Starlight (Peaches Monroe) (Volume 2) Paperback – September 2, 2013 (19 page)

Keith laughed. “You’re a tattle-tale.”

“No. I just thought she was the greatest mom ever and wanted everyone to know.” I stared into his eyes, trying to memorize his face in the dim light, painfully aware of how easy it is to forget. “Both of my parents are great, actually. They’d probably get along well with yours, except for the cayenne pepper thing. That’s weird.”

“I’m sure your family has some secrets.”

I laughed, my voice high-pitched. “Well, there is this one thing.”

“Mmm?” His eyebrows tented up with intrigue.

“My mother has banned my father’s hideous recliner from the living room, so he lugged it all the way up to the attic, along with a beer fridge. There’s no bathroom up there, and my mother suspects he’s going in a bucket and throwing it out the window.”

Keith started laughing, rolling on the bed and holding his sides.

“That’s not all,” I said. “Back before I came along, they paid the deposit for our house with money my mother got from getting rogered by a movie star.”

Wheezing with laughter, Keith slapped the bed between us. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”

“Excuse me?”

He stopped laughing and wiped at his eye. “You and your mom both slept with movie stars.”

“But I didn’t get paid for it.”

“You should have. That guy is a serious Grade A Douchebag. And his acting is terrible. He’s always—” Keith turned his head sideways and gave me a super-intense brooding stare. With his dark hair and high cheekbones, he did an alarmingly accurate Drake Cheshire.

“This isn’t funny,” I said, now feeling sweaty and claustrophobic in the bed with Keith.

“Look at me, Peaches. It is funny. It’s
damn
funny. And making fun of our exes is an important part of the rebound experience.”

“The rebound experience? Please, Keith, in all your infinite wisdom, tell me more about what emotions I should be feeling.”

He wiggled his way backward, to the edge of the bed, then lifted his arms and rested his hands behind his head in a relaxed pose. He looked quite pleased with himself, as though he’d helped me with some spiritual breakthrough. The nerve.

“He still has power over you,” Keith said. “Making fun of him takes that power away.”

I gave him stink-eye for a minute, trying to hear what he was saying without rushing to judgment, and without smothering him under my pillow.

“I’d make fun of your ex, Tabitha,” I said. “Except I do a lousy impression of skinny-ass-having, ex-boyfriend-fucking, Las-Vegas-slutting, bag-of-hair-best-friending, meek little anorexic whores. Mainly because of my cheekbones.”

He nodded slowly, opening his mouth with a crisp smacking sound. “I deserved that.”

I covered my mouth. “No, you didn’t. I’m being a monster, and I don’t know why.”

He studied me for a moment. “You’re good at protecting yourself, like a momma bear. It’s an admirable quality.”

“Hmm.” That sounded like an insult wrapped in a compliment, or vice versa.

“You have many admirable qualities. You’re confident, and brave, and lots of things.”

“Keep going.” My irritation was subsiding.

“You’re the whole package,” he said. “You’re real, and you have more class than most girls, even if you do swear like a truck driver sometimes.”

I adjusted my position in the bed, squeezing my breasts together to put them on display. “Plus don’t forget my peaches.”

“You’re good at changing the subject, too.”

“Kiss me,” I said. “Kiss me like my lips are on fire and you need to smother the flames.”

He grinned. “You look so cute right now, I want to get my phone and take a picture.”

“No time! Kiss me like I’m the judge of a kissing contest.”

He laughed, but still wouldn’t go for the kiss.

I meant to say something original, something funny, but I found myself using the lines from Dalton’s movie script—the lines I’d been so pissed that he’d used on me.

“Kiss me like I’m bad for you. Kiss me like I’m dangerous.”

His expression serious, Keith whispered, “You are truly a dangerous woman.” He leaned in and kissed me with an urgency that caused my pulse to race.

As we kissed, our hands found new places to hold on, and we rolled back and forth, trading top and bottom with every breath.

I knew using the movie lines was wrong, though I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t shake the feeling Keith and I were in some sort of war, and by manipulating him with words that weren’t my own, I had won this battle.

Thursday morning, a gorgeous, raven-haired man tucked the blankets around me.

Groggily, I said, “Why are you putting me in a cocoon?”

“Keep sleeping.”

“What time is it?”

“Early. You sleep in and relax. I have to take care of some gardening business, but I’ll be back by dinner.”

“Take your pants off and come back to bed.”

He climbed on top of me and ground his hips against mine through the blankets, growling sexily. “Don’t tempt me, woman.”

I broke my legs free of the blankets and wrapped them around him.

“Just a quickie,” I panted.

He reached down under the covers with one hand and stroked between my legs.

“Oh, fuck,” I said, though it was more of a plea.

He nudged one finger, then two, inside me and stroked in and out. I closed my eyes, bit my lip, and whimpered for more.

“I really have to leave,” he whispered.

“Never leave.”

“I’ll be back before you know it. All day, I want you to think about me touching you.” He stroked in and out more firmly with his fingers, moving my whole body. “Just like this.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Then he pulled away and left me aching for more.

I heard him leave, and I reached down between my legs to rub myself the way he had, but it wasn’t the same, and I gave up in frustration.

After a few minutes of angrily devising ways to torture him, I realized I was sleepy, and had only slept for four hours. The ache in my pelvis was annoying, but sleep was a good consolation prize.

I rolled over and went back to my dream, where I was putting flower petals back onto flower stalks, because I was a mouse inside a video game. (It really made sense at the time, and I was so close to getting to the next level.)

When I did finally roll out of bed, it was nearly lunch time. Keith had left me a spare key for the apartment, a note saying he’d be back by four o’clock, plus a fifty-dollar bill for groceries.

