Frenemies(34)

I smiled wider. Then:

“Kiss me,” I ordered him, because there was no doubt at all in my mind that right then it was what he wanted more than anything else in the world. Because I did, too. “Make it good, too.”

“I always do.” Like he was warning me.

“Well?” I cocked my head to one side and dared him.

I saw a strange expression flit across his face. Second thoughts, maybe. But the hunger there won out, and without a word he leaned forward to press his mouth over mine. One of his hands slid around my back and pulled me closer, tighter.

It was revenge. It was getting back at Nate. I felt powerful and wicked and hot.

And he tasted like magic.





chapter twelve





I jolted awake.

Outside my window, the sky was turning that deep almost-blue that meant another day was coming, and Henry was in my bed.

I remembered the night before immediately and in full HDTV with surround sound.

Needless to say, I didn’t feel anything magical any longer.

Something else, something hot and heavy, snaked its way down my throat and into my belly. Maybe it wasn’t just shame. Maybe it was a little self-hate, too. Either way, it was bitter and left a trail.

Next to me, Henry slept with the same sort of easy arrogance with which he did everything else. He sprawled across my bed as if he belonged there, and murmured something not quite in English when I sat up. It sounded sweet.

I wanted to cry.

I shook that off—along with Henry’s hand, which was curled around my hip, and crawled out of the bed. I didn’t look back at him—I made directly for the shower.

After some unnecessary thinking time under the hottest spray I could handle, I found myself in the living room once again, my hair wrapped in a towel and my mind reeling around as if the apartment’s disarray was finally getting to me.

I sank down on the couch, shoving in next to Linus, who pretended to be asleep and immovable. I wedged myself in under his rump, and stared at the evidence spread out across my apartment. Henry’s coat and sweater in a haphazard pile near the archway. My turtleneck a foot inside the living room. Various other items of clothing festooned about the couch and nearby floor. And sizzling, embarrassing memories to go with all of it. Apparently, there were some compensations that went along with being Satan. And this time I could remember each and every one of them.

I forced myself to swallow past the lump in my throat.

Then, a few moments later, I reached down to dislodge the lump under my butt.

It was my cell phone. I picked it up and frowned as I tried to make sense of the LCD screen.

Seven missed calls.

How could my phone have rung seven times without my noticing? Confused, I looked at the sound menu and saw that the ringer was turned off. I usually kept it on around the clock, the better to receive dramatic phone calls from friends at inappropriate hours.

But tonight it was off, in defiance of my entire history, and so, naturally, tonight was the night I’d missed seven calls.

I felt my stomach give way when I looked at the missed calls menu.

All of them were from Nate.


“Hey, Gus,” he said the first time. “I’m really sorry that things got a little weird, that wasn’t my plan at all. Amy Lee said you bailed, which I hope didn’t have anything to do with me. Because the truth is, I kind of had a fight with Helen and saw you and blew stuff out of proportion … The fact is, she doesn’t really see things—I mean, you would understand where I was coming from better. I don’t want stuff to get messed up again with us, because I really do want us to stay friends. I really meant that. God, I’m rambling, aren’t I? Call me and maybe I’ll come have a drink with you wherever you are. Okay, later.”

“It’s me again,” he said the second time, an hour later. “Where did you go? I’m back at my place and I was hoping we could talk. Call me.”

“I think you’re screening your calls,” came the third message. A half hour later. “I know you love doing that. It’s not going to work, though. I know where you live.”

The fourth message, forty-five minutes later: “You’re leaving me no choice here, Gus. I hope you realize that.”

“Okay, I’m obviously too lame to be a stalker,” he said in number five, in a whisper. It was a good hour later. “I’m standing outside your building and there’s definitely no light on in there. It occurred to me that you might not have a sense of humor about me showing up like this, at like 1 a.m., but then I figured it would be fine, and now I just feel like kind of a jackass because it’s colder than balls out here and I think your freaky neighbor might have called the cops. I’m calling you for bail.”

“You thought this was a bail call, didn’t you?” he asked in his normal voice in the sixth message. “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly fine, just cold. I really wish you were home, or answering your phone, Gus. I really need to talk to you. I really think—” He broke off, and sighed. “I realize you’re just out or something. Maybe you don’t even have your phone with you, maybe you’re just sick of my shit, and I can’t blame you. Please call me when you get this. I don’t care what time it is. Seriously. Just call.”

The last call came in just before four. Nate’s number, but no message—just the phone hanging up. Like he’d given up.