19.
Where Tyson Goes
to Helena Handbasket’s Sex Dungeon
“YOU SURE you have everything?” Bear asks me for the billionth time. He looks into the back of Otter’s SUV worriedly, apparently sure he’s going to see that I’ve somehow missed a pair of socks or one of the four hundred tiny little bottles of travel shampoo he thought I needed for some reason. “You don’t want to forget something on the road. Who knows when you’ll be able to stop next?”
“Because there are obviously no stores between here and Tucson,” I tell him. “I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do when I find out I don’t have enough shampoo to last me for the next fourteen years.”
“You’re not helping,” he says with a scowl.
“You had to get a completely separate bag just to hold all the shampoo,” I remind him.
“This should probably stop before it escalates,” Otter suggests. “Because, knowing you two, it will.”
“He’s the one who made me take all of it!”
“Oh sure! Blame me for wanting to make sure you had clean, shiny hair that didn’t flake! I’m so sorry!”
“And it escalated,” Otter sighs.
“You can come with us,” Corey says to him. “Leave those two here. Are they really arguing about shampoo?”
“They’re just going to miss each other,” Otter explains. “This is them showing it.”
“Oh gross,” I moan. “That’s not even remotely close to what’s going on right now. This is about my American right to not take six thousand shampoos with me on a week-long trip.”
“Miss him?” Bear says incredulously. “For the first time in I don’t know how long there’s going to be an empty house with just the two of us, and you think I’m going to miss him?”
“I give it an hour before he starts bitching how quiet it is in the house,” Otter says.
“I don’t bitch!”
“You kind of bitch,” Dominic says.
“All the time,” I agree.
“Not that you’re any better,” Dom says to me. “Or, rather, you didn’t used to be.”
“He’s still that way,” Corey says. “Trust me. When they both get going, you’d swear they were just making high-pitched noises and not forming any actual words.”
“Fall off a cliff,” Bear and I both mutter at the same time, as if we needed any more evidence that we’re essentially the same person. How fucking annoying.
“Are you two done?” Corey asks. “It’s too early for this, and I’d like to get on the road so I can go back to sleep and let you two chauffeur me like the help you are.”
“That’s so reverse racist,” I tell him.
“I’m black,” he snaps back. “Consider it recompense.”
I’m not even going to touch that one. “Good-bye!” I say loudly, going toward the car. “Later! Good-bye, house! Good-bye, Otter! Bite me, Bear!”
“You stop right there,” Bear says.
And I do, for fuck’s sake.
He stands in front of me. I glare at him. He glares right back.
“You have fun,” he says, even though he sounds like he doesn’t mean it at all.
“You too,” I reply. “You know, with all that quiet.”
We hug each other stiffly.
“You going to be okay?” he whispers so the others can’t hear.
“I think so,” I whisper back. “Can I… can I call you? If I need to talk? Or whatever?”
“Day or night.”
“You’re going to do pretty good at this parenting thing. If you don’t screw them up completely.”
“There is always that,” he says.
“Thanks, Papa Bear.”
“Always.” He pulls away and raises his voice again. “Now get out of here so I can turn your room into an office.”
“You better not touch my stuff,” I warn him. “If I come back and anything is missing, I will burn you to the ground.”
He rolls his eyes, but I see the little smile on his face as he brushes past me. He stands next to Otter, who watches him with a goofy smile on his face, like he’s not fooled by any of this bluster. And he’s probably not.
“What?” Bear snaps at him.
“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all.” He wraps his arm around my brother’s shoulders and pulls him close.
“And on that note,” I say.
It’s weird, really. Driving away. For some reason, as I watch the Green Monstrosity and Bear and Otter shrink in the rearview mirror, I get a little lump in the back of my throat. It feels like I’m driving away for a lot longer than a week. Part of me almost wants to go back and hide behind Bear and Otter. But that’s not what I need.
It’s only a week. Nothing’s going to change during that time. Everything will be the same when I get back. I’ll figure out what to do with this mess of a life then.
Ten minutes later, as I turn the SUV south toward the desert fifteen hundred miles away, Corey starts snoring in the background, and I say what I should have said sometime during the past two weeks, what little I’ve seen him. “Thanks.”
