Six of Hearts
Page 17
“Because you made me a part of your act and never gave me any warning! You know I don’t like the attention.”
Now he wears a cynical, amused expression. “You loved it.”
“I did not,” I say firmly, folding my arms.
He steps closer now, looming over me, and he smells incredible. I hate that he smells incredible. His voice dips low when he takes my chin and lifts it so that I have to look him in the eye. “You f**king loved it.”
I pull away quickly. “Whatever. I’m going to get a drink.”
“Help yourself,” he says, following me as I locate a bottle of wine on a table full of drinks and start to pour. When I sit down at the table with everyone else, Jay slides in beside me, a whiskey in his hand. He still hasn’t gone to clean up or put a shirt on. Is he trying to kill me?
Jessie introduces me and Michelle to everyone else. They include Ger, the sound and light guy; Ricky, the stage coordinator; and Sharon, props and wardrobe. I feel Jay scoot a little closer as the conversation drifts around me.
I talk to Sharon for a while, interested in how she got into the whole wardrobe business. I’m actually a little jealous of her, to be honest. She has my dream job. Although Jay doesn’t have too many complicated outfit changes, so perhaps it would be my dream job if he decided to wear something a little more flamboyant. Let’s just say, if John Barrowman’s stylist up and quit, I would sell my left kidney to get the gig.
“You still pissed with me, Watson?” he asks after a while.
I roll my eyes and give him a smile as I slur, “No. I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”
“Are you drunk?”
Holding up my thumb and forefinger, I answer, “Just a little bit.”
He chuckles. “I’d better keep my eye on you, then, huh?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. There’s quiet between us before I break it. “I just don’t get how you can do all that stuff. I mean, how did you make the fire rise from your hands?”
Jay tilts head to me. “I’d like to hear your theory.”
I rub at my chin. “My guess would be that you had tubing somewhere on your body containing lighter fluid, and then flint somewhere else that helped you light it. But the flames were so big, so it had to be more powerful than that.”
His eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiles at me. “You know what my secret is?” he whispers and I perk up, eager for him to actually reveal something.
“I have an obsessive fixation with obscure science. Most people only care about the final result. They don’t think about the way things work. They don’t consider how their laptop manages to perform its tasks or how their fridge keeps their food cold — they just want a functioning computer and fresh food. That’s how I get ahead. I think about what I want to do…for example, make fire rise from the palms of my hands…and I work my way backward. Or sometimes I’ll be reading and come across an interesting fact, and I’ll come up with a way to make it work to my advantage.”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as you’re making out. Most people wouldn’t be able to do what you do, even if they did think backward. I know I couldn’t.”
“Well, I couldn’t design and make a dress that fits perfectly, so we’re even,” he says, clinking his glass with mine.
I cross my arms, happy with his compliment. Not many people know about my dressmaking, mainly because it’s such a solitary occupation, so it’s nice to get some props for my efforts. I imagine if my mum was still alive, she’d be proud that I’d continued on the skill she gave to me.
“So, tell me more. I want to know some obscure facts.”
“Well,” says Jay, lifting my hand and turning it over. He starts to run his finger along the veins on the inside of my arm, and I have to cover up a tremble. “If I said you were 60,000 miles long, I’d technically be telling the truth, because there are 60,000 miles of blood vessels inside your body.”
I scrunch up my mouth. “Really? Don’t tell me that. Now I feel squeamish. That’s a lot of veins.”
His eyes travel to my mouth, and he lifts his thumb to smooth out my lips. “You exchange more germs when you shake a person’s hand than when you kiss them,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” I whisper, having one of those crazy moments again when I think he might kiss me. Like always, though, he doesn’t. He seems to welcome the distraction when Jessie suggests that we all play a game of strip poker.
“Ha! No way am I playing that with you two,” I say, pointing between her and Jay. “I’ve seen you both shuffle a deck of cards, and it’s frightening how fast you are.”
“That’s right,” Jessie replies, grinning in Michelle’s direction. “I’ve got lightning fingers.”
Because I’m drunk, I imagine little lightning bolts shooting out of her hands, and it makes me chuckle to myself. I stop quickly, though, not wanting to come across like a creepy “laugh at my own private jokes” creeper.
Jay nudges me with his shoulder. “When have you seen me shuffle a deck?”
“In those videos I watched of you, remember?”
He seems pleased with that answer. “Be honest — you watch them every night before you go to sleep, don’t you?”
“I do not! I only watched them that one time.”
“Liar. You love watching me do my tricks. They’re like your own little version of porn. I bet you have a f**king great time watching my videos…in bed.”
