“Yes, but I figured you’d stay with Story.”
“No. Nooo.No.”No, I add to myself for the fourth time, hoping it’ll sink in.
I will not be staying with Story. I’ll see her in the morning, as per any regular overnight guest.
“Okay.” He slides a beer across the kitchen island to me. “What happened, then?”
Closing my eyes, I take a long draw from the bottle and finish half. “Eddie called, said it would be a good idea for me to collect Clementine and Story. They’ve been in there all afternoon.”
“They certainly looked like they had.” He chuckles. “Why was Clementine so upset?”
Finishing the beer in two gulps, I remove another one from the fridge, though honestly, I could do with something much stronger, like a triple scotch. While I don’t know the ins and outs of why Clementine was so upset, I knowenough. Telling him about Clementine and Torres is something I’ve been debating all afternoon, because I need to talk tosomeone.
But it’s a situation so farfetched that I can’t even wrap my head around it to tell him. I also don’t want to unleash the shitstorm I know will happen. Although the thought briefly occurs to me that he already knows, because if Clementine had confided in Holiday, Holiday would have told Lando.
“Hen?”
“Oh, drunk girls, who knows?” I shrug it off, hoping it’s convincing enough. “But . . . hypothetically speaking, has Holiday ever mentioned anything to you about Clem dating?”
He shakes his head. “Why? Is she?”
“No fucking clue.”
And that is all we touch on the subject because Pierre brings up enough pizzas that we can have leftovers cold for breakfast. I’m so hungry that the pineapple on mine has me salivating before I’ve taken a bite. Holiday joins us, having seen Clementine to sleep, and it’s not longafter that before I decide to turn in myself.
A hot shower later and I’ve almost rinsed the day off me, until I realize I forgot to take water and painkillers to Story. Pulling on a pair of pajamas and a shirt, I run back downstairs to fetch them.
It takes one hundred and twenty-seven seconds for me to walk from the top of the stairs to Story’s room. That’s one hundred and twenty-seven opportunities for me to turn around and ask Holiday to deliver her water instead.
Avoiding all the floorboards again, including the one outside her room, I lean against the door. Only when I’m certain I don’t hear a peep do I slowly open it.
The light is still on, and her bed is empty.
I’m cursing to myself as I cross the room and leave the water and painkillers on the bedside table. There aren’t that many places she could be, and my first stop will be my sister’s room.
Turning to leave, the sound of the bathroom door opening catches my attention, and I look around just in time to get an eyeful of Story walking out, backlit by dim light.
My brain short-circuits, my mouth dries up, and all my blood rushes to my dick.
Every teenage fantasy, hell, every adult fantasy, I had about Story is way off base. The reality exceeds every expectation.
Reminiscent of the Matisse hanging in the library downstairs, her curves are a work of art. Soft in all the right places. Satiny knickers hug her hips, riding high enough up her thigh that they make her legs look ten feet long. The matching bra makes me want to put my face between her breasts until I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathenow. She’s stolen all the oxygen.
Her lips pop, but she stands statue-still, save for the rise and fall of her chest. As she stares, her expression changes until IknowI’m in trouble. All sense of propriety and “doing the right thing” vanishes. I need to leave, but I couldn’t if I tried.
“I didn’t want to sleep in the clothes I was wearing all day.” Her mouth tilts on one side, lopsided but challenging. “I don’t have anything else.”
“I can get you some.” My voice pitches, my eyes traveling slowly up her body, taking in every line, every dip and hollow, thinking what a shame it would be to cover her up.
“Thank you, but there’s no need.”
I’m still standing trapped by the edge of the bed when she slowly pads toward me. She doesn’t look like the same Story I left here an hour ago. Her face is fresh and clean, eyes focused and determined, darting between me, my face, and what’s going on below my hips. I should be scared becausethat lookis the one she gets when someone’s told her she can’t do something.
“Story,” I warn, but it’s futile. A pathetic, weak effort at putting up a fight.
“You know,” she begins, trailing a finger down my shirt, stepping so close my erection brushes against her belly. “I’ve been thinking. . .”
