Que Será, Syrah, page 16
part #1 of POUR DECISIONS Series
“Can confirm,” Jansen agrees, unexpectedly. “That’s just what I told Razor.”
“Who?” I turn to ask him—just in time to see Bianca roll her eyes in fond amusement.
“He means Miles,” she explains. “Jansen gives everyone nicknames. Apparently, it’s a hockey thing.”
I nod absently, searching for the right tone—amused, casual, disinterested—before adding, “So, speaking of nicknames, or names in general, Gianni happened to notice that Deputy Romero was there, so he dared me to go over and talk to him. And you know me and dares.” I roll my eyes, as though I’m amused by my own foibles. “But hey, at least I finally learned what his real name is, so there’s that.”
“Oh, we did, too!” Bianca says. “I knew there was something I meant to tell you. He was at the wedding. Turns out his name is Clay. But Miles says no one ever calls him that.”
“I know,” I say as I help myself to more popcorn—quickly stuffing my mouth so more words won’t fall out. The story Clay told me about how he and his siblings came by their names and why is so cute! I want to share it with my sisters, but I know I can’t.
Rosa is still looking concerned. “So then…who’s this mysterious friend you spent the night with,” she asks.
“There’s no mystery,” I reply, twisting the truth just the tiniest bit. “I just reconnected with someone I used to know. After I left the restaurant,” I add, in case word of this gets back to the cousins, and they start to get ideas. “But come on, you don’t want to hear about that now, do you? I thought we were gonna watch this movie?”
Lucky for me, the others agree. And—even luckier—the film had already been queued up. So, within less than a minute, the danger has passed and we’re all happily watching Chris Pine in his most relatable (at least from my perspective) role ever as the cute but underachieving, cellar-rat-slash-party-boy who ultimately makes something of himself. And maybe, sort of, kinda gets the girl at the end? Hard to say.
It's been a few years since I’ve seen it, and parts of it are hitting different now. Possibly because I’ve just been with Clay, who reminds me a lot more of Gustavo than he does Bo.
They’re both serious, passionate, impulsive (hello, antenna scene). They’ve both had to work hard for every achievement. They never had anything handed to them—unlike Bo. Senor Garcia was right about that. Or like me, if I’m honest.
And that cabin scene with Gustavo and Sam? Whew. It’s only been a couple of hours since I left Clay’s apartment, but that scene has me wanting to break out my phone and start sexting. I don’t, of course, because I’m not alone, and that would be weird. But I really want to, all the same.
My sisters keep up a running commentary (that I occasionally contribute to) as we watch the film. And it feels so right, so familiar, so much like old times. I can’t stop wondering if Clay has seen it (apparently Jansen had not) and what he’d think of it, how he’d react. Which ultimately leads to me feeling cranky again, and out of sorts—even after several slices of Divino’s pizza—because I can’t even imagine what it would be like if he were here, hanging with my sisters and their misters. I mean, it works well enough on paper—they’re all friends (or friendly) with Miles, after all. But in real life? I just can’t see it. And that makes me sad.
And actually, now that I think of it, the pizza, while delicious, is also part of the problem. Everyone’s s been great about sharing with me, but I wasn’t here when they placed the order, and it shows. Not that I have any real issue with sausage, pepper, and sun-dried tomato pizza. Or with barbecue chicken, bacon, and black olives, either. They’re both solid choices. But it’s been years since I had my absolute favorite toppings, the controversial, much maligned, ham and pineapple. Which is only the best combination ever.
But let me tell you, if you think people on this side of the pond look down on Hawaiian pizza, try ordering one in Europe!
All of which leads me to wonder what kind of pizza Clay would order. For the record, I’m betting on pulled pork and jalapeno with Cotija cheese. Which in turn leads to me missing him, ridiculous as that may be after just one night. But fate is weird like that. Look at Rosa and Jake. They just spent ten years apart and yet; to look at them now, you’d never know it.
