Wallbanger (22 page)

“Oh, no, I wasn’t. I was gonna drop this off and pass out on that couch right there,” I said, nodding toward the living room.

“You go relax. Anyone who just had that many balls in their mouth deserves a rest,” he teased, and I flicked his ear.

“I said no more ball jokes! You’ve had your fun, now let me go die in peace.” I shuffled into the living room. I really had made quite a little piggy of myself, but it was seriously good. I reclined and popped open another button on my jeans, relaxing into the cushions and replaying some of the finer points of the evening.

Watching Simon cook was, in a word, hot. He was really at home in a kitchen, his earlier fussing about with the pie aside. Even his salad—simple greens dressed lightly with lemon and olive oil, salt, pepper, and good Parmesan—was easy and perfect.

“Pink Himalayan salt, thank you very much,” he’d said proudly, producing a bag from his pantry. He’d brought it back from one of his many trips and had me taste a little before sprinkling it on the salad. Could have been pretentious, but it fit Simon. The many facets of this guy were astounding. My earliest assumptions about him were proving to be completely wrong. As assumptions tend to be…

I could hear him tending to the dishes, and as much as I probably should have gone to help him, I simply couldn’t remove myself from the couch. I snuggled on my side and looked around his living room again, my eyes drawn back to the tiny bottles of sand from all over the world. I marveled at how traveled he was, and how he seemed to enjoy it still. I gazed at the pictures of the woman in Bora Bora—her dark, beautiful skin and the smooth planes of her body—and thought about how different the three of the women in his harem were. Oops, make that two now that Katie/Spanx was with her new man.

Suddenly I could smell the apple pie and heard the oven door clank shut. I’d put it in his oven as soon as we came over so it would be ready after dinner.

“Don’t you dare try to serve me pie now. I am stuffed, I tell you, stuffed!” I yelled.

“Quiet, it’s just cooling,” he scolded, coming around the corner from the kitchen. “You’re gonna have to scooch over, sister. It’s movie time,” he instructed, pushing me with his big toe as I struggled to sit up straight.

“What is it that we’re watching?”

“
The Exorcist
,” he whispered, turning off the light on the end table and leaving the room quite dark.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I screeched, leaning over him to turn it back on.

“Don’t be a wuss. You’re watching it,” he hissed, turning it back off.

“I’m not a wuss, but there is stupid and not stupid, and stupid is watching a movie like
The Exorcist
with the lights off! That’s just asking for trouble!” I hissed back, turning it back on.

It was starting to look like a disco in here…

“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. Lights off, but—” he shushed me with is finger as he saw me begin to interrupt “—if you get too scared, lights go back on. Deal?”

I was still leaning across him on my way to turn the light back on again when I noticed how close I was to his face. And how I was angled across him like a girl waiting to get a spanking. And I knew he was capable of delivering one…

“Fine,” I huffed as the opening credits came on. I returned to a normal, seated position.

He smiled triumphantly and gave me a thumbs up.

“If you show me that thumb one more time I’ll bite it off,” I growled, pulling an afghan off the back of the couch and curling it protectively around me. One minute into the movie, and I was already spooked.

I was tense from that moment on, and any idea I might have had about girls being ridiculous around guys when they watched scary movies went by the wayside when Regan peed herself at the dinner party.

By the time the priest came for a little visit, I was practically sitting on Simon’s lap, my right hand had a death grip on his thigh, and I was viewing the movie through the holes in the afghan, which I had draped entirely over my head.

“I actually, literally, hate you for making me watch this movie,” I whispered in his ear, which was right in my face as I refused to leave any space between us. I’d even accompanied him to the bathroom earlier when we took a break. He insisted I stay out in the hallway, but I stood just outside the door, eyes glancing around furtively, still with the afghan over my head.

“Do you want me to stop? I don’t want you to have nightmares,” he whispered back, his eyes on the screen.

“Just no banging on the walls for a few nights, please. I won’t be able to take it,” I said, looking at him through one of my eyeholes.

“Have you heard any banging lately?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he did every time he looked at me with the ridiculous afghan on my head.

“No, I haven’t actually. Why is that?” I asked.

He took a breath. “Well, I—” he started, and then the most maniacal scary noises started coming from the TV, and we both jumped.

“Okay, maybe this movie is a little scary. You wanna sit closer?” he asked, pressing pause on the remote.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I cried, launching myself fully into his lap and settling between his thighs. “Do you want some afghan?” I offered, and he laughed.

“No, I can take it like a man. You stay under there, though,” he teased.

I narrowed my eyes at him through the eyeholes and poked one finger through the weave. “Guess which finger this is,” I said, waving it at him.

“Shhh, movie,” he answered, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me back against his chest.

He was warm and strong and powerful, but absolutely no match for terror that was
The Exorcist
. What had we been talking about? Now I couldn’t think about any walls banging except the one Regan was currently banging the shit out of and spraying down with pea soup. We watched the rest of that damn movie wound around each other like pretzels, and he finally succumbed to the false security that an afghan eyehole can provide.

Click. Click. Click.

What the hell was that?

