The Girl On The Half Shell (18 page)

OK, this is a little frightening and a little bit of a turn-on. And damn, if he doesn’t know it. I stare out the window.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask quietly.

“Back to your apartment. Where did you think I was taking you?”

“Shopping with Nia. You said you didn’t like my top.”

The car rolls to a slow stop. He did take me home. I don’t understand anything that’s happened tonight. And I definitely don’t know what to do now. Do I invite him up, Mr. I don’t fuck fucked up little girls? Do I thank him for seeing me home? Do I kiss him goodnight? Christ, why is this all so hard to figure out? It’s just goodnight. What’s wrong with me that I can’t figure this out?

The car door opens. A blast of cool air rushes in and it makes me feel not at all good. I begin to feel faint and I am definitely aware of my dizziness as I climb awkwardly from the car with the assistance of my blond Nordic driver.

My shifting vision fixes on Alan. God, why does he have to look so good? No, don’t think about that. You’ve got to send him away. Tell Alan goodnight and send him on his way.

“I’d invite you up but you don’t want to fuck.”

Oh shit, those weren’t the words in my head.
The world shifts. Alan grabs me before I fall, and some moments later the world refocuses, I’m in his arms, tucked against his chest, being held close against him. He is firing off rapid words to the driver and I can’t catch any of them. Maybe I could figure out what was happening if the building would stop spinning. Why is he yelling at David?

The doorman pulls back the door, proceeds to the elevator, but Alan waves him off before he enters with us.

“What did you do with your elevator key?” he asks me.

“Key? Oh, it’s in my pocket. Back. Left cheek.”

The metal doors of the elevator slam shut behind us. I can feel every motion in the elevator, the long ride up floor by floor, the feeling of his pulse beneath my cheek, the slow, deep breathing. I curl more closely into him. I can feel the heat of his body as I tuck my cheek against his shoulder and watch the pulse move in his neck. I want to kiss that spot.

“Don’t start anything,” he castigates me.

My face burns. I am kissing him on the neck. I stop and his features are very tense. We are in the apartment foyer. “Are you staying the night?”

“Of course.” He says it stiffly. “I don’t want you vomiting in your sleep. You can die that way.”

I squirm in his arms, wanting now to be put down, but he ignores me and goes into the hallway.

“Where is your bedroom?”

“I’m not letting you to take me to bed.”

“I thought we covered this. I’m not taking you to bed. I’m putting you in it.”

“Oh.” I shrug. I point at a door at the end of the hallway.

His arms fall away and I’m sitting on my bed. I am as close to going to bed with a guy as I have ever been. And I want to. I really, really want to. Being near him is like some voodoo aphrodisiac. My blood is on fire. There is a wild pulse in me. I never feel this way, not ever. It is such a delicious feeling. The agitation in my flesh, the pulsing, the want, the anticipation.

“Where are your t-shirts?” he murmurs as he carefully unties my halter top.

Oh my…Alan Manzone is undressing me. Fantasies do come true. Cold air touches my skin and I am quaking like a leaf. I am topless. The first guy ever to see my unclothed breasts is Alan Manzone. How freaking unbelievable is that? He is so beautiful.

“Where are your shirts,” he repeats quickly.

This is it. I’m finally going to do it. I can’t find my words. I can’t take my eyes off him. My body is raging and he’s unbuttoning my jeans.

He slips them off. He goes to a chest of drawers and removes a white tank top. He pulls it over my head.
No, no, no. This is wrong.

He jerks back the blankets and points at the pillow. He eases me into the bed until I feel the coolness of the sheets behind me. I want him to cover me with his body. He moves back from me, pulling the blankets up around me.

He grabs my hip and turns me onto my side. “Don’t sleep on your back,” he says softly and he switches off the light.

Fully dressed, he lies on the bed behind me, curled into my back. His arm casually snakes over my body. His long fingers rest carelessly against my stomach. I can hear him breathing. I can feel the warmth of him. How am I supposed to sleep with him behind me?

I roll over until I’m on my other side, my face a breath from his on the pillow. The tease of my shirt and the blankets make my breasts ache for his touch. I’m claimed by raging desire, and sleep just isn’t going to happen.

