The First Taste(55)

I groan. I could be there now, behind her, learning her body with my hands. I write back immediately.



Move the bubbles a little to the left so I can see how satisfied.



As soon as I send it, three dots appear as she types her response. My heart rate picks up. Phone sex. Text sex. Dirty pictures. Amelia. Naked. My phone vibrates with her answer and I’m worse than Pavlov’s dog, my cock stirring in anticipation. I’m a dog all right, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m nearly panting for a nudie. I open the message.



You have an imagination. Use it.



Fuck. She can’t do that. I’ll reciprocate if that’s what she wants. I lift the comforter, pull down my boxer briefs, take my dick in my hand and stop. Playful, tastefully photographed woman in a bathtub? Sexy. Unsolicited dick pic from a guy you’ve known a week? Creepy. Reluctantly, I tuck myself back in. I study her picture for any unintentional breaks in the bubbles—accidental nip slip, suggestive flash of skin, anything. There’s nothing. I’m going to need more.



When can I see you again?



Mercifully, she doesn’t make me wait for a response.



Whenever you want. That’s what the picture’s for. Goodbye, Andrew.



Amelia is done with me, that much is obvious.

But I don’t think I’m done with Amelia just yet.





SIXTEEN


“Butts out,” Pico calls through the garage.

I look up from the engine I’m working on, stand, and knock my head on the hood. “Damn it.”

“You’d think after twenty years working on cars, you’d know better by now,” Pico points out before one last, long suck from his cigarette.

“Fuck off.” I rub the top of my head. “Butts out already? Why?”

“It’s ten to three, boss. Shouldn’t you be on your way to the bus stop?”

“Ah, shit.” I toss my ratchet onto a bench and wipe my oily hands on my pants. “Seriously?”

Pico points at the clock, drops the butt, and mashes it with his shoe. “Same as every day.”

I head out of the garage and down the block. Bell spots me from the corner and jumps up and down, waving. She and Sammy, a kid from the grade above hers, are already headed my way. Of course the bus is early the one day I’m late. She grips the straps of her backpack and walks faster. When they reach the intersection, Sammy steps off the curb, but Bell grabs his sleeve and pulls him back. Even from fifty feet away, I hear her yelling at him about the importance of looking both ways.

“You’re late,” she says as we meet in the middle.

“Sorry, kid. Lost track of time.”

“You can make it up to me with a piggy back ride.”

“Gee, thanks.” I exchange a glance with Sammy, who rolls his eyes as if to say classic Bell. I squat, and she hops on my back.

“Mr. Beckwith?” Sammy asks.

I never tell Bell’s friends to call me by my first name like the other parents. Mr. Beckwith is grown-up and important, at least to people their size. “What’s up?”

He holds up a red envelope. “A stranger tried to give this to Bell, but I took it.”

My heart stops along with my feet, and Bell tightens her arms around my neck to keep from lurching forward. I take what looks like a greeting card from him. “A stranger? Who?”

“A teacher,” Bell says.

“I didn’t recognize her,” Sammy says with exasperation, as if this is an argument they’ve had before.

“Oh. A teacher.” I wipe sweat from my brow and flip the envelope over. My fingers leave black marks on the red paper. “Is it for me?”

“No, she said it was for me,” Bell says. “Sammy wouldn’t let me open it.”

Right. It may be addressed to Bell, but I doubt it’s actually for her. It looks like a valentine, even though it’s May. Most likely another attempt to get to me through her. I nod at Sammy as I stick it in my back pocket. “Thanks for telling me. You want to hang here for a while?”

“Sure.”

“There’re popsicles in the freezer,” I say. “I’ll let your mom know you’re here.”

I put Bell down, and they run for the sweets. As I scroll through my messages to contact Sammy’s mom, I pause at Amelia’s last text—the infuriatingly mocking photo—and admire it for the second time today.

“What’s that?” Pico asks, suddenly at my side.

I close out of the picture. “Nothing.”

“Must be the reason you’ve been distracted all week,” he says. “Could it be the city girl?”

“Fuck you,” I say. “Is there anything you and your mom don’t share?”

Randy holds a wrench in front of his crotch and gyrates his hips. “There’s nothing Pico’s mom and I don’t share.”

“Eat shit,” Pico says. “You never even met my mom.”

“Yeah, I did. At last year’s Fourth of July barbeque.”

Pico glares at him. “Fuck off. She’s twice your age.”

“So? * is *.”

“Shut the f*ck up,” I say. “My daughter’s right over there.”