Plain Jayne (20 page)

At the top of the stairs, a sound brings me to
a halt.

Moaning. At first, I think it’s
that
kind
of moaning, and I almost turn right back around and resign myself to another
night on the sofa in the basement. Then I realize how illogical that notion is,
considering the only two people up here hate each other.

Or
do
they…?

In a matter of seconds, I picture Caroline
waiting for Luke on his bed when he came up here to nurse his sick tummy, and
yada, yada, yada…

At that thought, I turn to trot down the
stairs, but something other than disgust and horror makes me stand firm on the
top step. I force myself to identify the feeling. It’s not necessarily
jealousy, although that’s close enough that I keep thinking that must be what
it is. No. It’s not, though. It’s… it’s the same feeling I got when, as a kid, I’d
go to the haunted corn maze every Halloween. More specifically, it’s a
combination of feelings. It’s excitement mixed with fear, dread, and
irresistible curiosity. I know there’s likely going to be a hideous sight when
I come around the corner, but nothing in the world is going to stop me from
looking.

When the next moan drifts down the hallway,
I’m resolved to see who’s making the sound and why. It’s loud enough that I can
hear it, but soft enough that I can’t tell if the moaner is male or female; if
he or she is moaning in pleasure or pain (or both). Must investigate. Have to
know. Inquiring minds and all that…

Once I’ve determined that the keening is
coming from Luke’s room, I almost chicken out, but when I see the door’s not
latched shut, I figure it’s as much the room’s occupant’s fault as it is my own
if I happen upon something private. Plus, what if there’s something really
wrong? It would be irresponsible of me to ignore the plight of this poor
person, if they’re in enough pain to be making so much noise.

I push against the door and cringe while
peeking through the widening gap I’m creating between the door and its frame.
“Hello? Luke?” I query meekly.

“Jayne?” he weakly calls back.

Since he doesn’t ask me to go away, I enter
the room and have to cover my mouth and bite down hard on my lip to keep from
laughing out loud at the sight before me. He’s lying across his bed on his back
in his underwear and a white t-shirt, his legs draped over the side of the
mattress, his arm flopped over his eyes.

My, oh my. My imagination hasn’t been doing
him justice. He’s lean without being skinny, muscular without being bulky,
furry without being hairy, and he fills out those boxer briefs quite nicely…

“Jayne?” he repeats, making me flinch guiltily.
“Please, kill me.”

“Go into the bathroom and make yourself throw
up,” I advise, tearing my eyes away from his crotch.

He pulls his arm away from his face and turns
his head to look at me. “No! That’s disgusting!”

“Yeah, but you’ll feel better instantly.”

“Why did she give me so… much… food?” His hand
rubs ineffectually over the engorged belly under his t-shirt.

“I think the better question is, why did you
eat it?”

“Because I don’t have a dog to feed under the
table.”

“You might want to consider getting one.”

Before thinking too much about it, I sit on
the foot of his bed, my back to him (I’ve gawked at him long enough in his
skivvies). Fingering the spine of the Toni Morrison book, I say, “It was sweet of
you to make yourself sick eating that spaghetti, so you wouldn’t hurt
Paulette’s feelings.”

“Stupid, you mean?”

I knock the book against my knee. “You didn’t
do it because you were too stupid to know better. You did it in
spite
of
knowing better. Because you care about how your actions affect her.”

“Yeah, I’m Boss of the Year.”

“I won’t tell anyone you’re nice sometimes. I
know you have a reputation to uphold.”

He cracks an eye at me. “What are you talking
about?”

“Big, mean Mr. Editor, storming around,
upholding the laws of grammar and mechanics, the only person standing between
misplaced modifiers and the downfall of civilization.”

“Have you lost your mind? Can’t you see I’m
dying here?”

I glance over my shoulder at him. “You’re
going to be fine. Do you want me to find some antacids for you?”

“Would I have to eat them?”

“Yes…”

“Then, no.”

“Okay, then.”

“What did you mean about my being big, mean
Mr. Editor? I’m not mean.”

I laugh at the ceiling.

“What?” He tries to prop himself up on his
elbows but falls onto his back after a short struggle and says breathlessly,
“Do I have time to hand-hold? No. But I’m not
mean
. I’m firm. And…
no-nonsense and… and… efficient.”

“Cold, scary, dictatorial, and perfunctory.”

“Oh, look who discovered the thesaurus
function on her word processor,” he grumbles.

“Don’t make me smack your stomach with this
book,” I threaten with a smile.

“Feel free, if you want to be showered with
vomit.”

“Gross!”

“Fair warning.”

I stand up and take two steps toward the door.

“Wait!” He holds his arm out toward me. “Don’t
go.”

When was the last time a gorgeous,
scantily-clad man said that to me? Hmm… Never!

After several seconds pass without my saying a
thing, he says, “Keep a dying man company.”

“You’re pathetic. I was going to turn in early…”

“Please. Don’t be
mean
. Stay here and
talk to me until the nausea subsides.”

“Put some clothes on.”

What?! I did
not
say that. Why did I
say that?! It’s the opposite of what I want him to do.

He laugh-groans. “Are those your terms?”

“Yes.”

“How about if I cover up with a blanket?
Because I took my clothes off for a reason. They were cutting me in half. I
felt like a tube of toothpaste in a grubby little kid’s fist.”

“Lovely.”

“I didn’t say it was attractive.” With what
appears to be a supreme amount of effort, he yanks the bedspread up and over
himself sideways so only his head is sticking out. “Better?”

“I guess.” I retake my seat on the bed. “Do
you want me to read you a story?” I offer, holding up the book in my hands so
he can see the cover.

