Dark Wild Night

  It would be good for our friendship if I could look away, but I can’t.

  “Lola?”

  With Herculean effort, I drag my eyes up to his face. “Yeah?”

  He doesn’t say anything more, but holds my eyes as he pushes his jeans down his hips and kicks them to the side.

  “Yeah?” I repeat. I am breathing too hard for this. It has to be noticeable.

  This is totally different. Something is happening this morning that is not canon Oliver + Lola. I feel like we’re stepping through the doorway into Wonderland.

  “Where do you want me?”

  “Want you?”

  “To stand?”

  “Oh.” I clear my throat. “Right there is good.”

  “I’m not backlit?”

  He is, but I don’t trust myself to direct him right now.

  “I don’t mind sitting—” he starts.

  “Maybe just lie down or—” I stop abruptly as his words get processed. Shit. “Or sit. Sitting is fine. I mean, whichever.”

  He gives me his tiny mysterious smile and goes to the rug in the middle of the room and lays down in a giant sunbeam.

  The panel shows the girl, staring at the boy, her skin covered in licking, blue flames.

  Oliver tucks his hands behind his head, crosses his legs at the ankle, and closes his eyes.

  Cock.

  COCK.

  It’s all I can see.

  It’s there beneath his boxers, half-hard, obviously uncut, following the line of his hip. My God, it’s thick. And if Oliver is a grow’er, he could knock a woman’s teeth out when he fucks her.

  I tilt my head, my hand hovering over the paper. Why is he half-hard? Is this a guy thing that happens when they’re being drawn? Probably. Is that awesome or totally embarrassing?

  Obviously for Oliver it’s awesome because look at it. I mean him. Look at him.

  “Lola? You okay?”

  That’s right. He can hear my lack of scribbling. I sit on the couch and begin furiously drawing every tiny detail of his body: the dark hair on his legs, the corded muscle of his thighs, deep grooves beside his hips, and yes, even the shape of him beneath his boxers.

  I’m flipping through dozens of pages, determined to get every detail down and color it later. My hands are a mess of charcoal, my fingers cramping with the speed and intensity of my work.

  “Roll to your stomach,” I say.

  He does, and I catch his hips flexing, pressing down once hard into the rug: an unconscious thrust.

  Every muscle in my body clenches in response: a pleading wish thrown out to the Universe.

  I catch sight of a long scar running up his left side, bisecting a few of his ribs.

  “What’s the scar?”

  “Fall on the first bike trip,” he murmurs, referring to his Bike and Build involvement, where he met Ansel and Finn and they biked across the U.S., building low-income housing on the way.

  The scar is big—half an inch wide, maybe four inches long—and I wonder how long Oliver was off the bike after that.

  “I never knew you crashed on that trip. What did you do about the biking and building part?”

  He shrugs, readjusting his head on his arms, and I marvel over how easy he is in his skin. “Got stitches. I took maybe two days to recoup. Wasn’t that big a deal, it just looks nasty.”

  I hum, listening to him talk about biking as I work to master the muscular curve of his calf, the arch of his foot, the protruding bone at his ankle. “Canberra is flat,” he says. “We rode our bikes everywhere. It’s a perfect city for it. Nice tracks. Good roads. Even though I rode all the time, my mates and I were idiots a lot, so of course I fell a lot, too.” I love his voice, get lost in it as I count the vertebrae of his spine, the way his hair curls over his ear, the dark shadow of stubble cutting across his jaw. It’s one thing to see all of this, and another thing entirely to imagine touching it, knowing it as well with my hands as I now do with my eyes.

  I have a lifetime’s worth of fantasies on these pages, and I am convinced Oliver has just helped me create the sexiest thing comics will ever see.

  I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, sighing. “I think this is good.”

  Oliver rolls to his side, propping himself on one elbow. Seriously it’s absurd. On the white rug in his blue boxer briefs he looks like he’s posing for Playgirl.

  “What time is it?” he asks.

  I glance at the cock—CLOCK on the cable box. “Eight nineteen.” I need to get out of here.

