Tamed (11 page)

It’s
late afternoon by the time we walk back to my bike. I put the folded blanket and camera in the hard-top compartment. And the scent of fresh chili dogs from the sidewalk cart reaches my nose, making my stomach growl. I take out my wallet and ask Dee, “You want one?”

She looks at the hot dog like it’s a loaded gun. “Ah . . . no. I prefer to live past the age of fifty, thanks.”

I order mine with extra chili, then respond, “The sidewalk hot dog
is
New York.” The same could be said for a slice of pizza.

“The sidewalk hot dog is a heart attack in a bun. Do you know how many nitrates are in that?”

“That’s what makes it taste so good. You know, for someone who claims to be all ‘carpe diem,’ you’ve got a lot of hang-ups.”

She caves. “Okay, fine . . .” She tells the vendor, “One please.”

“You want chili?” I ask.

“Sure. Go big or go home, right?”

I smile. “I like the way you think.”

We stand next to my bike eating our dogs. When Dee is done with hers, a dab of sauce lingers on her chin. Instead of telling her, I take care of it with my mouth.

“Mmm . . .” I smack my lips. “Tastes even better on you.”

She laughs. It’s a great sound.

Our last stop of the day is the farmers’ market in Brooklyn. She was limited by what could fit in the Ducati’s pack, but Dee said having me around for the trip was worth the second trek she’d have to make later in the week. I help her carry the groceries into
her apartment, and I’m about to ask her out to dinner when she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me full on the mouth.

Dinner can fucking wait.

I drop the bags on the floor and go right for her ass. Gripping and kneading, her black pants a thin but annoying barrier. Her hands bury in my hair while I lift her and wrap her legs around my waist, giving my rigid cock the contact it craves. I suck on her bottom lip as her hands massage my shoulders, relaxing warmth spreading from her fingertips. I scrape my teeth along her jaw and swing us around, pressing Dee’s back against the refrigerator. She moans as our hips rub and grind.

We’re both panting hard as I nibble on her neck. Then she moans, “Matthew . . . Matthew, I need . . .”

My lips move against her hot skin. “God, me too . . .”

“I’m . . .”

The next thing I know, Dee pulls out of my grasp and shoves me on my ass in her haste to run down the hall. I lay on the floor, breathing heavy, trying to process what the hell just happened—when the unmistakable sound of upchucking emanates from the bathroom.

Bet you weren’t expecting that, huh? Makes two of us.

My stomach rolls as I walk down the hall—the sounds of Dee’s sickness making me really fucking queasy. I brace a hand on the doorframe. “Are you all right?”

She sits in front of the toilet, a tissue covering her lips, her eyes closed.

“Do I sound all right, genius?”

“No.”

She moans . . . in the not-awesome kind of way. “You and your stupid chili dogs. I think they were bad.”

Like any accused man, I launch a defense. “They weren’t bad.
If they were bad, I’d . . .” And I can’t even finish the sentence. Because heat closes in on my face, and my stomach twists around on itself, and I’m diving for the plastic wastepaper basket in the corner.

Which just makes Dee vomit more.

And I think of Lardass and the Barf-o-rama story from
Stand by Me
. And I’d probably laugh at the entire situation, if I didn’t feel so frigging awful.

Eventually, we crawl into the bed and lay next to each other—me stretched out, Dee in the fetal position.

“This is all your fault,” Dee whimpers.

“You’re right. You’re so right.”

“I hate you. No—I don’t mean that, I like you so much. I think I’m dying, Matthew.”

“You’re not dying. But I might be dying.”

Even though we’re naturally stronger than women, it’s common knowledge that men are ten times more affected by illness. Just ask your husband or your boyfriend.

Dee opens the drawer of her nightstand, jostling the bed as she pulls something out.

“What are you doing?” I groan. “Stop moving.” It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever said that to a girl.

“I’m writing a note to Katie to have you fucking arrested for manslaughter if I die . . . and the hot dog man as an accomplice.”

“You’re a cold woman, Delores.”

“Better you learn that now,” Dee says, even as she moves closer to me. I rub soothing circles on her back until she rolls over and takes my hand in hers. And we stay like that until we both fall asleep.

I
t’s amazing how close you can feel to a person after you’ve suffered through the torture of food poisoning together for twenty-four hours. That kind of intimacy can take months—even years—to achieve. I now know Dee’s cum face—and her puke face.

We both call in sick Monday morning, both of us still feeling wrung out. We take separate showers and I borrow a pair of her cousin’s sweatpants. Normally I’d have issues with going commando in another guy’s drawers, but these were clean and folded in the back of Dee’s closet, so the time lapse from the last time Warren wore them makes them okay. Plus, the idea of putting on my clothes from last night feels nasty.

Delores sits next to me on the couch, her Stompeez rabbit–clad feet on the coffee table, wrapped in a fluffy, purple robe that would look light-years from sexy on another girl. But because I know there’s nothing but smooth, bare flesh underneath it—it’s hot.

I flick on the television and we try to agree on a movie to watch. The problem is, Delores has a vagina, which means her taste in movies ranges from awful to nonexistent.

