Page 50 of Shade
He tosses me a sly grin, his eyes on counting his money. “Gotta have money for the hos.”
“You make me sick.”
He raises his eyes to mine, then back to the money. “Yet we’re here so you can stalk your celebrity crush.”
Goddamn him and his facts.
Two minutes pass and Tom looks confused. We’re still standing in line and he’s still counting his one dollar bills, his third time through.
I snatch the money from him. “It’s a good fucking thing you can sing because your math skills are ridiculous.”
AFTER WE GET our beer, we’re seated in our front row seats near a jump. I’m buzzing with nerves, barely able to sit still.
Tom isn’t so enthused. Look at him. He looks bored, doesn’t he?
“Why’d you make me come here?” he finally asks during opening ceremonies.
“I didn’t want to come by myself.”
There’s something in his eyes, an unmasked question. “So what’s your plan?” Tom lifts his beer to his lips, his eyes watchful of me over his cup.
“Mila said she’d talk to Carl and see if she could get me in the room.”
“And then what?”
What is it to him? Does he even have to ask? I’m pretty sure he knows what goes on when two people are alone in a hotel room, but yet he’s askingthen what?
Just when I question if he’s truly dumb, he asks shit like this. Tom really is dumb. You saw his math skills. Not convinced? He once asked me what season comes after spring. I honestly don’t think he graduated high school. I think teachers just passed him based on his looks and they didn’t know what to do with the adorable troublemaker.
But it has me thinking about the “then what.” I draw in a breath. Do you see the way my cheeks tint? “I’ll fuck his brains out.”
“Lucky bastard,” Tom mumbles, as if he thinks I won’t hear him.
“Really?” I lift my own beer to my lips and watch him curiously.
“Would you believe me if I told you that you were the best I ever had?” he asks, drawing my attention once again by the intensity of his tone.
“You meanthis year?”
He shakes his head, taking another swig of his beer. “No. I meanever.”
“No, probably not.”
He hesitates. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says.
Do you see his face? What’s he thinking? This isn’t Tom Chase.
Wanting to draw the conversation away from that particular topic, I fan myself and yank at my shirt. “Jesus Christ. Are your balls sweating as much as my tits? It’s fucking hot.” Seattle doesn’t get very hot in the summer, but would you believe it, tonight it’s ninety-six degrees at nine o’clock at night. Ridiculous. All it comes down to is I have really sweaty tits and it feels like there’s a stream running through my cleavage.
My question catches Tom off guard. He laughs, a loose sound that turns into a cough, his grip on his beer tightening. “Why don’t you stick your hands down my shorts and see for yourself.”
Just so you know, I don’t.