“I can’t sleep. I’m too restless,” I whisper. “Don’t you want to…?” I can’t finish the thought.

He gently strokes my hair, and those worldly black eyes harshly fix on my face. “It’s being fucked up and the aftereffects of being on stage. The combination makes it an adrenaline rush. You get off stage and the first thing you want to do is fuck someone. It’s just the adrenaline rush. It goes away. Go to sleep.”

“I’m too wired. I feel like I could crawl out of my skin.”

His features look strained. “Chrissie, go to sleep.”

I stare up at him. “But I want to. I really, really want to with you.”

I move into him, my lips on his neck and my hands clumsily fumble for the fastening of his pants. His breathing grows deep and ragged. He stops my hands.

“Behave, Chrissie.”

He is gently stroking my flesh. My breathing won’t calm. My body is ruthlessly demanding more and he thinks I’m going to sleep. My fingers search for the buttons on his shirt. My lips find the warm flesh of his jaw. My pelvis lifts upward into him. The taste of him runs wildly through my veins. I want him and there is no power on earth that could make me stop this…I want him…I want him…

Chapter Seven

I come awake slowly and open my eyes to streams of parallel ribbons of sunshine peeking through the half-open slats of the shutters. I am comfortable and warm in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.

I shift my head and my hair falls across my face. Unfocused moments slip by. It is my room, I know that. It is bright and airy and the walls are covered with that hideous pink and white striped wallpaper with the flowered border that I picked out when I was seven.

There is an arm carelessly flung over my hip, gentle yet holding. There is a dark tattoo on the forearm. The fingers are long.

All at once, like a door flying open, my sluggish brain jerks into overdrive and I know two things: I am nude beneath the covers, and that arm and warm body behind me belongs to Alan Manzone.

Oh god, what the hell did I do last night?
There are memories, but they are foggy. Was I drunk? I must have been, but I don’t feel hung over. I don’t feel wretched like I did after clubbing with Rene. How much of what I remember is real? Did I really go to CBGB’s? Did I really run into Vince Carroll? Did I sing on stage? Did Alan really dump Nia and beat up Vince Carroll?

Snippets of the night come to me in greater clarity. I couldn’t possibly have said the things I remember saying to him last night! I couldn’t possibly have all but attacked him sexually!

I cautiously lift the blanket just to confirm that I’m really nude. No, no, no. I don’t know what’s wrong with my memory. But
that
could not have possibly happened. It was a dream. A drunken dream. Only I don’t feel like I’ve been drunk. I feel funny. Spacey.

I cringe. More disjointed minutes come to me. There is a flash in my memory of Alan’s face as he undressed me: angry and worried. Why was he angry? Why was he worried? The last thing I remember is being naked in bed and then nothing. I blush. Did we make love? I don’t think we did. I don’t feel like we did. Wouldn’t I feel it? I frantically look at him. He’s still dressed. My memory stirs. He didn’t want to make love to me. He said no. I offered and he said no.

I want to die!
I would climb from the bed, but I can’t. Even if I could slip free of his arm, I’m naked and there doesn’t look to be any clothes handy. In slow, careful movements so as not to disturb him, I gently turn beneath his bicep so I can see him. I’m surprised he’s still in bed with me, though technically not, just lying atop it.

Why is he still here? Shouldn’t he have slipped out the door long before this? Isn’t that what most guys do? Sneak out before morning? At least that’s what Rene says, and she would know. It would have been better for me if he’d made an escape, because I really don’t know how I’m going to keep from making a fool of myself when he wakes up. How do you face a guy in the morning after he didn’t want to have sex with you?

I need to talk to Rene. I wish I could get out of the bed. I wish he’d just screwed me last night while I was crazy, so I could just be done with my virginity. It wouldn’t make this morning any more nerve-rackingly awful.

The phone rings and I tense. I peek back over my shoulder to find Alan awake. He looks at me, and it’s almost as though he’s studying my face, looking for something, and then feels relieved he doesn’t find it. His eyes become soft, his expression gentle.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“It could be Jack.” He says it nonchalantly.