“Uh… rain check?” When I laugh, he says, “Great
book, but… not necessarily uplifting and soothing.”

“Oh, is that what we’re going for here?
Uplifting and soothing?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if I have a grasp on those
particular… genres.”

And there ends the conversation for several
minutes, until he moans again with his eyes closed and says, “You have to talk.
About anything but food. Because all I can think about is food when you’re not
talking.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Figure it out. Say the first thing that comes
to mind. I don’t give a shit what it is. As long as it’s not about food.”

I sigh. “I’m so boring,” I lament when I come
up blank. We seemed to find things to talk about at the tavern and on our walk
this evening, but something about this room is making me freeze up. Maybe it’s
the fact that it’s his bedroom, and this is his bed, and he’s half-naked (sort
of), and I’m horribly repressed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Have you seen any good
movies lately?” he tosses out.

“No. I’ve been busy writing.”

“Every waking minute?”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re a publisher’s wet dream.”

“Thank you…?” I reply uncertainly.

He ignores that and goes back to trying to
drum up topics of conversation. “How was your trip out to Boston? Have you had
a chance to see any of the sights with your friend, Gus?”

I think back to my travels and almost whoop
with excitement when I remember something interesting about me. “Well, it was
my first time flying, so that was exciting.”

“Ever?!”

The way he asks it makes me feel freaky, so I
hesitantly admit, “Y-yes. I’ve always driven everywhere.”

Eyes still closed, he says, “Wow. So… what’d
you think? Don’t tell me… you’re already a member of the Mile High Club.”

“No!”

He chuckles. “That was a quick denial. I think
that’s a ‘yes.’”

“There was nobody on any of my
flights—including the flight crew—who was remotely worthy,” I say sniffily to
hide my embarrassment, relieved beyond measure that he feels too sick to open
his eyes.

He makes a face. “Well, then!”

“Are you saying you’re a member?” I ask,
failing miserably at sounding casual.

His ensuing laughter obviously hurts his gut.
After he recovers, he licks his lips and says, “Nope. I’m much too inept for
such small spaces.”

“Inept. Sure.” I’m dying to change the
subject, but since I’ve already proven I have nothing else to offer this
conversation, there’s nowhere for me to turn.

Seriously, he says, “I’m not kidding. I’m a
spaz.”

“Whatever.”

My dismissive comment was meant to discourage
further disclosure, but he takes it as a challenge to prove it. Opening his
eyes, he rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. “You know that
commercial where the guy and the girl are supposedly having a romantic night
in, and they end up stumbling around the bedroom, knocking heads and throwing
out their backs?”

I giggle and cover my mouth while nodding.
“Yes.”

“When that commercial came out, I thought
someone had gotten the idea from looking in my windows.”

“Stop it!”

He widens his eyes innocently. “I swear!
There’s something about… that… that gets me all nervous and flustered and turns
me into a bumbling idiot. Well, not always, but most of the time. And the
harder I try to relax, the worse it is. I knocked out a date’s tooth once. With
my head.”

“Bwahahahahahaha!” I explode, falling sideways
onto his bed.

“I’m serious! Had to take her to an emergency
dental clinic. She was fuh-reaking out, babbling about a recurring nightmare
coming true. And I was like, ‘I only wanted to get laid.’ But I paid for the
surgery to replace her tooth. And this was in grad school, before I had that kind
of money to be throwing around.”

I swat blindly at his head while I picture the
whole thing going down. “Stop it. Just stop! That did
not
happen.”

“Yes, it did! Why would I tell you such a
terrible story, if it weren’t true? Shit. I don’t know why I told you at all.
It’s degrading. But it’s not the worst story, by far.”

“Shut up!”

“Okay. I’m not going to tell you the worst
story, anyway.”

The door to the bedroom next door rattles
loudly. Seconds later, Caroline’s head pokes through Luke’s open bedroom
doorway. “What the hell is going on over here?” she demands waspishly. “I’m
trying to sleep.”

Luke looks around me. “Oh. Sorry. I was
regaling Jayne with the tooth story.”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “Why do you insist on
telling everyone that horrible story? It wouldn’t be funny if it was
your
tooth.”
She touches her left front tooth with her tongue. “I looked like a hockey
player.”

My eyes nearly pop from my skull. “It was
you
?!”
I barely manage to sputter.

Luke laughs at my reaction and Caroline’s
disgusted expression.

“I didn’t tell her who my date was. That’s all
on you,” he states.

“God, I hate you!” she shouts before yanking
on the door and slamming it on her way back to her own room.

“Do you believe me now?” he asks after we hear
her door bang shut.

“I guess so…”

“I’m not bragging about it; merely being
honest. What were we even talking about…?”

Like an idiot, I remind him, “The Mile High
Club.”

“Oh, yes! Well, no, I’m not a member. Imagine
the mayhem I could inflict in such a confined space. I’m picturing loss of
cabin pressure… Not to mention, planes are dirty. I’m too germophobic to
attempt something like that.” He flops onto his back once more and blinks up at
the ceiling. Pushing the blanket away, he bends one of his legs to bring his
foot up to rest on the edge of the bed. “Whew… I think the worst is past. I can
almost breathe normally again.”

Unfortunately, I’m having the opposite
experience.

Chapter Sixteen

Ha! This is hilarious.
Talk about literary clichés come to life. I’m falling in love with stupid
Luke-Ass Edwards. Or at the very least, I have a fierce crush on him, which is equally
bad, if not worse. How the hell did this happen? A few weeks ago, I didn’t even
know he existed. Then I met him and
wished
he didn’t exist. And now, I
can’t imagine existing without him.