Shimmy Bang Sparkle(10)



“Tighter.”

The helmet pressed against my back, and her arms came around in front of me, crisscrossing my chest. “Like that?” she asked, her voice muffled by the helmet.

Not even close. I moved her hands farther on either side of my chest so she was really hanging on to me, and gripped the sides of her thighs. I forced her legs against me so that her knees dug into me. “Like that. Pretend we’re one person. Got it?”

That was when her legs really scissored tight around me, a vise grip that made me ache for her.

The ache. Fuck almighty, it had been such a long time since I’d felt the ache.



The owner of the Crown Prince of India was a pudgy guy in a yellow polyester shirt who dabbed constantly at his sweaty forehead with a damp tissue. Normally I came in here for the lunch buffet—all you could eat tikka masala, rice pudding, and whatever that potato and cauliflower thing was for six bucks? That was my jam—but at dinner it was more upscale. No buffet, no endless vats of tapioca. Instead they had menus, tablecloths, and napkins folded like swans. Or ducks. Or something. Stella and I followed the owner to the back of the restaurant, to a two-top underneath an old-school lantern straight out of Aladdin. Unfortunately, it had an LED light inside. Progress was a pain in the ass. Nobody looked good under all those lumens.

Except she did. While everybody else in the place seemed sunken and pale, she radiated warmth and beauty. She was all big smiles and thank you so much as she sat down and put her napkin on her lap. I followed her lead, and underneath the table I felt her leg press against mine. She moved it away, like she was startled, so I made up the difference and leaned mine against hers. That time she didn’t move hers away, and she spun the silver ring she wore on her thumb, made from the handle of what looked like an antique spoon, with her eyes twinkling.

God yeah.

“And what can I get for you and your wife to drink?” the owner said to me, dabbing now at his shiny mustache.

Stella snickered into her menu, and her big blue eyes darted up at him. Then to me. She hadn’t said a word, but I knew exactly what she was thinking. We’d known each other all of a few hours, and we’d been mistaken for a couple not just once but twice.

In the mirrors that lined one side of the Crown Prince—crackly, gold-backed, vintage 1960s—I saw it again. Same as we did in the jewelry store, we made sense together. We didn’t look like we were on a first date at all; there was no awkwardness, no discomfort. Not from me, and not from her. But I knew we’d have looked a shitload better with my hand on her thigh. So I carpe diemed that idea and gave her a squeeze.

Stella’s eyes flashed at me. Not a warning, not at all. More like, What took you so long?

“Let me ask you something,” I said to the owner. Using my thumb, I gently traced the inside curve of her calf.

“Anything, sir, anything! Mango lassi? Beer? Perhaps some wine! Very cheap, very good!”

“Beer!” Stella said, and coughed like she hadn’t meant to bark it out quite so loud.

“Two beers,” I added. “But here’s the question. How do you know we’re husband and wife?” As I said those words, husband and wife, I gave her two pinches, and she inhaled to keep her laugh silent. Her hand shot down under the table too, to stop me from tickling her, maybe. I took the chance and knitted my hand into hers. And then both of us turned to him and waited for the answer.

He paused with his tissue almost touching his forehead. The corner of it fluttered in the air-conditioning from above. “Oh, sir.” He chuckled to himself. “There are many uncertain things. Business, life, the age-old question of why some people are afraid to order lamb at a fine dining establishment such as this one.” He dabbed again. “Whether or not you and this lovely young woman here are a couple”—he lifted his shoulders and smiled at the ceiling—“such things are a given. Now let me get your beers, and perhaps . . .” He cocked his head at Stella, while glancing at me. “Papadams to share?”

“Mmmmm!” Stella said. “Yes, please!”

The owner pressed his hands together and bowed, beaming. “Papadams, on the way.” As he shuffled off toward the kitchen, Stella smoothed her napkin and straightened out her silverware. “That’s twice in one day.” She rubbed her lips together, carefully aligning her fork and knife. “Funny, right? I’ve never been mistaken for a couple, and now it’s like a running gag.”

Funny was one word for it. Awesome was another. I eased back into the booth, and my lower back reminded me the oxygen compressor was still exacting its revenge. I wanted to focus on her, on that beautiful face and those sexy lips and that mischief in her eyes. The last thing I wanted to be thinking about was my goddamned back. And yeah, maybe she was the flame and I was the moth. But just because I flew around her for a while didn’t mean I had to get burned. I wasn’t getting down on one knee to propose. It was just a date, and it was a date I wanted to focus on completely. “What are the chances you’ve got a couple of Advil in your bag for your husband?”

She giggled as she reached for her purse. “What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t?”



I didn’t do small talk. I’d never in my entire life said something like, How about this heat? Or, How about those Broncos? Or, What do you do for fun? Or any of that shit. But before we’d even gotten our entrées I’d asked her where she was from, what she did for fun, and what she did for a living—in that order—and the answers were Colorado, making personalized rhinestone jewel cases that she sold online, and dog sitting. But I wasn’t buying that last one at all. Though I was curious as fuck about how she got into jewel theft, or what a nice girl like her was doing committing felonies at all, I decided to table that. For now.

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