Dominic looks out the passenger window out to the ocean. It looks like a storm is coming in off the water. “For what?”
“Our story.”
A pause. Then, “You’re welcome.”
I can’t find anything else to say.
Yeah. Nothing’s going to change at all.
TWO DAYS later, I’m trying to understand just how it is that people can live in Arizona.
“It’s all flat and boring,” I say morosely, staring out the window as Kori drives through the outskirts of Tucson. Dom’s asleep in the backseat. I’ll have to wake him up soon. “Where the hell are all the trees? I don’t think it’s possible for people to live without close proximity to trees.”
“They’re right there,” she says, pointing out the window.
“That’s a cactus.” A very phallic one at that.
“Same thing.”
“You can’t hug a cactus.”
“You shouldn’t really be hugging trees, either. That’s just weird.”
What a sad woman Kori is. “When are we coming up to the unconstitutional checkpoint where, if I were any darker of skin, I’d probably be detained for being a suspected illegal immigrant even though there’s no proof?”
“I told you already, those aren’t really a real thing.”
“Oh, really?” I scoff at her. “Tell that to Jan Brewer, the evil head witch who runs this barren, treeless place.”
“I think her job title is actually ‘governor,’ not evil head witch.”
I wave her off. “Same thing.”
“She was promoted after Janet Napolitano left. She was reelected after that.”
“They did the same thing with Stalin,” I say. “Look how well that turned out.”
“I didn’t say they were smart people,” she says. “You’re in a red state now with your tiny blue self. Think of yourself as a Smurf standing on the sun.”
“That is surprisingly visual and so very, very sad. You guys have a lot of dirt here.”
“It’s called a desert.”
“It’s dirt.”
“You know, there’s a hugely varied ecosystem here that survives—”
“Nice try,” I tell her. “You almost had me there appealing to my scientific side, but then my phone just buzzed with an extreme heat warning.”
“What, 110? That’s nothing. It’s a dry heat. Remember the humidity in New Hampshire? That was excruciating.”
“Where are we?” Dom asks from the backseat, his voice rough with sleep and extraordinarily hot. Damn fucking feelings and hormones.
“Almost there,” Kori says. I can’t tell if she sounds happy about it or not. “Another ten minutes and we’ll be at Sandy’s. He should be off work now, so we should be good to go directly to his house.”
“You excited to be home?” I ask her. I don’t know what sort of answer I’m expecting. Hopefully a reasonably honest one. I know Corey and Kori. I know Kori comes out when Corey’s nervous or scared or worried. Kori is comfort. Kori is safe and warm. Kori is who Corey turns to when things get hard. I don’t think it’s him hiding behind her, more him putting on a different face against the world. Kori may be quiet and may look frail, but she’s got steel in her bones. I’m worried that she’s made an appearance now. I don’t know how coming home to Tucson might be for her. I can imagine, though, especially if it’s anything like coming back to Seafare was.
Something flashes across her eyes, but I can’t quite catch it. It almost looks like anger. Or fear. But it’s gone too fast. “Sure,” she says. “Should be great.”
I don’t believe her in the slightest.
SANDY LIVES in an adobe house in a quiet neighborhood. There’re some potted plants hanging outside (probably gasping their final breaths as they’re baked in the fiery sunlight) and a birdbath in the front yard, but so far nothing that says the best drag queen in the history of the world, as Kori touted. Granted, I suppose that because a person is a drag queen doesn’t mean the outside of their house has to look like a drag queen too. After all, I don’t look anything like the Green Monstrosity. At least I hope I don’t.
There’s a sensible electric car (I approve) in the carport, and the license plate says QWN4LFE (which I approve of immensely—why can’t Bear have a license plate that proclaims him a queen for life? It would certainly make sense). As we get out of the SUV, the front door opens and I almost expect there to be an explosion of glitter and feathers from a pink boa. Instead, a slight man walks out, thin and tall. I could say he’s blandly handsome, with his short blond hair and brown eyes, but the smile on his face has a wicked curve to it, and I can see the glint in his eyes.
It seems Helena Handbasket is never too far under the surface.
