Notes From the Backseat Page 8

  Suddenly they turned toward the sliding glass doors and I felt a brand-new panic rise inside me—could they see me? I shrank farther into the shadows of the ficus, pressing myself into the corner. Then I heard footsteps out on the porch. Peeking through the branches, I saw them heading straight for me. Oh God—oh God—I stumbled back toward the hallway. As the doors slid open behind me, my foot caught the edge of Steven’s ab machine and I sprawled onto the carpet.

  “G? You okay?” Coop was kneeling beside me. “Danni, turn on a light, would you?”

  In a matter of seconds, the merciless glare of track lights illuminated my shame. I wanted to curl into a fetal ball and will myself dead.

  Coop helped me sit up. He brushed a few strands of hair out of my eyes with surprising tenderness. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I blinked a little in the bright room, hoping to appear half asleep and vulnerable. “I got up for a glass of water and I guess I tripped.” It was a fairly ineffectual lie, flimsy as cellophane, but I knew it would make the moment pass more quickly than a confession.

  Coop chuckled with the indulgence one usually reserves for toddlers and kissed my forehead. “You poor thing,” he said, helping me up. “Did you bruise anything?”

  I looked down at myself. I was wearing that whisper-pink satin nightgown I bought from the Countess of Albania—remember her? Under normal circumstances, I thought it guaranteed me Alluring Siren of the Night status, but at the moment I was struck by just how many acres of chubby thigh it revealed. My knees were rug-burned and I thought I could see the beginnings of a potbelly protruding from beneath the satin drape.

  Coop lifted my chin with one finger and looked into my eyes. “Kitten, are you all right?”

  To my horror, seeing his warm, hazel eyes studying me with such sweet concern made my bottom lip quiver. Instead of answering, I looked instinctively over at Dannika, who was standing across the room watching us with her arms folded over her chest. Our eyes met and hers were icy-cold, glinting at me with a look I can only describe as hateful.

  The second Coop glanced over his shoulder at her, though, her expression lost all rancor and transformed into a bland innocence.

  “Hey, Danni,” he said, “mind if I talk with Gwen a minute?”

  She shrugged. “Course not. I was going to bed, anyway.” She unzipped her sweatshirt and took it off, revealing a filmy little lime-green tank top that showed off her perky nipples shamelessly. “Don’t stay up all night.” She winked at me with a coy grin, then padded past us and was swallowed whole by the shadows of the hallway.

  Coop led me to the couch and we sat down together. I could smell smoke on him, but it wasn’t his usual chocolaty pipe smoke smell. I sniffed again. “Were you smoking pot?”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Just like that—like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’s never smoked pot around me, but there he was, acting like it was no big deal.

  “Does that bug you?” he added, when he saw my expression.

  “No, I just—I didn’t know you smoked. Pot, I mean. Do you?”

  “Sure, I used to.”

  “What, like in college?” I told myself to stop sounding like his mother.

  “Yeah, mostly. These days I don’t buy it, but when someone has it, I don’t mind sampling.”

  “Is it Dannika’s, then?”

  He nodded. “She always has the best shit money can buy.”

  I was wondering why she hadn’t gotten rid of it when she unloaded the coke earlier tonight. If the cop freaked her out so thoroughly, wouldn’t she just toss everything?

  Coop put a finger in between my eyebrows, smoothing the lines there gently. “What’s with the furrowed brow, kitten?”

  “Um…” I didn’t want to mention the coke, for some reason. God knows I had no reason to keep secrets for the girl, but somehow it just seemed wrong. “I was just wondering, wasn’t she worried when the cop showed up? I mean, what if he’d searched the car?”

  “She’s got a medical card.”

  “Like, medical marijuana?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does she have…a disease or something?” I tried to keep the hopeful edge out of my voice.

  He grinned. “No, not really. She just got some doctor to give her a card, like for migraines, or something.” He studied me for a moment. “Is that what’s bothering you, us smoking herb?”

