The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “You said Uncle Nathan couldn’t go.”

“Sadie was wrong.” In more ways one. I brush some loose strands off her cheek. “You can have fun without me, Bell. It doesn’t make me feel bad. I want you to.”

She waits a few seconds to respond, as if mulling this over. “We played a board game. Pretty Pretty Princess.”

“Your favorite,” I say.

She giggles. “Pico put on jewelry. And the crown.”

The image warms my heart, not because it makes Bell giggle, but because Pico embarrasses easily and I know I’ll get to fuck with him tomorrow. I’m all too familiar with pink plastic necklaces and jewel-shaped clip-on earrings, but Pico doesn’t know that. “I bet he looked very pretty, and I’ll be sure to mention that in front of all the guys tomorrow. What about Flora? Did she look pretty?”

“No.” She closes her eyes as sleep visibly overtakes her. “She’s like a grandma.”

I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it. “Just so you know, no matter how old you are, you’ll always be my princess. Even when you’re a grandma.”

She sighs. “You’ll be dead by then.”

I laugh. Brat.

By the time I’ve kissed the top of her head, she’s asleep. I turn out the hallway lights and head to my room. So Bell thinks it’ll hurt my feelings to have fun without me. Sadie would say Bell got that idea from me—that I don’t know how to be without her. Maybe Sadie isn’t entirely wrong.

I strip down to my boxer briefs. Gone are the days I get to sleep in the nude, which is what I’d be doing right now if I’d stayed at the hotel. With Amelia. After a bout of fucking. We’d be skin on skin right now, curled up together. Or would we? Would she have kicked me out already?

I dig out her business card and my phone from my pants before I get into bed. She told me to lose her number, and maybe I should. Now that I’m home, though, where I know Bell is safe and happy, I’m left with the unsettling realization that I truly did want to spend tonight with Amelia. I’ve never been tempted to leave Bell overnight for someone. There’s more to Amelia I don’t know and her veneer should make me want to stay away, but instead I have the urge to get beneath it. Not just for me, but for her.

I type her a text.

Hello ma’am. This is your service provider performing a routine check to make sure you’re satisfied with our services. To be clear, this is not the man you gave your number to earlier and then told him to lose it.

I hit send. She has no reason to respond, but when she does, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I open the message.

I’m satisfied, no thanks to you. Sorry you missed it.

A second later, my phone buzzes with a photo—of her, in the bathtub from the chest down, completely hidden by bubbles. The only skin visible is a bent knee and her red toes curled against the opposite lip of the tub. Fuck me. She stayed in the room. She took a bath, without me. Did she . . . satisfy herself? Is that why her toes are curled? Is she touching herself?

I groan. I could be there now, behind her, learning her body with my hands. I write back immediately.

Move the bubbles a little to the left so I can see how satisfied.

As soon as I send it, three dots appear as she types her response. My heart rate picks up. Phone sex. Text sex. Dirty pictures. Amelia. Naked. My phone vibrates with her answer and I’m worse than Pavlov’s dog, my cock stirring in anticipation. I’m a dog all right, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m nearly panting for a nudie. I open the message.

You have an imagination. Use it.

Fuck. She can’t do that. I’ll reciprocate if that’s what she wants. I lift the comforter, pull down my boxer briefs, take my dick in my hand and stop. Playful, tastefully photographed woman in a bathtub? Sexy. Unsolicited dick pic from a guy you’ve known a week? Creepy. Reluctantly, I tuck myself back in. I study her picture for any unintentional breaks in the bubbles—accidental nip slip, suggestive flash of skin, anything. There’s nothing. I’m going to need more.

When can I see you again?

Mercifully, she doesn’t make me wait for a response.

Whenever you want. That’s what the picture’s for. Goodbye, Andrew.

Amelia is done with me, that much is obvious.

But I don’t think I’m done with Amelia just yet.

SIXTEEN

“Butts out,” Pico calls through the garage.

I look up from the engine I’m working on, stand, and knock my head on the hood. “Damn it.”

“You’d think after twenty years working on cars, you’d know better by now,” Pico points out before one last, long suck from his cigarette.

“Fuck off.” I rub the top of my head. “Butts out already? Why?”

“It’s ten to three, boss. Shouldn’t you be on your way to the bus stop?”

“Ah, shit.” I toss my ratchet onto a bench and wipe my oily hands on my pants. “Seriously?”

Pico points at the clock, drops the butt, and mashes it with his shoe. “Same as every day.”

