Undecided (17 page)

But I
want
so much more than this, and if the increasingly frenzied intensity of our
kisses is any indication, so does he. My heart is pounding as I unzip my jacket
and shove it over my shoulders. Crosbie opens his eyes, the whites just visible
in the darkness. “You want—” He doesn’t finish the sentence before I’m kissing
him again, undoing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. I scrape my nails
across his chest and he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns as best he can in the
close quarters. I want to straddle him, fuck him, ride him, but there’s no room
for both of us in the driver’s seat.

“Nora,”
he gasps.

“I want,”
I breathe against his lips.

“You…” He
looks around quickly, assessing the situation. “All right. Hang on.” He lifts
my hips so he can raise himself over the gear stick and slide into my seat
instead. He reclines the back and I come down over him, hands and lips and heat
everywhere.

“You’ve
gotta get these off,” he mutters, fingers tangling in the waistband of my
jeans. I mumble incoherently as I try to kick off my sneakers without kneeing
Crosbie in the crotch, then we both work my jeans and panties down my legs
until I get one foot free to properly straddle him.

He keeps
his eyes open, locked on mine, as he unbuttons his own jeans and frees his
erection. It’s too dark for me to fully appreciate it, but I see his arm move
and know he’s stroking himself. He’d done this last time, too, and I never even
got to touch.

“Let me,”
I whisper against his lips. My hand replaces his and we both groan. He’s thick
and hot and hard, everything I want and need. Even before he slips his hand
between my legs I’m moaning, and the stretch of his fingers inside me, teasing,
preparing, makes me want to seize up and explode. It’s freezing outside but I
feel sweat on my back, see it beading on Crosbie’s temple, reflecting in the
tiny bit of moonlight that filters in.

“Let me
get a condom,” he grunts, straightening up to reach into the glove box. He gets
one open and rolled on in record time and moments later I’m slowly easing him
in. My breath catches at the feel, perfect and satisfying. An enormous relief
after the tension at dinner. My muscles go weak and my thighs shake as I try
not to impale myself too quickly, shuddering when he’s finally buried and I can
catch my breath.

“Nora,”
he murmurs, cupping my face and kissing me. Our chests press together and even
through my shirt I can feel the heat of his skin, the rapid thud of his heart.
He kisses me deeply, wetly, like it means something, and though I wanted to
fuck him, my body has other ideas. Instead I shift and slide slowly, the
movement slick with friction and heady arousal, reaching places I didn’t even
know existed.

 
Crosbie strokes the side of my face, my ribs,
my back, my ass. He guides me gently, the pace increasing, the sound of skin on
skin soon filling the car, drowning out our gasping breaths.

I come
first, thighs locking as I grind against him, dragging out every ounce of
pleasure. His fingers dig into my ass and I see him gritting his teeth, trying
not to move. I sag against his chest and he correctly interprets it to mean I’m
done, then lifts me slightly and slams his hips up, driving into me a dozen
more times before he cries out, the sound smothered in my throat.

Eventually
I blink, breathe, move. I’m collapsed over Crosbie Lucas, in the front seat of
his car, on a public street, my bare ass on full display for whomever should
walk by. And I really don’t care.

“Fuck,
Nora,” he groans.

“I don’t
think my legs work.”

“That was
better than the last time, and I thought last time was the best thing to ever
happen to me.”

I smile,
exhausted, thrilled, flattered. “Same here.”

He meets
my eye. “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
He grins. I lift myself off and we spend
the next couple of minutes trying to get dressed and repositioned in the
cramped front seat. Eventually I’m back in place with my pants and shoes on, my
jacket half zipped, and my hair retied in what I hope is an
I-didn’t-just-have-sex ponytail.

Crosbie,
on the other hand, has an incorrectly buttoned shirt, even more tousled hair,
and what might be a hickey on the side of his neck. With the heated part of the
night over, the cold air quickly creeps back in and I shiver. Crosbie reaches
over to zip up my jacket to my chin. “Good night, Nora.”

“Good
night, Crosbie.”

He leans
over to kiss me, then pauses, touching his neck. “Did you give me a hickey?”

“I’m very
sorry.”

He laughs
and presses his lips to mine. “Classy.”

I gesture
to our surroundings. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“I’ll see
you soon.”

