Rumble (35 page)

me to hurry and make up

my confused mind.

(Okay, the “confused”

is my interpretation of

the tone of her voice.)

I just need to know

if there’s any chance

of an “us.” I feel like

there might be. When

we’re together, we have

fun, and there was that night,

which was spectacular

and . . . I mean, I don’t

mind waiting, as long as . . .

She’s so adorable and

genuine and anxious,

I can’t help myself.

I Reach Across

The seat, pull her to me, and

before my lips can even find

hers, she offers her tongue.

I suck it into my mouth,

and the slippery dance begins.

Her lips taste of berry gloss,

too subtle to be seen, but delicious

to savor. Her dark hair is a silky

cape down the length of her back,

and when I thread my fingers

through it, the luscious perfume

of her shampoo envelops me.

We kiss without pause for a very

long time, and when she pulls back

to take in air, I kiss down her neck,

back up her jawline to her ear.

My tongue explores there, lobe

and creases, and an earnest moan

escapes her lips, and I am instantly

erect. This could go further, could

easily go all the way, and while

I would immensely enjoy that, I’m

kind of glad there’s a steering wheel

in the way. “I want you,” I rasp.

“But not like this. Not here, not

now. I don’t want to take advantage

of you, or taint what we might

become. I like you a lot, Alexa.

Could I love you? I think I could,

and I don’t want that to happen

because we have great sex. I want

great sex to grow from love.”

She kisses me gently.
Okay.

But tell me, is that ghost of

Hayden you talked about once

still standing in your way?

“Probably. But she’s fading fast.

And, hey, on the bright side,

I’m definitely not gay!” I offer

as proof another round of sizzling

hot making out. When we turn

the burners to low, I ask, “So,

did I answer your question?”

She smiles.
I think you did.

I think I did, too.

We Spend the Next Week

Attempting connection, at school

and after. It’s a slow, but obvious,

build of affection, and sometimes

when we walk knotted together

along the corridors, I feel like

we’re on display, especially if

we happen to encounter Hayden

or Jocelyn, who, of course, will spill

anything and everything she observes

to her gaggle. Hayden tends to look

away, but the few times she has met

my eyes, I saw a couple of things.

One: hurt, which I don’t understand.

(Was I supposed to remain single

for the rest of my life, or even this year?)

And two: something resembling

self-congratulations, like, “I knew it

all along.” Whatever. I don’t need

to please Hayden DeLucca,

beautiful, backstabbing

wood nymph, anymore.

Alexa and I Do Try

To expand our little dotted line

into a wider circle, or at least a

bigger box, and on Friday

she springs a surprise.

Marshall’s parents are out

of town this weekend. We’re

going to a poker night at his

house. Ten-buck buy-in.

I have a lot to learn about

this girl. “You play poker?”

Uh, yeah. For years. Do you?

If not, I’ll teach you how.

Which makes me smile. Alexa

makes me smile pretty damn

often. “I think I can remember

how, but thanks for your offer.”

She winks.
Anything I can do

to entertain you, my dear.

We Arrive at Eight

I expect a foursome, but there’s

a bigger surprise. In addition to

Holly, Lainie and Vince will be

sharing the table. “What are you?”

I whisper to Alexa. “A sorceress?”

Would a sorceress admit

that’s what she is? Witches

are craftier than that. No,

Lainie and I decided it was time

for you two to get over yourselves.

It doesn’t happen immediately.

We nod a curt greeting and when

we sit at the table,Vince looks

every bit as tense as I feel.

The girls chatter on about nothing,

relatively, as Marshall counts

out chips and we ante up.

They’re going to get creamed.

You have to pay attention when

you play poker, and I do my best

to concentrate. The problem is,

between the beer, which Vince

supplied, and the inane girl talk,

my attention span is pretty darn

short. Not only that, but it’s been

quite a while since I’ve attempted

this game. And if I thought luck

was going to help me out, it was

wishful thinking. I’m the one who

gets creamed, but the weird thing

is, I don’t really care. It’s fun, just

shooting the shit. Eventually, both

Vince and I loosen up, and

when he steps outside for a smoke,

I invite myself along. He lights up,

takes a big drag, and I watch his

exhale disappear into the mist.

“I know I already told you this, but

I apologize for being such a dick.

Not that I’m not still pretty much

a dick, but I’m working on it.”

He inhales slowly.
I’m not totally

guiltless, and that’s something

I can’t shake off. I liked Luke.

I’m sorry as hell about everything.

