The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“If I get on this bed,” I say, “we’ll never get out of here.” I hold out my hand, and she sticks out her bottom lip. I’m more than eager to snatch that bottom lip between my teeth. We fell asleep quickly last night. I feel a little like I should’ve made love to her after our bath, showed her I can be more than hard and demanding in bed, but we were exhausted. “Come on. I promise to do you good next chance we get.”

“Fine.” She gets up and stretches. Immediately, I regret my decision, her long, white arms reaching for the sky, her tits high and full. I shake it all out of my head. I want it. But with someone like her, it’s a long-term game. It always was, I just didn’t know I wanted to play. Helping her detangle from Reggie is the way to prove to Amelia I meant what I said last night. That despite all my efforts not to—I care about her.

TWENTY-TWO

“It had a fireplace,” Amelia says, waving the open-house flyer at me. “A real, working, wood-burning fireplace.”

“I heard you the first ten times,” I say and put my arm around her shoulders so she knows I’m teasing.

“Why are you not more excited about a fireplace? DeBlasio banned them in new construction, so they’re a dying breed.”

I shrug a little, glancing sidelong at her. “I guess because I have one at my house.”

“You do?”

“Well, I don’t live in a—” I lean in to read the spec sheet of the apartment we just looked at, “six-hundred square foot box. Jesus Christ, that’s small.”

“I don’t mind the size. It’s just me. Do you actually use the fireplace?”

I nod. “During winter.”

“Where do you get the firewood?”

“I chop it myself.”

She gapes at me. “Seriously?”

“No.” I chuckle. “I get it from the supermarket.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I haven’t lived in a real house since I left home at eighteen. Reggie and I gave up a place with a fireplace for a bigger bathroom. What’s your house like?”

I squint ahead of us. The sun is high today but with the mild temperature and slight spring breeze, it feels just right. “I bought it a couple years ago. The one-bedroom place Shana and I rented was getting too small for me and Bell. My place is three beds, two baths. Huge master bath,” I add, “but unfortunately, no tub.”

“Hence the extreme fascination with mine.”

“I wouldn’t call it extreme—”

“What else?” she asks.

“Hmm. Most important parts: a high-end kitchen and a decent-sized backyard.”

“A backyard,” she muses. “Wait, why’s the kitchen important? Do you cook?”

“Babe, like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Liar.”

“How do you think Bell gets fed—Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather?”

“Sleeping Beauty?” she guesses.

“You weren’t lying about liking Disney classics.” I wink. “Anyway, Sadie taught me to cook and I ended up being all right at it. Now, to put it modestly, my culinary skills put all the women in my life to shame, Sadie included.”

Amelia grins. “You’re like a real grownup.”

“Yep.” I look down at her. She’s different today. Looser. Not as careful. I love how worked up she gets, how blunt she can be. But this side of her? I earned this. It makes me appreciate it all the more. “You should come see it—the house,” I say and pause to assess how I feel about the invitation. I can’t just have a woman over the way most guys can. Thing is, I haven’t ever wanted to, not since we moved in. It’s new territory for me, but my gut says having Amelia over would be the right thing. “Bell—it’s . . .” I pull Amelia into my chest to push through a group of tourists. “It’s her birthday next weekend,” I say when we’re past the crowd.

“Oh.” She keeps her eyes forward.

“You should come.” It’s a big step. I know it is. I don’t even know exactly how Amelia feels about bringing Bell into her life, and I realize it’s something I should ask her because I plan on seeing more of her going forward. I kiss the top of her head. “If you want,” I say. “If not, I’ll bring you by another time.”

She glances up at me shyly, I think because she’s going to accept my invitation. Instead she asks, “Where do you go when you want a bath?”

“Uh . . . nowhere. It wasn’t on my list of requirements when I was house hunting.”

“It’s okay.” She crumples up the spec sheet. “You can just use mine.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“That place doesn’t have a tub.”

“But it has a fireplace.”

“I’ve decided I’d rather have a tub.” She holds up the brochure to the first place we saw. “This place has one.”

