Читать книгу Stir Me Up - Sabrina Elkins - Страница 9

Chapter Five

While the patient continues to be alternately silent and surly, we spend the entire rest of the trip making complicated plans for how integrating Julian into our lives, when he comes to live with us this winter, will work. Namely, which items of mine will stay downstairs in my closet and bathroom and which things will be moved elsewhere.

Years ago, Dad had the upstairs of our house remodeled to be a giant master suite. There’s an office and bathroom off the master bedroom for my father, and an alcove office and bathroom down a short hallway that’s now Estella’s. Her little alcove, my new room, has a tiny closet, a low sloped ceiling, a sliver of window, half a wall and, as I’d pointed out to her in the coffee shop, no door. Before he remarried, Dad used to use this useless little space to keep leftover chairs and boxes of paperwork. It’s way too small to hold all my stuff, so my things will be kept partly in my old room, particularly in half of the closet and most of the bathroom cabinets.

Once we’ve finalized the details of moving me out, Estella’s next fixation is how to redo the room so that her rude and recovering nephew is most comfortable. Estella used to be in banking in New York before she got married and she’s finding, I think, the housewife thing to be a bit dreary, so the idea of having her boy living at home with her seems to have given her some sense of purpose. Dad and I are always at school or work—at least Julian will be there to keep her company. As long as he doesn’t go back to biting her head off, it should be nice for her.

Guess who’s moving in once he’s well. Into my room. I text Taryn from the airport.

HOW COZY, she texts back. I THOUGHT HE WAS JUST A NEPHEW.

He’s more like a son to Estella. She raised him. Now she’s planning to give him my room b/c it’s downstairs.

WHERE DO YOU GO? THE BASEMENT?

Close. The upstairs landing.

UNREAL. BTW, I’M AT THE WORST DANCE EVER. NO ONE IS HERE!

Hey, at least it has the potential to be fun—which is more than I’ve got. We make it back to Hartford in what I would tentatively call good spirits. It’s a Tuesday night and Étoile is closed, so Dad meets us at the airport. Estella pours the whole plan out on Dad’s lap as soon as we get in the car.

“Are you sure this is all right with you, Chris?” she asks. “Having Julian live with us?”

“Of course,” Dad says. “It’s no problem.” Estella smiles—but Dad’s return smile to her seems a little fake to me. This is just a guess, but I suspect Dad secretly isn’t any more thrilled about Julian moving in than I am.

He certainly doesn’t seem to be paying very close attention to the details of what Estella’s telling him.

“Are you listening?” she asks at one point.

“Yes, of course,” he repeats.

She gazes at him and touches his arm, his knee. I’m kind of wishing she’d shut up and let the man drive. I’m carsick. I have a headache from hearing it all twice now. As soon as we come to a stop in the driveway, I jump out of the car. Home Sweet Home. Happy Happy. I’m off to what thankfully is still my room for at least a few months longer when I hear Dad call me.

“Cami?”

“Yeah?”

“Go ahead and sleep in tomorrow. I have to go to Boston and the restaurant can live without you. Take a day off.”

“But it’s my soup night.”

“I’ll give you Thursday. This once.”

I thank him, say good-night and head for my room just as they start for theirs. Wow...I just got bumped up to a Thursday, and Dad and Estella are going to their room already. They must really want to be alone tonight. Thank heaven for newlyweds. After petting Shelby for a little while, I call Luke and he answers on the first ring. “I’m on my way,” he says without preamble. I haven’t told Luke this yet, but I’ve been thinking about it and my plan is to stay later than six, like maybe seven or eight. I think that should probably be safe enough, and it’ll make Luke happy and still keep my absence from being discovered.

Why take the chance on the later time? Because I miss him. Because I’ve had a shitty week and want to feel loved and adored by him. Not sex yet, but more. Maybe more.

I own one black lacy thong and bombshell of a bra—if a 32B can ever be a bombshell—and I’ve never worn either of them. Until tonight. I change into the fancy underwear, put my jeans and top back on and then slip back down the hallway to check on Estella and Dad. They’re in their room with the door shut. Good. Sometimes I think maybe I should leave a little note, like on my pillow so if they do ever find me gone at least they won’t worry I’m off doing something worse. But I guess because Dad’s respected my privacy for so long, I really don’t think he’d ever come into my room. Estella’s actually the more dangerous one—who knows what she’ll do. Anyway, I offer up a silent prayer to the sneaking-out-on-your-parents gods and slip out the window.

Luke’s waiting in his truck not twenty feet from the house, headlights off. I head on over and he reaches to open the door for me. “Welcome back,” he says once I’m in. “How was your flight?”

“Fine.” I’m feeling shy all of a sudden. Like I’ve been gone for a month. And I’m also nervous about the underwear. Third base, yes. Home run, no. Will that work? I mean, I know where third begins, but where exactly does it end? Luke drives over to his place and we go to his room. “Is that guy doing any better?”

“I don’t know. I guess.” I tell him about the surgery and Estella’s big plan for Julian to move in the house with us once he’s well.

