“Drunk or sober, you said you’d go. I’ll see you on Thursday at two p.m. sharp.” Hand on the door, Ace calls back. “Stay away from Iverson. He’s bad news.”
“I don’t have any reason to see him,” I reassure Ace.
11
Matty
“Son of a bitch!” The curse words greet me as I open the door to Jack Cameron’s pad. Flash, as we like to call him, offered up a half-full bottle of whiskey when we ran out of booze at our place.
We rock, paper, scissored it and I lost, which is why I ran three houses down to fetch the liquor. The pleasant buzz I’d fostered at the Gas Station is wearing off, and that needs to be remedied as quickly as possible.
Jack said the booze is in a cabinet next to the refrigerator and I make a beeline there.
“Honey, I’m home,” I yell out just in case someone’s having fun in the kitchen. In these houses, you never know. Being an athlete on a team that’s expected to compete for the National title every year carries a lot of stress. Most of us forego heavy drinking during the season, which leaves us few options as an outlet for that pent-up stress. Sex is the easiest, and most fun, way to burn off that mental pressure.
I don’t find anyone making out in the kitchen. Instead I find something better: Lucy Watson, complete with an apron tied around her waist. Her hair is tied up and with the apron on? She looks like a page from the fables my mom read to me when I was a kid. Goldilocks. Unfortunately, Goldilocks has had an accident and if she actually gets the butter out of the wrapper onto her fingers, it’ll only make the burn worse.
My pants get tight as my dick tries to rise up and greet her. Why does she have to have long legs in addition to a nice rack? Why? I tell my traitorous equipment to settle down as I stalk over to the kitchen sink.
She spins around, her lips forming a perfect “O” of surprise. “Matty!—uh, Matt—Matthew,” she sputters, and I try not to laugh. The fact that she went with the nickname first says a lot. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to grab booze.” I twist the faucet. With the cold water on blast, I beckon for Goldie to come closer.
“I thought you were supposed to put butter on burns,” she says warily.
“Old wives’ tale.” I tug her over to the sink and plunge her fingers under the water.
She flinches at the shock of the cold, and I briskly run my fingers over hers in an effort to warm her up a little. Or at least my intention is to be brisk, but the minute I make contact with her, my touch slows down.
Her fingers are slender, elegant. The middle finger has a slight callus as if her pen or pencil has been pressed there one too many times. I rub the tip of my finger over it once and then again. I have my own calluses from lifting, from slapping the tackling dummy a hundred times on the right, and then a hundred times on the left and repeat. My calluses say my hands are my weapons. Her callus shows her skill is with the pen.
She doesn’t make a sound. Not a complaint that the water is too cold or that I’m standing too close to her. Our faces are only inches apart. If I leaned just to my right, I could rub my cheek against hers, like a big cat seeking a scratch behind his ears—among other places.
I try to focus on the water, but I don’t see it. All I can focus on is her hand in mine. All I can hear is how her breathing has changed. How it catches and releases faster than is normal.
I rub her fingers again, slower still. My finger traces the curves between each digit. I fall down the tiny valley and climb up to the tip only to take the same exhilarating trip all over again. The cushion of her palm makes me imagine other tender, plump places on her body.
I turn my head and her eyes lock onto mine. Her lips are parted slightly and she stares at me with disbelief. I can’t believe it either.
“How do you feel?” My voice comes out hoarse. Jesus, I’m rock hard just from touching her fingers. Under cold water.
“Since you’re giving my fingers an ice bath, I don’t actually have feeling in them,” she lies through her teeth and deliberately breaks our connection. Pulling her hand out of mine, she lifts her fingers to inspect the damage.
“Then they aren’t burning,” I say rather unsympathetically because I’m exasperated at how she keeps denying this thing between us. I push her fingers back under the water. I leave her to stand at the sink while I pick up the now cooled cookie sheet.
“I can do that,” she protests as I kneel down and hand sweep the dead cookie remains into a pile.
“I’ve no doubt that you can, but surprise, so can I.” And this way I’m not staring at the way your nipples are poking against the Harry Potter T-shirt you call a nightgown or the fact you have man socks slouched around your ankles. I am, stupidly, bothered by that fact. It looks intimate and wrong—mostly because they aren’t my socks. I bet they’re Ace’s.