I push him now, hard. “You’re trying to embarrass me, and it’s not going to work.”
“It’s already working.” He laughs, and I narrow my gaze at him. Quickly, I move and go to sit by Michelle, deciding I’ve had enough of the torture of interacting with Jay for one night.
The tiny after-party progresses, and soon I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve had. There’s loud music on, and I’m dancing with Michelle in the middle of the room. We’re doing a waltz to a song that was created for booty popping. My drunken brain is pleased by the irony. Our heels have long since been discarded as we prance around, barefoot. Michelle leads, dipping me down so low that my head collides with the floor. She pulls me back up quickly, laughing and apologising as I rub at my skull. I’m too drunk to feel the pain, though, which is a plus.
“Shit, sorry!” she exclaims past furious giggles.
“That’s it, sir!” I shout loudly in pretend outrage. “I no longer wish to be your dance partner.”
“Oh, no, but the cotillion is coming up next,” she replies, putting on a distraught face.
“You fool, you can’t dance a cotillion with just two people. Are you mad?”
I’d like to point out that we’re both currently putting on fake English accents, like we’re in a Jane Austen novel.
“You two are really f**king weird, do you know that?” Jessie says, holding a beer in her hand. Jay has been sitting in the same spot for most of the night, nursing the same drink and watching us with a smile. I can’t tell if he’s amused or just laughing at us, though. At least he finally decided to go and put a shirt on. The other members of his stage crew have gone home, so it’s just the four of us left.
“I think it’s time to call it a night,” he says, standing and collecting my things for me. “Jessie, you and Michelle get cabs, okay? You’re too drunk to drive. I’ll take care of Matilda.”
“Matilda would just love for you to take care of her, Jay,” Michelle says, trying to sound sexy in her drunken state but just sounding like she’s got a bad cough. I scowl at her, and she almost chokes on her laughter.
Ignoring her, Jay helps me into my coat and slides my handbag onto my shoulder. Then he grabs my shoes and goes down on one knee to help me into them, his warm touch on my foot making me think of the phrase “hot and bothered.” Yeah, that’s what he makes me. I wriggle all the while, giggling drunkenly and making his job more difficult.
He finally gets me out the door and into his car, which is parked at the back of the venue. Ushering me into the passenger seat, he straps on my seatbelt, and I’m vaguely aware of his knuckles brushing over my cl**vage, but I’m not sober enough to enjoy it.
Damn you, wine!
I’m drunker than I’ve been in quite some time. I think the last time I was this shit-faced was during my eighteenth birthday celebrations, where I spent half the night face down on Michelle’s couch, unable to remember how I’d gotten there. Actually, no, I do remember. It was a bottle of cheap vodka from Aldi that got me there.
When we arrive at the house, Jay helps me out of the car, his arm around my waist as he walks us to the front door. He uses his key to let us in, and I walk to the stairs, holding onto the banister as I take my shoes off and fling them away.
“Stupid painful spikey things,” I yammer on, my head fuzzy.
Jay laughs softly as I put my unsteady foot on the first step. “Hey, let me help you, drunky,” he says, coming and wrapping his arm around my waist. It feels good, so I rest my head on his shoulder. He must realise that it’s going to take too long to get me to put one foot in front of the other, so he simply scoops me up like a bride on her wedding night and carries me.
“Wheee!” I squeal, then squeeze his bicep as we ascend. “You’re so strong, Inspector Holmes.”
“You sound impressed.”
“Well, you’re very…impressive.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “Ugh, just…everything.”
We reach my room, and he pushes open the door with his elbow, still not putting me down until we get to my bed. Then he lowers me onto the mattress. Somewhere along the way, my arms managed to wrap themselves around his neck, and they aren’t letting go. Instead I practically pull him down onto the bed with me, laughing hysterically when he lands on top of me.
“Ha! You fell,” I say loudly.
His hand covers my mouth as his chest moves up and down with suppressed laughter. “Be quieter, darlin’. You’ll wake your dad.”
I don’t have a response. In fact, my head is clearing quite rapidly with his hand still on my mouth. My eyes are glued to his fingers on my lips, and he must notice because he moves it then. My breathing becomes laboured at our closeness and the fact that we’re on my bed. He notices this, too, bringing his hands to my arms and trying to remove them from his neck. I remember his words from earlier, how he’d spoken about germs and shaking hands and kissing. I want to exchange some kissing germs right now. Really and truly, the germs wouldn’t bother me at all.
“You’ve got to let go, Matilda,” he says gently.
“I don’t want you to go,” I whisper.