“It doesn’t sound fair that you have to give up your room.”

He seems really concerned for me. Glad someone is. “I know. It sucks. But he needs to be downstairs. So...”

Luke strokes my arm. “So...”

I kiss him, wrap my arm around his neck. “I missed you.”

He kisses me back for a long time. “I missed you, too,” he says, catching his breath. “Beauty girl.”

I wrap myself around him, and he lifts me onto the bed. Normally Luke opens the blinds just so he can see me a little. But now the room is pitch-dark. And there’s something exciting about him like this, in the blackness, about things happening to me that I can’t see, can’t anticipate. His lips never leave me, his hands fumble with my clothes. He finds my sexy bra and opens the shade to let in some light. “Oh, man.”

I smile, unbutton my jeans and lower them a little, so he can see just the top of the thong. His eyes get wide.

“Not all the way.”

He nods.

“Can we do that? Do more, but no sex?”

“Yes. Definitely. Don’t worry,” he says, and he’s all over me. My jeans hit the floor. I’m shaking and he’s kissing me, caressing me. It’s great, but then he reaches inside the thong, and I start to get nervous.

“Trust me,” he whispers.

I do trust him. Basically. We’d visited third that one night before I left, but not like this. He strokes me and presses his thumb against me and eventually all the pleasure and fear and new sensations just get too intense.

“Stop, Luke,” I whisper.

“Cami, please.” He grimaces.

“I’m sorry. I just feel scared.”

“Why? Don’t be...”

“We’re going farther,” I say, stroking his face.

“Not by much,” he grouses.

Eventually, I cuddle in against him and we fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning, I’m awake before he is. He’s only in boxers. This is new also. I mean, me being naked except for a thong is definitely new, but I was so preoccupied with what was happening to me last night, I didn’t really realize what was going on with him so much—that he’d undressed. I was too scared to touch him last night. But now, with him asleep and unaware, I figure I can do some quiet exploring.

He feels nice. Surprisingly so. I don’t know what horrors I was expecting, but this doesn’t seem so bad. There’s something kind of tender about touching him like this. His eyes open. They seem wide and warm to me. He doesn’t speak or move, like he’s afraid he might spook me. I stroke him a little and his eyes close and he covers my hand with his own, to show me what to do. He looks so cute, so focused on this. I lean over and bite his ear. The effect is strong; I knew it would be. He pulls me in, intent now on the instruction. He whispers things to me, like harder and faster. I’m not sure I want to keep with it, I think I’d stop, but he’s fixed on this, working my hand and it’s too late to stop. My chest hurts and feels kind of heavy. He starts whimpering, grips me hard, and then lets loose.

His breathing is jagged after. His mouth is different when he kisses me, softer, wetter. I just don’t think I was ready. I wasn’t ready. And even though I really care about him, part of me suddenly feels a little sleazy—and very delicate. Like maybe I’d cry if he said the wrong thing. But he doesn’t. He does all the right things, drying my hand with a bath towel and being extra sweet to me. He touches my face and kisses the freckles, which are mostly across my nose, but some do stray up to my forehead. Eventually we make it out of the room.

“Morning, Cami,” his mother says from the kitchen.

“Morning.” Luke’s mom knows I stay the night, but usually I’m gone before she wakes up. Running into her like this is embarrassing, particularly after what her son and I have been up to this morning. But Luke doesn’t seem to notice or mind his mom being there. He’s holding my hand. The other hand.

“I’m taking Cami home, Mom,” he says, and ushers me to his truck.

I stare out the window.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I’m better than fine,” he says with a smile, and kisses me goodbye. I climb through my window, change my clothes and crawl into bed. I was the one who unbuttoned my jeans in the first place. I asked for it. Plus, it’s no problem. It was just my hand. We’ve been dating a long time. Sneaking out to see each other at night. Is it selfish of me to have liked the part where he was caressing and touching me more than the part where I was touching him? I guess he has a right to have what he wants, too. I mean, what was he supposed to do, stop and have a discussion with me about it? Hey baby, I’m going to have you give me a hand job now. You okay with that? Hmm...maybe. But there’s no stopping him from wanting it now. Which is fine. Yeah, of course it’s fine. I want to please and satisfy him. It was nice—kind of tender, in an intimate, erotic way.

* * *

As it turns out, third is a place Luke and I can both manage to be at for the rest of the summer. He’s happy because he’s more satisfied, and so am I—once I get more comfortable with everything. It works. At least for us it does.

Meanwhile, too soon the first day of school appears, sprouting up like a zit just after Labor Day. The only good thing I can see about my senior year is that because of a cleverly-arranged work-study program, I’ll be able to leave each day at 12:05. I guess I’ll also be glad to see all my friends. Although I work constantly in a place where almost no one’s my age, I do have friends. They’re all just linked to my best friend, Taryn. And because she’s flying in from L.A. at the very last moment possible, I don’t get to see her until twenty minutes before first period.

I wait for her big return into my life at the same place I always wait—the lunch table near our lockers in front of C Building.