“Baby dolls,” Sandy says warmly. “I am so very happy you made it okay.” He walks over to Kori and hugs her tightly, lifting Kori off the ground and twirling her around. He whispers something in her ear, something meant for just the two of them, and I see Kori stiffen for a moment. She shakes her head and shrugs as Sandy kisses her cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.
He turns to me. “Little Twinkie Tyson!” he says, and he wraps me in a hug as well. “You look even more delicious in person.” He peeks over my shoulder. “God, if I had that ass when I was your age, I probably would have done porn. You ever think of doing porn? Pretty sure you’d make a buck or two. People would be jerking off to you left and right. Probably already do.”
I flush furiously. “Uh… no. No porn. Not yet.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. It’s a sweet sound. “‘Not yet,’ he says. Well, honey, if that’s what you’re looking for, I’m sure I could hook you up.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Somehow, I don’t think it’d fly back home if I were in porn. I’m pretty sure Otter and Bear would shit themselves. And what if they like porn (gross!) and somehow stumble across it and see me getting my ass—
Wow. I need to stop that train of thought right now. I blame Tucson. There has to be something in the air that makes you think really dirty things.
Sandy does a double take as Dom climbs out of the backseat. Dom stretches and his shirt rises up slightly, a thin strip of skin showing through, and I can almost hear Helena Handbasket roaring forward. Gone is the blandly handsome Sandy with a sweet smile. Gone, too, apparently, are any bones, judging by the way he’s able to slink and slide his way over to Dom. Dom has a small grin on his face, as if this man already amuses him greatly.
“Well, well, well,” Sandy purrs. “What do we have here?” He presses up against Dom’s side, laying his head on his shoulder. “Where, my large luscious piece of man cake, have you been all my life? I bet you could bench-press three of me without breaking a sweat, but lucky you, there’s only one of me and trust me when I say I’m more than enough man for you to handle.”
Uh. Wait. What?
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dom says, patting Sandy on the top of the head.
“That voice!” Sandy squeaks. “Please tell me that you’ve done porn and where I can buy it. Take my money. Take all my money.”
“I haven’t done porn,” Dom says, much to the detriment of the entire world, I’m sure. “I don’t know how well that’d go over with the department.”
Sandy’s eyes go dramatically wide. “You’re the police officer? Honey, I don’t think that’s a problem for your department. Haven’t you ever seen C.O.P.S: Cum On Perverted Suspects? Those cops had no problem shoving their nightsticks up each other’s asses.”
“I must have missed that one,” Dom says. “And I don’t quite know if they were real cops.”
“It’s all about the fantasy, baby doll,” Sandy says. “And you are eight feet of living, breathing, ridiculously ripped fantasy. I simply must make you part of my show tomorrow night at the club. Tell me, are you comfortable enough in your heterosexuality to take off your shirt and pants on stage and be completely and salaciously objectified by dozens of screaming homos? I’m pretty sure I have a sparkly pair of boy panties you can wear. Though I will say, if your cock is as big as the rest of you, you’ll probably be poking out. But, incentives, of course. I’ll make sure you’re in for a cut of the tips, which will probably amount to six dollars and forty-two cents.”
“That much, huh?” he asks with a smile. “How could I say no to that?”
“You filthy whore,” I hiss before I’m able to stop myself. And there’s the image of the sparkly boy-panty thing that needed to go away, like, yesterday. I’m not into that sort of thing. Well, at least my mind isn’t. My penis thinks it’s a grand idea. Stupid fucking penis.
Everyone stares at me, but not before Sandy and Kori exchange a look that makes me want to kick out their kneecaps. “Um. I said let’s go indoors. Isn’t it too hot out? It feels too hot.”
“Of course,” Sandy says coyly, like the evil host that he is. “I’m so used to it, I didn’t even notice. You poor little twinkie. I’m going to take such good care of you in Casa de Helena that you won’t ever want to leave.” He winks at me knowingly, and I almost run screaming in the opposite direction.
Knowing my luck, I’d trip and fall into a cactus.