Does he really expect me to take a call from my father while lying nude in bed with him? OK, technically not
in
bed with him, but my frazzled nerves don’t seem to draw a distinction.

The phone stops ringing. Thank god.

“How do you feel? Any dizziness? Are you sick?”

What kind of questions are those?
Say something, Chrissie. You can’t just stare at him. “I’m OK.”

He looks relieved and smiles. Why does he look relieved?

He brushes back his tousled waves. “Are you hungry?”

What are we playing? Twenty questions? Why do I feel like the questions are more than just questions? Like I’m at the doctor’s office or something…
how are you feeling, Chrissie? Any shortness of breath? Or just a fever today
…Jeez, enough with the third degree. Am I hungry? I’m starving, which is strange since the last time I spent a night getting myself trashed on booze the thought of food made me want to wretch. But, I’m hungry this morning.

I nod.

He pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed. “Would you like me to cook you something or would you rather go out?”

I try desperately not to look flustered. “You don’t need to cook me anything. I usually just have cereal in the morning.”

“Cereal. Sounds charming. No, Chrissie. I’m going to cook you something. You need something substantial in your stomach today.”

My eyes round. There is something strange in all this, but I don’t have a clue what it is. Twenty questions and now meal planning. What difference does it make what I eat?

In a moment, he is rising from the bed and pulling off his shirt. “I expect you to decide what you want by the time I’m done showering.”

With a casual smile, he tosses his shirt onto my chair. I can hardly take in air. Every inch of him has been kissed with perfection. His back and chest are sensual planes of firm, defined, and tanned muscles. Regrettably, there is also quite a bit of ink there, though on him the ink is a turn-on. His tattoos playfully move with his muscles.

My eyes follow him as he moves into the adjacent bathroom. I hear the shower turn on and then the sound of him peeing. He hasn’t closed the door. Clearly, waking up with a strange girl in bed isn’t something uncomfortable for Alan.

The shower door opens and closes. I dart from the bed, pull on the white t-shirt I find on the floor, and frantically grab from the back of the chair my pair of flannel PJ bottoms. Now what do I do? Do I stay in the bedroom or do I make a run for the kitchen?

I curl in the chair where he tossed his shirt and stare at the open bathroom door. There is nothing to panic over. He is being very nice today and definitely as if none of this is any big deal. Deep down I know it isn’t a big deal. It’s perfectly normal, millions of girls are probably just like me, waking up somewhere with a guy they don’t know.

My inner voice taunts me—
But Alan Manzone didn’t want to have sex with you. You are the only girl in America waking up in this circumstance still a virgin.

I shake my head, trying to ignore that thought.

Hugging my legs, I curl into a ball, laying my cheek on my knees. He must like me a little. He’s still here. I pull his shirt from beneath me and toss it away. I don’t know what’s going on, but face it, Chrissie, the guy isn’t interested in you.

I look up and Alan is standing in the open bathroom doorway, hair wet, and a towel hanging loosely from his hips. My heartbeat picks up and I am suddenly very hot everywhere. He frowns.

“Are you sure you feel OK, Chrissie? You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

He’s giving me
that
look, that one I really have grown to hate, the one guys give a girl when they are unsure if something is wrong with them. God, I’m behaving stupidly.

“Of course. I don’t know you well enough to lie,” I say in what I hope is a nonchalant tone.

Alan laughs. I feel each muscle in my body relax in slow increments.

“Do you think Jack would mind if I borrowed something from his wardrobe? I’m not going to have time this morning to swing by my place to change.”

I shake my head, though the thought of seeing Alan dressed in Jack’s clothes is just a touch creepy for me. He leaves my bedroom and I stay curled in my chair.

Minutes pass.

“Where is Rene?”

Alan’s rich timbre fills the apartment effortlessly. I rise from the chair and go into the hallway outside my parents’ bedroom.

“In DC with her dad.”

“For how long?”

“Until a week from Sunday. Her dad is getting married.”

“That can’t be fun for you. Are you going to DC or are you flying home early?”

Alan reappears in the hall, tucking his shirttail into his pants. He’s wearing a pink button down cotton shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and loafers. Somehow he makes Jack’s clothes look casually chic.