  He stretches: muscles shaking, fists clenched, head thrown back in the relief of it. After an enormous happy groan, he asks, “You gonna show me what you did?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “So it’s quite pornographic, then?”

  I laugh. “You’re in your boxers.”

  “That’s a yes? Now I really want to see what you drew.”

  “You will,” I tell him. “Eventually. I want to go a little edgier with the next project.” I duck my head, tuck my hair behind an ear. “You helped with some ideas for that. Thanks.”

  Is it awkward right now? It doesn’t feel awkward but maybe I’m just terrible at reading these kinds of things. It felt really easy. It feels easy.

  He stands, finds his jeans, and begins putting them back on. I bid farewell to the most perfect half-hard cock I’ve never seen. “Just helping a friend out,” he murmurs. “As one does.”

  “Thanks,” I say again.

  “Hope it distracted you a little, at least.”

  I catch his eye as his head reappears from inside his shirt as he pulls it over his head. “Distracted me from what?”

  Oliver laughs and comes close enough to reach out and muss my hair. “I’ll see you later, Lola Love.”

  He’s out of the apartment and heading down to his store before I remember the Martian Razor and that the Variety article has been posted sometime in the past hour.

  * * *

  HARLOW TOSSES HER purse onto the bench and slides into the booth across from me. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No worries. I ordered you the salmon Caesar.” I look back to the entrance to the restaurant. “No Finn? I thought he was flying in late last night?”

  “He had to stay up for the week. Something about the fuse box or control panel and—” Harlow pretends to fall asleep on the table.

  “I can never keep track of where he is,” I mumble into my water glass.

  “Here’s a trick. When I look like this?” She gestures to her perfectly styled hair and makeup. “He’s not here. If he was here this morning, I’d be too worn-out to—”

  “Got it.” I love my girl but she is Empress of the Overshare.

  “So what happened to you guys after you stumbled out of Hennessey’s last night? I couldn’t tell who was propping up who.”

  I lean out of the way when the waitress drops off our food, and thank her. “I don’t remember how we got back to the loft, but Oliver slept over,” I say once our waitress is gone.

  I’m not looking at Harlow when I say this so it startles me when she slams her palms down on the tabletop, already halfway out of her seat. “He what?”

  A few customers are looking over at us, and I hiss, “He slept on the goddamn couch, will you put your ass in your chair?”

  Her face falls and she sits back down. “God. Don’t do that to me.”

  “Do what?” I ask. “It’s Oliver.”

  She snorts. “Exactly.”

  I try to read her expression but she’s gotten better at keeping her mouth shut since she’s been with Finn, and even though I know she’s thinking something, it isn’t written all over her face.

  “Well, okay, about that . . .” I start, and Harlow leans forward with her hands clasped together, forearms resting on the table, and two perfectly sculpted auburn eyebrows raised in interest.

  I debate how much to tell her here. I have no idea what Oliver’s dating life looks like and he may be perfectly busy without me, thank you very much
. We hang out most days, but not most nights. By the number of stories Finn and Ansel have about Oliver back in the day—as well as Oliver’s enviable poker face—I suspect he’s getting a lot more action these days than I am, I just never hear about it. And, admittedly, with the book launch and travel and events, dating hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind in months. Harlow’s new marriage and Ansel’s imminent stateside move have been the most common topics of conversation when the girls are together.

  So . . . I haven’t really mentioned my Oliver attraction to Harlow or Mia. Oliver has just been a nice, happy place for my thoughts to wander in times of stress—a relieving reminder to myself that I have someone I can talk to, that there is someone I can seek whose emotional beat mirrors my own when life gets crazy. Besides, Harlow, Mia, and I have known each other since elementary school, and I’ve learned over the years how quickly Harlow becomes invested. Oliver had a chance in Vegas, and didn’t take it. I can’t imagine he’d be interested in complicating our friendship now that it’s obviously working well for both of us, and I don’t want Harlow to feel resentful toward him for not reciprocating my feelings. Harlow’s strength can also be her weakness: she is the most fiercely loyal person I know.

