Authors: Alice Clayton

Wallbanger (23 page)

BOOK: Wallbanger

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“Well, hello there,” he said, sounding surprised. Then he curled himself around me immediately. I sighed again, wrapped in boy and voodoo.

“What brought this on,
friend?”
he whispered into my hair, and I shivered.

“Delayed reaction to Linda Blair. I need some nook time. Friends can nook, can’t they?”

“Sure, but are
we
friends who can nook?” he asked, tracing circles on my back. Him and his demon finger circles…

“I can handle it. You?” I held my breath.

“I can handle just about anything, but…” he started, and then stopped.

“What? What were you going to say?” I asked, leaning up to look at him. One piece of hair uncurled from my ponytail and fell down between us. Slowly, and with great care, he pushed it back behind my ear.

“Let’s just say that if you were wearing that pink nightie? You’d be in a heap of trouble.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re just friends then, right?” I forced myself to say.

“Friends, yes.”

He stared into my eyes.

I breathed in, he breathed out. We traded actual air.

“Just nook me, Simon,” I said quietly, and he grinned.

“Come on back down here,” he said and coaxed me back to his chest. I slid down, resting where I could hear his heart beat. He folded the afghan over us, and I noticed again how soft it was. It had served me well tonight, this afghan.

“I love this afghan, but I have to say it doesn’t really fit your apartment—the cool-dude motif you have going on,” I mused. It was orange and pea green and very retro. He was silent, and I thought maybe he had fallen asleep.

“It was my mom’s,” he said quietly, and his grip on me became infinitesimally tighter.

There was nothing to say after that.

Simon and I slept together that night, with every light in the entire place on.

Clive and his hangnail stayed away.

Chapter Eleven

I W
OKE
U
P
A F
EW
H
OURS
L
ATER
, startled by the warmth of the body next to me, which was decidedly bigger than the cat usually nestled against my side. I rolled carefully onto my back and away from Simon so I could see him. I could see him just fine as the lamps, along with all my other lights, continued to blaze away into the night, fighting back the evils of that awful movie.

I rubbed my eyes and inspected my bedmate. He lay on his back, arms curled as though I was still in them, and I thought of how good it felt to nook with Simon.

But I shouldn’t be nooking with Simon. Brain knew better. Nerves were in agreement. That was definitely a very, very slippery slope. And though the images of climbing a slippery Simon that immediately came to mind were far from innocent, I pushed them aside. I looked away and noticed the terribly wonderful afghan tangled between his legs—and mine, for that matter.

It had been his mom’s. Heart broke each time I thought of his sweet, timid voice sharing that little nugget with me. He didn’t know I’d talked to Jillian about his past, that I knew his parents were no longer alive. The idea that he still clung to his mother’s afghan was inexorably sweet, and once again my heart broke open.

I was close with my parents. They still lived in the same house where I’d grown up, in a small town in southern California. They were great parents, and I saw them as often as I could, which is to say holidays and an occasional weekend. A typical twenty-something, I enjoyed my independence. But my parents were there when I needed them, always there. The idea that I would someday have to walk this earth without their anchor and misguided guidance made me wince, to say nothing of losing both of them at only eighteen.

I was glad Simon seemed to have good friends and such a powerful advocate as Benjamin watching out for him. But as close as friends and lovers could be, there was something about belonging to someone completely that gave you roots—roots you sometimes needed when the world battled against you.

Simon stirred slightly in his sleep, and I watched him again. He murmured something that I couldn’t quite pick out, but it sounded a little like “meatballs.” I smiled and allowed my fingers to slip into his hair, feeling the soft silk tousled on my pillow.

God, he gave good meatball.

As I stroked his hair, my mind wandered to a place where meatballs flowed endlessly and there was pie for days. I giggled to myself as sleepiness began to return, and I nestled back down into the nook. As I felt the comfort that only warm boy arms could provide, a little alarm went off in my head, warning me not to get too close. I had to be careful.

Clearly we were both divinely attracted to each other, and in another space and time, the sex would have been ringing out across the land and around the clock. But he had his harem, and I had my hiatus, not to mention that I did
not
have my O. So friends we would remain.

Friends who meatball. Friends who nook. Friends who were headed to Tahoe very soon.