By the time the movie is over, I’m done. I’m tired of feeling envious, lonely and, seriously out-of-sorts. I’m also just plain tired from lack of sleep. I’m too horny to go to bed alone, even though that’s the only option available tonight. I’m also stuffed full of pizza and popcorn, slightly buzzed from one, I mean two…no, make that three beers! All of which puts me in serious danger of saying too much, and all the wrong things, if my feet don’t hit the stairs rightthefuck now
“Well, I’m out,” I announce as I climb to my feet. I pause for a moment, swaying slightly as I adjust to the change in altitude, vaguely aware that my sisters are gazing at me in concern. And frowning.
“What? No! Where are you going?” Bianca asks. “We’re about to watch A Walk in the Clouds—your favorite!”
Oh, hell. That is my favorite. But I can’t right now. This is a movie about a woman returning to her childhood home in Napa. A woman with a secret love life that she’s hiding from her overbearing family. I’m already living that particular dream. Less the unwed pregnancy, obvs. “I’m tired,” I tell Bianca. “This has been great, but I gotta go to bed.”
“But it’s peak Keanu,” Rosa says—as if I didn’t know that! Even though the age gap makes it a little embarrassing to talk about now, my pre-teen-self fangirled hard over Neo. “You don’t want to miss that do you?”
“Seriously,” I say—then immediately have to pause for a jaw-cracking yawn—a real one, but it helps to sell the story. “I can’t tonight. But you know what’s great about movies? He’ll be just as beautiful next time we watch it. And I’ll be better able to appreciate it then.”
I cross the room to a chorus of people wishing me a good night—in between yawns of their own. Sorry, not sorry. I pause in the doorway to smile at them all. “This was fun,” I say. “We should do it again. Soon.”
“We should,” Rosa agrees. “We can do it next weekend, if you want. And maybe we’ll invite the cousins, too.”
“The Lambros,” I say, just to pull her chain. “Learn it. Use it.”
She rolls her eyes and grins in response, shooing me away with a flap of her hand. “Go to bed. You’re delirious.”
“I know you are, but what am I?” I tease. As I hit the stairs, I’m hugging happiness and contentment to my chest like a soft and squishy, heart-shaped pillow, metaphorically speaking, of course. For the first time in years, I feel like I have a family that loves me and a home where I belong. It’s a nice feeling. Add to that this thing with Clay—whatever it is—and life just can’t get much better.
Enjoy it while you can, my inner cynic advises. Nothing this good could last for long. Like I don’t know that. All it would take to have my entire world come crashing down is to have one or more of my secrets come to light.
What happens after that is anyone’s guess.
Chapter 12
Clay
The next week starts off great. Which should probably worry me more than it does because, in theory, starting a relationship with Legs, at this point, is a terrible idea. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. But in practice…I just can’t wait to see her again.
I feel more like myself when I’m with her than I have for a very long time. I suppose, in part, that’s because she knew the me from before the fires. That Clay Romero doesn’t really exist anymore.
And yes, there are others who knew me then and now, but most of them have been changed as well. We’ve all been touched by fire, by tragedy. We’ve all let our old selves fall away, and when we interact now, it’s with the new, scarred versions of ourselves.
Legs missed out on all that chaos, making her a pure conduit to that earlier, happier, more innocent time. Or so it seems. In all likelihood, that’s nothing more than a massive rationalization, on my part, and unfair to her. Am I really suggesting that she’s a case of arrested development? That the rest of us have grown and matured, while she has not? I think I am.
Because it’s true, isn’t it? Money and circumstances have shielded her from a lot of the troubles the rest of us have suffered through.
I think one of the reasons we coddle the rich—beyond the fear of retribution—is because they possess something most of us have lost and dream about someday regaining. A childlike (largely unwarranted) belief that life is good and fair, that people are kind, that things are always working out for them. We’re drawn to protect that innocence—in part because we know how bleak the world can be without it. In part because they’ve even fucking colonized our brains to the point where we think they’d do the same for us.