  God, things get complicated when a group of friends is involved.

  But with the books published, and travel getting lighter, and in the calm before the movie storm, I have more free time . . . which means Oliver-as-a-sexy-person is more and more on my mind

  and this morning I saw him almost naked

  and he’s defined everywhere

  and not circumcised

  and uncut cocks are my kryptonite

  and I’ve heard the stories about Oliver’s oral skills amid Finn and Ansel’s snickers

  and holy shit I am losing my mind.

  Across the table from me, Harlow clears her throat, setting her fork down with heavy intent. I look up from where I’ve been unconsciously doodling on a napkin.

  “Testing my patience, friend,” she says.

  I clearly need to talk about it . . . and Harlow would understand my hesitation—wouldn’t she?—because she’s been around for every single one of my epic relationship failures.

  “I mention that Oliver stayed over last night,” I start again, “because, as it turns out . . . I find him to be rather attractive.”

  Harlow leans in even more, and I know her well enough to know that she’s schooling her expression. “A fucking armadillo would find Oliver Lore to be rather attractive, Lola.”

  I shrug and she looks at me like she wishes she were a drill and could dig down into my thoughts. I get that look a lot, actually. In truth, she wouldn’t have to go far; they’re right there beneath the surface. It’s just that the surface is pretty solid, like granite.

  “Do you think Oliver might also find you attractive?” she asks evenly, sitting up and spearing a piece of lettuce.

  I shrug. “I don’t think so. I mean, he didn’t seem all that interested in Vegas.”

  She mumbles something about trying real hard not to meddle and then shoves the bite in her mouth.

  “There isn’t any meddling to do,” I tell her, but she stares up at the ceiling, avoiding my eyes. “Harlow, what the hell is wrong with you?” I reach across the table and poke her in the forehead. “I just need to talk this out a little,” I tell her. “Because with you married and Mia married, Oliver is kind of my go-to buddy, and you know I have a really, really terrible track record with guys once they become . . .”

  Harlow drops her eyes back to me, swallowing a bite of salad before saying, “Once they become more?”

  “Yes,” I say, and poke at a spear of asparagus. “Oliver and I see each other almost every day but we’ve never discussed dating or hookups. It’s this odd conversation vacancy in our friendship, this topic we both seem to actively avoid. Maybe that’s for a reason.”

  “Should I call Finn?” she says to herself. “I should call Finn. He’ll remind me to keep my fucking mouth shut.”

  “But I don’t want you to keep your mouth shut! My friendship with Oliver is probably the easiest of my life.” She looks up at me, eyes flashing, and I laugh. “Other than you and Mia. I just . . .” I put my fork down. “Do you remember how much Brody hated me for like a year after we broke up?”

  She nods, laughing. “And you were together for maybe two months? God, what a head case.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . he was a nice guy and we’d been friends for so long. I still don’t really get what happened, but it just . . . fizzled.”

  I feel Harlow’s attention on me and then it diffuses when she looks down to her lunch.

  “And Jack,” I add. “I blew that one, too.”

  Harlow snorts.

  “Harlow. Seriously?”

  “Well, to be fair,” she says, “you did blow him, right?”

  “I mean blow it,” I say and then groan when she giggles. “I blew the situation.” Harlow chokes on a bite of lettuce. “Jesus Christ. I’m just trying to say I fucked it up. I always fuck it up. Either I say the wrong thing or don’t say the right one, I’m too busy or too available—whatever, it’s always something.” She’s got her head resting on her arms on the table, shoulders shaking in laughter. Sighing, I stab a bite of chicken, muttering, “God, you’re a troll.”

  She pushes herself up, and wipes beneath her eye with a long, manicured finger. “I’m just saying, you’re not the same person you were when you were eighteen or nineteen or twenty. You and Oliver are really good friends, and also really attractive people. That’s all. I am shutting up now.”

  “I drew him this morning,” I say. “Whorelow, he took his shirt off.” Her eyes dart to mine, and I whisper, “He took his jeans off, too.”