  Why should I be bothered, Coop? So what if you’re sneaking off at a quarter to four in the morning, indulging in illicit substances with a perky-nippled supermodel? Why should that worry me? “Nothing’s bothering me.”

  He scooted closer to me. “Come on, kitten. What is it?”

  “I just miss you, I guess.” I shot him a sideways glance and wished I’d remembered to brush my teeth. “I’m used to having you all to myself.”

  He nuzzled my neck. “I’m all yours, now.”

  I turned toward him and he kissed me. Maybe it was the dangerous taste of illegal substances, but when his tongue touched mine a white-hot vein of electricity moved through my bones and I was instantly aroused.

  “Have I been neglecting you?” His hand moved over the satin bodice of my nightgown and all the angry confusion that had been running wild in my system for the past twenty hours dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.

  “Not really,” I mumbled, barely able to get the words out before he kissed me again.

  “I know you’re high maintenance,” he teased as he kissed my neck slowly. I couldn’t help sighing in decadent pleasure. His thumb moved over my nipple and I have to say at the moment it was perky enough to rival even Boob-Job-Blonde’s. “You need constant supervision.” He was speaking in that bad-daddy tone that undoes me.

  Abruptly, he pulled back and searched my face like it contained an elusive code he intended to crack. “Really though, Gwen, are you okay? You seem a little…uneasy.”

  Reluctant to come back to earth, I closed my eyes again and whispered, “At the moment, I’m perfectly at ease.” I tilted my face toward him, offering my lips to be kissed.

  Still, he hesitated. “You sure wrote a lot today. What was that all about?”

  “Just—you know—recording my thoughts.”

  “You’re not mad or anything?”

  “Not right now.” I was being straight with him; it’s amazing how a rush of blood to the erogenous zones can completely negate even the powerful force of psychotic jealousy. Hormonal distraction never lasts, but what the hell? I’ll take my delusions where I can get them.

  Evidently, Coop agreed, because he bent down and kissed me with his whole mouth, probing my teeth with his tongue. When the kiss ended, he leaned in to the curve of my neck and sunk his teeth into the sensitive spot right above my clavicle. He knows that makes me totally insane. I squirmed against him, stifling a squeal.

  He looked up at me through his lashes with a sly, wolfish grin. “It’s been too long.”

  I laughed. “You’re telling me. When was the last time? Tuesday?”

  He pressed against me until I was flat on my back on the couch. “You wicked girl,” he said. “You’ve been intentionally driving me wild with those little outfits of yours.”

  “What ‘little outfits?’” I pretended to be indignant.

  “Your adorable travel suit and now—” he ran a finger along the crease of my cleavage, letting it trail under the plunging neckline of my nightgown “—this little number.”

  Duly noted: travel ensembles a smashing success!

  He slipped one hand under the elastic of my underwear and explored the warm, fleshy wetness of—

  God, do you really want all these details? Actually, I know you, and the answer is a gleaming-eyed, greedy little yes. I can just see you sitting in your trés chic Parisian café, devouring this notebook like it’s one of your coffee-stained, dog-eared bodice-rippers with a horribly seventies-esque Fabio flexing on the cover. Just don’t expect any throbbing members or secret clefts of womanhood, here. It’s all anatom
ically accurate in my world.

  “For your information,” I told him, trying not to cry out as his finger pushed easily inside me. “I am a fashion professional and I choose my clothing not to drive men wild, but to revive the aesthetic impulses of a bygone er—” But I couldn’t finish my sentence. He was spreading my thighs and the warm, damp curve of his tongue against my flesh made it impossible to conjugate verbs.

  I closed my eyes. Colors streaked around in a psychedelic light show under my eyelids. Surrendering to Coop’s mouth is like Venice tiramisu, a bottle of Mumm de Cramant, and the first morning of summer vacation, all rolled into one. As his tongue worked its magic, I eased my fingers into the dark nest of his hair and pulled gently, murmuring, “Oh God, Coop,” under my breath.