He’s smiling and shaking his head. “You’ve had too much wine. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Just as he’s about to leave, I pounce, grabbing him and hesitantly pressing my lips to his. Fireworks, electricity, and explosive tingles fire through my system at the contact. His lips feel warm and soft and perfect against mine, and that’s when I realise how rigid his body has become. He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a growl before moving away. His mouth goes to my forehead, where he presses a soft, momentary kiss, and then he’s gone.
As though my body is just as eager to escape the humiliation as my brain is, I fall asleep almost immediately.
Fourteen
When I wake up, it’s just past seven and my mouth is dry. I must have only slept for about three hours. Ugh, why don’t hangovers ever just let you sleep? My eyes feel like they’re bruised, and my muscles ache. All I want to do is stay in bed, so I burrow further under the covers and snuggle into my pillow. Unfortunately, I’m too thirsty to go back asleep, so I decide to go downstairs and grab some water.
It’s just as I’m crawling out of bed that I remember what I did last night. I tried to kiss Jay, and he gave me the platonic forehead kiss before awkwardly leaving the room. I’ve seen enough rom coms in my time to know what the platonic forehead kiss means.
Feeling a sudden urge to work off the embarrassment, I pull my hair up into a knot on top of my head, put on my exercise gear, and decide to go for a cycle. Thankfully, Jay’s still sleeping, so I manage to grab some water and get my bike out of the shed without bumping into him.
It’s a beautiful July morning when I step outside, the birds singing and the sun shining. I can tell we’re in for a hot day, and already I feel slightly better about myself. Everybody does embarrassing stuff when they’re drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.
I pedal fast, gliding down the road. The place where I live can be kind of beautiful sometimes; there’s a long stretch of road that runs along the coast from right outside my house for miles all the way to Howth, a small seaside town about a twenty-minute car ride outside the city. I cycle all the way there and back again, my entire body dripping with sweat by the time I get home.
As I walk into the house, I hear Jay cooking up a storm in the kitchen. In an effort to avoid him, I sneak back out and go around the side of the house to leave my bike in the shed. He must see me through the window, because he opens the sliding doors and steps out.
“Matilda, I’m making all the best hangover foods for you. I hope you’re hungry.”
I take a deep breath, shutting the door of the shed and turning around. He comes toward me, taking in my cycling gear and my sweaty, hung-over self. I wonder what I look like to him right now.
“Morning,” he says simply.
Now he wears a cynical, amused expression. “You loved it.”
“I did not,” I say firmly, folding my arms.
He steps closer now, looming over me, and he smells incredible. I hate that he smells incredible. His voice dips low when he takes my chin and lifts it so that I have to look him in the eye. “You f**king loved it.”
I pull away quickly. “Whatever. I’m going to get a drink.”
“Help yourself,” he says, following me as I locate a bottle of wine on a table full of drinks and start to pour. When I sit down at the table with everyone else, Jay slides in beside me, a whiskey in his hand. He still hasn’t gone to clean up or put a shirt on. Is he trying to kill me?
Jessie introduces me and Michelle to everyone else. They include Ger, the sound and light guy; Ricky, the stage coordinator; and Sharon, props and wardrobe. I feel Jay scoot a little closer as the conversation drifts around me.
I talk to Sharon for a while, interested in how she got into the whole wardrobe business. I’m actually a little jealous of her, to be honest. She has my dream job. Although Jay doesn’t have too many complicated outfit changes, so perhaps it would be my dream job if he decided to wear something a little more flamboyant. Let’s just say, if John Barrowman’s stylist up and quit, I would sell my left kidney to get the gig.
“You still pissed with me, Watson?” he asks after a while.
I roll my eyes and give him a smile as I slur, “No. I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”
“Are you drunk?”
Holding up my thumb and forefinger, I answer, “Just a little bit.”
He chuckles. “I’d better keep my eye on you, then, huh?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. There’s quiet between us before I break it. “I just don’t get how you can do all that stuff. I mean, how did you make the fire rise from your hands?”
Jay tilts head to me. “I’d like to hear your theory.”
I rub at my chin. “My guess would be that you had tubing somewhere on your body containing lighter fluid, and then flint somewhere else that helped you light it. But the flames were so big, so it had to be more powerful than that.”
His eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiles at me. “You know what my secret is?” he whispers and I perk up, eager for him to actually reveal something.
“I have an obsessive fixation with obscure science. Most people only care about the final result. They don’t think about the way things work. They don’t consider how their laptop manages to perform its tasks or how their fridge keeps their food cold — they just want a functioning computer and fresh food. That’s how I get ahead. I think about what I want to do…for example, make fire rise from the palms of my hands…and I work my way backward. Or sometimes I’ll be reading and come across an interesting fact, and I’ll come up with a way to make it work to my advantage.”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as you’re making out. Most people wouldn’t be able to do what you do, even if they did think backward. I know I couldn’t.”