THE INSIDE of Sandy’s house is delightfully kitschy, yet surprisingly tasteful (I know, I know. I just thought there’d be piles of wigs all over and a three-foot black dildo on the coffee table or something—apparently I don’t know many drag queens). There are splashes of colors everywhere, from the green couch to the blue-and-red walls. The floors are hardwood, covered here and there with thick white rugs. There’s a stain on one, hidden back toward the corner of the living room.
“Yes,” Sandy says with a frown. “That.”
“What’s it from?” Kori asks.
“The hellhound known as Wheels,” he says with a look of extreme distaste. “Paul’s dog. I love the little mutt to death, but he is not normal. I’m quite certain he vomited there on purpose, because I wouldn’t let him go outside when it was raining. Trust me when I say that Wheels is a vindictive creature with malice in his heart.”
“Why Wheels?” I ask. “That’s an odd name.”
“He was hit by a car when he was a puppy,” Sandy says. “Lost both back legs and his tail. He has a little cart hooked up to his butt so he can run around. Paul adopted him that way and gave him the name.”
“A two-legged dog?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Named Wheels.”
“Right.”
“I need to meet Paul,” I tell Kori. “Like, now. Any man that picks a disabled dog on purpose has to be an amazing human being.”
“Oh,” Sandy says, “that’s right! Kori told me you were a hippie.”
“I don’t think I said it quite like that,” Kori says hurriedly.
“Yes, you did,” Sandy says. “What was it you said? I truly enjoyed it. Ah, yes! You said Tyson was a left-wing vegetarian hippie twink one step away from blowing up animal-testing labs and SeaWorld all for the sake of saving what he calls his animal companions.” He squints his eyes at me. “He doesn’t look like a hippie, though. He looks like he should be on some college gay-for-pay site.”
“Oh no,” Kori groans, covering her face.
“Hippie?” I exclaim angrily. “I’m not a goddamn hippie! And the orcas at SeaWorld are forced into tiny tanks and brutally beaten and underfed to teach them tricks to perform for some obese family from Ohio on vacation who eat deep-fried Oreos covered in bacon gravy while not even concerned that their entertainment is being tortured!”
“Tyson’s a little… vocal… when it comes to his convictions,” Dom says.
“That’s an understatement, sex giant,” Sandy says, eyes wide. “Holy PETA brainwash, Batman.”
“I’m not a hippie,” I mutter.
“Kind of a hippie,” Kori says. “But in a good way.”
“There’s no good way to be a hippie,” I tell her. “Especially beach hippies.”
“We had some problems with beach hippies,” Kori tells Sandy. “They didn’t know how to chant and threw rocks into windows.”
“Goddamn beach hippies!” Apparently, I’m still not over that.
“I had to arrest these two,” Dom tells Sandy.
“Did you?” Helena Handbasket purrs. “In uniform and with handcuffs? Those lucky little bastards.”
“It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds,” I point out. “The cuffs hurt.”
“That’s how you know you’re having a little fun,” Dom says with a wink, and I can do nothing but gape at him, because I want to know who this man is and what he’s done with my big, silent, stoic Dominic.
“You’ll meet Paul and Vince tomorrow for Saturday brunch,” Sandy says. “We figured we’d give you a bit to get settled in.”
“You have enough rooms?” Dom asks. “We can get a hotel.”
“A hotel?” Sandy asks. “Of course not. We’ll just have to bunk up a bit. But since we’re all such good friends, I don’t think that’s an issue, do you?” He smiles at Kori. “You’ll be in my bed, darling, but don’t get any ideas. I’ve given my heart to Jesus.”
“Poor Jesus,” Kori says.
“Mouthy little bitch,” Sandy says. “And as for you two, you’ll be in the spare bedroom. It’s really small, but the Realtor described it to me as cozy when I bought the place, and since I was trying to get in his pants, I didn’t mind.”
“Both of us?” I ask, my voice high-pitched. “Are there two beds?”
He laughs. “No, dear. It’s not 1950 and you’re not a housewife. One bed. It’s a queen, natch. But given Officer Hands-on here’s size, it’s still going to be tight. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it? Kori tells me you two are old friends. Usually, I use that room for guests who somehow end up drunk at my house after the bar closes and feel slightly amorous. But don’t worry, it’s totally clean and ready for your enjoyment. I aim to please.” He says this all with a completely innocent look on his face. And even though I’ve only known him for fifteen minutes, I can still tell it’s complete and utter bullshit. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That bright fire in his eyes is all Helena.
