We make stupid small talk while I pretend to know what I'm doing. A couple butterfly stitches, loose dressing with tape, and she's patched up well enough. She's like having one of those Operation games.
When I'm done, I kiss my way back up her body, sucking in mouthfuls of pale gold breast and releasing broken capillaries and bruised pink skin. Each bite earns me a moan or curse in that haughty, lovely accent. She's my work-in-progress. My patchwork doll. By the time I reach her mouth for full-on kisses, her hands are running along my shoulders, rubbing into my hair again. We're pseudo-fucking, our hips bumping lazily and her thighs hooked over mine. Her familiar mulled wine scent is spiked with sex and antiseptic.
"You look different," she murmurs. "Seem different. More relaxed."
"I hear sex has that effect on people." I do feel relaxed. Peaceful, even. My efforts have finally come full circle and I'm basking in the glow.
"You know what I mean."
I tuck my palm underneath her and scrunch the cheek of her ass. "So who do you prefer then? Pre-fuck Aeron or post-fuck Aeron?"
Her smudged eyes grow darker. Deeper, if that's even possible. "Is there an option for mid-fuck Aeron? Because I'm all his."
"Huh." I'm panting. Still coming down. "That so?"
She chews her lip. Looks away before turning back to me. "I'm...ah. I'm yours. It's obvious, isn't it? Seems stupid." A nervous laugh escapes her lips. "I don't mean to come on all needy. I know this is just a—a thing—"
"Oh?"
"Don't be mean, Aeron."
I snort. "But it's my default setting."
"No, it isn't." She leans in, brushes a kiss below my ear. Her warm, wet mouth in the cool air makes me shiver. Then she whispers, "I just thought you should know."
Post-coital courtesy confession. I've never seen a meme for that on Facebook. "You want a drink?"
"I'd kill for one."
"Ha." I'm even picking up her mannerisms like some pathetic beta...and I'm too relaxed to give a shit. I heave myself up toward the door. "What can I get you?"
"Just water—and some painkillers from the bathroom, if you can find them. There's beer and pop in the fridge. Help yourself."
"What the hell is pop?"
She comes up on her elbows, jutting nipples first. "Soda. Sorry. I still forget I'm not in England sometimes."
"I like your crazy English words," I find myself muttering, almost more to myself than her. Well, there's my own confession. I won't tell if you don't, sports fans.
On the way back from the kitchen, I grab her old cell from the hall table and bring it in along with her glass of water, a box of ibuprofen and my can of Dr Pepper. Now tucked under the covers, Leo sits up to accept the glass, but when the phone lands in her lap, her brow dips in a flicker of concern.
"Did it go off?" She shuffles along so I can climb into bed beside her.
"Nope." Air rushes out as I crack the can open. I press my body into hers. "If you're going to be mine, we can't have any more secrets. Figured we'd start with the phone you use to contact Rachel."
A strange silence descends, tepid and sticky with truths awaiting escape. Leo pops a couple pills. She doesn't know whether to be annoyed about the Rachel mention or curious about the secrets—I can tell by the way she pretends to scratch her face.
"How did you know that?" she asks quietly.
"Let's call it an educated guess. Put the code in. I want to see."
"Is that what this has all been about?" Her cheeks flush; she looks ready to smack the can out of my hand. "You just wanted the phone? Seriously?"
I roll my eyes.
"I thought you wanted honesty." She's near enough hissing. "So come on out with it."
"You really think that if all I wanted was the damn cell, I wouldn't have just taken it?"
"You need the code," she mutters.
"Oh, come on. I run a fucking news corp. You think my team can't hack a phone?" I pat her on the head, and she scowls, her nose wrinkling. "Question is...what are you hiding on there?"
"Very little, currently. But like you said, you can hack a phone."
"And I was never supposed to know about this one, huh?"
She sighs. "Something like that."
I set the Dr Pepper on her bedside cabinet and lean around to cup her chin. "Sweetheart, I won't be mad."
"You not being mad never seems like a very good indicator of whether or not you're actually mad."
"It's a carefully cultivated facade, and I'm very proud of it."
She bumps her shoulder against mine. "Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face."
That only makes me grin harder. "Put the fucking code in." Then I pout. "Please."
"No," she laughs.
I hold up the old Nokia, my upper lip twitching at the sheer weight of it. "What the hell, anyway? A 3210? Where did you even get this, a fucking museum?"
"It has a lot of sentimental value!"
Impatient, I swipe away her barely touched glass of water and deposit it next to the lamp.
She holds up her hands in mercy. "Okay, okay. Just let me compose myself...sorry. This is all a bit surreal."