“Well, I couldn’t design and make a dress that fits perfectly, so we’re even,” he says, clinking his glass with mine.
I cross my arms, happy with his compliment. Not many people know about my dressmaking, mainly because it’s such a solitary occupation, so it’s nice to get some props for my efforts. I imagine if my mum was still alive, she’d be proud that I’d continued on the skill she gave to me.
“So, tell me more. I want to know some obscure facts.”
“Well,” says Jay, lifting my hand and turning it over. He starts to run his finger along the veins on the inside of my arm, and I have to cover up a tremble. “If I said you were 60,000 miles long, I’d technically be telling the truth, because there are 60,000 miles of blood vessels inside your body.”
I scrunch up my mouth. “Really? Don’t tell me that. Now I feel squeamish. That’s a lot of veins.”
His eyes travel to my mouth, and he lifts his thumb to smooth out my lips. “You exchange more germs when you shake a person’s hand than when you kiss them,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” I whisper, having one of those crazy moments again when I think he might kiss me. Like always, though, he doesn’t. He seems to welcome the distraction when Jessie suggests that we all play a game of strip poker.
“Ha! No way am I playing that with you two,” I say, pointing between her and Jay. “I’ve seen you both shuffle a deck of cards, and it’s frightening how fast you are.”
“That’s right,” Jessie replies, grinning in Michelle’s direction. “I’ve got lightning fingers.”
Because I’m drunk, I imagine little lightning bolts shooting out of her hands, and it makes me chuckle to myself. I stop quickly, though, not wanting to come across like a creepy “laugh at my own private jokes” creeper.
Jay nudges me with his shoulder. “When have you seen me shuffle a deck?”
“In those videos I watched of you, remember?”
He seems pleased with that answer. “Be honest — you watch them every night before you go to sleep, don’t you?”
“I do not! I only watched them that one time.”
“Liar. You love watching me do my tricks. They’re like your own little version of porn. I bet you have a f**king great time watching my videos…in bed.”
I push him now, hard. “You’re trying to embarrass me, and it’s not going to work.”
“It’s already working.” He laughs, and I narrow my gaze at him. Quickly, I move and go to sit by Michelle, deciding I’ve had enough of the torture of interacting with Jay for one night.
The tiny after-party progresses, and soon I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve had. There’s loud music on, and I’m dancing with Michelle in the middle of the room. We’re doing a waltz to a song that was created for booty popping. My drunken brain is pleased by the irony. Our heels have long since been discarded as we prance around, barefoot. Michelle leads, dipping me down so low that my head collides with the floor. She pulls me back up quickly, laughing and apologising as I rub at my skull. I’m too drunk to feel the pain, though, which is a plus.
“Shit, sorry!” she exclaims past furious giggles.
“That’s it, sir!” I shout loudly in pretend outrage. “I no longer wish to be your dance partner.”
“Oh, no, but the cotillion is coming up next,” she replies, putting on a distraught face.
“You fool, you can’t dance a cotillion with just two people. Are you mad?”
I’d like to point out that we’re both currently putting on fake English accents, like we’re in a Jane Austen novel.
“You two are really f**king weird, do you know that?” Jessie says, holding a beer in her hand. Jay has been sitting in the same spot for most of the night, nursing the same drink and watching us with a smile. I can’t tell if he’s amused or just laughing at us, though. At least he finally decided to go and put a shirt on. The other members of his stage crew have gone home, so it’s just the four of us left.
“I think it’s time to call it a night,” he says, standing and collecting my things for me. “Jessie, you and Michelle get cabs, okay? You’re too drunk to drive. I’ll take care of Matilda.”
“Matilda would just love for you to take care of her, Jay,” Michelle says, trying to sound sexy in her drunken state but just sounding like she’s got a bad cough. I scowl at her, and she almost chokes on her laughter.
Ignoring her, Jay helps me into my coat and slides my handbag onto my shoulder. Then he grabs my shoes and goes down on one knee to help me into them, his warm touch on my foot making me think of the phrase “hot and bothered.” Yeah, that’s what he makes me. I wriggle all the while, giggling drunkenly and making his job more difficult.
He finally gets me out the door and into his car, which is parked at the back of the venue. Ushering me into the passenger seat, he straps on my seatbelt, and I’m vaguely aware of his knuckles brushing over my cl**vage, but I’m not sober enough to enjoy it.