Click. Click. Click.

Oh no.

I lay paralyzed in my bed, every light in my entire apartment blazing.

Click. Click. Click.

I pulled the covers up higher, covering my face up to my eyes, which kept a constant vigil around the bedroom. Brain knew we were safe and secure, but also kept replaying scenes from that terrible, terrible movie, making it impossible to shut off for the night and go to sleep. Nerves had everything on lockdown, blazing a trail of fiery adrenaline throughout my body. I hated Simon with every fiber of my being in that moment. I also wished he was here.

Click. Click. Click.

What
was
that?

Click. Click.

Nothing.

Then Clive leaped on the bed, and I screamed bloody murder. Clive puffed out his tail and hissed at me, wondering why the hell Mommy was screaming at him, I’m sure. The
click-click-click
was his goddamned kitty hangnail.

My phone vibrated an instant later, shaking the entire nightstand and eliciting another scream from me. It was Simon.

“What the hell is wrong? Why are you screaming? Are you okay?” he yelled when I answered, and I could hear him through the phone and through the wall.

“Get your ass over here right now, you motherfucking scary movie pusher,” I seethed and hung up. I pounded on the wall and ran out to unlock the door. In much the same way I’d run up the last few steps of the basement stairs when I was a kid, I hightailed it back into my room, jumping the last few feet and landing in the center of my bed. I wrapped the covers around me and peered out, waiting. He knocked, and I heard the door push open.

“Caroline?” he called.

“Back here,” I yelled. Sad that I’d been reduced to this, but I was glad to see him.

“I brought the pie,” he said with an embarrassed grin. “And this,” he added, producing the afghan from behind his back.

“Thanks.” I smiled at him from behind my pillow shield.

A few minutes later we were settled on my bed, each balancing a plate and a glass of milk. We’d been too full, then too terrified to eat pie earlier. Clive and his phantom hangnail retired to the other room after rolling his eyes at Simon and swishing his tail.

“How old are you?” I asked, cutting into my pie.

“Twenty-eight. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six. We are twenty-eight and twenty-six years old and terrified of a movie,” I mused, poking in a bite. The pie was good.

“I wouldn’t say I’m terrified,” he countered. “Spooked? Yes. But I only came over to stop you from screaming.”

“And to taste my pie,” I added, winking.

“Shut it, you,” he warned, and then he went ahead and tasted my pie.

“Jesus, that’s good,” he breathed, eyes closed as he chewed.

“I know. What is it about apples and homemade pie crust? Is there anything better?”

“If we were eating this naked, then it would be better,” He grinned, opening one eye.

“No one is getting naked here, buddy. Just eat your pie.” I pointed at his plate with my fork.

We chewed.

“I feel better,” I added a few minutes later, drinking my milk.

“Me too. Not too spooked anymore.”

He smiled as I took his plate and set it on the nightstand. I sighed contentedly and lay back against my pillows, sated and less scared.

“So, I gotta ask…James Brown? I mean,
James Brown?”
He laughed, and I kicked him as he lay down next to me. We turned on our sides to face each other, arms curling under the pillows.

“I know, I know. I can’t believe you held it in as long as you did! I know you’ve been dying to make jokes since last night.”

“Seriously, who is this guy?” he asked.

“He’s a new client.”

“Ah, got it,” he said, looking pleased.

“And an old boyfriend,” I added, watching for his reaction.

“I see. New client but old boyfriend—wait, the lawyer?” he asked, trying to keep his expression neutral, but failing.

“Yep. Haven’t seen him in a few years.”

“How’s that gonna work?”

“Don’t know yet. We’ll see.”

I really didn’t know how things were going to go with James. I was glad to see him, but it was going to be tough to keep things professional if he wanted more. And every instinct I had told me he wanted more. In the past he’d had more control over me than I was comfortable relinquishing. I’d found myself sucked into the gravitational pull that was James Brown—lawyer, not Godfather of Soul.

“Anyway, we’re just going to be working together. It’ll be a great job for me. He wants his entire place redone.” I sighed, already planning the palette. I rolled onto my back and stretched. I’d really abused my stomach tonight and was starting to get sleepy.

“I don’t like him,” Simon said suddenly, after a long pause.

I turned and saw him scowling.

“You don’t even know him! How could you possibly not like him?” I laughed.

“I just don’t,” he said, now turning his gaze to mine and unleashing the power of the baby blues.

“Oh, please, you’re just a stinky boy.” I laughed, ruffling his hair. Wrong move. It sure was soft…

“I don’t stink. You said yourself I was April fresh,” he protested, lifting his arm and sniffing.

“Yes, Simon, you smell delicious,” I deadpanned, sniffing the air around me.

He left his arm up higher on the pillow, and I knew if I rolled just a little I could slide right on into the nook. He looked at me, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly. Was he thinking what I was thinking?

Did he want to nook me?

Did I want to nook him?

Oh the hell with it
…

“I’m coming into the nook,” I announced and went full snuggle: head nestled in, left arm over chest, right arm tucked under his pillow. Legs I kept to myself—I wasn’t a total fool.