Shark Bait (The Grab Your Pole Series) (30 page)

I followed him to the stairs. “Every Friday?”

“Yeah. When they got together in high school they made it a rule that no matter what, they would spend Friday nights together…and they have, even when they’re working. It’s kinda cool actually,” Tristan explained and then pushed open the door to his room.

Oooh! The Inner Sanctum!

We walked in and after we set the bags down, Tristan turned to hand me the black kitten. “Here, you take this and I’ll go get the rest of the stuff.” Then he kissed me on the head and walked out, closing the door behind him.

The first thing that struck me about his bedroom was not the size, although it is pretty humongous. It was the large picture window presenting a view of the valley below that commanded my attention, and by default, his bed, which was pushed up against the window, as if the window was serving as a headboard. The room was also fairly tidy but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it spic-and-span clean; leaving out the few stray candy bar wrappers on the floor that hadn’t quite found their way into the trash can, I’d say Tristan’s room was more of an organized mess. Additionally I noticed that he has a sliding glass door and a big deck with stairs leading to what I assume is the backyard.

It was when I turned around to look at the rest of his room, however, that my eyes probably could’ve used some help back into my skull. On the wall next to the door we’d entered through was a huge floor-to-ceiling bulletin/whiteboard combo and hanging from a thumbtack on the bulletin board amongst pictures and other various sorts of memorabilia was my bra. It’d been washed but it still had a good many blotches of pink on it. If that wasn’t shocking enough, the dialogue written over the last two weeks on the whiteboard pertaining to said bra certainly was. I’ll include the copy just so you can truly appreciate what I’m dealing with here.

Tristan’s Mom:
What’s this?

Tristan:
A size 34B lace covered slingshot.

Jeff:
Nice!

Tristan’s Mom:
Do I want to know?

Tristan:
I don’t know, do you?

Tristan’s Mom:
Not really. Are you planning on returning it or did you win some kind of prize?

Tristan:
I plead the fifth.

Tristan’s Dad:
Well done son.

Jeff:
Ditto!

Tristan’s Mom:
Don’t encourage him.

Tristan:
Gee, thanks Mom.

Tristan’s Dad:
Can’t a father be proud of his only child?

Tristan’s Mom:
He doesn’t need your help…obviously.

Tristan’s Dad:
That’s because he takes after me.

Tristan:
Was there anything else I can do for you two?

Tristan’s Mom: T
ell her I tried to get the stains out, but I’m afraid they set in before I got to it.

Tristan:
I’m sure she’ll appreciate your effort, but if I’m any judge (and I’d like to think I am) its size has caused it to become obsolete and she needs to trade up.

Jeff:
I’m so proud.

Tristan:
Thanks man.

Tristan’s Mom:
A name would be nice you know.

Tristan:
Camie.

Tristan’s Mom:
Do we get to meet her?

Tristan:
Sure. I’ll have my people call your people and set it up.

Tristan’s Mom:
I don’t know why I bother. Do you want anything from the store?

Tristan:
Yeah, Camie’s sleeping over tonight and I promised her bacon and eggs for breakfast. Jeff’s got the eggs covered but could you pick up some bacon for us and maybe a box of Twinkies for the bus? Thanks, you’re the best.

Jeff:
I have the eggs covered?

Tristan’s Dad:
He gets his sense of humor from you.

Tristan’s Mom:
Flattery will get you everywhere. How would you like your eggs prepared dear?

Okay, so how the hell am I supposed to respond to this? This has been a running conversation for two freaking weeks!
And
no one seems to think there’s anything odd about the fact that some random girl’s bra is hanging on the wall! Oh! Not to mention “Dear Jeff’s” involvement… I’m at a loss. Honestly, I think it’s time for me to just throw in the towel and join the Dark Side because it’s glaringly obvious I don’t stand a chance. I feel like I’m being assimilated by The Borg in
Star Trek
. And no, I never did figure out what Pete said but after having it in my head, I couldn’t help watching an episode of
Star Trek:
The Next Generation
on Netflix…

Anyhow, shifting the kittens and holding them in one hand, I added my own message to the outrageously politically incorrect whiteboard that said:

Me:
If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I prefer mine sunny-side up. Thanks Mrs. D., you’re the best.
(I know his mom was being sarcastic about the whole thing, but I just couldn’t resist.)