Dom shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “That’s fine with me.”
“You snore,” I accuse him weakly, as if this will be any justification for when I end up sleeping on the couch. Or in the car. Or running back to Bear so he can hide me in the bathtub.
“How would you know?” he fires back. “You haven’t been around to find out.”
Yowza. And just what in God’s name is that supposed to mean?
“Well, this is just peachy,” Sandy beams. “Sounds like everything will work out just fine. Oh my, I just adore having houseguests! Kori, shall we retire to powder our noses before the evening’s festivities? We can have some girl time.” He glances at Dom and me. “Boys, your bedroom is at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door with towels all fluffed and ready for your enjoyment. Feel free to get a little wet. I promise, there’re no cameras set up in the shower.”
With that, he grabs Kori by the arm and drags her out of the room.
Motherfucker.
COZY MY goddamn ass.
This room is fucking tiny.
There’s a queen bed, all right, but it takes up most of the space with hardly any room to move around. A small window lets in the burning sunlight that promises to scorch my skin off. The only other furniture in the room is a small nightstand on the far side of the bed. Atop the nightstand is a fishbowl filled with condoms. Littered next to the bowl are at least ten different kinds of lube called such ridiculous names as “Butt Butter” and “Boy-Ease” (one makes me never want to eat popcorn again, the other wants me to make sure this isn’t actually an episode of To Catch A Predator). A tassel of something leathery hangs out from one of the drawers on the nightstand. I’m pretty sure cows didn’t evolve to have their hides used on an ass filled with butt butter.
“Well, this is certainly new,” Dom says, looking up.
I follow his gaze. Above the bed, attached to the ceiling, is a row of mirrors. Because, you know, that’s what normal people have.
“This isn’t a bedroom,” I groan. “It’s a sex dungeon!”
Dom cocks his head at the mirrors. “I don’t think it’s quite a sex dungeon. I don’t see a swing or a Saint Andrew’s Cross with a mean and surly Dungeon Master waiting to flog you.”
“I don’t know what any of that stuff means!” It’s come to my attention that I’m either a prude or I really need to bone up on my studies of all things sex. Ha. Bone up. That’s funny, in an “I’m about to freak out hysterically” kind of way.
“I’d be worried if you did,” he assures me.
“How do you know what that stuff is?”
“I got strapped to the cross once,” he said. “Whipped within an inch of my life.”
My mouth drops open. “You what?” Who in the hell is this masochistic stranger standing in front of me, and what has he done with my friend? (And, as a random side note that I can’t quite push away, what exactly does one wear when one is strapped to a cross and whipped?)
He rolls his eyes. “It was a joke, Tyson. I’ve busted some kinky people, that’s all.”
“I knew that was a joke!” I most certainly did not and am lying through my teeth.
He sets his bag on the bed. I, for some reason, look up at the mirrors again. There are three of them, all pressed flush against each other. I guess I’ve never really thought about how such a thing could be good for sex, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you could see absolutely everything if, as a hypothetical, someone was on his back and another someone was going to town on him from above. I mean, I guess I can sort of see the benefits of such an angle, and it’d be all fast and hard and dirty and—
Nope! No, sir! I do not need to be thinking about such things, because they will most likely lead to inappropriate erections. And if there’s one thing that ruins a platonic sharing of what is possibly the smallest bed in the world between two friends who used to be like brothers, it’s an inappropriate erection. Well, not that I know that for a fact, but I can pretty much make the assumption here. I don’t want to have to wake up in the middle of the night and explain to my heterosexual bedmate why I’m sporting wood and staring at him in the mirrors above the bed. That is not a conversation conducive to a lasting friendship.
“If you want,” Dom says without turning around, “we can get a hotel. I saw a couple just right down the road.”
