Trade Me (17 page)

Mom sighs. “No more cakes on the blog, huh? I told my boss it’s good for us. It brings in business.”

I try to laugh. I really try. It comes out kind of sickly. “No more cakes on the blog.”

I hit the end button. But it’s not over. I can feel Blake’s eyes on me. I can almost feel his pity and it pisses me off.

I don’t look at him. I curl my toes in my shoes and stare at the far wall.

“She’s not stupid,” I say in a low voice. “She remembers every immigration filing deadline for every friend she ever talks to. She doesn’t remember the utility bill because she doesn’t want to.”

“Tina.” Blake is still too close to me. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to look in his eyes. But I do anyway. “I was not going to suggest that a woman who makes cakes celebrating Miranda rights was stupid.”

I let out a shaky laugh.

“How long have you been handling your mother’s bills?”

“Since I can remember. At first it was because I was the only person in the house who wrote and spoke English well enough to understand them. Then I kept doing it because I was the one who did it.” I shrug. “Now… Maria says I’m enabling my mother.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe. But it’s not like she has a drug habit. She’s helping people.
Someone
should enable her.” I don’t look at him. “It’s stupid, but all I want out of life is to be able to put my parents’ bills on my autopay. I don’t want to worry that she’s skipping an insurance premium. But I’m afraid that if I do, my mom will just find new ways to give away money. At least a drug habit is finite—there’s only so much coke you can do in a day. This? There’s no end to it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s so close to me, so close I could lean over an inch and set my head on his shoulder. So close that he could slide his arm around me in comfort. And part of me wants that. I want it so much.

“You have the wrong idea about me,” I tell him. “You told me I’m focused. That I’m responsible. I’m not, really. I don’t know what I’m doing any more than anyone else does. I’m just too terrified to do anything else.”

He doesn’t put his arm around me. He doesn’t touch me. He just looks at me like he wants to.

“Out of curiosity,” he says, “that money I transferred to your account. Have you spent any of it?”

I haven’t wanted to touch any of it. I want to let it build up, a huge sum to ward off any possible danger.

Still, I slowly nod my head.

“On anything extravagant? Anything silly?”

I swallow. “I bought mangoes.”

He smiles a touch sarcastically, and I reach out and give him a little shove. That’s a mistake. It puts my hand in contact with his shoulder. His bare skin is cool to the touch, and I don’t pull away.

“Hey,” I say. “Mangoes are
expensive.”

He doesn’t laugh at me, even though I know that to someone like him—to someone who spends fifteen thousand dollars a
month,
something I can’t even contemplate, mangoes are nothing. Even though I haven’t moved my hand from the point where it rests on his shoulder, and my thumb itches to caress him.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll pay your parents’ utility bill this month.”

I have some idea how little money he must have. I know exactly how much that would cost him.

“But—”

“Hey,” he says. “No arguments. We’re trading lives. I’m taking that on. If you’re terrified, I should be, too. But you have to do something for me in return.”

I still haven’t moved away, and I know I should. Sitting here this close to him, touching him—I’m giving him ideas. I’m giving myself ideas. Fuck, I don’t know what to do with these ideas. I have a sudden urge to slide my hand down his chest, feeling the ridge of every muscle, the whisper of short, light hairs against my fingers. I could undo his jeans. Find out precisely how much of that bulge there is fabric, and how much is
him.

“What?” My throat is hoarse.

“I don’t care,” he says. “Something you wouldn’t normally do. Something risky. Something silly. Go skydiving. Buy a name-brand purse. Do something that terrifies you, something you can’t get out of your mind, that you’ve been holding back on.”

I look at my hand on his shoulder. I’ve never wanted to go skydiving. I’ve never lusted after purses. I’m just getting used to the luxury of the occasional mango. There’s really only one thing I want right now that terrifies me.

“I’m thinking of something.” My throat feels dry. “Something blindingly stupid. Risky. Idiotic.”

“Do you want to do it?”

My mouth goes dry. “Yes.”

“Then go for it,” he says.

For a second, I’m frozen in indecision. It will change everything. It will start a snowball rolling down a mountain, and I’m not sure I’ll escape the avalanche.

Still, I turn to him. I look into his eyes. My hands tremble.

“Okay,” I say, and my voice trembles, too. “Here goes.”

And before I can think better of it, I do the stupidest thing possible: I kiss him.

BLAKE

For a second, I’m too shocked to react.

I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this.

My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders.

My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear.

She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire.

Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders.

She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us.

And there isn’t—not much.

I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really
thinking
about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra.

Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand.

She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone.

If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close.

She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going.

I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like
yes, yes, more now.

And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.

She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch.

She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick.

“You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.”

She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.”

I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?”

She shivers.

“You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.”

She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.

And then she turns away. Before I can say anything else, she’s standing up and pulling her shirt back on.

“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, won’t even look in my direction. She grabs for her coat and checks her watch. “I have to go.”

“Tina.”

“I—I really have to go.” She grabs her keys. Her hands shake as she opens the door. And that’s the point when the blood rushing to my cock stops interfering with the functioning of my mind and I remember how this all started.

I want to do something stupid. Something risky. Something mind-numbingly idiotic.

That’s what she said. And then she kissed me.

5:07 PM

Are we okay?

8:13 PM

Tina?

8:57 PM

Hey.

I’m sure I said something stupid.

I’m sorry.

Just yell at me and I’ll make it right.

ok?

9:22 PM

What are you talking about?

I just remembered I had something to do.

9:25 PM

Bullshit.

10:33 PM

Fine. It’s bullshit.

But I want it to stay *my* bullshit.

Can we do that?

10:34 PM

I don’t know

can we?

10:34 PM

Argh. Be that way.

MAY we.

10:36 PM

I wasn’t correcting your grammar

I just honestly don’t know if that’s possible

11:04 PM

I prefer it when things are simple.

You’re not simple. I freaked out.

11:05 PM

You’re getting to me.

I don’t let people do that.

I’m sorry.

11:12 PM

I’ll take that.

11.

BLAKE

When I walk out of the kitchen at Zhen’s a few minutes after ten on Monday, Tina is sitting at a table waiting for me. Her hands are folded and she’s sitting with perfect posture, like she’s an advertisement for some kind of ergonomic chair.

I stop.

Her eyes dart up to mine and then look away.

I come to stand by her. “Hi, you.”

We haven’t talked—or texted—since our brief exchange on Saturday night. And that’s okay. I can be patient.

I don’t pretend to understand her, but I understand this: Like me, she’s caught. She wants to be responsible. She doesn’t like losing control—even as little as we did together.

And I don’t want her terrified. I want her naked. I want her beneath me. And when she’s there, I want her to be sure.

She looks up at me. Our eyes meet. For a moment, they hold, and the memory of a few days ago, of Tina on top of me, flashes through me. A wave of want washes through me.