Beneath The Skin(167)

I held my phone that whole night, caressing it like a chocolate addict with the world’s last Snickers.

Now here we are, sharing lunch in the dense noise of a hundred people shouting, laughing, and yelling at each other from across booths and tables. As I suffer in the chaos, I peer over the table at Clayton eating his sandwich and realize with a start that this experience is drastically different for him. Where I’m assaulted by the relentless onslaught of noise, Clayton only knows peace.

He smirks at me across the table after taking his first generous bite, chewing with a strained expression on his face.

Well, okay. Maybe there’s a form of inner peace that he may presently be lacking.

After he swallows, he says something to me, his mouth half-blocked by his fish fillet sandwich, hands propped up at the elbows and his meal hanging loose between them.

I can’t hear him. Oh, the irony. “What?”

He lowers his sandwich, revealing his sexy, plush lips, then speaks louder. “So you know Kellen?”

I kinda knew that, of all topics to enjoy, Kellen Wright would be the first thing he brought up. “Yes,” I say, nodding for emphasis.

“Nice guy?” he prompts me with a lift of his brow, taking another humungous bite of his sandwich.

The way his mouth moves, his jaw tightening and relaxing in his massive, muscular efforts of chewing, is so fucking erotic that I can’t stand it. His lips alone are art. Add that to the whole visually-stimulating workout of his teeth and sharp jawline, and I’m about as distracted as a lunch mate can possibly be. I’m already having fond recollections of how his mouth worked mine when my lips were his meal.

“Nice,” I agree vaguely, nodding again, then help myself to a bite of my grilled cheese.

He asks me a question through his full mouth. I catch exactly zero words of it, lifting my eyebrows in confusion. He swallows hard, then lifts his chin and repeats, “Did you two date?”

I roll my eyes. “My dad … mentored him,” I explain, punching the word.

“Your dad? The one who pulled a string?” he goes on, his face wrinkling as he chews.

“Yes. That dad.”

His eyes pull away suddenly, and I see a flicker of darkness in them. I’ve become so adept at reading the little expressions that play war games across Clayton’s face. The jolt in his eye bothers me.

“What?” I prompt him, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention, lost in a thought.

Kellen and I met during one of the shows my dad was designing in New York. For the first few days that I knew him, I thought he was a member of the chorus. Then I learned he was a lighting intern of sorts, but thought he was shy. When a Friday night rehearsal came to its end and the last stage light was shut off, Kellen kissed me unexpectedly in the dark behind the fold of a curtain where I was sorting props, proving to me how very not shy he was. Then he tried to talk me out of going to the cast party two weeks later where I would then discover how not single he was. It was one of my first lessons in how faithless and fickle city men can be, constantly shopping for the next best thing while gripping their girlfriends so tightly.

Maybe I have a soured secret or two of my own that I’m not sure I want to expose Clayton to just yet.

I set my sandwich down, type something into my phone, then give a little wave, drawing his attention back to see the contents of my screen:



I don’t know why Kellen’s here.

On Monday I found out that

Victoria knows who I am

and now

I’m afraid between the two of them,

everyone will find out

:( :(



He frowns at the message, then pulls out his own phone and, after cramming the last bite of his first fish fillet, types:



U’re cute when u’re pissed.





To that, I glare at him.

He chuckles, full-mouthed, then puts a reassuring hand on top of mine and gives it a rub. The very next second, he seems to think that the gesture was too much and quickly retracts his hand, swallowing hard before starting on his second sandwich.

The gesture wasn’t too much. It granted a much-needed warmth to the coldness I’ve felt since leaving the theater.

But it doesn’t quite ease my uncertainty about our hot-and-cold weekend. I type, then lift my screen:



Are you going to explain

Sunday’s silence

or what?



His sandwich lowers to the table, a surrender, and his face hardens. He swallows his bite, meets my eyes, then says a couple words too quietly.

“Louder,” I urge him.

He leans partway over the table, propped up by his elbows, his arms bulging as he does. “I was a coward,” he murmurs. His lips this much closer to me, I could just lean in as much as he is and kiss him right now. “Been a while since I’ve been with a girl.”