I clamber
out of the car, hurrying up the sidewalk to the apartment. I climb the stairs
and unlock the door, turning to wave as Crosbie pulls away from the curb and
watches until I’m inside. I toe off my sneakers and head up to the living room
where Kellan sits on the couch, one leg propped up on the coffee table, a bag
of melting ice draped over his ankle. He’s alone.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He
doesn’t look away from the game. I think he’s trying to blow up a sewer.

I’m
nearly in my room when I hear a loud bang, then silence, then my name. I turn
slowly to see Kellan setting down the controller, his game paused. “Can I ask
you a question?”

I try not
to look guilty. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Don’t
take this the wrong way, but your friend Marcela…is there any chance she’s
crazy?”

I nod
somberly. “Yes.”

He purses
his lips. “Figures.”
A pause. “Is she
good in the sack?”

“Kellan,
that is not a thing I would know.”

“Worth a
shot.”

“What
makes you ask?” I say. “About the crazy thing?”

He
scratches his chin. “We were texting for a bit, and I thought things were going
pretty good, then she asked if I had a turkey recipe.”

I cough
out a laugh. “Do you?”

“Of
course I do. I’m the youngest of four boys. Who do you think got stuck helping
in the kitchen?”

I cover
my mouth. “You didn’t tell her that.”

“Why not?
It’s the truth.”

“But you
thought she was crazy!”

“She’s
hot, Nora. That makes up for a lot of things.”

I shake
my head. “This is a mistake, Kellan. And if you end up with a broken heart, I
don’t want to hear about it.”

He draws
a cross on his chest. “I promise I won’t say a word. And speaking of broken
hearts, where were you tonight?”

“The
library.”

Kellan’s not fooled. “Your bag’s in your room.
So are your books.”

“Well, I
was just…reading.”

“Yeah.
Somebody’s dick.”

“Kellan!”
I snatch a stray ketchup packet from the breakfast bar and hurl it at his head.
It smacks into the wall and falls behind the couch as he roars with laughter.

When Open
Mic Night at Beans rolls around a couple weeks later, Kellan is still focused
on the subject of my “reading partner.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Kellan nudges me hard
enough I lose my balance and have to catch myself on the back of a chair before
I fall over. He’s referring to a middle-aged man in a blue suit with an anchor
embroidered on the breast. I’m pretty sure he’s the father of one of the
performers. And a ship’s captain.

“No!” I
snap, shoving him away. “He’s not here.”

“He’s
definitely here.” He folds his arms across his chest and surveys the dim room
dramatically. “And I’m going to find him.”

I roll my
eyes. “If you say so.” To date he’s considered all of my professors, our
eighty-year-old neighbor Ted, and three of the line cooks at the Chinese place
on campus, but he’s never once contemplated Crosbie.

Speaking
of which. “Have you seen Crosbie?” I ask, frowning as I peer around the crowded
space. “He’s not up for a bit, but…”

Kellan
pulls his phone out of his pocket and squints at the display. No missed calls
or texts.

“Do you
not have any friends?” I inquire politely.

He makes
a face at me. “Shut up. You know who I’m ‘friendly’ with at the moment.”

Now I
make a face. “Spare me.”

Kellan
and Marcela have some sort of painfully immature sixth grade-style relationship
going on. They text, talk on the phone late at night and go on group dates, but
they never actually seem to…do anything. I know why Marcela’s reluctant to get
physical—she’s into Nate and this thing with Kellan is simply to make him
jealous. But while she’s relieved not to have to pry his hands out of her pants
at every turn, she’s equally perplexed as to why she doesn’t have to.

“And here
comes my ‘friend’ now,” Kellan murmurs, putting away his phone and grinning
over my head. He’s so handsome when he smiles. Hell, he’s handsome all the
time. And now, in the muted lighting, wearing a white button-up shirt and
fitted dark trousers, he looks like the world’s most handsome waiter. But when
he slings an arm around Marcela’s shoulder and kisses her cheek, I feel
nothing. Not an ounce of envy. Because this secret, unexpected, and extraordinarily
hot thing Crosbie and I have going leaves no room for jealousy. It’s that good.

It’s not
good enough to block the death rays Nate’s shooting from behind the counter,
however. I peer over my shoulder and widen my eyes in warning. Celestia is
here, after all, fur coat draped in her lap, pretentious drink in hand, ready
to watch the show in the prime front row seat Nate reserved for her. The second
the track team filed in and filled the remaining seats you could see him
kicking himself, but there wasn’t much he could do save drag her chair to the
back row and pretend it offered a better view.

