Chapter 28 #2
Quincy sputters, turning to Houston. “They’re being ridiculous. You understand it, right? You three are like the sons I never had because I was too busy managing your careers. You know how much I care about you boys. I was there for you when your mom was sick. When you lost gigs. When you—”
“With no due respect, Quincy, go fuck yourself,” Houston growls.
We turn on our heels and head for the door. He follows us, hands open like a preacher passing the plate. “You’re making a mistake. You need me. I’ve kept you out of worse.”
“We’ll risk it,” Knox says, not turning around.
We walk. He calls after us by our names, as if they’re tethers to him. But his voice fades as we keep going.
I drive back to the hotel with a copy of a file I hate and a plan I like. I want to go to Lou and tell her everything. But I want one night where the world doesn’t ask her to carry more weight. “We don’t tell her tonight. Not yet. She needs a break. I want to give it to her.”
My brothers nod, and we go our own ways.
I stop at the grocery store and buy tomatoes, garlic, basil, boxed pasta, a carton of cream, a bag of salad, a loaf of bread. I grab a sprig of thyme because I don’t know what I’m doing. That’s the point.
I knock on her door with the grocery bag in my arms. She opens in a T-shirt and shorts and bare feet. Her hair is up. She smiles like the day didn’t take a bite out of us, and it makes everything new again.
“What’s this?”
“Teach me how to cook. I understand that’s something girlfriends do for their boyfriends.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Is that what we are?”
My stomach drops. I keep my mouth shut. Did I misunderstand or—
She yanks me in by the collar and kisses me hard enough to reset the world. Then she grins. “Just playing. I’ll teach my boyfriend how to cook. Come on.”
We put the bag on the counter. She washes tomatoes and hands me a knife. “You chop. Small. Fingers tucked.”
I chop, and she laughs and adjusts my grip. We crush garlic. We salt the water and set a pot to boil. We tear basil. She shows me how to hold a pan so the oil spreads. I try to toss the tomatoes like I’ve seen on TV and almost flip them onto the stove. She catches the handle and steadies me.
“Careful, crazy.”
“Crazy about you.”
“Oh, so you’re cheesy tonight?”
I laugh and kiss her cheek, and then we get back to it.
My hand finds her hip when she reaches for the salt. Her mouth finds my jaw when she steps back. We bump into the drawer and laugh. It’s silly. It feels like real life, or what I think real life should feel like.
I stir and look at her face, and the words come out because they’re here now and I don’t want to pretend I don’t hear them. “I love you.”
It knocks the air out of both of us. She grips the counter and looks at me like she didn’t think it would be tonight. I didn’t either. My throat is tight. I don’t take it back.
She steps into me and puts both hands on my cheeks and kisses me slow, then again, not slow. “I love you too,” she says back, and I’m done.
We forget the timer. We forget the sauce.
We remember the counter when the edge hits my hip.
We kiss hard. We laugh into each other’s mouths because I fumble the ladle and it clatters, and we don’t care.
She hops onto the counter and pulls me by the shirt.
I fit between her knees like I’ve been here my whole life.
We press together with the stove hissing behind us and the pan trying to get our attention.
“Wait,” she says, grinning. “Turn it off.”
I try to kill the flame with one hand without looking away from her. She hooks her fingers in my collar and pulls me back. Her mouth opens under mine, and I let the part of me that always wants speed learn a different tempo.
“Tell me,” she says, breath short.
“You’re it,” I say. “You’re the one.”
Her laugh is messy and perfect. “Say more.”
“I want this. A lot. All the time. Here. Now.”
“Good,” she says, and kisses me like we’re making the same promise.
Clothes don’t survive long. Once I have her naked, it’s all I can do not to rush. She bites my lip because she knows how to turn my brain off. When I thrust inside of her, the world stops. I put my mouth on her shoulder and tell it to go bother someone else.
We move with the counter edge against my hip and her breath at my ear. I say her name, and I keep my hands where she wants them and let her set the pace. She wraps her legs around me, and we find a rhythm that makes us both forget everything else.
She clings to me the way I always thought a girl should. Arms, legs, mouth, all in contact. Not porn star perfection. Someone who wants me as much as I want them. Crazed. Animal. Love.
Her cries drown out the other sounds in the kitchen, sharp, soft, loud, quiet. There is nothing else but this woman. This moment.
When it hits, it’s messy in the way that makes you bite your own fist. She laughs a half laugh and hides in my neck, and I hold on because I don’t know what else to do with all the swelling in my chest.
We breathe. We come back to earth.
Something smells wrong.
“The pasta,” she says, eyes wide.
We scramble. The pot is empty of water and full of smoke and regret. The sauce on low has turned the color of a bad idea. I pull it off the burner and turn the knob and laugh until it hurts. She’s laughing too, hand over her mouth.
Then the smoke alarm proves it still works. We both jump. I’ve destroyed enough hotel rooms to know the drill. I grab a towel and fan the sensor. I flip the bathroom fan on and prop the door.
The hotel phone rings anyway. I answer with the voice I use for security.
“Everything okay up there, Ms. Navarro?”
“Burnt pot on the stove set off the alarm,” I say, honest enough. “No fire. Sorry.”
“Please put Ms. Navarro on the phone.”
Right. Not my suite. I pass her the phone, but I hear them on the other end when she answers. “We’re sending someone to confirm.”
“Copy,” I say. I hang up and look at her. She’s flushed and trying not to die of embarrassment. “Happens all the time. Get dressed quick—”
There’s a knock. Damn, they’re fast.
I pull my shirt on and pants, check she’s dressed, and open the door a crack. Two staffers, one with a fire extinguisher, one with a checklist. I let them in the threshold and point at the fan and the off stove, and the sad pasta.
They take a breath like they wanted drama and got pasta instead. They ask if we need housekeeping. I say no, thank them, and close the door.
Lou leans on the counter and covers her face. “I can’t believe we did that.”
“We made dinner. Well, we made a mess. It happens.”
She peeks at me and starts laughing again. “We made love on a counter and burned dinner.”
“Was that so bad?”
“No. Except wasting food. I hate wasting food.”
“We should go get fries somewhere.”
She pulls me close by the pocket and kisses me. “I love you.”
“If that’s what I get for suggesting fries, what do I get for suggesting a whole meal?”
She laughs and kisses me again. “Let me put on real clothes and we’ll get those fries.”
“Deal.”
We get to a diner and sit on the same side of the booth because I can’t stop touching her.
I put my nose in her hair because it smells like soap and garlic now.
I want to tell her about Troy and the arrest and the tape and Quincy’s confession and the way my hands shook when I fired a man who thinks he made us.
I don’t. Not tonight. Tonight I want one more normal.
“Teach me to cook.”
“You’ll burn something.”
“I’ll turn off the smoke alarm faster next time.”
She kisses me again, and the room goes silent.