Black Lies(18)

Roughly six hundred square feet of dimly lit space, the back wall illuminated by fluorescents—an unimpressive setting for impressive feats. He sat on a stool, spinning a little as he stretched out his arms and leaned back. “This is it. My home for almost a decade.”

“Fancy.” I walked slowly along the counter, a drag of my finger bringing up enough dust to choke a horsefly. I looked over the wall, a meticulous system of cubbies and cubes, no photos or mementos stuck to its hole-dotted surface. “Has this place changed since you lived here?”

He pulled open the closest drawer—got distracted for a moment, flipping through items before pushing it closed and leaning back. Looking over the room, he said. “Looks about the same.” He ran his hand over the grid work of storage. “I put all of this in place. Looks like Dad hasn’t touched it.” Reaching out, he patted the worn wood counter. “This is where I built Sheila.”

“Sheila?” I grinned at the fond look in his eyes and took a seat on the stool next to him. The room felt good. Lived in, despite its decades of loneliness.

“Sheila Anderson. The hottest chick in my third grade class. Jillian started homeschooling me in fourth grade. So Sheila Anderson’s memory had to keep me alive. Focused. I thought building a computer would make me cool.”

“Trying to impress her?”

He twisted his mouth, looked away. “Something like that.”

I moved my chair closer. “Did it work?”

He wiped his hand over the surface as if memorizing the lines in the wood. “Don’t know. Never saw her again.” The stool squeaked as he rotated, faced me fully. Drug the stool until I was between his open legs.

I tilted my head and gave him a mock frown. “I’m a little jealous of this Sheila girl.”

His hands reached forward, making small twists at the front of my shirt, unbuttoning one, then two, then the entire front of my shirt, the fabric gaping, a sigh coming from his mouth as he slid his hands inside. Cupping the lace that was my bra, my skin came to life underneath his hands. “You have nothing to be jealous about.”

“I don’t know…” I whispered. A small groan slipped out when his fingers pulled down the cups of my bra, my breasts falling out before him, hanging heavy with need, the brush of his hands over them bringing my nipples to full alert. “She did have a computer named after her…” I left my hands on my knees. Did nothing to stop him as he took his time with my skin, the brush of his lips soft as he leaned forward and tasted my neck. Thumbed his tongue along the hollows of my throat as his hands gently pulled on my nipples, then moved to squeeze the weight of my breasts.

“That computer was a piece of junk,” he whispered, moving his head back and taking my mouth with his. His kiss soft, his movements slow. He sucked on my bottom lip and teased my mouth. I gave up my grip on my knees and threaded my hands through his hair. Pulled him closer.

“How many girls have you kissed in here?” I asked against his mouth.

“Hmmm…” His lips moved, kissed a soft trail along my jaw, his hands taking liberties with my breasts that would make Sheila Anderson blush bright red. “Do you count?”

“No.” I pulled his head by his hair. Guided it back to my mouth.

“Then none. Unless you count the Farah Fawcett poster I professed my love to.”

“Shhh. You’re ruining this with your talk of senior citizens.”

He laughed, went for my belt. There was the creak of a door and I stiffened, pushing Brant back. Kept my back to the door as I heard the flip-flop of his mother’s steps. “Brant? Dessert’s ready.”

Brant’s eyes stayed on me, his mouth curving into a boyish smirk, his gaze dropping to my exposed chest, my shirt still gaping open. “All right Mom. We’ll be up in a second.”

No response from her. Just the retreat of footsteps and the click of a door. I clamped my hand over my mouth as a ridiculous giggle erupted from my mouth. He reached out, gave me one last grope before standing, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Button up my little minx. Let’s get out of here before I have my way with you.”

I shushed him, my hands fumbling, certain that my flushed cheeks and his smile would give away our actions. But a few minutes later, when we made our way through the house and back to the table, his parents seemed none the wiser.

Dessert, a lemon pie that would put Marie Callender to shame, was more pleasant, conversation moving at a steadier clip. If I had to guess, Brant’s mother had given his father a stern warning during our basement time. The man seemed contrite, and Mrs. Sharp’s eyes apologized with every contact. When silver scraped empty plates, I rose to help clear the table.