She slaps me and mock pouts. “Fine. What’s your favourite meal?”
“Jim Beam.”
Em rolls her eyes, a better reaction than I expected. “You’re such a liar. When’s the last time you even got drunk?”
“I’ve been drunk.”
“Yeah? When?”
She’s right. It’s been a minute. “A while ago,” I hedge.
“So, is this one of those conversations where you ask a question and I answer honestly and then I ask, and you lie? Because, I’ve gotta tell you, I’m sick of this game.”
“I pretty much live off snacks.”
“And you asked what my favourite meal was not how do I get most of my sustenance.”
“Fine.” I fold the towel over the rail and try to help Em dress until she bats me away. “I like cashew fried rice from a takeaway near where we lived when I was a boy.”
“You’re still a boy,” she shoots back, wrinkling her nose.
“A shorter boy.”
“You think I don’t have any tastebuds, but your perfect meal is swimming with MSG?”
“Mm. Like a party in my mouth.” I grab her half-dressed body and pull it close to mine. “And I forgot that my new favourite meal is eating out your juicy—”
“Stop.”
She pulls away from me, her cheeks flaming bright red. Considering some things I know Zach did with her, considering how shedressesmost of the time, I wouldn’t have expected her to be so shy, so embarrassed by any mention of sex.
Yet here we are.
And her natural blush is a very becoming shade of rose red. Just the right colour to signal my inner devil out to play. “Don’t you like me talking about your perfect, tight, rosy little cunt?”
“No, I don’t.” She’s staring at the floor, appearing genuinely mortified, cupping both her elbows.
“Not even when I explain what I want to put in it?”
The tips of her ears turn so crimson that I’m genuinely afraid they’re about to explode and shower us both with blood like some discount version of Carrie.
“You can’t…” She stops and takes such an effort to swallow that I sober abruptly, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been on the pill but unless you’ve got my birth control in the cupboard, you can’t…”
I guess what she’s trying to say and rub her arm in what I hope is a reassuring manner. “It won’t happen again like that. I promise he’ll be wrapped up like a good boy, next time.”
She nods, ducking her head forward as though she still has a curtain of hair to hide behind. It makes her look younger. Younger than me. Younger than anyone I have any business messing with. Especially when she’s in such a vulnerable state.
Then she wrinkles her nose and smiles, looking up at me from beneath lashes so long I don’t know why she ever bothers to apply her false ones. “Do we have chicken?”
My mind rewinds and inserts me back in the correct part of the conversation. “Not at the moment, but I’ll fetch more supplies tomorrow.” I hook my arm around her waist and draw her closer, unable to imagine why I had this perfect girl in the shower, naked, and all I did with her was get clean. “If there’s anything else you want, let me know.”
It seems like a good sign. Perhaps not something I should read anything into but a request for a meal means at least some part of her mind is thinking about a future.
“Em,” I say, then falter, unsure if speaking the bogeyman aloud will sap his power or strengthen him. “What you said about still wanting to…?”
And now I’m the one unable to finish a sentence. I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, as though it might poke the words from their hiding places.
Her limbs tremble, and I stop. Call myself a coward, yeah, but stop. I hate to see her in distress and what kind of answer is she going to give, anyway? What reason have I given her to tell the truth?
