Michael.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I say, shaking my head. That must be all Michael needs because he walks over just as Mr. Inebriated is saying, “C’mon, just one drink.”
“She doesn’t drink,” Michael says, staring icily at the guy before turning his back on him and stepping between us, a human barricade. The guy looks back at Michael and eventually shrugs and walks away.
Michael and I stare at each other hungrily and the air between us becomes charged and I am suddenly more pumped and alive and energized and over-oxygenated and in someplace above earth I’ve never been to. He does that to me.
Every. Time. He’s. Near. Me.
Does he feel it too?
“Why are you back here?” he asks, a trace of annoyance in his voice.
“The beautiful people.”
A smirky smile. It disappears as fast as it appeared.
“You never called,” I say.
“Right.”
“You didn’t want to?”
His eyes meet mine and he looks away first. “I didn’t want to,” he says robotically, looking back at me with a steady stare.
“Liar.”
It’s like someone else is using my mouth to talk—only it’s not someone else, it’s me. Only it’s me on steroids or truth serum or a talking drug, and I don’t know how it happens but it does whenever I’m around him, because his refusal to say what’s on his mind forces me to compensate, if that makes sense. But it probably doesn’t because nothing happening between us makes sense or is logical or normal and I am clearly out of my safety zone.
“What is it with you?” he says, shaking his head, his face softening slightly.
Always the guarded cop talk with the subtext.
“I wake up at night thinking about you, Michael.”
Shut up, Gia, just shut up , I tell myself. But my mouth refuses to listen.
He narrows his eyes, his guarded stare saying he’s trying to figure out where to go with this, but I don’t need cop talk to tell me I’ve struck a nerve. He can’t hide the look in his eyes that tells me what I want to know.
“So you do too.”
“This is fucked up, Gia,” he hisses. “Can’t you see that?”
I feel like when I’m at school watching a fencing match. All the swordplay, the maneuvers, the delicate dance of back and forth, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, until finally—zap—one player scores a direct hit and the air reverberates with the electric buzz of the scoreboard as it lights up.
I feel it inside when he says my name, everything shifting into overdrive. I’m not the “you” in the car anymore. I’m a flesh-and-blood girl with a name, a name that plays in his head like a song you keep singing over and over and can’t get free of, at least that’s what I’m thinking is happening unless I’m blind and all wrong.
“It’s not, Michael. It’s real.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It’s wrong.”
Out of nowhere someone comes up behind Michael and gives him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Hey, Cross. So this is where you’re hiding out,” he says, giving me the once over. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Jim,” Michael says.
“Did you get moved or what? I never see you anymore.”
“Alternate nights, man,” Michael says.
“Who did you piss off?”
Michael smiles and shakes his head.
“Intro?”
“She’s just leaving,” Michael says.
“Need a ride?”
“She has one,” Michael answers, not missing a beat.
“Catch you later, Miguel.” Jim smiles and moves on.
“Let’s go,” Michael says, his hand closing around my arm.
“How did you know I have a ride?”
“You want low profile, don’t arrive in a Bentley.”
Does he miss anything? I follow him to the door and out onto the street where it’s so quiet it feels like we’ve landed on a desert landscape. I can’t help sliding up the edge of his sleeve to look at the tattoo. Semper Fi. Always faithful. The marine corps motto.
“No wonder you’re such a hard-ass.”
A hint of a smile.
“Admit
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I say, shaking my head. That must be all Michael needs because he walks over just as Mr. Inebriated is saying, “C’mon, just one drink.”
“She doesn’t drink,” Michael says, staring icily at the guy before turning his back on him and stepping between us, a human barricade. The guy looks back at Michael and eventually shrugs and walks away.
Michael and I stare at each other hungrily and the air between us becomes charged and I am suddenly more pumped and alive and energized and over-oxygenated and in someplace above earth I’ve never been to. He does that to me.
Every. Time. He’s. Near. Me.
Does he feel it too?
“Why are you back here?” he asks, a trace of annoyance in his voice.
“The beautiful people.”
A smirky smile. It disappears as fast as it appeared.
“You never called,” I say.
“Right.”
“You didn’t want to?”
His eyes meet mine and he looks away first. “I didn’t want to,” he says robotically, looking back at me with a steady stare.
“Liar.”
It’s like someone else is using my mouth to talk—only it’s not someone else, it’s me. Only it’s me on steroids or truth serum or a talking drug, and I don’t know how it happens but it does whenever I’m around him, because his refusal to say what’s on his mind forces me to compensate, if that makes sense. But it probably doesn’t because nothing happening between us makes sense or is logical or normal and I am clearly out of my safety zone.
“What is it with you?” he says, shaking his head, his face softening slightly.
Always the guarded cop talk with the subtext.
“I wake up at night thinking about you, Michael.”
Shut up, Gia, just shut up , I tell myself. But my mouth refuses to listen.
He narrows his eyes, his guarded stare saying he’s trying to figure out where to go with this, but I don’t need cop talk to tell me I’ve struck a nerve. He can’t hide the look in his eyes that tells me what I want to know.
“So you do too.”
“This is fucked up, Gia,” he hisses. “Can’t you see that?”
I feel like when I’m at school watching a fencing match. All the swordplay, the maneuvers, the delicate dance of back and forth, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, until finally—zap—one player scores a direct hit and the air reverberates with the electric buzz of the scoreboard as it lights up.
I feel it inside when he says my name, everything shifting into overdrive. I’m not the “you” in the car anymore. I’m a flesh-and-blood girl with a name, a name that plays in his head like a song you keep singing over and over and can’t get free of, at least that’s what I’m thinking is happening unless I’m blind and all wrong.
“It’s not, Michael. It’s real.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It’s wrong.”
Out of nowhere someone comes up behind Michael and gives him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Hey, Cross. So this is where you’re hiding out,” he says, giving me the once over. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Jim,” Michael says.
“Did you get moved or what? I never see you anymore.”
“Alternate nights, man,” Michael says.
“Who did you piss off?”
Michael smiles and shakes his head.
“Intro?”
“She’s just leaving,” Michael says.
“Need a ride?”
“She has one,” Michael answers, not missing a beat.
“Catch you later, Miguel.” Jim smiles and moves on.
“Let’s go,” Michael says, his hand closing around my arm.
“How did you know I have a ride?”
“You want low profile, don’t arrive in a Bentley.”
Does he miss anything? I follow him to the door and out onto the street where it’s so quiet it feels like we’ve landed on a desert landscape. I can’t help sliding up the edge of his sleeve to look at the tattoo. Semper Fi. Always faithful. The marine corps motto.
“No wonder you’re such a hard-ass.”
A hint of a smile.
“Admit
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