The Hating Game
Page 63

“My hostage. My blackmailed, unwilling captive. Stockholm Shortcake.”
“Keys.” I put my arms around his waist to get them from his closed fist. Then I lean against him and tighten my arms.
“Let go. Come on.” I extract the key, but he hugs my shoulders. We stand there for another long moment. Cars whip past in a steady stream.
“I want you to know I don’t expect anything from you this weekend,” Josh says above my head.
I lean back and look up at him. “Whatever happens, I’m pretty sure we’re going to be alive come Monday morning. Unless your sexuality is as deadly as I suspect, in which case, I’m a goner.”
“But,” he protests helplessly. I hug him harder and press my cheek against his solar plexus.
“It’s going to happen, Josh. We just need to get it out of our systems. I think that’s what it’s all been building toward.”
“You sound a little resigned.”
“I can only apologize in advance for the things I’ll do to you.”
He laughs and shivers and pushes me away.
“Look, it’s just one weekend.” I keep my voice light. I think I convince us both with it.
I have to jiggle the driver’s seat forward about a mile, necessitating quite a lot of jerky pelvic thrusts. He slides the passenger seat back without comment and watches me as I struggle. I snap on my seat belt and angle the rearview mirror down about a mile.
“Want a phone book to sit on? How’d you get so small?”
“I shrank in the wash.” I navigate us back to the highway.
“Over halfway there now.” His knee has started jiggling.
“Try to relax.” I’ve never known Josh to be nervous before. I feel him turn to stare at me. It’s all we ever do.
“Why do we do it? Stare at each other?”
“I know why I do it. But you go first.” He thinks I won’t call his bluff, so I do.
“I’m always trying to work out what you’re thinking.” I toss him a triumphant glance, as if to say, See, I can be honest. Sort of.
“I stare because I like looking at you. You’re interesting to look at.”
“Urg. Interesting. Worst compliment ever. My poor shriveled ego.”
Immediately I give myself a little mental slap. Fishing for compliments is a cardinal sin. “Never mind, I was only joking. Hey, look at that old farmhouse. I want to live there.”
“It’s mainly your eyes.” His voice hangs in the space between my shoulder and his. A fine mist of rain has started to grit on the windshield. I grip the steering wheel tighter.
“Those absolutely insane eyes. Eyes like I’ve never seen before.”
“Gee thanks. Insane.” I feel myself smile anyway. “I guess it’s accurate.”
“You called my body insane. I mean it in the same way. It sort of helps you can’t look at me. I can tell you.”
The rain is falling heavier, and I set the wipers on intermittent, trying to focus on the car in front. He switches off the radio, and I don’t know why but it feels like a threat. Like the click of a door, locking me in.
“The most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen.” He says it like he wants me to understand the importance.
I am grateful for the dark because I blush. “Thanks.”
A sigh gusts out of him, and when he speaks again it’s a strip of velvet rubbing against the sensitive shell of my ear. I try to glance at him but he tuts.
“But your little red Valentine mouth . . .”
He trails off and makes a noise partway between a groan and a sigh. Goose bumps sweep up my arms. I bite my lip in case I respond. Maybe the more silent I am, the more he’ll let loose.
“This one time, you wore a white shirt and I could see your bra. It was a colored lace. Maybe, like, pink or pale purple. I could see the faintest outline of it. It was one of the days when we had a huge fight, and you ended up leaving early because you were so angry.”
“That could have been a few occasions. You’ll have to narrow it down further for me.” I wish he wouldn’t remind me of moments like that.
“I have lain in bed so many nights thinking about your colored lace bra under the white shirt. How embarrassing,” he confides, shifting a little in his seat.
When he speaks again, his voice coils into my ear.
“And the dream you once told me about? You were only dressed in sheets, with some mystery guy pressed up against you?”
“Oh, yeah. My stupid dream.”
“I thought maybe you meant it was me in your dream.”
“It was all a lie.” It falls out of my mouth.
“I see,” he says after a long pause. “Well done, I guess. You got me wound up over it.”
I’ve damaged the little momentum he had going and I regret it instantly. He begins to pull himself straighter in the seat.
“I did have the dirtiest dream of my entire life. But it wasn’t like I told you.”
He sinks back down into his seat. I can sense his face is turned away. I can imagine his embarrassment. If he’d told me about a dream and let me believe it was about me, I’d feel ridiculous, carrying his lie in my head.
“The dream was definitely about you, Josh.”
Now it’s my turn to talk like he’s not there. The sound of my own voice sounds scratched-up and husky and the rain is falling harder as I drive. I can see the reflective eyes of a forest animal on the roadside as I bring the car around a long curve.
“I’d gone to bed thinking about you, and how I wanted to mess with you by wearing the short black dress. I wanted you to look at me and . . . notice me. I still don’t know exactly why I wanted to wear that dress. And during the night you showed up in my dream. You, pressing me down, tangling me up in bedsheets.”
He breathes out in a rush. I need to get this out.
“It was something you’d said to me during the day at work. You’d said to me, ‘I’m going to work you so fucking hard.’ Any girl would have an erotic dream after you said that to her. Even one who hated your guts.”
Silence. I press on.
“‘I’m going to work you so fucking hard.’ You said it to me in my dream. And you smiled at me, and I woke myself up on the edge of coming.”
“Seriously,” he manages to say.
“I almost came from the thought of you pressing me down and smiling at me.”