So, after work, I was headed to the house of my greatest supporter and nemesis.
Then I came to my senses and decided to make a copy of the key at the hardware store. I’d never hear the end of it if my mother knew I had a woman staying at my house, even if that woman was my co-host.
And my friend, I realized with surprise.
I’d never had a female friend before. Co-workers, acquaintances, girlfriends of my friends, ex-lovers by the bushelful—absolutely. A woman whom I sought out to talk to? A skirt-wearing contrary opinion whom I still spoke with after we’d argued? None, that I can ever recall, and I have a damn good memory.
I missed her face when it wasn’t around, and looked forward to seeing her again almost as soon as we’d parted. She had somehow gotten under my skin and, though I’d have never thought it possible, I sort of liked having her there.
While the True Value guy cut the key, I flipped through the rack of keyrings, ‘cause watching him work was stupid and you can only look at so many spray paint cans. There were the usual car logos, cartoon characters, and glittery Hello Kitty heads. Amidst the sparkle, I saw one that I knew Jen would love. I snatched it off the rack and hooked it over my finger, spinning it in circles and watching it flash.
The guy finished with the duplicate and I slid it onto the new keyring. The cashier put the whole works into a small kraft-paper bag, like the kind my mother used to get cards from the Hallmark store in. I folded over the top so nothing could fall out and set it on the passenger seat of my car.
And slapped my hand over it on the first turn so it wouldn’t slide off onto the floorboard and get wrinkled and dirty.
I did the whole anti-slide thing again when I had to hit the brakes fast and hard.
This was getting ridiculous. It wasn’t gift wrap, it was a goddamn bag.
I tucked it up into the visor, instead.
The folded brown edge flirted with my peripheral vision, making me think about what was inside.
It was just a Spare. Damn. Key.
Not jewelry, not the key to my heart (whatever the hell that was supposed to mean—I guess thinking about Mom and her Hallmark cards got me a little sappy), but whatever. Definitely not a big deal.
So why did it feel like the stupid thing was jeering at me from inside its plain brown wrapper?
“It’s just a temporary thing, so shut up,” I mumbled in the general direction of the bag.
It didn’t respond.
Big surprise there.
“Seriously, quit waving your flap at me.” I shoved the bag a little further under the visor wing until I could barely see it was there.
What the hell was with me all of a sudden? I’m talking to a keyring. And stressing over it.
She wasn’t moving in.
She was sleeping over, not sleeping with me, for seven days. (Seven days whispered creepily across the synapses in my brain.) I shook my head and just missed rear-ending an Audi.
I needed to get a fucking hold on myself, and right quick.
‘Cause yeah, it’d just be great to say, “Here’s your key, Jen, but you won’t be needing it after all, since we’re carpooling for the next week while I get my hood and front bumper uncrumpled.”
To show my inner wuss just what a big deal this was not, I yanked the bag down and tossed it on the passenger floor.
Chapter 11
*Scar Tissue*
“I generally keep dinner simple – that okay with you?” Talking to Jen while I got the food together didn’t feel as weird as I expected it to.
“Don’t change on my account. What can I do to help?” She washed her hands at the sink and, God help me, I had to sneak a peek at her ass. She was wearing low-cut jeans and a form-fitting red tee shirt with a hem that danced just above the waistband of the denim. While her perfect glutes were enticing, it was that tiny slice of flesh revealed by the too-short shirt that had me enthralled. I had an urge to kiss my way around that entire peaches-and-cream trail, then repeat it in reverse with a run of my tongue. I imagined how she’d taste, sugary with a little salt. I pictured her shivering in my arms, maybe starting a thread of goosebumps with the first kiss on the dimple above her right butt cheek.
Then I pictured Jensen smacking me on the back of the head and asking me what the hell I thought I was doing.
I dropped the head of lettuce I’d fished out of the crisper drawer and the dogs chased it as it rolled across the black and white tile.
Down, Tack Jr. Remember the Eleventh Commandment:
Thou shalt not fuck thy co-host.
And since she was sleeping under my roof through the upcoming weekend, I’d do well to repeat that like a damn mantra.
And maybe put on a blindfold, just to be safe.
I’d allow myself to take it off when I needed to work with kitchen knives or when I got out the razor to shave. No sense bleeding needlessly.