I smiled despite myself. “Armand. I’m just tired.”
Laughing Boy was an ironic term for someone looking miserable—very English and sardonic. And dated.
I know it made me trash, but I really couldn’t help it: I found it charming.
Ken could tell. He placed a hand on my arm. The hairs there tried to stand to attention as gooseflesh pervaded up and down my skin. I swallowed again and looked over at him fully.
The glint in his eyes told me he had a bit of a head start on me as far as gin was concerned, but the sudden subtlety of his touch on my arm and the discreet angling of his legs told me a lot more. The area between my jawline and my ears grew hot, color rising to my cheeks. How longhadit been?
Over a year. Even before Drake House had signed me and I’d quit my old job, I’d somehow managed to keep myself to myself. I still went out with friends on occasion, but they tended to keep me close, like I was a precious, somewhat addled elderly relative being shown a night on the town. When I did the rare signing or promotion event (where I was merely expected to sign things or stand places), there was always Lakshmi or some liaison or other; Robin Finches in their various guises and incarnations tasked with keeping me on track.
I hadn’t been out to a pub on my own in ages, and I was starting to remember why.
Ken ordered and bought me half a dozen more drinks, telling me all about his novel, screenplay, and the stage play he’d written. He told me about his research and travels. About how he’d spent a month stranded in Glasgow with pneumonia. About how the policemen in Venice could be easily bribed with pirated DVDs ofSpace Trip. About a certain little eatery in New Delhi, etc., and once I couldn’t help laughing or smiling at practically everything he said, Ken called us a car and next thing I knew ...
I leaned my forehead against the cool metal wall of the lift that was taking us up to Ken’s flat. His mouth was against my neck and his index finger was snug in one of my belt loops, his large square hand secure and solid over my hip. Once the doors slid shut, Ken pressed my back into the wall, fingers already fiddling.
I responded in kind, letting an entire year of missed opportunities tremble their way through my fingers as I loosened his tie.
July 23rd- Twenty-three days until the convention
I woke to the sound of the shower running, and my first thought was to wonder what Lucas was doing home so late on a Saturday morning.
Then I opened my eyes and realized that while Lucas might have been home,Iwas not.
I was at Ken’s flat, in Ken’s bed, and I could see, from where I lay, my underpants flung over a lampshade.
Before I could stop myself, I’d curled into a ball and was trying to stuff my fist into my mouth.
Why did I do this!
I actuallylikedKen. I wanted him to think of me as something more than an easy pub pull, and naturally, I’d chosen to demonstrate this bybeing an easy pub pull!This was why I wasn’t allowed out on my own.
I straightened out again, covering my face with both hands, and then peeked through my fingers at the flat. I’d been a bit busy the night before and had yet to fully take in the surroundings. It was small and overstuffed with books and oversized antique furniture, but it was clean, and there were no immediate indications that I’d gone home with an axe murderer. I sat up in the large, tousled bed, and glanced over at the door that—by the sound of it—led to the bathroom. Should I join Ken in there or wait, pretending to be asleep when he came out?
I really had enjoyed myself last night; he was funny and sophisticated, and I couldn’t help liking the way his nostrils flared whenever he was being overly descriptive in that delicious, self-indulgent, patronizing way of untenured men. Also, needless to say, we had enjoyed quite a lot of nonverbal fun, and he had excelled at that as well.
In the back of my mind, my friends judged me: Sam rolled their eyes and Craig tutted. I was notorious for my taste—they would have seen Dr. Ken Lazlo coming and hastily herded me away from his tweedy arse—especially when it came to intellectually superior men in middle age whose pomposity could and would not be curtailed. Men who would, without the slightest provocation or note of apology, correct my pronunciation or patiently explain that the Hegelian Dialecticwasn’tsimplistic and dichotomous,actually, for the following reasons.
I’m not proud of this, but there was a special little glow I felt when men like that deigned to take time out of their day—or night—to try to educate me.
I was about to get out of bed and go join Ken when the sound of the tap shut off. After a few moments, he came out of the bathroom wrapped in a thick robe, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked down and glinting.
When he saw me, his eyes widened and his mouth quirked off to the side in a surprised smile. “Hey, you’re still here ...”
My stomach dropped.
I tried to smile as well. “Yes, er, good morning.”
“Good morning.” He made his way over and cupped the back of my head with one hand, gently kissing my forehead. “I think I saw your pants over by the bookcase.”
I nodded a little brokenly and got up to start hunting for my clothes, wrapping the sheet from the bed tightly around my waist.
I’d already collected everything but my shirt, when Ken’s arms suddenly snaked in from behind and fastened over my chest and stomach, his head resting on my shoulder as he nuzzled my temple. His stubble tickled, and I had to fight down a shiver.
“I’m sorry I’m practically throwing you out, but Charlene’s plane gets in this afternoon,” he murmured, as the hand on my stomach began to both travel and misbehave itself.
I drew a hissing breath and gripped his wrist, stalling the hand’s nefarious designs. “Charlene?”