Don’t scowl at me—I’m only stating what every man in the world knows. The reason shitty movies like
The English Patient
and
The King’s Speech
win Academy Awards? Women have chick-boners for Ralph Fiennes and Colin Firth. Sure,
Braveheart
won a bunch of well-deserved awards, but it wasn’t just because it’s the perfect movie. Mel Gibson, anyone? Enough said.

Dee defends a horrible chick flick suggestion. “I like best friend movies—they’re very empowering.
Thelma & Louise,
Beaches,
Steel Magnolias
—that one’s my favorite. I always imagine Kate and me like Ouiser and Clairee when we’re old.”

“What’s a Steel Magnolia? More importantly, what the fuck is an
Ouiser
?”

She looks simultaneously surprised and appalled. “You’ve never seen
Steel Magnolias
? Are you even human? It was one of Julia Roberts’s first movies.”

I throw up one hand as I object. “No—no frigging way am I watching Julia Roberts! Drew went through a whole year of Julia Roberts as a kid and he still hasn’t recovered. To this day,
Pretty Woman
quotes come flying out of his mouth uncontrollably. Not happening.”

“Then what are we going to watch?”

I scroll through the on-demand movies until I spot a winner.

“
Conan the Barbarian
. The greatest love story ever told.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Normally I’d be into Schwarzenegger-flavored eye candy, but I’m not in the mood. Let’s watch
Steel Magnolias
.”

I shake my head. “No. It’ll be two hours of my life I’ll never get back.”

Delores tucks her feet under her and rises to her knees. A sly, persuasive smile slides onto her face, which I’ve come to recognize as a sign she’s in the mood to get busy. She leans over me; I angle my head back to keep eye contact.

“Are you feeling better, Matthew? ’Cause I’m feeling a lot better.”

I do a quick mental rundown of my faculties. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Her smile gets wider—more suggestive. “Then let’s make a bet. Whoever can make the other person come first gets to pick the movie? What do you say?”

It’s clear to me why Delores is such a successful chemist—she has such an amazingly innovative mind.

I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip thoughtfully. “I say this is a bet I’m going to really enjoy winning.”

She tilts back and slowly opens her robe. “Not as much as I’m going to enjoy making you lose.”

It was close. If this were NASCAR, it would’ve been a photo finish—just seconds apart. But . . . Dee was the winner. She got to pick the movie. Although, I wasn’t exactly crying about my defeat. If you gotta lose a bet, that’s the way to do it.

Anyway,
Steel Magnolias
is well under way. And it just reinforces my opinion about women and films, because nothing is fucking happening in this movie. It starts off with a wedding and now it looks like Julia Roberts is going to die. Other than that? Just a bunch of girls talking and getting their hair done and talking
some more
.

Dee sits beside me in rapt attention while the lady from
Smokey and the Bandit
—she’s Julia Roberts’s mother—starts talking to her friends at the cemetery. Dee’s nose is already red and her eyes are watery. I turn back to the film and listen as the woman starts to scream and cry and ask how her grandson will ever know how much his mother loved him.

And out of nowhere I start to think about Mackenzie and—God forbid—if something ever happened to Alexandra, how Mackenzie would feel. Who would tell her, how much she would miss out on. Steven’s a great guy, an awesome father, but a mother—especially a fierce mother like Alexandra—that kind of love is different. More.

Irreplaceable.

And even though Dee’s apartment doesn’t seem dusty, some particles must have gotten in my eyes. I rub them, to get the irritation out.

And I sniff.
Goddamn allergies
.

“Are you crying?” Dee asks me with surprise and laughter in her voice.

Disgustedly, I turn to her. “No, I’m not crying.”

Then I look back at the television screen. Where Julia Roberts’s poor, distraught mother is screaming that she’s fine, when she’s obviously not. And about all the things she’s able to do that her kid never could.

Jesus Christ, this is depressing.

“It’s just so fucking sad!” I blurt out as I gesture to the television. “How can you watch this shit and not want to blow your head off with a twelve-gauge shotgun?”

Dee covers her mouth and laughs into her hands. “The fact that it can make me cry is one of the reasons I love it so much.”

Okay, that? That is like saying I love the table in my parents’
front hall because I’m gonna stub my toe on it every frigging time I walk past barefoot.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes it feels good to cry. It’s cathartic. You’ve never cried over a movie?”

I’m offended that she even feels the need to ask.

I shake my head, but then stop as I remember. “
Rocky Three
. I cried during
Rocky Three,
but that doesn’t count. Anyone who doesn’t get choked up when Mickey dies has no soul.”

She shrugs. “Never seen it.”

“You’re missing out. Have you seen
Predator
?” She shakes her head. “The original
Escape from New York
?” Another negative. “
The Warriors
?”

“Nope.”

Then a thought occurs to me. “Wait, your cousin grew up with you and your mom, right?”

“From the time I was about six years old, yeah.”

“So you had a boy in the house—how is it you’ve never seen any of these classics?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

Dee shrugs. “Billy was happy to watch what I wanted.”

Sure he was. It’s then that I decide to take that poor male role model–deprived bastard under my wing.