As much
as I’d love to remain immersed in their petty dramas, I’m working tonight—so is
Marcela, though it’s hard to tell the way she’s running her fingers through
Kellan’s hair and gazing up at him adoringly, doing a pretty great job
convincing anyone who’s looking that they’re hooking up left, right, and
center, when in fact they’ve only kissed twice, and neither time “with tongue.”
This is Marcela’s recounting; Crosbie confirmed the details when he spoke to
Kellan, and we both agreed we didn’t want to know anything more.

My phone
buzzes against my leg and I know it’s Crosbie. “I’m going to grab more
supplies,” I say to absolutely no one, since they’re all fixated on each other.
The low murmur of voices is amplified in the acoustic space, and though we’re
at the maximum number of occupants allowed by the fire code, a hundred and
thirty people manage to sound like a thousand.

I grab my
phone out of my apron pocket and shoulder my way through the swinging door into
the kitchen. We’re busy enough that Nate asked our part-time dishwasher to come
in for the night, and two other staff members are hurriedly filling trays with
freshly made donuts and brownies. The air is warm and smells like coffee and
sugar, but I won’t find privacy or quiet in the kitchen, so I head into the
dark, narrow hall that leads to the fire exit.

It’s
colder and quieter here, and I shiver as I rest against the wall and pull up
Crosbie’s text.
Come out back
, it reads. Assuming he’s actually here,
“out back” means the alley, which is currently coated in a thin layer of snow.

I march
to the end of the hall and push open the door, the rush of cold November air
making me shiver. Fat snowflakes fall, gleaming in the yellow glare of
emergency lights that showcase our stuffed trash cans and recycling bins.
“Crosbie?” I whisper.

“What
took you so long?”

I jump.
He’s standing behind the door, so I have to step outside and close it to see
him. “What are you doing out here?” I fold my arms around my middle. Beneath my
polka dot apron I’m wearing dark skinny jeans and a long-sleeve top, neither of
which are warm enough for this.

He rubs
his hands over his face and I frown. He looks pale and sick. “Crosbie?” I put a
hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” He’s wearing a black dress shirt and pants; no
magician’s hat and cape, despite my pleas. He’s trembling a little bit, and I
don’t think it’s because of the cold. I press the back of my hand to his
forehead—his skin is hot and clammy.

“Do you
have the flu?”

He shakes
his head miserably. “Stage fright.”

Huh. For
a guy who’s very much at home in the spotlight, be it at parties, on the track
team, or just strolling around campus, this is very unexpected. But instead of
offering an unhelpful “
Whaaat?
” I say, “Everybody gets nervous. It’s
normal.”

“I
haven’t been able to concentrate all day. I just keep picturing this whole
thing…failing.”

“You’re
not going to fail.” He’d shown me a few of the tricks he planned for tonight,
and they were great. “You’re good at this, Crosbie. And everyone’s going to
love you.”

“Everyone?”
He looks terrified. “How many people is ‘everyone?’”

I
hesitate. “Um…a few.”

“More
than twenty?”
“How long have you been back here?” The
shop has been full for close to an hour as everyone showed up early to claim
seats and snacks.

His head
falls back and he groans unhappily. “A while.”

A muted
buzzing sound interrupts and we both pull out our phones. Crosbie’s is lit up
with a new message.

“Oh,
Jesus,” he mutters.

“What is
it?”

He shows
me the screen. It’s a picture of a bunch of hands gripping wrists, forming a
solid circle. “Kellan,” he explains. “He’s been sending me supportive messages
all day.” He glares at the screen. “This one says, ‘We’ve got you, brother.’”

I try not
to laugh, but fail completely. “It’s sweet,” I protest when he glowers at me.

“It’s
horrifying. How many of them are here?”

I don’t
pretend not to know he’s referring to his track teammates. “I’m not sure,” I
hedge. “A couple. The front row.”

“Oh my
God.”

“They
want to see you succeed! It’s nice.”

“I can’t
do it.”

“You
can.”

“Why did
I let you talk me into this?”

“For the
same reason you showed me the tri—the illusions. Because deep down you want to
do this, you just needed a reason.”

“And
you’re that reason?”

I arch a
brow. “Is that not enough?”

He opens
his mouth and closes it. “Of course you’re enough,” he says finally.

Now
my
phone buzzes with a text from Kellan.
I can’t find Crosbie.

I show Crosbie. “What do you want me
to tell him?” My frozen finger hovers over the reply button and I shiver.

“Shit,”
Crosbie says, yanking open the door and grabbing my shoulder to steer me
inside. “Why didn’t you say you were cold?”

