of a smile hovers around her mouth.
“You’re a friend of Reid’s, you said? A girlfriend?”
“I—I’m a friend.”
She nods, lays a hand on my arm. Her breath is sour—
whiskey, I’d bet—and again, I’m more familiar than I’d like to be. “You seem very sweet.” She leans closer, and I concentrate on breathing through my mouth as she says,
“Don’t let him fool you. He’s very sweet, too.” She turns and walks a meandering path down the hal way just as Reid tops the stairs with a plate of pie smothered in whipped cream, and two forks.
He scowls. “Was that my mom?”
“She stopped in to say hel o. I invited her to stay, but I think she was afraid of intruding. Either that or Sean Connery is not her favorite Bond guy. My mother prefers Roger Moore.”
He looks at me a long moment, then hands me the forks and uses his free hand to tug me close. “Feeling reckless yet?”
I nod once and he doesn’t wait for further affirmation, lowering his lips to mine. I forget the pie in his hand and the forks in mine as he opens my mouth with his. He kisses me once, twice, three times, pul ing back a hair’s breadth each time while reeling me closer and closer until I’m completely off-balance and curving into him. “I real y have to know,” he says, holding me securely, our mouths an inch apart, breath mingling, “how delicious you’l taste after you have a few bites of this pie.”
I giggle and he smirks, taking my hand and pul ing me down to the front where we sink onto the sofa. He feeds me a bite of pie before setting the plate and utensils aside on the ottoman. “I think you stabbed me,” he breathes against my neck before brushing my hair aside and kissing the base of my throat. The feel of his mouth on my skin triggers waves of need in my bel y that coil and spring like stretchy filaments of connection to every nerve ending I have.
“I’m—sorry?” I gasp, because his fingers are stroking the skin under my shirt, fanning out over my sides. He pul s me onto his lap as his lips move up my jawline, lighting an explosive pathway to my ear.
“Didn’t hurt. I barely noticed.” His voice is soft and near, a murmured caress. “My brain was occupied with more important things than minor flesh wounds.” And then his mouth is on mine, his tongue sweeping through my mouth.
“Mmmm,” he growls softly. “My God, Dori.” He doesn’t speak again, does nothing but kiss me—with occasional pie breaks, like marathoners downing cups of Gatorade for endurance—until it’s time for me to leave. I’ve never been so kiss-drunk; if he hadn’t pointed out the time, I wouldn’t have noticed it.