I pass the can across to her, happy to relinquish it. She sculls half of it in one go, letting out such a loud burp when she comes up for air that I laugh. “Such a lady.”
“Being a lady costs extra.”
“Should I get another of those?” I ask as she quickly dispatches the second half as quickly as the first. “You look thirsty.”
Em’s wide smile is so crooked it looks like it’s in danger of sliding off her face altogether. “I’m always thirsty.”
Her hair has fallen across her face, hiding her expression. I lift it with my finger, then can’t stop my hand cupping the back of her head, pulling her closer. She moves with ease, following my lead, her puzzled eyes rising to meet mine.
My thumb strokes along the line of her jaw, playing with the bulge behind her ear, watching the pupils in her eyes expand as I move closer.
Energy crackles between us, so strong I expect to see sparks. I can feel every cell of her skin against the rough pad of my thumb. Her eyes are now so dark I can barely see the iris. Her lips swell with colour, parting enough to let the tip of her tongue peek through. A tease I desperately want to answer.
Then she shakes free. “Nice try, Mercer. There’s a blonde by the pool with your name on it if you want to fuck something other than your hand.”
She pulls away but stays seated, folding her arms over her chest. Despite her rejection, I feel a thrill of satisfaction thinking that she watched me earlier, her quick jibe smarting with jealousy. My eyes drop to her cleavage, then I turn away, swallowing to get rid of the saliva suddenly pooling in my mouth.
I adjust my jeans, snapping them and my underwear out far enough to let my rigid prick nestle against my lower belly, then releasing them. Anything visible covered by the overhang of my tee. Not a great way to leave things but better than tenting out the front of my jeans. Judging from the mood of the girl seated next to me, that could only lead to ridicule.
For a long time, I think that’s the end. Our conversation’s finished and as soon as one of us tires of sitting silently, we’ll move away. The moment over.
Then Em pokes me in the shoulder. “Weren’t you fetching me another drink? Or is that a service you only provide if you’re getting something in return?”
“I am getting something.” I slowly get to my feet, avoiding her eyes as I turn her way. “Scintillating conversation, remember?”
“Disyllabic, at least.”
Downstairs, I push my way through the roadblock at the kitchen door. Someone’s hit someone else and now two groups are at each other’s throats, neither willing to back down. Same old, same old.
The nozzle to the keg is screwed and I fiddle with it, aided by a butter knife, until the lager streams out, absent a million air bubbles. I fill a cup for me, too, knowing that Em will swipe it and I’ll let her.
Too much alcohol for one small girl. I open the fridge and scrounge enough out of it to make a chicken sandwich with a crumpled lettuce leaf and three cherry tomatoes as a side. For health. There’s a container of peanut butter in the cupboard that I add into my pocket along with a spoon.
I remember Em eating it straight out of the jar at Zach’s one time: a blissed-out expression on her face while she used a carrot as a spoon.
She then took him upstairs to work off the energy, but my face blackens when the memory rolls forward that far—envious of Zach’s position, unsure whether the feeling’s new or was always there, just unable to be expressed—and I cut it off.
Three of the participants in the fight are now dotted around the lounge, bleeding in their separate corners. The rest have settled back into their former positions, the entertainment over for the time being.
I weave my way through the tangle of splayed legs and chatting fight groupies, balancing the cups between my arm and my chest, holding the plate of food above their heads with the other.
Heading upstairs, I think I’ve been gone too long. Em will have grown bored and gone in search of fun. I’ll spend the next few hours bored out of my brain, just waiting for the party to end.
But she’s sitting exactly where I left her, body relaxed on the seat, staring at the wall until I make enough sound that she turns.
The smile she bestows on me when she sees the plate of food is as warm as the afternoon sun hitting against a hardwood floor, shiny with the patina worn from a thousand pairs of feet. Muscles in my chest pull hard enough to make me gasp for breath as I take my seat, passing her the plate, then putting a cup near her feet.
“Thank you,” she says around a mouthful of sandwich. “I’m starving.”
I pull the peanut butter from my jacket pocket and rest it on the seat between us. Her eyes open extra wide as I produce the spoon and uncap the jar. Then I dig in and lift a mounded spoonful, dripping with oil.
The moment she finishes her current mouthful of sandwich, I bring it up to her lips. She pulls it into her mouth, chuckling low in her throat as her tongue wipes the cutlery clean. A tiny spill of oil trickles from her lower lip and I grow so hard it’s painful as her tongue slips out to catch the escapee.
“You forgot your salad,” I chide when she tries to put the plate on the floor, taking it from her. “Naughty girl.”
Something fiery flashes behind her eyes and her knees clench together, then relax again. The moment gone so quickly I have to check, rewind, replay to confirm it happened at all.
She blushes and tips forward to snag her cup off the floor, drinking a quarter before she leans back, holding it against her chest.