Well, that would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it? Say yes and then we’d be in a generic-looking room with scratchy sheets that smell like clinical detergent and oversized pillows that have some stranger’s long black hair on them. But isn’t that what they’re expecting? Of course it is. I’m now utterly convinced that this is part of some master scheme by the psychotic villain known as Kori and her sidekick, Sandy. She may look innocent, and she may play the part well enough for most everyone around her to be convinced, but I see right through her. She obviously called ahead and coerced the drag queen (either by blackmail or brainwashing) into changing what was probably a tea- and sunroom or library or storage area for wigs and feather boas (of which I have to see evidence of any—is she really even a drag queen?) into a guest room. If that’s the case, then Sandy/Helena Handbasket is against me and already a lost cause.
And if Kori is the villain I believe her to be, then I’m obviously the hero of this story and will need to rise up against her in a battle of wit and wills. At the first sign of weakness, she’ll go for the jugular. I need to make sure she believes nothing is amiss. I have to last these next couple of days until I can leave this place known as Tucson behind and return to the land that is my home and begin to plot my revenge.
And why is she doing this?
It’s obvious.
She’s trying to get me to fuck up around Dominic somehow so he’ll learn the true nature of my feelings (rather, how I used to feel, I correct myself pointedly). In doing so, Dominic will be forced to look at me with pity and sadness (Poor little twinkie boy, he’ll say to himself. Poor little Tyson with his crush on the straight guy) and then will let me down in a way that’s gentle but will still be mortifying in ways I can’t even begin to understand (keeping in mind that this won’t happen because I most certainly don’t feel that way about him anymore).
And she’s doing all of this not because she thinks Dominic and I are going to end up together (ha-ha, now there’s a random and stupid and out-of-my-mind thought!), but because she’s actually heartbroken about how our relationship ended, even though she’s the one who broke up with me (I haven’t quite figured out how that makes sense, but trust me, it has to be right). She knows how I feel (used to feel, I chide myself) about Dominic and wants to make a mockery of me.
This whole thing has been planned from the beginning.
“Uh-oh,” Dominic says.
“What?”
“You’ve got that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“It’s that same look you get when you see a story on the news about a rich guy posting pictures of himself big-game hunting and standing over the corpse of an elephant. Like you want to murder someone.”
“Why would you kill such a magnificent creature and then post a picture of it for everyone to see?” I exclaim. “You have to know everyone is going to think you’re nothing but a gigantic dick who should be strung up and pelted with rotting pumpkins!”
“The most gigantic of all dicks,” Dom agrees. “But since I haven’t seen any dead elephants since we got here, who is it you want to murder? And you may want to reconsider. I may be on vacation, but I’m still a cop. Don’t make me get the handcuffs out again.”
My mouth goes instantly dry at such an image, and I wonder (traitorous fucking brain!) just how that would look in the mirrors above the bed.
“I don’t want to murder anyone,” I mutter. “We don’t need a hotel. We can just stay here in the sex dungeon.”
“I really don’t think you know what a sex dungeon is,” he sighs.
“I do so,” I say. Wow, that sounded lame. And not like the truth at all. I pick up my bag and go to the other side of the bed as my face burns. I open the bag and begin rifling through it, trying to see if there is a chastity belt and a Bible somewhere inside, because apparently I’ve changed my name to Prudence McVanilla Prude.
“Is that what the kids call it these days?”
“I’m hip,” I tell him. “I’m down with it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize probably no one on the earth says they’re hip and down with it anymore. My life could use a pause button, a rewind button, and most likely a volume control.
There’s a rustling of clothes, and I look up right at the exact moment I’m pretty sure that God and Jesus decide I’m a lost cause and forsake my mortal soul. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening right in front of me.
Dominic is lifting his shirt up and over his head, and while I know it’s physically impossible, I’m convinced he is moving in slow motion and that his torso goes on for miles. Life becomes positively unfair when I see the bulky muscles of his chest covered in a smattering of dark hair. His arms catch in the shirt, and the collar is on his chin, and I do believe I am three point six seconds away from tackling him and motorboating his chest.
Luckily, I have a modicum of self-control left (because I obviously don’t feel that way about him anymore), so I’m able to look up and away before he catches me ogling him like he’s a slab of beef on display.