  “He took his clothes off,” she says, voice flat with disbelief. “Oliver did this. In your apartment.”

  “Yes! I saw him nearly naked,” I tell her. There’s really no point in telling her that he obviously did it to distract me, because then she would want to know why, and quite honestly Harlow doesn’t really know a thing about my comics other than she likes Razor’s muscles under the scales. “I want to say it was a little weird except it wasn’t. He’s . . . yeah. He’s real fit, is all I’m saying.”

  Harlow presses her fist to her mouth in a dramatic gesture of restraint.

  Leaning in, I whisper, “Can I tell you a secret?”

  My best friend looks at me, and her eyes soften. Harlow pretends she’s made of steel but she’s not. She’s all marshmallow. “You can tell me anything, Peach.”

  I take a deep breath, steadying myself for the admission. “I think I might really like Oliver.”

  She laughs, resting her forehead on her perched fingers. “Lola. Sometimes you’re so clueless it’s painful.”

  Chapter FOUR

  Oliver

  I LEAVE LOLA’S JUST after breakfast and our private little art session. Sliding the loft door closed behind me, it seems like my dick does a reflexive stretch in the fresh air. The memory of her in her pajamas, fuzzy socks, and of tiny smudges of charcoal on her forehead and cheeks from when she would absently sweep her hair out of her face . . . it warps my brain a bit, and I’m exhausted from focusing on not getting an erection for the past hour.

  I’m not really sure what possessed me to pull that just now. I could see her working to stay calm after the call. Lola’s ambition is mighty, and the only thing keeping her from taking over the entire fucking planet is how much she detests stepping out of her creative space and into the public eye. On top of that, she puts more thought into the mythology of Razor Fish than she puts into anything else in her life, so the idea of changing such a critical detail of her story . . . her meltdown was visible beneath the surface.

  So, there I was, lying on the floor, bare except for my boxers, with her eyes moving over my body like tiny licks of heat. All I could do was think about riding a bike or counting out money in the register and definitely not how it would feel if Lola g
ot up from the couch, walked over, and parted her long, slender legs, settling her weight over my hips.

  Having her apartment so close to the shop has been a blessing and a curse. In the early days, I’d be in to work before dawn and there long after the streetlamps popped to life and all the other stores had closed up. At some point after the grand opening, Lola handed me a spare key and insisted I was welcome to use it. There have been loads of times it would have been easier to crash at her place for a bit, rather than drive all the way home to Pacific Beach. But with Lola, from day one it’s always been a slippery slope. One little grin when she walks into the store leads to an uncontrollable, face-splitting smile when I find I’ll see her again at the Regal Beagle later. A lingering glance leads to outright staring at her milky skin, shiny black hair, perfect curves. If I’m not careful, crashing at her place too regularly would make it a habit and I wouldn’t be satisfied until I found my way curled around her, every night spent between her sheets, between her thighs.

  I jog down the metal stairs that lead to E Street and burst out into the bright, January sunshine, tilting my face up. Oxygen, I need it. I stretch my back, taking several deep breaths.

  I spend most of the day trying to stay busy enough that I don’t replay what it was like to wake up and see her as she looked first thing in the morning: face soft and free of any makeup, tiny diamond glinting just above her full, cherry lips. Lola has perfect skin; I fantasize about searching for a single freckle or scar. Usually brushed to a shine, this morning her long black hair was mussed and tangled on the right side, telling me exactly how she slept. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and I wanted to turn back the clock, climb into her bed, and kiss the warm, swollen red of her mouth before she was fully awake, dig my fingers into her soft, thick hair and roll on top of her.

  I’ve had the fantasy a million times, in a thousand different ways, but in every iteration, we always sleep naked. Sometimes I fall asleep on top of her; very often I’m still inside her. Sometimes we start moving again before we’re fully awake, and what wakes me up is her quiet little noises right in my ear, carried by her warm exhales. Sometimes we make love when the sun is just up, because I love a good, slow fuck first thing in the morning.