“Why
wasn’t it obvious? It’s snowing!”

The door
slams shut, cocooning us in marginally warmer air and even less light.

“Look,” I
say, “if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. People bail all the
time. Just go home and say you fell asleep. Or you got the date wrong. Or you
have the flu. I’ll back you up.”

He stares
at me for a long time. “Thank you, Nora.”

“You’re
really going to bail?”

“No, I’m
going to do this. And if it goes epically wrong, I’m blaming you.”

“That
sounds totally mature and reasonable.”

“Where
are you going to be?”

“When?
When you’re performing?”

“Yeah.”

“On the
floor. Serving, watching, whatever. I’m working, remember?”

He nods.
“Right.”

“Do you
want me to watch? I could not watch, if you prefer. I’ll duck down behind the
counter and cover my ears.”

“No,” he
says. “Be there.”

I lean in
to kiss his cheek. “Promise.”

“Hey.” He
catches my chin and backs me into the wall. “Don’t be a tease.”

“I was
being encouraging.”

“Be
more
encouraging,” he suggests, before he kisses me. Really kisses me. So intense
and thorough I have to wonder if this whole “stage fright” thing was just a set
up to get me back here, hand inching its way under my shirt, a shameless grope
in the name of consolation.

“Hey!” I
finally pull away, snagging his inquisitive hand. “I’m working. And you’re up
soon.”

He nudges
me with his hips. “I’m kind of up right now.”

“Good
luck out there. Not that you’ll need it.”

He smirks
and reaches behind my ear, pulling out a quarter. “Of course I don’t need it.”

* * *

He really
doesn’t, as it turns out. He does the handful of tricks—illusions—I’ve already
seen, plus a few more that are totally new to me. After forty-five minutes of
slam poetry, acoustic song covers, and two Salt-N-Pepa dance tributes, he’s a
welcome change of pace.

I hover next
to Kellan at the end of the second row and smile over his shoulder when I see
him recording the whole performance on his phone. Crosbie glances at me from
time to time, but as he settles into the show you can see his nervousness abate
and his confidence grow. The audience eats it up, laughing when they’re
supposed to, oohing and ahhing appropriately. At the end of the set he gets a
standing ovation and blushes beet red as he gathers his things, offers an
awkward bow, and rushes off the stage.

“That was
great!” Kellan exclaims. Marcela’s seated to his left and he nudges her.
“Wasn’t that great?”

Marcela’s
watching Nate and Celestia in the front row. “So great,” she echoes
distractedly. But when Nate takes the stage to introduce the next act, she
suddenly turns to beam up at Kellan, knowing they now have an audience of one.
“You must be so proud.”

I try not
to gag and maneuver through the crowd. I saw Crosbie disappear down the short
hall that leads to the bathrooms, and I shoulder my way through the throng in
the same direction just as a blonde in a tasseled vest takes the stage to do
her best Jewel impression.

The
hallway is empty when I get there, both doors closed. I knock cautiously on the
men’s room door, figuring I can just say I need to refill the soap if there’s
anyone other than Crosbie inside. After a second the door opens and his head
pokes through, brow furrowed.

“Did you
knock?” he asks, looking confused.

“I wasn’t
sure if you were alone.”

“Sure
am.” He pulls open the door and gestures me inside. I’ve been in here before,
of course, but it’s not exactly my favorite place to be. It’s a typical coffee
shop bathroom, with two stalls, two urinals, and two sinks. It’s clean and
cramped and smells like bleach.

“Feeling
better?” I ask. Now that I’m in here I can see his face and hairline are wet,
like he’d just splashed them with water. I watch as he grabs a couple of paper
towels from the dispenser and dries off as best he can.

“Yeah,”
he answers after a second. “I’m glad it’s over.”

“Are you
glad you did it? Because I’m glad. You were great.”

He meets
my eye in the mirror, then smiles. He’s so hot when he smiles, all white teeth
and tiny creases around his eyes. He looks like a mischievous little kid who
knows he’s never going to stop being bad. “I’m glad,” he says, tossing the
paper towel in the trash and turning to stalk toward me. “And I’m really
fucking amped.”

“Amped?”
I echo, reading his intentions clearly. And quite eagerly.

“Amped,”
he repeats. He backs me into the door and reaches down to flip the lock. His
lips are a millimeter away from mine when someone rattles the knob, finds it
locked, then knocks loudly.

“Hello?
Cros?”