I head out of the garage and down the block. Bell spots me from the corner and jumps up and down, waving. She and Sammy, a kid from the grade above hers, are already headed my way. Of course the bus is early the one day I’m late. She grips the straps of her backpack and walks faster. When they reach the intersection, Sammy steps off the curb, but Bell grabs his sleeve and pulls him back. Even from fifty feet away, I hear her yelling at him about the importance of looking both ways.

“You’re late,” she says as we meet in the middle.

“Sorry, kid. Lost track of time.”

“You can make it up to me with a piggy back ride.”

“Gee, thanks.” I exchange a glance with Sammy, who rolls his eyes as if to say classic Bell. I squat, and she hops on my back.

“Mr. Beckwith?” Sammy asks.

I never tell Bell’s friends to call me by my first name like the other parents. Mr. Beckwith is grown-up and important, at least to people their size. “What’s up?”

He holds up a red envelope. “A stranger tried to give this to Bell, but I took it.”

My heart stops along with my feet, and Bell tightens her arms around my neck to keep from lurching forward. I take what looks like a greeting card from him. “A stranger? Who?”

“A teacher,” Bell says.

“I didn’t recognize her,” Sammy says with exasperation, as if this is an argument they’ve had before.

“Oh. A teacher.” I wipe sweat from my brow and flip the envelope over. My fingers leave black marks on the red paper. “Is it for me?”

“No, she said it was for me,” Bell says. “Sammy wouldn’t let me open it.”

Right. It may be addressed to Bell, but I doubt it’s actually for her. It looks like a valentine, even though it’s May. Most likely another attempt to get to me through her. I nod at Sammy as I stick it in my back pocket. “Thanks for telling me. You want to hang here for a while?”

“Sure.”

“There’re popsicles in the freezer,” I say. “I’ll let your mom know you’re here.”

I put Bell down, and they run for the sweets. As I scroll through my messages to contact Sammy’s mom, I pause at Amelia’s last text—the infuriatingly mocking photo—and admire it for the second time today.

“What’s that?” Pico asks, suddenly at my side.

I close out of the picture. “Nothing.”

“Must be the reason you’ve been distracted all week,” he says. “Could it be the city girl?”

“Fuck you,” I say. “Is there anything you and your mom don’t share?”

Randy holds a wrench in front of his crotch and gyrates his hips. “There’s nothing Pico’s mom and I don’t share.”

“Eat shit,” Pico says. “You never even met my mom.”

“Yeah, I did. At last year’s Fourth of July barbeque.”

Pico glares at him. “Fuck off. She’s twice your age.”

“So? Pussy is pussy.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “My daug

hter’s right over there.”

“Chill,” Randy says. “She can’t hear.”

“Yes, I can,” Bell yells at us. “I heard you say the ‘p’-word and Daddy said the ‘f’-word.”

“Holy shit,” Pico mutters. “Kid’s got bionic ears.”

Randy grimaces. “Sorry, Bell. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Just don’t say that again. Mrs. Picolli is like a grandma to me.”

I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “You guys have to tone it down. She’s getting old enough to understand.”

“Fuck’s worse than pussy,” Randy whispers loudly.

“Is not.” As I text Sammy’s mom that he’s here, Amelia’s name pops out at me once again, the way it has the entire week. I hate how we left things. The way she’d trusted me in the hotel room right before I’d walked out. How she’d missed accepting an award she’d earned. A week away should’ve cooled me off, but it’s made me even hungrier, and not for just anyone. I could have my pick of women in this town, but somehow, the city girl’s the one on my mind.

I stick my phone back in my pocket and remember the envelope. Pulling it out, I slide my finger under the flap and slip the card out. Happy Mother’s Day is embossed across the front in pink glitter. “What the actual fuck?” I grumble, opening it. It’s blank inside.

My chest burns like I just took a hit of bammer weed. Mother’s Day? What the fuck kind of demented woman gives Bell, who has no mother, a card like this? As if that holiday isn’t weird enough for us. Steam nearly flows from my ears. Even though I don’t reciprocate, the moms love to flirt with me. Even the married ones. They can be persistent, but this is a whole new level. I don’t know what to make of this. Does a teacher or mother honestly think this is the best way to get my attention?

I tear up the card and toss it in the nearest trash.

“So who’s the chick?” Pico asks, his voice lowered. Curse words are one thing, but he knows I’ll skin him alive if Bell catches us talking about my sex life.