I looked at the money and remembered the night I’d ordered pizza with grocery money my parents had left behind. That whole night was… a dark spot in my memory. How could I have been so stupid? I still felt like the same person, so I had to assume I was still capable of colossal idiocy.

I folded up his money and tucked the bill back under the corner of a coaster on the coffee table. I had to laugh that he thought I couldn’t pay for groceries, but I truly appreciated the gesture.

Leaving money was just such a Keith thing to do. The guy was the nurturing type. He knew how to grow plants, and he’d generously coached me my first day of modeling. Even the smiley face on his note made me feel loved.

I snapped a photo with my phone, just because the still life was cute: the note, the spare apartment key, and the bright red apple he’d set where I couldn’t miss the suggestion.

I looked out the window as I planned my day. The weather was exactly like the previous five days—perfectly nice.

I put on a casual sundress I’d brought with me. The dress had thicker straps that covered my bra straps, and my mother owned the same one, but hers was blue and mine was green. One time we went out in our matching dresses and a man asked if we were twins. My mother has told that story at least twenty times—that I know of.

I sent her a quick message to check in, then I left the apartment on my quest.

My main mission was to pick up ingredients for making dinner for me and Keith. I stopped by the coffee shop I’d been to before, and had my mocha and danish as I read the newspaper. As I sat there, a number of homeless guys came in and either used the washroom noisily, asked for a free coffee, stuffed their pockets with sugar packets from the mixing station, or all of the above.

I tried not to gawk at all of this like a small-town hick, but it was difficult not to.

We have a few people in Beaverdale who roam around with no fixed address, but it’s not from simple poverty, as it seemed to be with some people in the big city. Back home, there’s a woman everyone calls Sweet Caroline, and she uses felt pens to draw on her makeup, with big red circles on her cheeks. Some of the little kids think she’s a clown and smile and wave at her, which I think is part of the reason why she does it, but I’ll never know, because she doesn’t talk to anyone. She hums, smiles, and shoplifts, and most people around town turn a blind eye and call it charity.

After my leisurely breakfast, I found the nearest grocery store and picked up everything for Salad Niçoise. I’d been craving one ever since seeing it on the restaurant menu the day before. It’s similar to a Cobb Salad, but with tuna, green beans, and red-skinned baby potatoes, instead of chicken and whatnot.

I’d just gotten back to the apartment and set the groceries on the table when my phone started vibrating with messages. I kicked off my sandals and got ready for a conversation with Shayla, but it wasn’t her.

Adrian Storm:
Why does Gordon keep rocks in the drawer?

Ah, it was my new coworker. I’d hoped Amy would have come to her senses and left those sheep-fuckers to come back to Peachtree Books, but apparently there’d been no such luck. Adrian was there, getting into all my shit and messing shit up by the sound of it.

Me:
Those rocks are to remind you to put the cash drawer by the door at night when you lock up.

Adrian:
That makes exactly zero sense. Try again.

Me:
We’ve had a couple break-ins over the years, but none since we started putting the cash drawer by the door.

Adrian:
Should I take the money out of the tray before I put it by the door? Because if I don’t, that seems like it’s just encouraging the break-ins.

Me:
You put the money in the safe.

Adrian:
I know. I’m just pulling your leg. How’s LA? I hear you’re shacked up with some underwear model. Shayla told me.

Me:
I’ll be back there Wednesday. Don’t mess with my organization there. I have shit exactly where it needs to be.

Adrian:
This store is like Lady Town. I just hang out and talk to women all day. I think I might start menstruating.

Me:
Don’t. Menses is totally overrated.

Adrian:
If I start a garage band, our name is going to be Menses Is Overrated.

Me:
There probably is one already. That sounds familiar.

Adrian:
I bet there is a band, and those fuckers have really awesome mustaches, too.

Me:
I hate it when other people take your best ideas straight from your brain.

Adrian:
That’s why you need to wear a tin foil hat. I’ll make you one. I like to use the tin foil to line a regular hat. Nobody needs to know you’re blocking them.

Me:
I never was a hat person. It would be a shame to cover up such nice hair.

Adrian:
You do have great hair. You always did. And it smelled nice.

Me:
I always wanted to get cornrows.

Adrian:
I used to braid my Barbie’s hair. That’s right. I had a Barbie when I was a kid. She fought alongside G.I. Joe.

Me:
I bet she kept his tent warm at night.

Adrian:
Now that you mention it…

Me:
Anything else work-related? I should probably let you go if you have customers.

Adrian:
Nope, it’s just me and the books. I did have someone come in earlier and ask if I’d read all of the books in the entire store.

Me:
We should keep a baseball bat behind the counter for people like that. Not a real one, but one of those Nerf ones, made of foam.

Adrian:
The boss man Gordon said violence isn’t part of the Peachtree Books experience. Not even cartoon violence.

Me:
What is cartoon violence, anyway? Is it dropping an anvil on a road runner?

Adrian:
I should know this because I’m the guy?

Me:
You are a guy.

Adrian:
And you’re a girl.

Me: :-(

Adrian:
I remember now, how I used to say that to you all the time back in high school. I’m sorry I was such a tool.

Me:
That’s okay.

Adrian:
And of course you were in love with me so bad, and then I kept asking you for advice with Chantalle Hart.

Eep!

I dropped the phone on the table and pushed my chair back. Adrian just mentioned my being in love with him in high school, as casually as you’d mention someone’s experimental phase with spiral perms.

The phone buzzed with another message, but rather than endure more horror, I switched it off.

Stupid Adrian and his big, stupid mouth.

I bustled around the kitchen, getting the water boiling for the red potatoes and green beans.