It’s the same instinct that causes us to respond so strongly to babies and puppies and who knows what else. And to prioritize their needs, sometimes even above our own. Unless we’re total dicks or hardcore leftists or someone who’s been driven to such an extreme that the slogan, “eat the rich” has begun to make sense.
But these are the kinds of philosophical thoughts anyone might have on a gloomy, rainy Tuesday night, after a long day at work, and a challenging workout afterwards. I stare into the depths of my well-stocked refrigerator, and it might as well be empty. I try to eat clean and green, for the most part—so that I can stay in shape and do my job. But nothing in the stack of healthy, high-protein, pre-packaged, prepared meals is appealing to me right now.
There’s nothing in here that will fill the emptiness I’m feeling now, or assuage the need that has hollowed me out, because it’s not food that I’m craving.
My thoughts keep drifting back to Saturday night, to the meal I shared with Legs, the camaraderie and conversation. And, yeah, the sex afterwards, too. Because, of course, I’m thinking of that; I can’t get it out of my head.
I want to call her. I want to hear her voice, to see her face, to invite her over and fuck her senseless; but it’s too soon for that. I have to resist. I can’t become that needy, that fast. Nothing good will come of being that dependent on someone else.
The first storm of the season is battering against my windows, shaking the cheap glass so hard it rattles. The beat of the rain is so loud and insistent that I almost miss the knocking at my front door.
“Jesus Christ,” I say when I pull it open and find Legs hunched on the front stoop with the collar of her jacket pulled up so that it’s partially covering her head. I glance at the street as I take her by the arm and pull her into my house. “I don’t see your car. Where’d you park? You couldn’t possibly have gotten this wet between here and the curb?”
She shakes her head, ineffectively swiping at her face, with wet hands. “I parked around the block. I was trying to be subtle.”
“Trying to die of hypothermia, is more like it,” I scold, using the sleeve of my shirt to wipe her face. A useless task, given that her hair is soaked, and water runs in rivulets down her face. “Fucks sake. You look like a drowned rat right now. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some that were drier.”
“Thanks?” she says, still blinking water out of her eyes as I help her remove her jacket. “I was going to say, ‘you look nice, too’ but maybe I won’t now.”
I stop fussing long enough to grin at her. “If it helps, I meant a very pretty rat.” Then I lean in and kiss her. She tastes of rain and wild nights, of coming home to a place of comfort and warmth, but all too soon she’s pulling away. Which, now I’m thinking of it, is exactly like coming home—elusive and fleeting and gone before you know it.
“I’m getting you so wet,” she murmurs, plucking at my shirt—which is now plastered to my chest and arms in all the places where our bodies touched.
“Mm. I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be my line,” I say, as I dip my head for another kiss.
“Oh, yeah? That sounds promising.”
“C’mon,” I say as I take hold of her hand. “We need to get you out of those wet clothes.”
“Ooh. V-very promising,” she replies, stuttering slightly as she starts to shiver.
“Out of your clothes and into a hot shower,” I elaborate, as I tug her into my bathroom.
“You know, there are other ways of warming a person up,” she points out as she starts to peel off her wet garments.
I turn on the shower and grab a few towels—the thick, bougie ones my last girlfriend left behind—in an effort not to get caught up in staring. “I know that. Which is why, after I toss your wet clothes in the laundry, I’m going to come back here and try some of those, too.”
“Even better.” She thrusts the sodden pile of clothes my way. “Here. Have at it.” Then she steps into my shower, but not before tossing a grin at me over her shoulder. “Just don’t keep me waiting too long, okay?”
I make quick work of the laundry, stripping out of my own clothes and adding them as well. Then I join her in the shower, crowding against her from behind. She leans back against me, her eyes closed, the open shampoo bottle held close beneath her nose, squeezing it repeatedly to release more fragrance.
“You know you can’t get high from huffing soap—right?” I tease, pulling her close, murmuring into her ear.
“Mm, this smells so good,” she replies, as she leans against me. “Like you.”