A little ways away from that somewhat disturbing to my equanimity dialogue is another, except this one has nothing to do with me or my underwear. I think it’s funny, though, so I’ll share… Hanging on another thumbtack is a Ziploc bag with what I can only assume is marijuana inside and here’s what has been said regarding it:

Tristan’s Mom:
What’s this?

Tristan:
Oregano.

Tristan’s Mom:
Clearly.

Tristan:
I swear, I’m only holding it for a friend.

Tristan’s Dad:
I didn’t know that Jeff is Italian.

Jeff:
I bake too.

Tristan’s Dad:
In the immortal words of Bill Clinton, “I never inhaled.”

Jeff:
Nice!

Tristan:
Hey Mom, can you pick up some brownie mix with the bacon and Twinkies? Thanks, you’re the best.

Tristan’s Mom:
Just clean up your mess in the kitchen and don’t drive.

I know he said he doesn’t have many rules, but Tristan’s parents put my parents’ cool factor to shame, don’t you think?

After reading and making my contribution to what I’m going to call “The Wall of Infamy,” I wandered over and plopped down on the foot of the bed, setting the kittens next to me. Tristan came back in with all the rest of the supplies and then we got down to the business of setting up their stuff. The first thing was to introduce them to the litter box, which Tristan had wisely put in his bathroom. Then we fed them. Seeing as how the kittens were frantic over the food, I’m thinking that maybe they were closer to starving than I’d thought before. Either that or they’re closely related to voracious Compy dinosaurs.

“So what do you wanna name ‘em?” Tristan asked while he put together a small climbing apparatus.

“Well, I’ve been giving that some serious thought and I think the black and white one (It has four white paws, a small white patch on its chest and white whiskers…other than that, it’s all black.) should be Phineas an—”

“Lemme guess, the black one would be Nigellus,” he interrupted, referring to a character from Harry Potter who had the last name of Black.

I ripped open a package of little catnip filled mice. “Um, no, but that’s pretty good too. I was thinking Ferb.”

“From the cartoon?” He asked with a sarcastic smile. Even though Phineas and Ferb is a kid show, I think it’s pretty witty and fun. Plus it has a really catchy theme song that always gets stuck in my head if I’m not careful.

“Yeah, I like it. Do you wanna tease me about that now or wait until later?” I’m pretty positive that if he doesn’t tease me now, it’ll go in his arsenal for a later time.

“No, I’ll wait. But um, Camie…I think these are girl kittens.” No wonder they purr so much around him.

“So? I don’t think they’ll mind too much. After all, this is something I have a little experience with you know,” I said, scratching behind the kittens’ ears as they plowed through their food and getting a good laugh out of Tristan.

“Okay, kitty condo is built. Did you get their toys unwrapped?”

“Yep, all done.” I waved a wand with a feather and a bell attached to it as proof that I hadn’t been slacking on my assigned parental duty.

After they ate their fill, we played with them on the floor until one by one, they passed out. Tristan glanced at the alarm clock by his bed and said, “Okay, we’ve got a little over an hour before you have to be home…unless of course you wanna change your mind about sleeping over.”

I looked at the teasing yet hopeful grin on his face. “Oh, why not…seeing as how I already put my order in for room service.”

“What?” He asked, not having noticed my addition to the board.

I stood up, walked over to it and pointed. “Tristan, this whole thing is about as normal as my twelve year old sister knowing how to disassemble and reassemble weaponry.”

He got up and came over to read what I wrote and then started cracking up. When he finished laughing, he instigated tonight’s third heat of the new Olympic game that’s sweeping the nation—“Teenage Pairs Smooching.” In this round of the event however, a small costume adjustment resulted in a new technical element being introduced to our routine. I don’t know how I managed to stay standing for as long as I did, but maybe Tristan was supporting my weight or something because this kiss totally put the extreme in my analogy of kissing him being an extreme sport. It also made my legs feel like they were made of Jell-O. I think he might’ve realized that too because he moved backwards towards the bed, taking me with him. Although, it was completely my fault that we both ended up without shirts before he pulled me down on top of him on the bed.

