Lead (Stage Dive, #3)(18)

“’kay,” he said.

That was it. All of that inner turmoil and he couldn’t even be bothered saying an entire word with regards to my presence. I guess he really didn’t mind.

“You cold?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

His head lay against the back of the couch, slowly looking me over. Nothing changed in his face, but his eyes seemed to heat somehow. Or maybe I was just imaging things.

“You’re all bundled up,” he said. “Need me to turn up the thermostat?”

“No. Thanks.” I might need to put some padding in my bra so my nipples were less obvious in their like for him. The room however was lovely and warm as the couch beneath my butt was beautifully comfortable. Jimmy didn’t stint on life’s luxuries. He wasn’t cheap.

“I’m good,” I said.

A chin tip.

“So, who’s winning the hockey game?” I curled my skinny jean clad legs up beneath me.

“I’m not really that into it. You can pick something to watch if you want.”

“Okay.” I held out my hand for the remote.

A soft chuckle came out of him, a rare, delightful sound indeed. It tickled over my skin in the strangest yet nicest fashion. If he actually ever laughed out loud I’d be in trouble.

“Not a chance, Lena. Only I operate the remote. I’ll flip through channels and you can tell me if anything appeals.”

“Only you operate the remote?”

“Yup.”

“Control freak.”

“It’s a state-of-the-art home entertainment system, Lena. I had it shipped from Germany, special.” He waved the funky black remote around like it was his scepter. King Jimmy. He wished. “No way I’m risking it with you.”

“What?” My mouth fell open. “What do you mean, you’re not risking it with me?”

“The coffee machine.” He grabbed a cushion and stuffed it behind his fat head, changing through to the first channel. A cooking show.

“Keep going.” I liked food. I just didn’t particularly want to be the one to have to make it. My mom had always done the cooking at home, suited me fine. “I barely touched the coffee machine. That was some weird random mechanical fault on the part of the universe.”

“Whatever.”

Next was some old 80s made-for-TV movie. You could tell by the hair, it was so high and dry looking. What wonders a keratin treatment would have done for those poor women. And the ginormous shoulder pads, yikes.

“Keep going, please,” I said. An old episode of Vampire Diaries flickered on next. “Ooh, Ian, you’re lovely. But I’ve already seen this one so keep going.”

“Thank f*ck.” Jimmy punched the button and on came a nature documentary. Or at least I hoped that’s what it was given a shiny black stallion mounting a slightly terrified-looking mare took up the screen.

“Hey, it’s just like that shirt you borrowed off Mr. Ericson!” I clapped with joy and a slight amount of malice. “Horses humping, that’s beautiful.”

“You like that, do you?” his sly voice asked.

With the press of a button, miles and miles of bare and bouncy flesh filled the wide screen. With the exception of the woman in the man sandwich’s boobs. Those puppies stayed eerily gravity-defying still. And unlike mine, they weren’t the least bit pointy.

“That’s so sweet,” I sighed. “Nothing says true love like D.P.”

Jimmy sniggered and changed the channel, cars roared around a racetrack.

“Why is it so many men have the sense of humor of a smelly, pimple-faced, barely pubescent little jerk?” I pondered aloud.

“You don’t find that charming?” He asked, brow raised.

“Weird of me, I know.” I snagged a cushion and cuddled it to my chest. “I had this boyfriend once who thought it was amusing to … actually, no. I don’t want to tell that story. Ever.”

“Go on.”

“No. I’m happier pretending he never existed. Let’s leave my shameful dating choices in the past.”

“That’s hardly fair,” he said. “You know enough of my shit.”

Before I could form a reply Formula One turned into Downton Abbey and I squeed with excitement. “Stop here. Stop!”

Jimmy winced, rubbing his ear. “For Christ’s sake, use your inside voice.”

“This is a great show.” Two of the show’s lovers were chatting, decked out in the usual glorious English-gentry-type gear. Awesome. “And particularly pertinent to our situation, I think.”

“Huh?” Lip curled, he stared at the screen, distinctly unimpressed by the splendor. Plebian.

“It’s all about life in a turn-of-the-century noble house in England.”

“Yeah. The castle and what they’re wearing kind of gave it away.”

“Aren’t the dresses beautiful?” I hugged my cushion happily. I’d live and die in jeans, but it was nice to dream. “See, there are the wealthy lords and ladies who have everything and their servants, who have zilch and have to run around after the lords and ladies, catering to their every whim with barely a thank you all day long. I mean, they’re basically treated like second-class citizens and completely taken for granted by their bosses. Isn’t that barbaric?”