“CAMI!” she cries, rushing up to me. She looks fantastic, even thinner than usual. Taryn always reminds me a tiny bit of the Mademoiselle doll I had as a kid. She has the same long black hair, pretty round face and thin legs. She even has the same wardrobe—cool hats, vests and shoes.

“Hey! Welcome home! You look fantastic.”

“Thanks,” she says, blinking her eyes and posing for invisible cameras. “I’d say it’s great to be here. But it really sucks.” She grins and her eyes shift to my left. “Derek! You grew facial hair!”

“Sure did.” He strokes his upper lip, clearly pleased. “Hey, Camster.”

Derek, like all of Taryn’s friends except me, is a theater geek. “Hey. Nice mustache.”

“TARYN!” more theater friends cry. Taryn’s the prettiest, best-dressed and most talented actor we have at school by far, and now she’s a senior, so this should be her year. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.

“Look, I have to run,” I say. “I’m in A Building.”

“Okay, see you babe!”

I don’t understand why teachers feel they must first hand you a printed syllabus and then go over the thing in detail out loud as well. Do they think we, as seniors, don’t know how to read? Anyway, I spend the next four hours listening to what’s right in front of me, secretly texting Taryn how much it sucks to be back, and wishing I was someplace—just about anyplace—else. Then at noon, a miracle—I’m done for the day.

LUNCH? SAME TABLE? Taryn texts.

Unlike me, Taryn does have fifth and sixth-period classes, so she has to stick around. I could hang out awhile with her anyway even though I don’t have to, but really I just want to leave campus and she has all that catching up to do with her theater friends. Our lunch table will be swamped for the next few weeks at least. Can’t. I’m meeting Luke, I text back. I head to my locker to stash my books. No homework yet, thank God.

FOR A QUICKIE?

I roll my eyes. NO!! I text her.

NO QUICKIE?? TELL ME IT’S NOT JUST FOR FOOD ;)

Are you done yet? Come over! Luke texts me.

On my way, I text back and head to his house.

Luke transferred to my high school as a senior last year—he was the hot transfer student in need of a job, preferably as a chef, and I’m the daughter of the guy who owns Étoile. When Taryn heard Luke needed work, and then caught him staring at me at lunch one day, she arranged for us to run into each other—literally. I helped him get the job, he took me out for ice cream to thank me, and we’ve been together ever since.

“Hey, how was school?” he asks. Tight T-shirt. I approve.

“Just like last year, only I’m done at noon and you weren’t there.”

He smiles. “Are you hungry? I made yogurt.”

“From scratch?”

“Yep.”

Luke’s new to professional cooking, but not new to the kitchen. He’s always loved to cook, wants to be a career chef, and loves to come up with little surprises like this for me. “What flavor is it?” I ask.

“Strawberry.”

He takes a container from the fridge and hands it to me with a spoon. “Mmm...” I say. “This is great. Thanks.”

“Sure.” He turns me around so I’m facing the kitchen counter and my back is to him.

“What are we doing?”

“Nothing. Eat your yogurt.”

“I don’t mind if I do. How was your morning?”

“Dull.” Suddenly, Luke comes up behind me and reaches up my skirt. Just like that. No kissing and caressing first. He just goes for it. And maybe because it was so unexpected, because it’s in the kitchen in the middle of the day and while I’m eating lunch, it doesn’t work for me. I start wondering if maybe something’s wrong with me. And the worry only makes it worse. Now I’m not eating the yogurt, I’m leaning against him and hoping he’ll either get better at doing this in a hurry, or else leave me alone and let me finish my food. “You’re awfully quiet,” he says. “You want me to stop?”

“Um...” He pulls his hand away and presses up against me. Yeah, the kitchen in broad daylight just isn’t working for me at all. “Can we go to your room?”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Kind of. It’s weird for me in here.”

“I thought you’d like down-and-dirty in the kitchen.”

“No,” I say. “I think I prefer sweet-and-tender in the bedroom.”

He picks me up off my feet.

“Wait!” I cry.

“What?”

“My yogurt!”

He rolls his eyes and grabs it for me.

A few hours later, he’s across the worktable from me at Étoile, stuffing cubes of fresh ginger into a duck carcass. “Watch where you stick your hand, there.”

At first Luke thinks I’m correcting him. Then he realizes I’m making a joke about his hand being up a duck’s ass, and he grins.

I watch him truss up the thing and go back over to his station. Sometimes, when he has to prep something, he’ll work near me, but usually no. And he doesn’t sit near me during the staff meal. He sits with the hot-line guys. I sit with the prep cooks. It’s like the French restaurant version of our high school lunchroom. And the principal, in this case, my father, is currently on his way to my table.

“How was school?” Dad asks.

“Fine.”

“What are your classes again?”

“English lit, statistics, human anatomy and U.S. government, which switches to economics in January. Can I have Saturday night off to sleep over at Taryn’s?”

“You’re already on the schedule.”

“But I haven’t seen her all summer.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” he says. Which means no.