Tamed(47)

I should have known.

Ultimately we end up at a club—pressing and grinding together on the crowded dance floor. But the whole time, Dee’s more subdued than usual. She seems weighed down. Disquieted. Not the unpredictable and jovial girl I’ve come to know the last few weeks.

I call it a night—much earlier than past years—and we go back to her place. Once there, we crash on the couch and talk about nothing . . . and everything. Eventually, the subject of pets comes up, and I tell her all about King, the massive black Great Dane I grew up with. I genuinely loved that big hairy bastard, so I’m kind of horrified when Delores tells me, “I never had a dog.”

“Really? Never? Not even like . . . a Chihuahua?”

She shakes her head. “I had a hamster—they’re pretty self-sufficient. My mother never wanted the responsibility of a dog. Plus, there was the drool phobia.”

I grin, ’cause I can already tell this is gonna be a good one.

“The what?”

“Drool phobia. I have a long-standing aversion to any man or animal with over-productive saliva glands.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I can handle wet kisses—you already know that. They’re hot when I’m caught up in the moment. But too much saliva is nasty. And spitting, drooling—those are deal breakers. Makes me nauseous.”

Delores isn’t bothered by dirt or sweat or sloppiness. She’s not afraid of rodents—even the cat-size rats that scour the city and are pretty f*cking frightening if you ask me. She’s in love with my motorcycle and actually likes snakes. So, I can’t help but find this quirk—this chink in her otherwise “doesn’t give a shit” armor—cute. Funny.

And I want to f*ck with her about it.

The nine-year-old boy inside me—the one who was amused by dangling a long-legged spider in Alexandra’s face, despite the consequences that always followed—takes over my body. It’s the only explanation for what I do next.

“So . . . it would bother you if I did this?” I scrape my nasal passage loudly then hawk the thick ball of phlegm up to the back of my throat.

Delores leans back, closes her eyes disgustedly, and holds up her hands. “Do not do that.”

I swallow my spit and taunt, “And I guess you really wouldn’t want me to do a John Bender in front of you.”

John Bender—The Breakfast Club. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, watch and learn.

She actually looks a little panicked. “Don’t you f*cking dare!”

I smile wide. Then I tilt my head back, open my mouth and launch an impressive loogie wad up into the air. It gets some distance, hangs for a moment, then falls back into my waiting mouth. Before I can say “tasty,” Dee is up on her feet screaming.

“Ah! That’s sooo gross!” She dances around like there’s ants crawling under her dress and points at me as she shrieks, “You are no longer Clit-Boy or God! You’re Loogie-Man and you disgust me! I’m never kissing you again!”

“Is that a challenge?”

She laughs nervously and backs away. “No . . . no, you and your foul tongue stay away!”

In a flash, I’m off the sofa with my arms around her waist. Dee struggles to get away and we both fall to the floor in a screeching, rolling, laughing heap. I’m able to get on top; I straddle her stomach and pin her wrists above her head. There’s no chance for her to buck me off, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.

And maybe it’s the friction from her writhing body underneath me. Maybe it’s because I’m having so much fun. Or maybe it’s the fantastic sexual escapades we had in this particular position—but whatever the reason, I’m instantly and totally turned on.

Still, I ignore the boner. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon, and I’ve got some torturing to do. Like a tentacle in a sci-fi horror film, my outstretched tongue slowly lowers toward Dee’s face. Her head thrashes and her screams turn ear piercing.

Then she tries to bite me.

So I go in for the kill. I lick her cheek and her forehead—making sure to leave a heavy slime trail, like a slug that’s been mutated from a radiation leak. I get her closed eyes next, and I’m about to move to her neck when there’s a loud knock at the door.

I wonder if a neighbor heard Dee screaming and called the cops. I roll off of her. She gets up, making snorting but revolted sounds as she wipes at her face vigorously. Then she threatens, “You’re ass is grass, Fisher, and I’m the lawn mower. Do not close your eyes tonight.”

I just laugh.

Dee opens the door without looking out the peephole. And standing there, head down, guitar case in hand, is Billy Warren. He looks up at Dee and asks, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Dee opens the door wider to let Billy walk in.

“Yeah—sure. What . . . are you okay?”

He drops his guitar in the corner. His eyes are moist, like he’s fighting to hold back tears, but losing. “Kate and I . . . we . . . I broke up with Kate.”





Chapter 15


After giving Delores the barest of details, Billy insists she go check on Kate—sounds like she’s pretty much a train wreck. Dee grabs her coat and makes eye contact with me from the door. Then she tilts her head in her cousin’s direction, silently telling me to hang out with him while she’s gone.