Rory vs. Rockstar
“Jordan,” my dad says. “You’re up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was just coming down to get a glass of water.”
“Funerals are exhausting,” my mother says. “Were you able to nap?”
“For a little while.” I look away. I want to memorize the way Mr. King’s body looks with his clothes stretched over his muscles. Most guys I know don’t work on their bodies, but you can see his six-pack and pecs through his shirt. The forearms are tanned, with golden hairs, and the definition of his muscles makes me want him to take off his shirt and see more. “I decided to go to Paris,” I say.
“Paris is beautiful,” Mr. King says.
“Sure, it’s beautiful,” my dad blusters, “but you don’t want to go there now, do you?” His eyebrows knit together. “Not after everything? You don’t know what could happen.”
“Anything could,” my mother says sagely, nodding her head. “Now’s not the time to do such a thing. Isn’t that right?” The last statement she directs to Mr. King.
“Paris is an incredible city,” he answers her. “I might be heading there myself for business. If she were to get in any trouble, I’d be happy to help her out.”
“That would be great,” I squeak.
My mother looks to me, then to Mr. King. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, as it’s a moot point. Where would you get the money, anyway?”
“I’m getting something from my best friend in her will,” I say. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious in my shorts and shirt. “I don’t know how much it’s going to be, but I’d like to go as a tribute to her.”
“I don’t know about that,” my dad says.
“It’s a lovely idea,” Mr. King says at the same time. “I should be going, in any case.” He hands me a business card, and I clutch it in my palm, its crisp edges against my skin. “In case you decide to go to France, you know where to reach me.”
“Thank you,” I say. This time my words aren’t squeaky, just soft and breathless.
“Anyhow, great to see you,” my dad says to him. “Nice remembering old times and looking forward to new ones.”
“Most definitely,” he answers, his smile widening again. “And you too, Margaret,” he says to my mother. Then he looks at me. “Jordan.” The way he says my name thrills me to my core again, sending tingles through my body.
Did he just wink at me?
To read the rest of King, click here!
Christine
Brrrrrrrrrrrr…
Brrrrrrrrrrrr…
Brrrrrrrrrrrr…
I pull one eyelid open, just far enough so I can find my vibrating iPhone on my nightstand and smack it into submission, then I close my eye again with a groan.
The next time I get the brilliant idea of having a night on the town with Ashley and Alicia – on a school night – I can only hope someone thinks to smack me, too.
Brrrrrrrrrrrr…
“For fuck’s sakes,” I mumble, sitting up and grabbing my phone at the same time. Someone better be dead. Or close to dead.
Christine, check your Facebook now!
It’s a message from Ashley.
Okay, so I adore Ashley, I really do, but she tends to overreact to everything. Recently, she hooked up with some sex god and her stories about their sexual exploits just cannot be true. No one actually fucks in the back of a stretch limo. That’s something you read in a Hustler magazine, True Confessions of a Sex Addicted Housewife or whatever.
Whatever she’s freaking out about can wait. It’s probably a cute puppy video that she’s tagged me in. She and Sex God have been talking about adopting a Corgi puppy and so it’s pretty much all she’ll talk about right now.