Lexi Cocker - Faleena Hopkins Page 0,28
it!” I dance around as he shuts the refrigerator, adding a triumphant, “A ha!!!”
Shaking his head, Gage says, “Bout time.”
So I throw it at his head.
It zips by, uncaught.
“Oh ho! What was that you were saying, Gage?”
Chuckling, he snatches it up from the kitchen tile, dusts it off, taking a bite and saying with a crunchy mouthful, “I don’t mind a little dirt.”
I tease, “Sooooo manly,” pinching his hip as he passes me for the front door. “Where’s my apple?”
“I’m eating it.”
“Don’t I get another one?”
“Nope.”
“Rude!”
Gage grins and points to the kitchen. “Get it yourself.”
I dash over, and stick my tongue out at him before swinging open his fridge. “Look at your beer selection!”
Over the sound of jingling keys, he says, “They’re not all for me.”
Swiping a shiny apple from his crisper, I take a bite like he did, asking through the crunch, “Who’re they for?”
“Nice,” he smirks, swinging open the front door. “My buddies. And any guests.”
This gives me pause.
He means women.
Dates.
Or just…sex.
Suddenly my appetite sucks.
Arm falling to my side, new apple now an unwanted accessory, I hike my eyebrows and walk outside. “Well, isn’t that hospitable of you.”
His “Thanks,” is oblivious! As we walk to his Bronco, Gage asks a casual, “Did your sister drive you to The Local last night?”
Refusing to think of girls in his bed, I bluntly answer, “Yep.”
“You knew you were coming home with me.”
“Yep.”
He chuckles, “Cocky.”
“Runs in the family.”
His crocodiles register how Cocker would easily become the nickname ‘cocky’ that my cousins and I are so known for, and our fathers before us.
It’s nice to make him smile this much — he’s been laughing a lot. I bet those girls don’t crack him up like I can. Fuck them! I’m going to make him forget every single one.
I climb in with style, inspiring Gage to cock an eyebrow and admit, “I love that you used to be a dancer.” With the top still down he can ask as he walks to his side, “Ballet? I’d love to see that.”
Why just get into a car when you can glide into one?
“Not ballet exclusively. My sister does ballet still, though, plus all the forms. She’s incredibly trained.”
Gage jumps in, ignites the engine, backing out as my hand rests on his strong thigh. “Is she good?”
“Good?!” I explode, “Is she good??!!”
He grins. “That’s a yes.”
“She’s amazing!! You’ll get to see her soon. They’ve got a new show at The Alliance that just had auditions. Since Galloway’s back, I’m sure Sammy’ll get a great role. Unless Mrs. G is feeling vindictive.”
With no traffic on his sleepy residential street since it’s not even seven, he eases the Bronco onto the west-facing lane with zero obstacles. “Vindictive?”
“Oh yeah! She can be terrible!” As we drive, I tell him the story of Samantha and Galloway — even the tragic part about Marion — including all the juicy details because his interest is sincere. Gage asks me questions to understand better, and it feels comfortable to talk with him — no stress. No awkward silences.
Like an old friend.
Or…something.
This moment will haunt my thoughts later, but I don’t know that now. I’m happily explaining why my sister is the light of my life, “Sam should be the star of every production in Atlanta, if I had my way.”
When we pull into the parking lot of the original Om This Gage’s voice is a little haunted. “It’s cool you girls are so close.”
I cut a quick frown his way. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Something I said?”
He parks in front of the darkened studio, staring at it. “Nah.”
“No lying, remember?”
A half-smile tugs at his mouth. “I promise I’m not.” Our eyes meet, his cloudy. “I enjoyed the story.”
“Something you want to talk about?”
“No.”
I drop my gaze. “Oh, okay,” and reach for the door.
“Hang on,” he jumps out and strolls around the front, but doesn’t look over to me like the other times, when we locked eyes through the windshield. I don’t like his frown, or his refusal to share why it arrived.
What’s troubling him?
He opens my door, and offers his hand, palm warm. “Hey Cherry?”
As soon as my boots hit pavement I kiss him and murmur against his lips, “Yeah?”
“Can I get your number?”
I burst out laughing, and he grins, pulling out his phone and tapping away as I lean in to watch, and recite for him a slow, “I-800-Fuck-Yes.”
Gage cracks up because he actually typed the ‘1’ and was confused by the ’800’ until the rest unfolded. “Seriously, what’s your fucking number?!”
I laugh, and give it