Damn you, wine!
I’m drunker than I’ve been in quite some time. I think the last time I was this shit-faced was during my eighteenth birthday celebrations, where I spent half the night face down on Michelle’s couch, unable to remember how I’d gotten there. Actually, no, I do remember. It was a bottle of cheap vodka from Aldi that got me there.
When we arrive at the house, Jay helps me out of the car, his arm around my waist as he walks us to the front door. He uses his key to let us in, and I walk to the stairs, holding onto the banister as I take my shoes off and fling them away.
“Stupid painful spikey things,” I yammer on, my head fuzzy.
Jay laughs softly as I put my unsteady foot on the first step. “Hey, let me help you, drunky,” he says, coming and wrapping his arm around my waist. It feels good, so I rest my head on his shoulder. He must realise that it’s going to take too long to get me to put one foot in front of the other, so he simply scoops me up like a bride on her wedding night and carries me.
“Wheee!” I squeal, then squeeze his bicep as we ascend. “You’re so strong, Inspector Holmes.”
“You sound impressed.”
“Well, you’re very…impressive.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “Ugh, just…everything.”
We reach my room, and he pushes open the door with his elbow, still not putting me down until we get to my bed. Then he lowers me onto the mattress. Somewhere along the way, my arms managed to wrap themselves around his neck, and they aren’t letting go. Instead I practically pull him down onto the bed with me, laughing hysterically when he lands on top of me.
“Ha! You fell,” I say loudly.
His hand covers my mouth as his chest moves up and down with suppressed laughter. “Be quieter, darlin’. You’ll wake your dad.”
I don’t have a response. In fact, my head is clearing quite rapidly with his hand still on my mouth. My eyes are glued to his fingers on my lips, and he must notice because he moves it then. My breathing becomes laboured at our closeness and the fact that we’re on my bed. He notices this, too, bringing his hands to my arms and trying to remove them from his neck. I remember his words from earlier, how he’d spoken about germs and shaking hands and kissing. I want to exchange some kissing germs right now. Really and truly, the germs wouldn’t bother me at all.
“You’ve got to let go, Matilda,” he says gently.
“I don’t want you to go,” I whisper.
He’s smiling and shaking his head. “You’ve had too much wine. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Just as he’s about to leave, I pounce, grabbing him and hesitantly pressing my lips to his. Fireworks, electricity, and explosive tingles fire through my system at the contact. His lips feel warm and soft and perfect against mine, and that’s when I realise how rigid his body has become. He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a growl before moving away. His mouth goes to my forehead, where he presses a soft, momentary kiss, and then he’s gone.
As though my body is just as eager to escape the humiliation as my brain is, I fall asleep almost immediately.
Fourteen
When I wake up, it’s just past seven and my mouth is dry. I must have only slept for about three hours. Ugh, why don’t hangovers ever just let you sleep? My eyes feel like they’re bruised, and my muscles ache. All I want to do is stay in bed, so I burrow further under the covers and snuggle into my pillow. Unfortunately, I’m too thirsty to go back asleep, so I decide to go downstairs and grab some water.
It’s just as I’m crawling out of bed that I remember what I did last night. I tried to kiss Jay, and he gave me the platonic forehead kiss before awkwardly leaving the room. I’ve seen enough rom coms in my time to know what the platonic forehead kiss means.
Feeling a sudden urge to work off the embarrassment, I pull my hair up into a knot on top of my head, put on my exercise gear, and decide to go for a cycle. Thankfully, Jay’s still sleeping, so I manage to grab some water and get my bike out of the shed without bumping into him.
It’s a beautiful July morning when I step outside, the birds singing and the sun shining. I can tell we’re in for a hot day, and already I feel slightly better about myself. Everybody does embarrassing stuff when they’re drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.
I pedal fast, gliding down the road. The place where I live can be kind of beautiful sometimes; there’s a long stretch of road that runs along the coast from right outside my house for miles all the way to Howth, a small seaside town about a twenty-minute car ride outside the city. I cycle all the way there and back again, my entire body dripping with sweat by the time I get home.
As I walk into the house, I hear Jay cooking up a storm in the kitchen. In an effort to avoid him, I sneak back out and go around the side of the house to leave my bike in the shed. He must see me through the window, because he opens the sliding doors and steps out.
“Matilda, I’m making all the best hangover foods for you. I hope you’re hungry.”
I take a deep breath, shutting the door of the shed and turning around. He comes toward me, taking in my cycling gear and my sweaty, hung-over self. I wonder what I look like to him right now.
“Morning,” he says simply.
