I earn a small laugh for that, and she lifts her head, flashing a quick lopsided smile. The Harley smirk that makes me want to wipe it away with my mouth. Kiss that sexy smirk right off of her. Hear the sweet sighs she makes when I kiss her. “I’ll go change then,” she says, tipping her forehead to the door.
“Want me to wait out here?”
“We can talk inside.”
“Okay.” I sling my backpack over one shoulder and follow her up the steps, waiting as she unfastens three locks on the battered, creaky, brown door of her building, leading into a hall so cramped you have to walk single file to the stairs. I try not to stare at her legs as she walks up the staircase, but it’s a losing battle because her calves are perfection. Strong, shapely, smooth.
Plus, I know how they taste. I know how every inch of her tastes. Her ankles, her calves, behind her knees, her thighs, belly, br**sts, neck and everyplace else. The answer? She tastes f**king spectacular. I watch her, enjoying the view, picturing those legs spread out and open for me. If she only knew how much I want to go down on her again. And again. And again.
We reach her floor, and I grab my backpack from my shoulder and hold it in front of me, so she can’t see that I’m hard from staring at her.
She unlocks the door and calls out. “Kristen?”
But there’s no answer.
She lets the door fall shut behind us, closing with a loud clanging sound.
“Oh. It’s Thursday. She goes to some film showing at the arthouse nearby. Something for one of her film classes. They see all these festival flicks,” she says as she tosses her keys on the kitchen table.
“Sounds like she and Jordan will be the perfect match,” I say sarcastically. “Given his love for shoot ‘em up action flicks and horror films.”
Harley laughs, then tells me she’ll be right back and she ducks into her room. I head straight for the fridge. Harley doesn’t drink, but I can count on Kristen to have something on hand. I find a couple of six-packs of Coors Light, grab a bottle, then a Diet Coke for Harley, and wait for her on the couch in the cardboard-box sized living room.
When Harley returns my heart trips on its dumbass feet. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she washed off all her makeup. She has on dark blue jeans that hug her legs and a gray t-shirt that says Eat, Sleep, Read. “Picked it up at this indie bookstore in Brooklyn a few weeks ago when I was stocking up on old paperbacks. Thought it was cute,” she says, pointing to the shirt.
“Yeah, it’s cute,” I say but my throat is dry so the words come out croaky. That’s the thing – she looks so much better like this. Not that there’s anything wrong with Harley in a skirt. But seeing her like 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.