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ChapterEighteen
Gideon
I’ve never beena fan of routine. It’s stifling, kills creativity, and breaks the human spirit, if you ask me. It’s one reason I move around so much. The other being my desire to avoid my dad and his sage advice. When I’m in motion, he can’t catch up to me.
Skye and I fall into routine—actually, everything with Skye since I came to stay with her has been routine. Coming home at night to find her in the kitchen fixing dinner. Helping her a bit, though I’m not too handy with a stove and cooking utensils. Reading together while we eat. After we clean up. Even running errands has become something of a routine. We might not walk every store aisle together, but if she says she’s running to Target or Wine Down, I go, too.
I like the easy way we fit together, even when she was giving me hell for stealing her reading spot. For not wanting to see the Arch. For drinking my coffee black and soulless. Now that we’re spending our nights together, I love our routine.
I love us.
Which is a problem. But one I’ll deal with some other time.
We’ve made love in my bed several times, but it’s become our habit to sleep in her room. The music, when we make love, is the perfect sound for the things we do to each other, the way we make each other feel. I love sharing that part of my life with her, even though I haven’t shared anything about the first piece I composed. All the same, I love being in her bed with her. Smelling her shampoo and perfume in her sheets. Driving into her over and over while her bras and panties might be piled on the floor. Seeing the pictures of her with my sister isn’t as weird as I thought it would be. The first night we made love in her room, I noticed a framed candid of her and Chloe sitting on her nightstand. The two of them with fishing poles in hand, barefoot, no makeup, and messy hair. I worried about performance anxiety. Wasn’t sure I could get it up with my sister’s picture there, but Skye went down on me, and my brain blacked out.
We don’t talk about Chloe. We don’t talk about what happens when I move. But we do talk. A lot. Skye told me about losing her virginity to some sleazy ass VP at her first job. She says it was good, and he taught her all the dirty things she knows. If he coached her on the perfect blowjob, I’m a little bit grateful. But mostly, I’d like to knock his teeth out for messing with her when she was a kid.
“What’re you thinking?” she asks me.
It’s Friday night, and instead of cooking in her apartment, I shooed her out her door and took her to dinner. She suggested some fancy Italian place on The Hill. She’s still dressed for work in another of those sexy pencil skirts and heels. As usual, I look like an entitled slob in my khakis and t-shirt. She doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she’s reached over the table more than once to touch my hand while we talk. She looks around now and then and comments to me about someone, but when we’re in conversation, she looks at me. She listens.
“I’m thinking I’m not much of a wine drinker, but I like this.” I touch the bottle of cabernet sauvignon.
“What do you drink? When you’re not with me?”
I don’t want there to be a time when I’m not with her. And that’s so unlike me, the thought makes my chest hurt. Like I’m having a heart attack.
“Scotch.”
“Yeah?” She tips her head. “I’ve never tried it.”
“Well, then, we should do that.”
“Did you pick that up in Vegas?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “I was probably nineteen or twenty. Playin’ guitar in a jazz band not far from home. Natasha got me started on scotch.”
“Natasha?” She raises her eyebrows. “And who is that?”
I love that she’s interested. Because she’s jealous, even if she wants me to think she’s not.
“Bartender.”
“Mmm.” Skye nods.
“Five ten. Legs that went on for miles. Tits like aPlayboycenterfold.”
As I expected, Skye’s not offended. Instead, she laughs.
“You had a fling with her, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you’re upset about my experience when I was nineteen?”
“She wasn’t my first.”
“Still. You were young. She plied you with liquor.”