It’s a small gesture, but it says everything. Maybe Amelia isn’t quite ready for Bell’s birthday party, but she isn’t looking for a place just for herself. She sees me in her future. She’d give up the fireplace to make me happy. I lean down and assault her cheek with a series of short kisses, and she breaks into an uncharacteristic fit of giggles.

“Oh my God,” she says breathlessly. “Stop. It tickles.”

“That only makes it more tempting.” I nibble on her earlobe. “I made the biggest mistake of my life this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, unconcerned. “What was that?”

“Passing up an opportunity to ravage you. Just spending time with you is like foreplay.”

She wiggles her shoulders in my grip. “I agree. That was a mistake. Ravage me here.”

“In the middle of the street, for everyone to see?” I mock-gasp against her cheek. “Nah. I want you all to myself. When I fuck you, I want only my eyes on your body.”

“What about your hands?”

“You know what I mean,” I say, pinching her side so she squeals. “Now that I know how ticklish you are, you’re in a world of trouble.”

Just ahead is a blocked-off street lined with umbrellas, tents and carts separated by tables of tchotchkes or rolling racks of clothing or furniture. “Well, if that isn’t serendipitous,” I say, nodding toward the Hell’s Kitchen flea market. “First, we manage to find three apartment open houses, and we’re already onto furniture.”

She squeezes her arm around my middle. “I’ve always wanted a big, vintage wooden armoire,” she says. “Reggie said they were too old and heavy, though.”

I steer her across the street toward the crowded stalls. “Well, good thing I’m stronger.”

Her gloriously-naked-for-once lips spread into a wide smile. “You’ve never even met him.”

“I don’t need to. I already know.”

We slow together and make our way down the first row of mismatched, homeless items. She ducks out from under me to look at some jewelry and picks up a silver locket. “My dad gave me one of these as a girl. I wore it every day until I started high school and thought it wasn’t cool anymore. I think I still have it somewhere.” She frowns. “You should get something like that for Bell for her birthday.”

I look at the necklace. It wouldn’t have occurred to me. Bell loves dress up as much as the next girl. Since I have nothing of worth to offer her—Shana took her jewelry with her, and my mom gambled away her things long ago—Bell’s toy chest is littered with plastic costume jewelry. “She’s too young,” I say. Jewelry, makeup, hair, and all the other shit women do, all the things Amelia and her firm shill—I want them nowhere near my daughter.

Amelia glances over her shoulder and studies me a moment, as if she se

nses the shift in my mood. “Maybe,” she says, replacing it gently on the velvet pad.

She walks a few feet ahead, and I stop at a booth where some other men have gathered. I push a few old license plates aside to inspect a pile of car parts.

The woman manning the table nods at me. “I know you.”

“Yeah?”

“Beckwith Motors in Elizabeth, right?” she asks. “My husband and I have been there for work on our ’66 Mustang.”

“Right. I remember. Orange with stripes?”

She nods. “That’s it.”

“We did a coupe-to-fastback conversion for you.”

“Good memory. You guys are the best in the tri-state area for classic restoration. That Camaro I always see there—it yours?”

I nod. “Been working on it for years. Every time I get started, we get swamped.”

“’68?” she asks. “I think I got something for that.” She pulls out a bin from under the table, drops it in front of me with a thud, and picks out a thin, chrome triangle about the size of my forearm.

“Vent window frame?” I ask.

She nods. “Right side.”

I glance over at Amelia, who’s testing the drawers of a massive armoire. Fuck. I didn’t know she’d take me seriously about that. If she picks something out today, I’m not actually sure how I’d get it to her apartment. And then we’d have to move it again when she finds a new place. I shake my head at myself. Good call, dipshit.

I turn back to the woman. The other men have dispersed, and we’re alone. “How much?”

She shrugs. “I’ll give it to you for ten.”

It’s worth more, but I think she knows that. The piece I have now is a replica, which means I’m eager to swap it for an original. I slide my wallet out of my back pocket and pass her a ten.

“How’s that little girl of yours?” she asks, bagging it up.

“Perfect,” I say, my standard response, and I feel a pang in my chest. I miss her, and though I’m having fun with Amelia, I look forward to picking Bell up soon. I look over my shoulder again as I stuff my wallet back in my pants, but Amelia’s no longer at the armoire. “She’s turning seven soon.”