Bee-Cee: Here’s a picture.
And sure enough, there’s a picture of me and Grady standing really close together. My head is turned just right, and he’s bending down at just the right angle so that it looks like he has his tongue down my throat.
I show him the picture. “That’s odd, right? That someone took our picture like that?”
He takes the phone from me and stares at it. “My butt looks terrible in these jeans.” He scratches his chin. “But you and me fucking, that looks pretty good.” He types something into my phone and hands it back to me.
“W
hat did you do?” I look at my messages but see nothing.
“I sent that picture to myself.” He grins at me. “Don’t go sending me stupid memes, please, now that you have my number,” he instructs me with a straight face. “But if you want to send some naked pictures of yourself, by all means, please feel free to use my number any time.” He spears me with a gaze. “Any time. Day. Night. Whenever.” He pauses for a beat. “Mid-afternoon. Partially clothed. Towel wrapped around you. Or even with clothes on.” His eyes drag playfully down my body. “You’re kind of cute when you’re not fussing at me.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “You like me when I fuss at you.”
He narrows his gaze at me. “I kind of do.” He points to the cab of the truck. “Go try it now.”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, slightly annoyed.
I lean into the truck and turn the key, and it fires right up. Then I realize I left my interior light on all day yesterday, so I flip them off. My truck is old enough that it doesn’t have an automatic shut-off. That’s what ran my battery down, but no way am I confessing that to Grady.
“Oh yeah,” he says, “you also have a submissive side. I don’t think I like it.” He waggles his finger in my direction.
I let out an indignant huff. “I’ve never been submissive in my life.”
“Thank heaven for that,” he says. “I hate to fuck a woman who waits for instructions.”
Suddenly he freezes.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so graphic.” He mimes vomit coming out of his mouth. “Sometimes it’s in my head and it just comes out my mouth.”
“Wow,” I say a little breathlessly.
He stares at me. “Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?”
“I don’t have any delicate sensibilities.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” He grins at me as he unhooks the jumper cables and rolls them up, storing them behind the seat of his truck.
“I do not,” I protest. I let my truck run while we stand there.
“You do. You get scared easily.” He jabs his finger at me. “I know you, Clifford,” he says. “I know you better than anybody.”
“I do not get scared easily.” I punch my fists into my hips. “You take that back, Grady Parker. That’s not nice.”
“Do you remember when we were fourteen, and we went to Fright Night? I had to carry you out of the maze over my shoulder like a sack of chicken feed.” He snorts out a laugh. “You were almost catatonic.”
I haven’t thought about that night in years. “We were fifteen,” I correct.
“Fourteen.”
“Fifteen because it was right before we stopped talking.” I stop talking now, just because of that. Nothing seems adequate.
But Grady ignores the tension that’s suddenly between us. “All I remember is that you scared the life out of me when you went limp.”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“Oh, I do…”