  Just as I was starting to pant and sweat, he slid his tongue up the center of my belly, over my navel, between my breasts, pushing my nightgown aside and kissing me hard on the mouth. I could taste myself on his lips and in the hot wetness of his tongue; it was a strange, intoxicating flavor—the tang of my body mixing with the heat of his.

  When I pulled his shirt off, he produced a condom from his wallet and sat it carefully on the arm of the couch. I watched the muscles of his back, sweaty and glistening as the track lights pooled on the glossy surface of his shoulder blades. I just couldn’t believe I was actually with this guy—he was so made to order—with his rock-star hair and his cut shoulders. Why would he bother with me when he could have the bionic blonde?

  Before I could muddy the moment with worry, he unbuttoned his fly and dropped his jeans to the floor. I sat there Indian-style on the couch and he touched my hair with the tips of his fingers; I pulled his boxers down slowly and slipped his—okay, okay!—his throbbing member between my lips. I glanced up to see how I was doing and his eyes were closed in a look of total bliss. I slipped him in and out of my mouth until he was slick with saliva, glistening and hard, plum-colored. I’ve never really considered anyone’s cock beautiful, but Coop’s is different. Usually, sex is such a tense transaction for me, I’m just happy if it’s not gherkin-sized or flaccid. With Coop, I feel like I could fondle and caress it forever. The first time I saw it, I remember thinking, this is the one. Isn’t that weird? Like I’d been looking for something and I didn’t even know it until right then.

  After a long, slow blow job, he let out a soft groan and bent over me, searing my mouth with another famished kiss. The next thing I knew the condom was on and he was inside me, the full length of him pushing in, deeper, moving slowly, watching my face like he wanted to memorize every inch of it. I leaned back against the cushions of the couch and smiled with dizzy pleasure as I felt my body making way for him, yielding like warm river sand. Outside, one of the neighbor’s dogs howled and a gust of wind rattled the sliding glass doors. I could still hear Steven snoring his long, rattling snores, but I tried not to think about that. I wanted to tell Coop something—I didn’t know what. I ached for words as nuanced and delicate as what he made me feel, but my lips wouldn’t cooperate and it was too late for talking, anyway.

  He kept moving, faster now, finding his rhythm, pushing against me and into me, his eyes closed in concentration. I felt the familiar climb, the roller coaster slowly cresting the hill, one excruciating moment building on the next, and then the drop was visible, the plunge just around the bend, and his moan unleashed a great white heat inside me. My mother’s house flew apart in a blinding flash and in my head the scream I let out was primal, electric, terrifying, but the sound that actually slipped through my parted lips was barely more than a breathy little gasp.

  Just so you know, I’ll probably take a Sharpie to all the above before sending this. It’ll look like World War II correspondence after the censors had a crack at it. Don’t take this the wrong way, but at this point you’ve become sort of irrelevant. I mean writing all this down is starting to transcend the usual aim of a letter—to entertain or inform or whatever. Now it’s therapy, and we’re talking high-crisis treatment like shaved heads and electric shock. When you handed me this notebook I thought the whole idea was pretty daft, but now I see the method to your madness; if I weren’t committing this shit to paper, someone would have been hospitalized by now and there’s a good chance that someone would be me.

  At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I know what you’re thinking. How did Gwen go from a blinding orgasm to nearly carving her initials into Dannika’s annoyingly wrinkle-free forehead?

  I’m getting to that.

  Coop and I had a quick, post-coital snooze. I awoke to the sound of a flushing toilet and figured I should get back to the bedroom for appearance’s sake. It’s not like my mom thinks I’m a virgin and certainly Steven’s got nothing to say about what goes on in this house, but waking up to my mother’s coffee grinder with the smell of recent sex still hanging in the air just sounded a little creepy. So I kissed Coop gently, left him there unconscious and slipped back into the bedroom.

