And now I’m just supposed act like it is no big deal to put that fork that has been behind his lips, inside his mouth, touched his tongue, back into my mouth.

“What do you think of Lawrence Peters?” he finally asks.

What to say in a situation like this? Be professional or go for blunt honesty? “He is an ignorant bore.”

Guess we’re rolling with honest.

Canon looks like he might have horked a jalapeño into his sinuses.

“And your opinion on the owner, Samuel Dowry?”

“Well,” I say, charging ahead, “I spent very little time with him. He seems shrewd but has…eclectic taste in personnel.”

“Eclectic…” Canon repeats, smiling. “Lance Rowe?”

“Delusional, manwhore sycophant.”

He laughs. “Diana Fralin?”

“You would know better than me,” I say and stuff a stringy, cheesy bite into my mouth.

“But I asked you.” His brows knit together.

Not sidestepping that landmine. Honesty. “Duplicitous skank.”

“Wow. Not pulling any punches.” He sits back and sprawls his arm across the back of the booth.

I shrug.

“What did she do to you?”

I would like to ask you the same thing…Scratch that. I don’t really want to know.

“Got you to call her Diana,” I mutter into my chimichanga.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t noticed how condescending she is toward me?”

“Yes, actually I have.”

“So why would you ask?”

He studies me for a moment. “Why do you let her get away with it?”

“I’m not supposed to embarrass my boss.”

He blinks. Repeatedly.

Yeah, put that in your picky pipe and smoke it.

He watches his fork swirl the rice around the upper corner of his plate. “I think we need to talk.”

“If you say so.” I try to look nonchalant.

“Don’t you think so?”

“If you think so, sir, then I think so.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what, sir?”

His fork clinks on the Fiestaware. “That. Don’t you think we have moved past the mister/sir thing in our off-hours now?”

Oh, this is more to the point than I was expecting. Pointy. Thorny.

This is different.

I swallow…which is different too.

He appears to chew on the word he’s about to say. “Emma.” Piercing stare. “You do remember, don’t you? Because I really hope to hell you remember, otherwise I need to take a whole different tack here.”

Our perky waitress appears. “Did you two save room for desert? Our fried ice cream is amazing.” With a pineapple garnish?

Canon looks at me as if to say he is game. I think he is a puzzle.

“Does it have a honey-based sauce?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes. Cinnamon and honey. It’s delicious.”

“No, thank you, then,” I say.

“Ugh. Bee vomit.” Canon looks nauseated. I’m probably catching flies. Too weird…the same phrase I use.

“How about some margaritas? They’re on special.”

“No,” we say in unison quickly. I shiver. Drinks. A reminder of last night.

“Just the check,” he adds.

8:05 p.m.

CANON IS IN THE SHOWER.

No other status report possible.

…

…

…

…

8:17 p.m.

I’M IN THE SHOWER.

The same shower in which Alaric Canon was naked and touching himself mere minutes ago.

The water on the walls may well have splashed off his skin.

Showerhead: Does not detach.

Universe: Hates me.

Water beats down on me. Our conversation plays back in my mind.

Not the best of decisions…for either of us.

Not my finest hour.

Mine either.

You regret it?

Yes…no…

Me, too.

Friends?

With you?

He scoffs lightly. Friendly then…

For the best…

I do not feel better. Not even in the realm of better.

8:35 p.m.

*

Awkwardness

: Tens all around. Off the chart.

IT TOOK A GREAT DEAL of insisting that Canon keep the bedroom. I am not in the camp of people who think genitalia determines many things, one of which being who gets the sofa and who gets the bed.

I’m happier out here with the television to keep me company. Hopefully the ambient noise will scare Lincoln away.

I don my PJs while still in the bathroom. My skin is damp, and the fabric clings.

I step out into the quiet main area. Canon is in his room.

A sofa bed is not as easy to set up as one might wish.

I am determined not to ask for help. It’s not the weight that is the problem. It’s stuck.

It pulls free. Of course, a spring hook also digs into my ’67 Impala pajamas and rips a huge hole as it scrapes down my thigh.

“Aaahhhhh!”

The bed legs smack the floor. I press my hands to my leg and will the pain away. It’s probably not that bad, just shocking.

“What happened?”

I open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d squeezed shut. Canon is down in front of me. He moves my hands to check.

I hiss.

At the sound he looks up at me. His fingers press through the tear in my pants.

“I’ll be okay.”

He shakes his head and tries to check for damage. Unsuccessfully.

Without looking up, he pulls what’s left of my pants off and out of the way. Why the concern? I can surely still brew coffee and type even if my leg needs amputation.

“I said I’m okay.”

All thoughts cease when his thumb traces a foot long red mark up my inner thigh.

“Enjoying yourself down there, Mr. Canon?”

The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’ve thought them.

He freezes.

It’s like a switch flips.

My hands run through his hair. I don’t know when I put them there. They move down his neck. To his shoulders. I fist his shirt and pull. Never looking up, he grabs the bottom of his shirt with his free hand. It goes over his head in one motion. It hangs in a circle around the arm he is still using to apply pressure to my leg.

“Move your arm and let the shirt fall.”

His breath hitches. I’m shaking. I hope he can’t tell. His shirt lands next to my pants, and he returns to my thigh.

“Surely you are familiar with the saying…kiss and make it better?”

Slowly—oh, God, so slowly—he leans in more and presses his lips to the bottom of the scrape near my knee.

Oh, yeah. I’m feeling no pain. Then his warm lips move up and press again.

Then again.

And up again.

If my knees don’t buckle out from under me, it’s going to be an unqualified miracle.

Near the top, after a dozen plus ongoing kisses, I touch his arm and bring it to my hip. To steady myself. I hope it seems like a reward.

His arm wraps completely around me. My hip at his shoulder, his palm pressing along the small of my back, stopping when his fingers encircle the other side of my waist.

I indulge myself. I run my fingers through his hair. Silk. Slide them over his shoulders. Satin. Trace the indents and sinews. Stone. The planes of his shoulder blades. Oak.

He hums.

I drag my fingers up his back, lightly scratching with my nails. Very lightly.

He moans.

It drowns out mine.

Here is a crossroads. A bridge. A defining moment. Run or succumb. Lead or be led. Live or be dead.

I want a lot.

I want to be more like the women he dates. The polished women. The ones on his arm.

I want him to not just be a fuck hot pretentious wanker who should drink pineapple juice so I can blow his beautiful cock more often.

Or something less whorish.

I want him to scoop me up in his arms and carry me to his bed and tell me he sees me for who I am and wants me and respects me, and he is only a hardass to get the job done and he will be the most patient and wonderful man on this green earth if I will only give us the chance.