The First Taste(80)

“Oh my God,” she says breathlessly. “Stop. It tickles.”

“That only makes it more tempting.” I nibble on her earlobe. “I made the biggest mistake of my life this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, unconcerned. “What was that?”

“Passing up an opportunity to ravage you. Just spending time with you is like foreplay.”

She wiggles her shoulders in my grip. “I agree. That was a mistake. Ravage me here.”

“In the middle of the street, for everyone to see?” I mock-gasp against her cheek. “Nah. I want you all to myself. When I f*ck you, I want only my eyes on your body.”

“What about your hands?”

“You know what I mean,” I say, pinching her side so she squeals. “Now that I know how ticklish you are, you’re in a world of trouble.”

Just ahead is a blocked-off street lined with umbrellas, tents and carts separated by tables of tchotchkes or rolling racks of clothing or furniture. “Well, if that isn’t serendipitous,” I say, nodding toward the Hell’s Kitchen flea market. “First, we manage to find three apartment open houses, and we’re already onto furniture.”

She squeezes her arm around my middle. “I’ve always wanted a big, vintage wooden armoire,” she says. “Reggie said they were too old and heavy, though.”

I steer her across the street toward the crowded stalls. “Well, good thing I’m stronger.”

Her gloriously-naked-for-once lips spread into a wide smile. “You’ve never even met him.”

“I don’t need to. I already know.”

We slow together and make our way down the first row of mismatched, homeless items. She ducks out from under me to look at some jewelry and picks up a silver locket. “My dad gave me one of these as a girl. I wore it every day until I started high school and thought it wasn’t cool anymore. I think I still have it somewhere.” She frowns. “You should get something like that for Bell for her birthday.”

I look at the necklace. It wouldn’t have occurred to me. Bell loves dress up as much as the next girl. Since I have nothing of worth to offer her—Shana took her jewelry with her, and my mom gambled away her things long ago—Bell’s toy chest is littered with plastic costume jewelry. “She’s too young,” I say. Jewelry, makeup, hair, and all the other shit women do, all the things Amelia and her firm shill—I want them nowhere near my daughter.

Amelia glances over her shoulder and studies me a moment, as if she senses the shift in my mood. “Maybe,” she says, replacing it gently on the velvet pad.

She walks a few feet ahead, and I stop at a booth where some other men have gathered. I push a few old license plates aside to inspect a pile of car parts.

The woman manning the table nods at me. “I know you.”

“Yeah?”

“Beckwith Motors in Elizabeth, right?” she asks. “My husband and I have been there for work on our ’66 Mustang.”

“Right. I remember. Orange with stripes?”

She nods. “That’s it.”

“We did a coupe-to-fastback conversion for you.”

“Good memory. You guys are the best in the tri-state area for classic restoration. That Camaro I always see there—it yours?”

I nod. “Been working on it for years. Every time I get started, we get swamped.”

“’68?” she asks. “I think I got something for that.” She pulls out a bin from under the table, drops it in front of me with a thud, and picks out a thin, chrome triangle about the size of my forearm.

“Vent window frame?” I ask.

She nods. “Right side.”

I glance over at Amelia, who’s testing the drawers of a massive armoire. Fuck. I didn’t know she’d take me seriously about that. If she picks something out today, I’m not actually sure how I’d get it to her apartment. And then we’d have to move it again when she finds a new place. I shake my head at myself. Good call, dipshit.

I turn back to the woman. The other men have dispersed, and we’re alone. “How much?”

She shrugs. “I’ll give it to you for ten.”

It’s worth more, but I think she knows that. The piece I have now is a replica, which means I’m eager to swap it for an original. I slide my wallet out of my back pocket and pass her a ten.

“How’s that little girl of yours?” she asks, bagging it up.

“Perfect,” I say, my standard response, and I feel a pang in my chest. I miss her, and though I’m having fun with Amelia, I look forward to picking Bell up soon. I look over my shoulder again as I stuff my wallet back in my pants, but Amelia’s no longer at the armoire. “She’s turning seven soon.”

“Wow. Guess it’s been a while since we were there.”

I scan the market, furrowing my brows when I don’t see her. Even in jeans and a blouse, Amelia wouldn’t blend in. Not to me, anyway. When I spot the back of her head through the crowd, muscles I hadn’t realized I’d been clenching loosen. Until I notice she isn’t alone. At first, I think she’s haggling with the man in a baby blue polo in front of her, but then he puts a hand on her upper arm. She shrugs him off immediately, and I’m speed walking in her direction.