The Hating Game
“How would you say I’m doing?”
His hands fall away from my wrists tentatively. When he is satisfied I can be trusted to keep our lazy rhythm, he cups my ass and gives it a firm squeeze.
“You’re doing great. Goddamn, Luce.”
“You betcha.” It’s exhilarating, knowing I can now lay my mouth on him whenever I want. I look over his skin like a warlord, and he’s my new territory. He shivers under my perusal.
“Let’s play a special game,” I tell him. “It’s called Who Comes First.”
“Also known as Gold Medal, Silver Medal.”
We’re laughing. I’m unbuttoning his cuff when his cell phone begins to ring. He ignores it, drawing my mouth back to his. My bottom lip is given a little pinch with his teeth.
“So pretty,” he tells me. “Just so pretty.”
The phone rings on and on. It stops and I let out a sigh of relief. Then it starts ringing again. He flicks his eyes to mine, and I give him a frustrated shrug and climb off
.
“I’ll turn it off.”
He digs in his pocket and I survey my handiwork. He’s sprawled in the chair, legs everywhere, shirt unbuttoned, hair completely wrecked, eyes hazed and black.
“You look like a hot virginal dork who’s been defiled in the backseat of my car.”
His eyes spark with amusement. “That’s how I feel.” He unearths his cell and glances at it dismissively, but then looks at it again.
“It’s my mom. Oh, shit. I forgot her.”
I go into the bathroom to hide. Shyness takes hold at the thought of meeting her. I’m not sure what to do next, and I listen to his placating tone through the door. I wash my hands and press my swollen lips and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like the porno version of myself.
He speaks through the door. “Luce. I’m sorry, but I have to go downstairs for a few minutes.”
I open the door. “Is everything okay?”
“Mom’s downstairs. She made table centerpieces from her rose garden apparently, but she can’t find any hotel staff to help her carry them all in and she’s getting upset. Fucking hopeless. I need to go down there and kick someone’s ass.” He rebuttons his shirt.
“Of course. Go on. Make some young hotel worker cry. Do you want me to come and help?”
“No, you’re tired. Do you want me to order you any room service? Bring you back some coffee?”
“No, it’s okay. I might have a shower while you’re gone. I’m sure I’ll be draped seductively across the bed in something lacy for when you get back.”
He winces and adjusts his pants a little. He’s so torn, I feel sorry for him.
“You can’t leave her down there struggling.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, hopefully a few minutes. But relax, and I’ll be back soon.”
“It’s okay. There’s no way I’m interested in making out with a guy who wouldn’t go help his upset mom. Go.”
The bathroom is nearly the size of my bedroom. I shower and wash my face. When I’m brushing my teeth, I look at my face, pale and devoid of any makeup, and remind myself he’s seen me like this. In fact, he’s seen me even worse.
He’s seen me sweating, vomiting, feverish, and asleep. He’s seen me angry, frustrated, scared. Horny, lonely, heartsick. No matter how I look, it never seems to faze him. He always looks at me exactly the same way. Knowing this gives me the confidence to walk out in my SLEEPYSAURUS T-shirt and sleep shorts. It seemed like a funny idea at the time, but I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser. I look about ten years old. Oh, well. Negligee Lucy would be a fake.
Silence stretches on. I check my phone. Nothing. I push back the comforter and slide into the bed. I can’t hold in the groan of relief. After the stress and tension of the last few days, this isn’t as scary as I imagined it would be. The sheets quickly grow warm and I paddle my tired feet in pleasure.
I lean back against the pile of pillows and turn the TV on. I find a channel playing ER and it is strangely comforting. Josh has probably seen this one. I try to watch for medical inaccuracies, but when my eyes become dry and tired I close them. To calm my nerves, I hit Play on my memory and bite back a yawn.