Remember When 2 (16 page)

   A few minutes later, I looked over and saw him with his hand across his face, peeking through his fingers as if we were watching a horror flick. He asked, “Hey. Is
Sixteen Candles
still your favorite movie?”

  
Good memory
. “Yeah, one of them. Why?”

   “That girl was in it.”

   I didn’t recognize who he was talking about, but then again, the movie was over fifteen years old. God. Where does the time go?

   I knew he was simply trying to distract me from his film with the persistent chatter, and I watched as he fidgeted around in his seat, mumbling to himself. “Hey Trip?” I asked softly. “The movie looks good to me. Can’t we just watch it for a little while?”

   He lowered his hand in order to aim a sham dirty look my way. “Yeah, fine. I’ll shut up.”

   He reached back into the popcorn bucket, digging around before coming up with another huge handful of my soul.

   If I’m going to be honest here, I should admit that I was still pissed at Devin for ditching me the whole week and missing the engagement party. I’d spoken to him a few times, long enough to learn that his “important conference” had turned into more of a golf week with the other movers and shakers in the media world. Understandably, I knew that the biggest deals took place on the greens, yada, yada, yada, but I had the sneaking suspicion that my fiancé knew full well that he’d been signing up for more “meetings” at Pebble Beach than actual boardrooms. And I childishly used that anger about being so unjustifiably snubbed to let myself
enjoy
my tingling pink parts.

   Trip dove into the popcorn again and I wiped the drool from my lip as I tried to concentrate on the movie
.
He managed to shut up long enough that I actually got really into it. It was a mystery/thriller with a fair share of action, but it also had this whole social-commentary thing going on. It was good.
He
was good. It reminded me of the first time I’d ever seen him act, onstage in the auditorium of our high school, during a stage production of
Guys and Dolls
. Holy crap. I couldn’t believe how good I thought he was
then
. And he was, don’t get me wrong, Trip was really great in that play. I’m sure it was hard for
anyone
back in Norman to forget sitting in the dark of our school’s auditorium, watching him onstage during our senior year spring musical, least of all me. 

   But Trip in
Swayed
? My God. He was
amazing
.

   I was fixated on the screen. So much so that I almost—
almost
—forgot I was actually sitting next to him. It was impossible to ignore the gorgeous hunk of man-meat to my left. It was incredible to watch his performance, seeing yet again how talented the guy truly was. He had mesmerized me back then, and I guessed this time wasn’t any different. Except, back then, I was able to admire his acting from afar. This night, he was sitting right next to me.

   Sitting right next to me… The heat from his body warming mine, our arms jockeying for position on the shared armrest. God, he was just so disgustingly beautiful. Try as I might, I couldn’t ignore that undisputed fact.

   I found myself replaying our kiss from the other afternoon; the way his hands felt around my back or sliding through my hair, the way his mouth had felt on mine. I tried to turn it off. I really did. But my body parts had begun to revolt, my memory spinning out of control.

   My thoughts went in and out of this state, from trying to fully immerse myself in the movie and wanting to fully immerse my hands down Trip’s pants. And just when I’d think I had myself pulled together, he’d go and grab some more popcorn.

   I felt him lean against my arm, his soft breath at my ear—the contact causing a freaking actual physical flip in my belly—when he whispered, “
God, this is torture
.”

   Yes. Yes it most certainly was.

   I turned my head to look at him, there in the dark, in our private little row of the theater, expecting to see him gazing longingly into my face, dying to kiss me like we were a couple of teenagers who only sat in the back of a theater in order to make out.

   Instead, his eyes were focused solely on the screen as he added, “I
hate
watching my own movies.”

  
Grrr.

   I thought that if he had any idea just how much the rest of the world
enjoyed
watching his movies, he might feel a little better. But I got it. Anytime I see myself on videocam, I just want to crawl under the nearest rock and die. But Trip never knew how good he was. At anything. I mean, Jesus. I could cite a few
off
screen performances that still brought a smile to my nether regions.

   “Trip,” I whispered, watching his jaw clenched in profile, the light from the screen giving him an ethereal glow. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but I’m watching a really talented actor give an amazing performance.”

   His eyes were still focused on the screen, a disgusted look on his face. He swiped a hand down that gorgeous mug before fixing those piercing eyes at me. “Lay, I can’t take it. We’ve got to get out of here. This was a bad idea.”

   I was enjoying the movie, but if he wanted to go, I figured his vote on the matter trumped mine. You know, considering it was his movie and all. But I thought he was prematurely evacuating.

   He’d started to shift, clearly intent on standing up, when I stopped his movement with a hand clamped over his. “Trip. Please don’t go. Just give it a few minutes. It’s a really great movie, I swear. Can’t you just try and pretend that’s not you up there? Please?”

   He was sitting at the edge of his chair, in full sprint-mode, but the look on my pleading face must have registered. In one fluid move, he flipped his palm upward, threaded his fingers through mine, and gave a quick squeeze. He took a cleansing breath and eased back into his seat.

   But he didn’t release my hand.

   When I was a little kid, my father always had this great trick whenever I had to get a shot at the doctor’s office. He’d make me grasp his hand as the sadistic nurse was jabbing my skin with her medieval torture device, saying, “Just squeeze my hand for as bad as it hurts.” The psychology of the ritual always worked. Like, I’d be able to lessen any pain I was feeling from the needle by releasing it right into my father’s waiting hand. It always took the edge off, thinking he was taking a portion of the hurt for me.

