appreciating every grunt of frustration. An unstoppable smirk tilts my lips, loving how flushed she is from both embarrassment and irritation, but it’s the little growl she lets out as she wiggles that has me chuckling at her expense.
“Need help, Gumby?”
“Gumby? Are you fucking joking? Do I look like a bendy green piece of Play-Doh?” Her voice rises with each word as though it’s an accusation and not a fun way to tease her. She’s wrong. It’s the definition of fun. Her hair—wild, fiery, and twisted in every which way—only makes me unable to take her seriously. I’m enjoying this far too much, especially when she’s only been hostile since I’ve woken her up. “And what are you... fifty? Gumby seems a little past your time.”
Guess what they say about waking chicks up is true.
Lo was never that way.
She lived for mornings.
I lived for her.
Fuck.
“Well, if I tried moving like that, I’d fall on my ass. Yet here you are, a professional. Green or not, you’re bendy,” I argue, shoving any and all twinges of pain about her out of my mind. It’s not the time. It’s never the time. She’ll never leave me. She’s left a stain on my soul, and no cleaner—no matter how potent—will ever be able to erase our memories. Our past. Our lack of future. “And Gumby is a fucking classic. Don’t dog on him.”
“Fuck you,” she spits, her anger rises along with my amusement.
“I’m sure I’ve done just that, Gumby. I mean, look at us. Naked. Jovial. Just fucking dandy. I’d call that an after fuck fest affair.” I wink at her, and the sound of annoyance that slips past her rosy lips has me chuckling. Being an ass shouldn’t be this enjoyable, yet I find myself really smiling for the first time in years. A time when alcohol isn’t what’s making me forget. This, I want to remember. The way she glares, the feel of her hateful words lashing me as a whip would, and the scent of stupid fucking flowers that’ll be laced into my memory like a sewing string to fabric. I want it all to stay in my mind.
And that’s new.
“You’re incorrigible,” she hisses. After her last few twists, she’s finagled her jeans on and is barely tossing her shirt over her shoulder before storming past me. “Let’s pretend this didn’t happen.”
“Easily,” I muse, waving her goodbye. Even as the lie leaves my lips, I’m sure I’ll never omit the memory of her.
She stops in her tracks, her back stiffening, probably realizing she’s still topless. “Where’s my bag?” Her fear mounts, and she hesitates, turning toward me. Confused and scared, she’s full of animosity.
Unable to stop myself from taking her in once more, her perky tan nipples stare back at me. They’re stiff, reflecting her hardened exterior. My eyes catch on the tiny barbell on the left one, wondering why she only has one. Then my gaze travels to a tattoo curving her right breast, wondering what the simple words mean.
When she catches me gawking, she covers herself, and I find myself getting lost at her toned stomach and the tiny belly button with another silver glinting jewelry piece dangling from it.
Goddamn.
Never thought I’d think piercings were appealing, but here I am.
“Hey, old man. My eyes are up here.” She snaps her fingers aggressively. “I asked you a question.” Our eyes meet as a challenge both of us seem to be unwilling to lose continues.
“Old man, really?” I finally hiss. I’m not that old. But compared to her, I might be. “I haven’t seen your purse.”
“Bag,” she grunts. “Purses are for prissy bitches. As you can tell, that’s not me.” With her last words, she’s finally slipping on her cropped top. Her midriff shows beautifully, and her perky little nipples tent the fabric as I look, making me feel like a pervert. I need to stop staring. This could be bad. She could be a teenager. Fuck. No. I could never...
“I haven’t seen your bag,” I clarify. “I just fucking woke up for chrissake.” If she could narrow her eyes further, they’d be shut. That’s what she looks like now, barely seeing, trying to drill every annoyed strand of her displeasure into one expression. I rub my eyes, trying to convince my brain to stop looking at her.
“Definitely needed your beauty sleep,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “Wrinkles are hot for old people, I guess.”
“What’s that, Gumby?” I ask, knowing exactly what she said.