The Real Deal

“We were stuffed in that tiny bed, and I woke with a terrible crick in my neck,” she says, raising a hand over the sheets to rub against the back of her neck.


“Because I was a complete bed hog. And you were wedged along the side of the bed all night long.”

She reaches to swat me. “You’re so mean.”

When she does that, the sheet slips low, down to her waist. Her little white shirt rides up, and my breath catches. I break character. “You have stars on your hips.”

I point to the constellation on her skin. A swirl of midnight blue ink.

“Oh.” She casts her eyes down, like she’s just noticing the ink on her body. “Yeah, I do.”

I hold my breath as I stare. It feels like a secret she kept from me, but I don’t know why. All I know is it’s beautiful, and never has a tattoo looked prettier on a girl than these five stars flying over her flesh. Maybe it’s the location. There’s nothing quite so seductive as the hip bone, and the promise of where it leads to.

Or maybe it’s the surprise, since I didn’t expect to see her skin marked.

“I love them,” I say, and my voice is hoarse. Because what I want to say is that I’d like to kiss them. I’d like to touch them.

“You said that the night at the inn, even though you’d seen them so many time before,” she speaks softly, reminding me of our bedtime tale.

“I say it a lot, don’t I? Every time I see the stars, it feels like the first time.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re always staring at them.”

“I don’t just stare at them.”

“What else do you do?” she asks so softly, and it’s an invitation. She’s asking to play the train fantasy game again. I should turn her down, but instead I RSVP.

“Kiss them.” My voice is rough. My answer is simple.

She says nothing, just shifts her hips almost imperceptibly.

“Lick them.”

Her breath hitches, but she stays silent, because this is my fantasy, only I can tell from her reaction that it’s hers, too. I lift my arm, moving closer, my fingers hovering near that hip bone, then I dust my thumb across it. “Touch them.”

She closes her eyes as a slight tremble runs through her. It’s so sexy, and it’s so clear we need to stop this game.

I can’t let the starlight on her body, or the silvery glow of the moon dancing on her pale skin erode my defenses. They exist for a reason. Nothing matters more than self-protection. I yank up the covers and flip her to her side, facing away from me. I pat the white cover, stuffing the downy material between us, so I’m not tempted to sidle up next to her. It’s a barrier, and a necessary one. I lift my hand to her neck, and her breath catches once more as I push her blond curls off her neck. “No need for a crick in the neck. I’m good with my hands.”

She lets out a soft sigh and seems to sink deeper into the mattress as I gently rub her neck. I push my thumb into the flesh. She moans her approval, so I keep going. A few minutes later, she whispers my name. “Theo?”

“Yeah?”

“You pulled off one of the items from your à la carte menu.”

I laugh and recite the item: “Start provocative and/or incendiary discussion about politics and religion.”

“Have your other clients wanted that, too?”

“Sometimes, but if someone hired me because she was truly mad at her parents, she’d usually want me to be a total dick. This one chick was so pissed at her dad for cheating on her mom that she wanted me to cause a huge scene at the Thanksgiving dinner table.”

“Like throwing mashed potatoes?”

I laugh. “Green bean casserole, too.”

“Did you do that?” Her tone drips with curiosity, and she shifts to her back, meeting my eyes.

“April, her dad was a dick for cheating on her mom. All I had to do was deliberately knock over a casserole to make my client feel the tiniest bit like she was getting even with her dad.”

“Hmmm.”

“Does that bother you? That I did that?”

I brace myself for her answer. If she’s perturbed by the thought of me toppling a casserole, I can only imagine what she’d think if she learned about all the other shit I’ve pulled. But she won’t learn, because I won’t tell.

She shakes her head, and I’m relieved. I can feel the air flow more easily in my body. I wanted her green bean absolution. “No. I mean, it’s odd to me to picture it, but only because I can’t imagine truly wanting to do that. Sure, a part of me finds it amusing and entertaining, and I can understand the impulse to just strut into a family gathering and wreak havoc.” She swings an arm back and forth, like a gal with attitude for miles. “But even though everyone is up in my business, I still don’t want to flip a green bean casserole.”

“If it’s any consolation, it was a completely nasty casserole, and I saved everyone from having to eat that crap.”

She laughs softly; then the sound fades into the inky night. She rests on her side again, and I resume massaging her neck. I highly doubt she has a crick in her neck, but I just like touching her.

“I love that you’ve found different ways to act. It reminds me of how I would paint faces on anyone willing. You have to do that when you’re in this kind of creative field, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing the lie. I wish she wasn’t so fascinated with my “career.” It’s the one area where I can’t be honest with her, but I have to perpetuate the tale. “You do have to find unique ways to exercise your artistic muscles.”

“I love that analogy. I believe that.”

Even though I have a poker face, I’m so glad she can’t see mine right now. “Sorry I haven’t won over your dad,” I say, turning away from the topic of careers. “But I’ll keep working on it. Your parents are cool, even though they’re trying to hate me.”

“They don’t hate you at all. Is it weird that I mostly like my family?”

I swallow, unsure at first how to answer. “I’m not really the best expert on family. But I think it’s a good weird.”

She’s quiet for a few more seconds; then she speaks softly. “Did your parents die in a car crash or a plane crash?”

I flinch.

“Sorry if that’s too personal. But you said you were fourteen when they died. I figured they went together. I hope that’s not too nosy, but I can’t help but wonder. And I hope it’s not awful for you to be around my big crazy family tomorrow.”

I heave a sigh. “Families are always complicated and crazy. It’ll be fine.”

She nods.

“And,” I say, swallowing harshly, “you’re right. It was a car crash.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, tasting bile, tasting the acid of the lie.

She flips over, and runs a hand down my arm. It’s not sexual. It’s comforting. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.” I look away, so she can’t see that I’m sorry I’m lying to her. Sometimes the fable is better than the truth.

She lets out a long, lingering breath. “Thank you for telling me.”

I mumble something incoherent. I don’t know what to say. And I’ve no more words for a story either. There’s no more make-believe to spin tonight, and I don’t feel like being myself anymore either. I slip into Fake French. “Mademoiselle, let me feeneesh your mah-saj.”

She rolls back over.

“Now, allow me to rub your shoulders, s’il vous pla?t,” I continue.

She laughs softly. “Merci, monsieur.”

“De rien,” I say in the accent that makes her chuckle. “I am only here to serve.”

“The service is très bien.”

“Oh là là. I see you know French, too.”

“Un peu.”

“Very nice, very nice. Then, we will have baguettes and croissants and sip café,” I say, rattling off random French things as I rub her shoulders, and soon she drifts into slumber.

I let go of her, sink to my back, and recall my days as a professional sleeper. Those skills help me fall asleep quickly and keep my hands to myself all night, the cover a fortress keeping me from her.