I pictured Simon soaking in a hot tub with Lake Tahoe spread out in all its glory behind him. Which sight was actually more glorious remained to be seen. I settled back to sleep, rousing only slightly when Simon snuggled me a little closer.

And even though it was barely above a whisper, I heard it. He sighed my name.

I smiled as I slipped back to sleep.

The next morning I felt a persistent poking at my left shoulder. I brushed it away, but it continued.

“Clive, stop it, you asshole,” I moaned, hiding my head under the covers. I knew he wouldn’t stop until I fed him. Ruled by his stomach, that one. Then I heard a distinctly human laugh—quiet and definitely not Clive.

My eyes sprang open, and the night before came back to me in a rush: the horror, the pie, the nook. I reached backward with my right foot, sliding it along the bed until I felt it stop against something warm and hairy. Although I was now more sure than ever it wasn’t Clive, I poked with my toe, inching my way higher until I heard another chuckle.

“Wallbanger?” I whispered, not wanting to flip over. True to form, I was spread-eagled diagonally across the entire bed, head on one side, feet practically on the other.

“The one and only,” a delicious voice whispered in my ear.

My toes and Lower Caroline curled. “Shit.” I rolled onto my back to take in the damage. He was huddled in the one corner my body had allowed him. My bed-sharing habits had not improved at all.

“You sure can fill a bed,” he noted, smiling at me from under the little bit of afghan I’d left him. “If we’re going to do this again there’ll have to be some ground rules.”

“This won’t be happening again. This was in response to a terrible movie you inflicted on both of us. No more nooking,” I stated firmly, wondering how dreadful my morning breath was. I cupped my hand in front of my face, breathed, and gave a quick sniff.

“Roses?” he asked.

“Obviously.” I smirked.

I looked at him, exquisitely rumpled and in my bed. He smiled that smile, and I sighed. I allowed myself a moment to indulge in a fantasy where I was then quickly flipped and ravaged to within an inch of my life, but I wisely got control of my inner whore.

“What if you get scared tonight?” he asked as I sat up and stretched.

“I won’t,” I threw back over my shoulder.

“What if I get scared?”

“Grow up, pretty boy. Let’s make coffee, and then I have to get to work.” I whacked him with my pillow.

He slid out from under the afghan, taking care to fold it, and carried it with him into the kitchen where he set it gently on the table. I smiled, thinking of him saying my name in the night. What I wouldn’t give to know what was running through his mind.

We moved about the kitchen with quiet economy, grinding beans, measuring coffee, pouring water. I put the sugar and cream on the counter while he peeled and sliced a banana. I poured granola, he milked and banana-ed the bowls for us. Within a few minutes we were seated next to each other on barstools, eating breakfast as though we’d been doing so for years. Our simple ease intrigued me. And worried me.

“Plans for the day?” I asked, digging into my bowl.

“I need to stop by the
Chronicle
office.”

“Are you working on something for the paper?” I asked, surprised at the level of interest even I could hear in my voice. Would he be in town for a while? Why did I care? Oh boy.

“I’m spending a few days on a piece about quick getaways in the Bay Area—weekend drives kind of thing,” he answered through a mouthful of banana.

“When are you going to do that?” I asked, examining the raisins in my bowl and trying not to look too interested in his answer.

“Next week. I leave on Tuesday,” he replied and my stomach was instantly queasy. Next week we were supposed to go to Tahoe. Why the hell did my stomach care so much that he wouldn’t be going?

“I see,” I added, again fascinated by the raisins.

“But I’ll be back before Tahoe. I was planning on just driving straight there when I finish my shoot,” he said, looking at me over the rim of his coffee mug.

“Oh, well, that’s good,” I answered quietly, my stomach now bouncing all around.

“When are you headed up, anyway?” he asked, seeming to now be studying his own bowl.

“The girls are driving up with Neil and Ryan on Thursday, but I have to stay in the city to work until at least noon on Friday. I’m gonna rent a car and drive up that afternoon.”

“Don’t rent a car. I’ll swing through to pick you up,” he offered, and I nodded without a word.

That settled, we finished our breakfast and watched Clive chase a stray piece of fluff around the table over and over again. We didn’t talk much, but whenever we met each other’s eyes, we both grinned.