Silas
I’m hardly ever lostfor words, but Nakamura calling me her lover does it.
I’m not. Obviously. Since she moved here I think she’s said five entire sentences to me, at least four of them under duress, because she’s an uptight ice queen who can barely give me the time of day. Her fingers digging into my shoulder like claws is the most we’ve ever touched, and I can’t say I’m a fan.
I open my mouth to ask her what the hell she’s talking about, but Meckler gets there first.
“Lover?” he asks, all disdain, his mouth twitching down in a snarl. He can’t look me in the face. “Flynn?”
Nakamura laughs, tossing her hair back, hand tightening on my shoulder. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“You know what I mean,” she says, still squeezing. Jesus, her hand’s like a vice. “What’s the word I’m looking for, babe?”
She turns her head and looks at me, face hard as stone behind her glasses. She puts me in mind of animatronics, jerky movements with no grace and no soul. I want to ask what the fuck she’s talking about, except there’s one problem: this is clearly pissing off Meckler, and anything that pisses Meckler off can’t be all bad.
So I hesitate, and she looks up at me. Her face is stone except for her eyes, wide and dark and… pleading?
Fuck. Fuck.
“Boyfriend?” I ask, and pluck her hand from my shoulder, putting a smile back on my face. She laughs again, the sound still not quite right.
“That’s it,” she says. “Don’t you ever forget a word in the middle of your…”
I drape her fingers over mine, fold my thumb against them, brush my lips along her cold knuckles. Nakamura’s cheeks are faintly pink under the gold of her skin, her lips red, strands of black hair stuck to her throat.
“Sentence?” I supply. I turn to Meckler, shit-eating grin on my face, Nakamura’s hand still in mine. “I know. I can’t believe it either, but here we are. I’m a lucky son of a bitch, huh?”
“Babe,” she says, squeezing my hand too hard. “Haha, stop it!”
“Why? I can’t say how lucky I am to be your lover?” I ask, and in the corner of my vision Meckler’s face goes from dark to darker.
Nakamura gives a huge, dramatic eye roll. Her hand in mine is sweaty. She sounds a little strange, like she’s out of breath. I’ve got no idea what’s going on but here I am, in the middle, between a high-strung Nakamura and a furious Meckler, holding her hand and calling her my lover where dozens of people can see us.
It feels like careening downhill toward a blind curve on a motorcycle that might fall apart under me at any moment, gaining speed and bumping over rocks, wild and reckless and… not bad.
“Glad you feel that way,” Meckler says. His hands are in his pockets but he’s puffed up, chin high, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ready to fight. “Lucky. Sure. Look, I’ll let you get back to selling pies.”
“It’s an auction,” I correct him, still smiling. Always smiling. “For charity.”
“Great,” Meckler says. “That’s adorable.”
“You bid yet?” I ask. “You ought to. Delicious pies, and for a good cause.”
He clears his throat, glances over at the pie table.
“What’s good?” he asks.
“They’re all good,” I say. “Every last one is a culinary wonder, I guarantee it. Babe, you got a pen?”
She holds one out, and Meckler takes it before I can.
Then, in angry silence, he bids on every single pie at the table. He presses down so hard he nearly rips the paper in front of the blackberry pie, and I swear he growls under his breath.
“You don’t have to bid on all of ‘em,” I say, folksy as fuck. “That would be a pretty penny.”
He doesn’t answer, just throws me a look while bidding on all twelve pies, then tosses the pen on the table.
“See you Monday,” he says, nodding at Nakamura. And then: “Flynn,” before walking off.