“You seem remarkably calm about tomorrow.”
He reaches for me, reeling me close to his hard chest. We kissed in the kitchen earlier, so it’s useless to pretend to everyone that we’re not doing... whatever it is we’re doing, but I’m still surprised when he kisses me, hands gripping my backside. It must be the leggings I’m wearing. They make my butt look like a perfect peach. Heat flares through me, and I’m sure he can tell because he laughs. By some miracle, he lets me press my face against his throat until I get myself under control.
“I’m fine,” he says. I shut my eyes; the rumble of his voice feels nice. It’s sending vibrations through my body. “It’s all fine. We’re good, sweetheart, I promise.”
Kiara holds out a paper-wrapped sub for me. “Try it. I swear it’ll change your life.”
I take half, reluctantly, and bite into it. It’s filled with fried chicken tenders, plus lettuce, mayo, and tomato—the perfect way to have it, according to Kiara.
“Oh. Oh my god.”
She grins. “Good, right?”
“Sogood.” I take another bite. “I’m offended that all of you let me live in Florida for almost three months without tasting this.”
Jack chuckles, his arms wrapping around me from behind. He steals a bite.
Approximately two hours later, several things have happened: I’ve scarfed down an entire Pub sub and seen the light, Kiara broke out the last of her dad’s good rum, and we’ve turned the living room into a mini club. Hazel, Kiara, and I are trying valiantly to dance to the Clash, thanks to Jack winning the last round of king’s cup.
“How am I supposed to dance to this?” Kiara says, arm looped through mine. She’s practically yelling, even though it’s just the seven of us in one room. We do another spin, horribly off beat. “Put on some party music!”
“Yes,” I say, bouncing on my heels. “Dance playlist! Pop!”
Jack, to my chagrin, doesn’t seem inclined to listen. He tilts his head to the side, watching us with sharp, yet warm, eyes. The alcohol has given his face a flushed quality. I shake my hips. I want to shimmy right over there and grind against him. If we were in a club, I’d consider it. Find a quiet corner, feel his lips trail up my neck...
A club. Jack Hartman in a club. Hazel has told me some stories about the two of them going out after shifts, but I still can’t believe it. Watching him in a club would be like watching a fish flop around on the beach. I break into giggles at the thought.
“Remember when you had that house party while Sal was at a convention in Atlanta?” he drawls.
Kiara jolts to a stop, then lunges for him. “You promised never to bring it up!”
“We drank so much of his stash then.” He holds Kiara an arm’s length away, voice rich with amusement. “You know how long it took me to replace it?”
“That was a great party,” Chester says. He steals Kiara away, dipping her to make her laugh. “What about you, Pop Rocks?”
“My house parties always ended with noise complaints and people running away half-dressed.”
“I’m sure Douglas loved that,” Jack says.
“I know, right?” I sail into his arms. He catches me easily, just like I knew he would. That reassurance makes me warmer than any of the drinks we’ve had. “He was always like yes, Poppy, fuck up the house again while your mother and I are at Lake Como. We’re so proud of you.” I accidentally stomp on Jack’s foot. He pinches my bottom in recompense. We fall onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, kissing. I discover a sensitive spot on the underside of his jaw and toy with it with my teeth until he takes in a delightfully shaky breath.
I wonder what he’d be like if he truly let go. If it’s possible to make him lose control, the way I did when he spanked me. Has he ever allowed himself to be that intimate with anyone? Has he ever shed all of his armor?
Maybe he did with Jessica. I looked her up; I couldn’t help myself. Stalked her Instagram like a pathetic loser. She screwed himover, in the end, but that doesn’t mean what he felt for her wasn’t real.
“Poppy,” Jack says gently.
I shake my head to clear it. More rum would help, probably.
“Was there anyone else?” I work my hands underneath Jack’s T-shirt. I haven’t traced every last tattoo line with the tip of my tongue yet, and that feels long overdue. That might be enough for me to focus on. I’m always searching for focus, and almost never find it. “Other than Jessica, I mean? Any other blondes in your closet?”
“That’s enough rum for you,” he murmurs, brushing my hair behind my ears. Our limbs knot together like shoelaces. I keep messing with his shirt. “You need a glass of water.”
“It’s raining.” That started a little while ago, a hard, pounding thunderstorm that has made the party inside all the more fun. “We could go outside and stand in the rain.” Another, better idea occurs to me. “We could makeoutin the rain.”
His lips slant upward. “No. We’re not going to do that.”
“I like the rain here,” I say, tracing around his octopus tattoo. “It doesn’t hold back.”