   That’s kinda what Trip was doing with me right then, trying to transfer his nervousness into my palm, letting me take some of it away for him, and I was glad to do it. Every time he spoke onscreen, he gripped my hand a little tighter, cutting off the flow of blood to my extremities. But still, I took it all. Took everything he had to give me. I took it like a champ.

   The longer I held his hand, the more I noticed the pressure against it slowly decreasing. Before long, we were simply sitting there in the dark, holding hands. I didn’t know if we were crossing over some line of impropriety, because even though hand-holding never counted as cheating in the history of unfaithful couples, my nerve endings would have said otherwise. I became aware of the little kneading motion his thumb was making against the pad of my palm; the deliberate, insistent pressure he was radiating into my skin, and I started to get hot. Not just turned on—I mean, yeah, sure, there was that, obviously—but actually temperature raising, sweaty brow
hot
.

   “Trip. Cut it out.”

   He was doing that Trip Thing, that effortless seduction that he’d always been capable of. Just to torture me further, he turned his peepers up to eleven, looked right into my eyes, and asked faux-innocently, “What?” A smirk accompanied his face to slither out the next response. “Two old pals can’t indulge in a little innocent hand-holding?”

   “There is nothing ‘innocent’ about
this
,” I whispered back through my teeth.

   Maybe
he’d
gotten used to living in a place where words like
fiancée
and
engaged
held no meaning. But I didn’t live in that city. Hell, I didn’t live on that
planet
.

   His voice dropped to a low, gravelly whisper, “Layla. We’re not doing anything
bad
.” He shifted his body more toward mine as his head tipped closer to my face and added, “But of course,
bad
can be arranged.”

   He punctuated his statement with a raised eyebrow and I felt that familiar electric charge travel all the way through my entire nervous system. If Con-Ed could have bottled whatever this guy was packing, Giuliani could’ve kept the whole city off the grid indefintely.

   A current was running through me at his nearness, his smoldering eyes, his thumb still rubbing seductively against my palm.

   He was so bad.
I
was bad… This was very, very bad.

STARDOM

   He gave a chuckle and slunk back to his side of the armrest, which I had begun to think of as Switzerland. Neutral zone. Safe territory.
This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine. You gotta hold the frame
.

   I shook myself out of the stupor and grabbed my soda, taking a huge pull from the straw, trying to cool down. And then I took another. And another.

   And then, the next thing I knew, Trip was leaning over toward me again. I watched in stunned silence as his slacked lips parted, caught a glimpse of his tongue poised at the entrance to his delectable mouth… eyes fixed on the movie
…
Shit
.
He wanted a drink.

   Jesus, just ask next time.

   I placed the straw within his range, and with his eyes never leaving the screen, I watched as he wrapped his perfect mouth around it and took a sip. I
may
have let my knuckle brush lightly against his bottom lip, but I regret nothing. I was spinning from the feel of his thumb
still
massaging my palm, and my brain was not my own at that moment.

   And yet, it never occurred to me to let go of his hand.

   I put the cup back into its holster before I could lose my grip and send it spilling down the length of the theater. I expelled a shakier-than-I-would-have-liked sigh and then noticed Trip’s mouth curling up into a smirk.

   He
knew
. That sonofabitch knew exactly the effect he was having on me, exactly the reaction he was provoking from my shattered insides. Was he thinking about the kiss we’d shared the other day? Yes, of course he was. I knew
I
was incapable of thinking about little else. The way his lips felt against mine, the pure, unadulterated lust he was able to provoke in me. The way I’d melted willingly into his strong arms, succumbing to the spell he’d so easily put me under.

   Just to throw some salt in my wounds, he shifted in his seat in a way that left no doubt about his discomfort. But so what. If he was dealing with a case of blue balls, it was his own damned fault.
He
started this.

   And apparently, he was going to continue it.

   At first, when I felt his knee brush against mine, I didn’t think anything of it. An accidental brushing. But then, he allowed his knee to
press
against mine, briefly, intentionally... giving me a “kiss”. I almost died right then and there.

   “Trip...” I warned.

   I hazarded a look in his direction, saw that he was leaning away from me, his cast arm propped up on the armrest to his left, palm cradling his chin. Again, his eyes remained fixed on the screen, but his lips were trying to contain a smirk.

   “I know what you’re doing.
You
know what you’re doing. Please stop.”

   He turned his face toward me, his hand now smooshing his rested cheek. “And just what is it that I’m doing, Lay?”

  
Ummm, threatening to give me a heart attack?

   “Just because
you’re
trying not to watch the movie, doesn’t mean you can play games and distract
me
from it.”

   His eyes were set to ‘stun’. “Is that what I’m doing?
Distracting
you?”

   I ignored the laserlike zap I received in my belly. Against my will, I let out and answered with a heavy sigh, “
Yes
.”

   That seemed to entertain him appropriately. His shoulders shook, silently laughing to himself while I berated
my
self for letting him see just how distracted I truly was.

   He leaned back toward my direction to add in the most dangerous, panty-dropping whisper, “See, because I
thought
what I was doing was
seducing
you.”