  To my surprise, Dannika was bent backward like a horseshoe, balancing precariously on her hands and feet. She didn’t acknowledge me as I came into the room, she just morphed effortlessly from the horseshoe shape into a one-legged balance pose, her hands folded as if in prayer. The clock on the nightstand read four fifty-eight.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Hi,” Dannika whispered, but her tone said don’t-bother-me-now-I’m-becoming-enlightened, so I didn’t make another attempt at conversation. Instead I crawled back under the covers. I was hoping to catch at least two hours of blissful, post-orgasmic sleep. I lay there flat on my back, eyes closed, my body so pliable and relaxed I felt like a stick of butter that’s been softened in the microwave. The river of semi-consciousness was pulling me along, getting ready to release me into the open ocean of dreams, when I heard a little voice saying, “He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

  My eyes fluttered open. For a second, I thought it was one of those weird hallucinations of half-sleep, but then she spoke again.

  “I’ve been with plenty of men and I have to say, Coop’s in a class all his own.”

  Forget fluttering—my eyes popped open and my head snapped to the left. “What did you say?”

  She was on the bed beside me, lying on her back outside of the covers, hugging her knees to her chest. “I’m sorry—were you trying to sleep?”

  “Not really.” I sat up. “What were you saying?”

  Her pink lips formed a pert little O of surprise. “Shit, he didn’t tell you, did he?”

  I winced involuntarily. “Tell me what?”

  “No—God, I’m such an idiot—forget I said anything. I totally assumed you guys had talked about it.”

  “Talked about what?” I was speaking through clenched teeth. I forced myself to relax my jaw.

  “Just—you know—our history.” She released her hold on her legs and sat up beside me, leaning against the pink satin headboard of my childhood. “It was such a long time ago. I never should have mentioned it.”

  “Can you be a little more specific?” I was having an uncomfortable déjà vu; weren’t we having this conversation just before Officer John-Boy appeared on the scene? How many times did she intend to torture me with vague allusions to their sexual past?

  “Well, if he didn’t tell you, I probably shouldn’t.”

  I fixed her with my stare. “Get real. You have to.”

  She sighed and swept her hair into a waterfall that cascaded gracefully over her sculpted shoulder. “It was one hot week, that’s all.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Go on,” I said, feeling masochistic.

  She massaged her neck and gazed into space, remembering. “We were twenty-four, both in the midst of a quarter-life-crisis. It was before I started my yoga studio, and I was still trying to use my degree—marine biology, totally useless at the B.S. level in the real world. Everyone thinks majoring in science is practical, but what are you going to do when you graduate? Unless you want to move to bum-fuck Canada and work for
some dick with a piss-poor grant, taking notes on sea cucumbers, forget it.”

  She glanced at me, and I have a feeling my expression was not exactly sympathetic.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I was in crisis mode and he was dating some girl. What was her name?” She studied the ceiling. “Victoria, I think. He wasn’t happy. She was hearing wedding bells, but he just wasn’t into it. We house-sat for my mom in Malibu and—” she licked her lips, a wicked grin taking over “—had a totally amazing time.” She stared into the distance, lost in a private reverie. “The guy’s incredible,” she said, more to herself than to me. Then, as if suddenly remembering my presence, she patted my leg like a chummy aunt offering advice. “The point is, you’re a very lucky girl. And I speak from experience.”

  “Why did it only last a week?” My voice sounded surprisingly steady.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, he felt guilty about Vicky, for one thing. He tried to make it up to her by pretending nothing had happened. Plus, I didn’t have my shit together. I moved to Spain for a couple months and had a torrid affair with a sculptor who was old enough to be my father.” She cast another wistful glance at the ceiling. “Coop and I had really hot chemistry, but our timing sucked.”

  I studied my lap, smoothing my nightgown. “Did you ever think about getting back together?”

  She sighed. “Oh, sure, we toyed with the idea. But somehow the timing was always off—it’s our curse, I guess. And then there was the whole honesty issue.”