I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m going to blame the over-active and under-used hormones that are running rampant right now because it almost seems like I’m trying to make up for lost time or something. Oh and Tristan is no longer concerned with spooking me nor is he content with keeping his hands occupied with my back and hair. I found that out immediately and in a variety of ways, but that’s also when he discovered that I’d held up my end of the “Black Thong Bargain”—that kind of sounds like a
60 Minutes
exposé, doesn’t it?

I didn’t even give it a second thought when his hands slipped under the soft waistband of my pants, but I certainly noticed when he hooked his thumbs and index fingers under each side of the satin encased elastic of my surprisingly comfy undergarment, raised it, and then let it snap sharply back into place.

“Ow!” I yelped and looked at him in consternation. It mostly took me by surprise but it honestly did sting a bit too.

He lifted his eyebrows once quickly and had
the
most wicked grin on his face when he asked, “Black?”

“What do you think?” I retorted and noticed his eyes.

They were such a beautiful, deep-dark blue that I could honestly drown in them and not care one bit that I’d died. Seriously, I’m glad it’s customary to kiss with your eyes closed because if I had to see his face during all of this, I’m pretty positive I wouldn’t have stopped at just getting rid of our shirts.

This is what’s going through my mind when Tristan asked, “Can I see it?”

O. M. G.

Immediately, a little angel and a little devil popped into my head and started arguing, but the angel won and so chuckling to myself I said, “No.”

“Why not?” He’s now playing with the elastic like he’s about to snap it again.

“For starters because I only said I’d wear it, not that you’d get to see it. Secondly, you didn’t say please. And lastly, I swear if you snap the freaking elastic one more time, I’m outta here…so don’t push your luck, just be happy with what you’ve got.”

Instantly, I felt him gently lower the bands and then pat them in place. His hands are still under my pants and on my bare butt though…

“Okey dokey, I can do that,” he said with another sinful smile.

Then Tristan flipped me onto my back, reached over me to set his alarm clock and then proceeded to be thoroughly happy—or maybe a better word would be ecstatic—with what he had.

At one point however, I had to remind him of his boundaries when his hands made their way to the clasp of my bra. It’s new, it matches the thong, and I’d kind of like to wear it more than once before it ends up hanging on a thumbtack. It was a lot easier to do than I thought it’d be too…all I had to do was mumble a very distracted “mm-mm.” He relented but growled at me a little in the process. I don’t know why it mattered so much though…seriously; it’s not like a thin layer of satin serves as an effective barrier.

Honestly, where does the time go? I have to wonder about that because about thirty minutes later, Tristan’s alarm clock started blaring. He blindly reached for it and hit the snooze button—which I’m now re-naming the “you may continue button”—giving us approximately nine more minutes to engage in what has come to remind me of as a full-body contact sport. When the alarm went off the second time, though, it was accompanied by both his phone alarm and mine, which means the party’s over for realsies this time. He rolled onto his back, covered his head with a pillow and muttered his frustrated complaints into it. I think he said something about f-ing daylight savings time and that all curfews should be banned among other things.

With the absence of his body heat to keep me warm, I shivered when the air hit my damp skin. I say damp because it got a little warm and I was perspiring. Okay fine, that’s a lie. If you must know, his mouth has been doing laps over almost every inch of my bare skin like a member of NASCAR. Anyhow, that’s when I realized it would be a good time to locate my shirt and put it back on. The only problem was…I couldn’t find it.

“Are you freaking kidding me with this?” I grumbled, scanning the floor. I mean really, am I destined to have some kind of clothing mishap every time I’m around him?

I was hanging over the side of the bed thinking that maybe my shirt had found its way underneath when all of a sudden; I felt Tristan’s warm breath on the small of my back, just seconds before he softly kissed the base of my spine right above where a strip of black satin was peeking out from the waist of my pants. The goose bumps I already had turned into hills as a tingling shot of heat went streaking through me.