Technically it smells like my ex—Lori. Who, as you may have gathered, has more money and better taste than I do. When she agreed to move in with me, it was with the clear expectation that I’d up my game and accept the long list of subscription services that she considered indispensable—one for hair and skin care products, one for prepackaged dinners, another for cleaning supplies. After she left, I kept most of them in place. Some might say out of laziness.
I’m someone who values stability, order and quality but I don’t always know how to achieve it on my own. My mom would no doubt ascribe that to my Virgo nature, and claim it was inevitable. I think it stems from the chaos and uncertainty that marked most of my childhood—but what do I know?
Water rains down on us, courtesy of the waterfall shower (again, courtesy of Lori). An additional expense that I’d initially argued against, it’s the one luxury I have yet to regret. After separating Legs from her new squeeze toy, I take hold of her wrists and position her arms so that her hands are now pressed against the shower wall. I collect her hair at the nape of her neck, and bend to kiss her there. Meanwhile my other hand coasts down the length of her spine. Pushing gently against her back, I urge her forward—so that her back arches, her hips cant and her arms are now stretched overhead. Then I nudge her legs apart. It’s a standard-size tub, so the spread is not very wide, but it’s enough.
The curve of her back is still tempting me. Uncapping the bottle of body wash (same scent as the shampoo she was sniffing) I pour the thick soap down the length of her back, following the line of her spine. When I get to her butt, I use my free hand to spread her cheeks, drizzling some more soap over her crack.
“Tickles,” she whimpers, wriggling in place. So, I slide my hand into her hair again, grab a fistful and pull.
Leaning over her back, I whisper in her ear. “Stay still!”
“Unnnh,” she moans. “I didn’t know we’d be playing Dirty Cop tonight.”
I hadn’t either. “Are you okay with this?” I ask, feeling a tinge of unease. I know the power dynamic can freak people out sometimes, especially when it’s a little too close to reality.
“Yes.” The word emerges as a frustrated whine. “Just doooo it. Please.”
I’m chuckling as I straighten up and begin to massage her back, using long slow strokes, enjoying the slide of my hands over her warm slick flesh. “I think it’s going to become my mission in life to teach you to enjoy edging,” I tell her. Knowing how she feels about waiting, I suspect she’ll view it as a sexy threat.
“Noooo,” she moans. “Not that again. Please, Clay. Not tonight.”
“That’s what you said last time,” I remind her, as I reach around to cup her breasts—massaging them, too, until her nipples are hard and tight. Leaning in close again I tighten my arms around her, sliding one hand up to cover her throat, allowing the other to slip between her legs, finding her clit, stroking over it. “But you can’t hold it off forever, you know. Sooner or later…it’s coming.”
“Coming—yes,” she groans. “Make me come, Clay, please.”
“I like the way my name sounds on your lips,” I tell her—something I never expected to hear myself say. “I want to hear you scream it when you come.”
“Claaay,” she groans again, this time in frustration, when I release her clit to search for the shower sponge.
“Shhh,” I tell her, fractionally increasing the pressure on her throat, teasing her nipples with the sponge, whispering, “Be a good girl now and maaaybe I’ll let you come.”
“Cla-ay,” she groans again, but this time there’s a hint of warning in her tone.
“So good,” I murmur as I move the sponge lower, trailing down her abdomen, and then move my hand back between her legs. “Doesn’t it feel good, baby? Don’t you want more.”
“D’y’know what’d feel even better?” she asks, her words slurring with her arousal. “That’d be you inside me.” And I can’t fucking argue with that.
“Okay, you win,” I tell her. Straightening away from her, I grab for the condom I brought into the shower with me. “Are you wet for me?” I ask as I’m suiting up. “Are you ready for me to fuck you now?”
“Am I what?” Legs cranes her neck to look at me over her shoulder. “We are literally standing in a shower, Clay, with water pouring down all around us; what do you think?”
“I think,” I say, giving her ass a quick smack. “That you should answer the question.”
“Hmm. Well, you know what I think?” she asks, her gaze calculating, her teeth worrying her lip, a smile tugging at her mouth.
