Page 71 of Wrecked

“Only because you’re bringing me food.” I grab the bag from his hand.

Out of his pocket, he produces a peach Snapple. I shake it and slap the bottom. When I twist the cap, it makes a popping sound.

He takes a seat beside me, his long legs stretched out alongside mine. Our thighs brush against each other.

“I want to apologize,” he says.

“For what?”

“That was inappropriate of me. I’m supposed to be watching you, not corrupting you.”

I let out a loud, obnoxious laugh. “I’m quite corrupted already.” Taking a swig of my tea, I give him the side eye and see he’s not smiling. “Through literature. Not in real life. I read juicy stuff all the time.”

His interest is piqued. “You do?”

Looking inside my bag, I pull out the sandwich and tangerine he packed for me.

And then I frown.

“Looking for this?” He’s holding up a mini Snickers.

I grab it from him, unwrap it, and pop it into my mouth. I close my eyes and salivate.

“James Joyce.” My words are barely audible.

“Huh?” he grunts.

I turn to him, my mouth full of Snickers. “My dad is a huge James Joyce fan. He even has a first edition of Dubliners, which probably cost more than our house. He didn’t buy it. It was passed down from his grandfather. Anyway, we have all his books in our house, and one of them is a book of letters he wrote to his wife. They’re pretty dirty.”

He puts his bag down, bends his knee, and twists his body toward mine. “I find it hard to believe that James Joyce wrote anything remotely close to what we just listened to.”

With a tilt of my head, I answer, “He and his wife were apart for a year. They promised to write erotic love letters. He called her his sweet little whore and wrote in graphic detail what he would do to himself when he thought of her.”

He settles back against the tree and smirks at me. His voice says in disbelief, “Graphic?”

“Explicit. He recalls the first time she put her hand down his pants. They were out, maybe at a party, and she slid her hand under the table and…you know…”

He shifts his knee to the side. His hand fingers the collar of his shirt. “No more audio books and no more James Joyce,” he says, turning his body away from me.

A gust of wind rustles through the tree, the heat slamming me in the face. I lean down and grab my tangerine. Quickly peeling it back, I throw a slice in my mouth, causing the juice to dribble down my chin and onto my shirt. I look down at where the juice landed on my tee and see I have a severe case of nipplitis.

“Good idea,” I answer.

It’s the worst idea he’s had all day.

chapter SIXTEEN

“You want a half-off chaser with that?” I ask the customer in front of me.

The Bucking Bronco is packed, and it’s a good thing because last night was slow.

Suzanne is sitting on a stool, sipping rum and Coke and waiting for me to take a break so that we can talk. What she doesn’t know is that my break was a half hour ago, and I worked right through it.

I ring the cowbell. “Attention, party people. Last call on tonight’s drink specials. Prices go back in ten minutes, so order up!”

The mob moves to the bar, and I fill every order I can until the clock is up. The music is blaring, the crowd is having a great time, and Suzanne is still sipping her drink.

Moving about the bar, I’m shaking up a Long Island iced tea when the door swings open, and Jessica walks in. I wait for Adam to follow, but the door closes behind her. She walks to the bar, and with a smile, she sits down next to Suzanne.