Strange

Somehow I never considered

he might be clinging to guilt

himself. It just never occurred

to me that any of the people

involved might give half a damn

about my brother. Pretty sure

he’s the only one, though. I ask

about his parents; he says they’re

plugging along. I tell him the news

about mine, and the woman who

has moved into my home, usurping

my mother’s place. I expect surprise,

or at least sympathy. Instead,

he says,
I saw that coming years

ago, dude. Your mom and dad

only shared the same room

when they had to. I can’t believe

they stayed together this long.

He stubs out his cigarette,

goes inside. I hang back

for a second, enveloped by cool

rain-infused air. What else do

other people see that I manage

to close my eyes to?

Holly Winds Up

The evening’s big winner, which

is irritating because she claims

it’s beginner’s luck, and I believe

that. She was totally clueless,

yet fate smiled on her anyway.

She and Marshall surreptitiously

wander down the hall to one bedroom.

Lainie and Vince go off in search

of another. Alexa and I take the sofa,

and I pull her into my lap, tip her

cheek against the hollow of my chest.

“Thank you,” I whisper into her ear.

For what?

“Just everything.” We kiss, and I think:

For trying to repair relationships

I deemed hopeless. For attempting

to soothe my anger, assuage my guilt,

silence my ghosts. For doing your

level best to make me whole again.

Desire floods through me, scorching

and beating wildly, like my heart.

I can feel the flush of Alexa’s

own heat where the V of her jeans

straddles my thighs. She works

at the buttons of my shirt, kisses

the skin she exposes with lips

wet from my own, down my chest

and over my belly. “You’d better

stop, or I won’t be able to.”

Instead, she drops to the floor

on her knees, opens the zipper

of my fly with delicate fingers.

I start to protest, but she pushes

back.
Let me. I want to.

If there’s a paradise, this must be

it—the slow, sure slide of tongue

and mouth, the urgent coax of

spit-slicked hands, the gentle brush

of silken hair, all lifting me up, up.

Faster. Stronger. Higher. No way

to stop, I give myself up to pulse

upon pulse of pleasure. And I almost say . . .

I Love You

Except somewhere

in the hall a door opens,

and we hurry to disguise

the evidence of my

near-nirvana experience.

Vince comes stomping

into the room.
Freaking

girls and their periods.

He takes one look at my

still open shirt, the guilt

implicit in our body

language, not to mention

my satisfied expression.

Oh. Please excuse

the interruption, you lucky

sonofabitch. Carry on.

He grabs a brew, returns

to Lainie, and Alexa curls

up next to me on the couch.

And I’m glad I didn’t spout

those words because I’m still

not sure if I truly love her,

or if I just love
it
.

The Next Morning

I’m still processing. I asked her

for space over the weekend—

well, I blamed it on work and

parental interference, both valid

excuses. I suppose she could have

come out to the range, which is eerily

quiet most of the day, at least until

an obviously inebriated Gus slams

through the door.
G’day, boys!

I’m here. Ain’t that queer? Heh heh.

Get it? Here. Queer. Give this poet

a gun. I think I can shoot straight.

Uncle Jessie isn’t about to let

him handle a weapon.
Now, Gus,

you know you’re in no condition

to be messing with a pistol.

Gus bristles. Yeah, that’s the word.

His blood pressure shoots through

the roof—you can see it in the way

his face turns red.
What you sayin’?

I’m just looking out for you,

buddy. A liquid breakfast isn’t

the right fuel for shooting guns.

What’s up with you, anyway?

Uncle Jessie is good at damage

control. Gus’s face returns to ruddy.

Is jus’ ah’m nervous. Gon’ see

that lawyer Monday about cus’dy.

He’s taking my rent money, but

that’s okay, long as he knows his shit.

Bitch wan’s give my babies a new

daddy, and I ain’t good with that.

Now he breaks down, in that way

drunk people do—a complete

body shudder, followed by

immense, gut-wrenching sobs.

Uncle Jessie gives him a minute,

then goes over, puts his arm

around Gus’s shoulder.
Let’s take

you up to the house for a while.

He Leaves Me

To mind the place while he tries

to help Gus sober up enough to

drive home. It takes several hours,

and when Gus finally gets in his car,

Uncle Jessie comes in, concern

etched on his face.
I’m worried

about Gus. Don’t think I’ve ever

seen a man near so angry with

the world, or quite so unsure

about his legit place in it. I hope

that attorney is good, or that

his ex’s sucks, because any judge

worth his beans is gonna see

Gus is a walking, talking IED.

Not his fault, not at all. Goddamn