I take in a steadying breath. “Well, there’s a first for everything. Perhaps I should go.” I pick up the camera. “Let me get a picture of asshole Alan to remind me not to come back here.”

“Fuck, I hate it when you playact,” he growls.

“Fuck, I hate it when you’re theatrical. You do it deliberately to keep me off-balance so you can mess with me.”

I am almost out of the bed and his hand stops me. “There are no other pictures, Chrissie. There are no other moments I want to remember always. You’re the only girl I’ve ever made love to.”

I make an exaggerated face. “Really? What do you do with all the others if you didn’t make love to them? Play scrabble?”

He shakes his head, frustrated with me. In a flash I’m hauled up against him, back in his arms, back in the bed. “Even though you are playacting to pretend that the answer doesn’t matter to you, I will tell you the truth. I fucked them. That’s what we did. We fucked. There is a difference between fucking and what we did. The others I only fucked. Nothing more. You, Chrissie, matter to me.”

He is kissing my neck. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to ask this, and yet I can’t stop myself. “Why do I matter?”

“Because you are you.”

I roll my eyes. “Can you be more specific than that? What does ‘because you are you’ mean?”

He is fingering my breasts, his thumb brushing my nipple. His starts to lightly tracing at the apex between my thighs. “Are you sore?”

I lift my face from his chest. “Of course, I’m sore. The second time you were not at all gentle.”

Alan’s eyes glow wickedly. “Are you too sore if I’m really gentle?”

I shake my head to prevent Alan kissing me. I turn my cheek on his chest to keep my mouth away from him. I study his arm, debating with myself. I sink my teeth into my lower lip. I take in a deep breath.

“Should I be worried?”

He frowns. “Worried?”

I can’t keep the color from rising on my face. How do people manage this conversation comfortably? Shit, how do I say it without saying it?

“Have you had all your shots?”

Alan lifts my face from his chest. Those black eyes drill into me. I wait. God, this is awful. It takes him a moment to comprehend.

“Oh. I am fully vaccinated. They check everything when you go into a hospitalized recovery center. I may behave stupidly most of the time, but I am always paranoid and careful. And since the hospital, I haven’t been with anyone until you.”

Paranoid and careful. I don’t like that at all. I don’t like being reminded that us like this is nothing new to him, and I definitely don’t like being reminded that he’s a heroin addict.

I lie beneath his touch as he starts to sweep hairs from my face. He leans in to kiss me, stops, and then stares at me. “Paranoid except with you. Should I be worried?”

I roll my eyes. “Ha ha ha! Worried? Be nice. Don’t make fun of me.”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes grow more intense. “Have you taken all your pills?”

This moment has just gotten extremely awkward. Oh shit, my pills. I am very poor at keeping track of them. Say something fast, Chrissie. Something funny.

I pretend to slowly comprehend. “Oh, worried. Yes, I’ve had all my pills. Birth control is a constitutional right fought for by women.”

Alan laughs. He relaxes. “That sounds like Jack.”

I smile. “Of course, because it is. I’ve been patriotically taking the darn things for two years and lying to the Priest each week in confession to exercise my constitutional right to spit in the eye of the Pope.”

Alan rolls his eyes. “Do you talk this way with other people?”

“No! It wouldn’t work with anyone else. You’re the first weirdo I’ve ever been friends with.”

He laughs. With a finger, I begin to trace the lines of the tattoo on his stomach. The ink is growing on me. It gives me a reason to touch without being so obvious that I want to touch. God, I want to touch him always. He’s like a drug. He is at times too intense, at times too aggravating, at times too mean, and at times too glorious. Like a drug. I can’t get enough, and I am slipping so quickly into the hold of him.

What was I thinking? I’m not ready for him. Being with Alan is like being trapped on a runaway train, and his reminding me of the pills I need to count is a monumental wake-up call. In twenty four hours, he’s delved farther into me than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s no good for me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am an addict. I want him even though I know he’s going to hurt me.

I suddenly feel frazzled and disoriented. I climb from the bed. “I need to go back to my apartment.”

I can feel him watching me. “I’ll go with you.” He starts to move.

“No.”

I continue to gather my clothes. After what seems like a monumental amount of time, he sits on the edge of the bed near me.

“What’s changed?” he asks after a long while.

“Nothing. I just need to go.”

Those black eyes grow even darker. “Why are you running, Chrissie?”

How does he know that I’ve decided to leave, to get away from him? I stare at my feet. I take in a deep breath. “I need to go home and count my pills. I don’t have them with me. I’m glad you reminded me.”

His eyes widen and his expression changes. He runs a hand through his messy waves. “Is that all? Why didn’t you just tell me? Why is it so hard for you to talk about normal things that people talk about?”

I make an exaggerated comical face. “Probably the Pope.”

He shakes his head at me and starts pulling on his jeans. “Would you like to go out after we stop by Jack’s to collect your things?” Now he’s reaching for a shirt.

Oh god. How did we get from me leaving to us going to collect my things?

I stare. He is nearly dressed. “I expect you to decide what you want by the time we’re done at Jack’s.”

My head is swimming. He really does expect me to stay here with him and I don’t think that’s a good idea.

I find my panties at the foot of the bed, pull them up and then look about for my shoes. Nowhere. I sink to look under the bed and out of the corner of my eye I see Alan lift a drink from the bedside table and down it in a single gulp.

God, when did he pour that? I can tell by the golden brown color and the cocktail glass that it’s alcohol. I stretch underneath the bed to grab my shoe and am just easing into a sitting position when I find him gazing down at me, his expression hard.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Chrissie. Don’t say it. Rule one: You are not going to change me.”

How dare he order me when there seems to be no topic about me off limits for discussion, in his opinion?

I jerk my laces into order and tie a bow. “I don’t like drunks,” I murmur.

Alan runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“Then I won’t be drunk while you’re here, but you are staying the rest of your vacation,” he commands softly. “Get used to the idea.”

I frown, trying to process his words, and then resolve to make a face. “I can’t even get used to the idea of you.”

He smiles, though there was nothing about either my words or tone that should make him smile. God, he’s a frustrating guy and impossible to deal with.

I am silent as we take the elevator down to the lobby. If he’s irritated with me, it doesn’t show. He is just sort of there beside me and not really with me at all. This deliberate distance he seems to hold between us at times is a strange feeling, now that I’ve been to bed with him.

On the sidewalk we find Colin beside Alan’s car, waiting for us.

“Do you mind if we walk?” I ask, noting the warmth of the sun and the pleasantness of the day.

He shrugs and tells Colin to follow. The streets are crowded, but it comes as a welcome relief to my overtaxed emotions, having a little bit of space and time to focus on something other than Alan.

There is an odor to New York City that you don’t smell anywhere else. A stench that crawls up from the concrete, through the grates, on steam and air that is an absolutely repulsive smell. I don’t know why I always prefer to walk in the city. The stench is so hard to bear and I like ocean air and quiet streets.