Funny Feelings (32)

“Do you want to kiss me?” I ask, even though I hate cutting her off and usually find her word vomit endearing. This thing is urgent, though, and I need to know. My voice comes out rough, strained, and I hope she doesn’t pick up on the desperation.

“Yes,” and then she blinks. “For the reasons stated previously.”

What are those again? I can’t recall… My mind goes blind in some sort of white flash. Like staring into the sun too directly and then trying to blink it away, starbursts of light behind eyelids, I’m still attempting to clear my head when she asks, “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” leaves my mouth. “I mean, I think it’s a good idea. For the reasons previously mentioned.”

She takes a step and so do I. I’m mentally mining for the justification in this, but coming up empty. Do I care? She seems to think she needs this. I do like to think I’m a helpful guy.

“Fee…” I say, reaching for her hand. “Are you sure?”

She answers me by pushing up onto her toes in slow motion and sliding her palm from mine, up my arm, fingertips grazing beneath the edge of my shirt there. I see the damp hair stuck to the corners of her forehead, the little smudge of makeup under one of her eyes. She seems possessed, compelled by something, the edges of her gaze uncertain. But, she’s so soft in this moment that something in my chest squeezes. I feel greedy for this side of her, for all of her quiet moments. Never for her uncertainty, though. God, I want to kiss that uncertainty away.

I lay my hand against the slope of her neck, stroking the thrumming skin at the base of her throat with my thumb, floating it up along her rosy bottom lip before I lean to take it between my own.

She meets me, gently, at first. The kiss somehow feels like her in the most Fee-like way; like how she came into my life, how she conducts every show, and every conversation. It’s a firm press, followed by a softer one, a little more open. Something tart—some fruity-mint gum she must’ve been chewing at some point. A surprising, almost-too-hard nibble here, a wet, sweet glide there. And when her tongue meets mine, my fingers curl in her hair, just as my back hits something. A tree? I don’t know, but she’s backed us against whatever it is and molds her body to mine, as my palm presses into her lower back. I break away and a noise rolls out of her—a short, huffed whine that shoots up my legs through my groin, effectively crushing the last vestige of restraint I have. “Fuck,” rasps out of me, unrecognizable, before I turn us, gently place her back to the tree and slide a thigh between her legs, my hand clutching at her hip.



“HEY! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE?!”





13





NOW





“The love that comes from friendship is the underlying facet of a happy life.” - Chelsea Handler





FARLEY


Meyer tenses above me, eyes wide on my face—going to my mouth quickly before he turns, shielding me from sight.

“Sorry about that!” he yells out towards the stranger.

I peek around his broad frame to see a small older man in overalls marching toward us. Meyer steps away and grabs the haunted farm tools, thrusting them out to the man. “I, uh, think these are yours?”

The guy gazes down at the tools, his frown cinching before he looks back up at Meyer and puts his hands to his hips. “Just how old do I look, then? Those there are from the 1800’s, son.”

I snort-laugh and pop all the way into view. “Hi sir. We’re sorry if we wandered into the wrong area here.” I jut my hand out to shake the man’s and his frown melts away. He’s shorter than me, with unkempt, pure white hair and black caterpillar eyebrows, brown eyes and rosy, plump cheeks. He’s grinning openly at me now, and I can’t help but return it. He’s a garden gnome come alive.

“It’s not that it bothers me, miss, it’s just that you two are lost,” he chuckles.

“We’ll get out of here. We apologize again,” Meyer says before turning and crowding me protectively, positioning himself between me and this ostensibly harmless old man. Ridiculous.

“And just where do you think your car is?” the stranger asks.

“We’ll find it,” Meyer retorts.

“If you keep heading in that direction, you’re going to go over a damn cliff. This part of the orchard is notorious for getting folks mixed up. Especially if you’re… distracted.”

I poke my head around again and he winks at me.

Meyer turns back with a frown and sizes up the guy. “Would you mind pointing us towards the main road, then?”

“I wouldn’t, but I’d rather you come up to the house and get a ride down, instead, so I don’t worry about finding your bodies somewhere later.” He lifts a single eyebrow so high it disappears under his downy hair, and reaches out with a gnarled hand. “I’m Abel Larsen. Owner of the farm.”

“Meyer Harrigan.” Meyer takes his hand and starts a little, apparently surprised at Abel’s grip.

“And you, Red?” Abel twinkles at me.

“Farley Jones.”

“Lovely to meet you. Hasn’t anyone ever warned a beauty like you not to wander around with city boys who’ll get you lost? Or were you enjoying getting this guy all mixed up?” he maintains his grip on Meyer as he addresses me.