But it’s escaped my mind (so many things have, it seems) that the ceiling is covered in mirrors, so as soon as I look up, I’m blessed (cursed!) with a completely different view of the heterosexual striptease happening right in front of me. (How long does it take for someone to take off their shirt? I want to scream at him.) Not only can I see him from the top down, I can see the curve of his back and ass and this is exactly what Kori planned, that foul temptress, that evil bitch of a supervillain! This was the exact moment she knew would happen, and how did she get Dominic to play along? What did she promise him? Because she’s obviously promised him something, because no normal person would still be trying to take their shirt off after what has had to have been at least six hours and. That. Ass.
“You okay?” he asks me, his shirt finally off.
“Oh, sure!” I cry. “Everything’s great!”
“You’re breathing funny.”
Calm down. This is what Kori wants. It’s all part of her evil plan. Just calm down and talk about the weather. “Why are you naked!” I screech at him. That’s not weather talk!
“What?” He looks down at himself, and for some reason, I’m relieved his nipples are even with each other. Then I realize I’m staring at his nipples and look at a convenient spot on the wall just over his shoulder. “I’m not naked.”
You lying sack of lies! “Pretty fucking much!”
“I want to take a shower,” he explains calmly. “Get all this road grime off me.”
You have to calm down. Make your response sound natural, like nothing’s wrong at all. You sound like you’re about to shit yourself. “Sure! Swell! That sounds super! Road grime!” Much better. Make a joke. That’s all you need to do. Make a joke. I look back at him (resolutely ignoring just how tan his skin is) and grin a grin that is probably far too wide and reminiscent of a hyena. Tell a fucking joke! “I could use one myself. Maybe I could join you.” OH MARY, MOTHER OF GOD, NOT THAT KIND OF JOKE! STOP TALKING! STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW. “Er, I mean, ain’t no thang. Go take your shower, home slice. I’ll just chillax in here.” Why am I talking like I’m a WASPy white kid from the suburbs going to the inner city for the first time? Dear Jesus, I know you just forsook me, but please make me have a stroke right now. That’d be super cool, and I’d totally owe you one.
“Chillax?” Dom asks me, sounding confused. “Home slice? Are you sure you’re okay?”
No, no, I’m really not. I’ve got stress sweat like a motherfucker, and I’m pretty sure it randomly smells like old french fries, and I would give anything, literally anything, to have this moment be over. The more I open my mouth, I remind myself, the worse it gets. The answer is simple. Stop. Talking.
But, alas, my last name may be Thompson now, but I am still a McKenna through and through. “A-okay, Captain Steroids!” I say brightly. “Could you be any more jacked?”
He shrugs. “You know I like to work out.” I swear he flexes his arms and chest on purpose. Either that, or he has a severe case of muscle spasms and should seek out the nearest acupuncturist as soon as possible.
“You look like you like to eat bricks,” I say. Because it makes so much sense.
He laughs. Ye gods, that sound.
I laugh, too, but only because I don’t know what we’re laughing at. His is the most erotic laugh I’ve ever heard, all dusky and full of gravel. I sound like a chipmunk getting run over by a car. Inappropriate erections, french-fry stress sweat, and dying chipmunk chortling. I am not fit to exist in this world.
I eventually stop braying and there’s this weird crackle of electricity in the air as we look at each other. My skin thrums with the current of it.
“It’s weird,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
He catches my eye. “You. Here.”
I’m confused by the sudden change in subject. “In Tucson?”
He shakes his head and gestures between us. “Here. With me. You know. Us. I think I’d forgotten how this could be.”
I’ve pushed him too far. Goddammit. “It’s weird.”
He nods.
“Good weird or bad weird?”
He sighs and says, “The best kind of weird there is,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Instead of replying with something devastatingly witty (since apparently I think I’m still capable of such things), I gape at him, opening and closing my mouth, showing him my best impression of a trout dying on dry land.
He says nothing more, just grabs a shirt and a pair of cargo shorts out of his bag before turning and walking out of the room.
But not before I see the small smile on his face that makes every single resolution I’ve ever made about Dominic Miller go flying right out the window. It’s good to know my convictions go by way of the wind over such a little thing. Either that, or at some point in the past four years, Dom was initiated as a voodoo high priest and I’ve just been cursed with some hoodoo.
Either way, I am so completely and utterly fucked.