Miss Adventure (17 page)

But I’m afraid.

If Jack realizes when he sobers up what he revealed to me while he was drunk, he may never want to see me or talk to me again. And he might even blame me for getting him drunk and prying the dirt from his stingy heart. I could play the odds, though, and hope he never remembers. Then I’ll just have to keep the secret to myself.

Right.

“Jack,” I say, leaning toward him, “I think it’s time you went to bed now.”

“No, Lisa. I want to tell you this. I know, like, everything about you. You can stand to hear this one thing about me.”

I get out of my chair. “No, I can’t, Jack. I don’t want to hear anything after all that Scotch and brandy.”

He grabs my hand, but I can’t let him do this. If he speaks, I know he’ll hate me in the morning. And for the rest of my life.

So I lean down and kiss him. Long and slow, more sensuously than we ever kiss in the wild. This is bound to freak him out and get him back to his senses.

But before I know it, instead of throwing me off him, he’s kissing me back. His hands are ON me and oh, God. Jack’s going to take me to bed when he’s drunk.

“Jack!” I yell, pushing myself away from him, “Stop this!” I scramble to my feet.

He looks up at me from the couch, eyes hazy with confusion. “You kissed me.”

“That was
supposed
to repulse you so you’d storm off.”

“What?” He clambers into sitting position. “Storm off where? This is
my
house.” He bolts off the couch and across the room, away from me. In front of the fireplace he turns around, absolute disgust etched onto his face. “Get out.”

“That’s not fair!” I cry. “Where do you get off, making me the bad guy in this scenario? I was trying to be nice, you jerk! I just didn’t want you to tell me anything you’d regret!”

“Get. Out.”

As I open my mouth to defend myself, I realize that this is exactly what I want. No way he’s going to tell me anything
now
. But I cannot shut up. I must defend myself against his really unfair fury.

“Jack!” I’m breathing so hard I have to gulp in air to get my next words out. “Stop being so mean to me and listen.”

“
Me
listen?” Jack puts his hand on the mantelpiece, and it flashes through my mind that he does this because all the kissing and shouting has hurt his ribs. “Why don’t
you
listen for a change? You know,” he scoffs, “the fact that you always just blunder on through without thinking, totally unaware of how you’re affecting us around you, doesn’t excuse you. Not one bit. I’m so sick of all this aggressive stupidity. Now get out.”

I don’t budge, adamant that I won’t be scared by all his mumbo-jumbo designed to make me feel inadequate and in-the-wrong. “How am I stupid?” I demand.

Jack looks at me with cold, hard fury. “I try to tell you how I suck at forging relationships and you respond by trying to trick me with sex games. See anything wrong with that picture?”

My voice is so soft I can hardly hear it. “I just didn’t want you telling any secrets while you were drunk.”

But even as I say it, I realize that what he just said doesn’t sound drunk at all. In fact, it makes a scary sort of sense.

“I’m not drunk.”

I can’t move.

“But if you really thought I was,” he asks, “why didn’t you just leave? Why this stupid test I was set up to fail?”

He stares at me, but I have no answer. I’m still trying to process what I’ve done.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You didn’t think of just leaving. Because you didn’t
think
. Like always. Now get out. It’s easy, Lisa. Just turn around and walk out. No thinking required. Just go.”

I’m absolutely numb. The undeniable truth of everything he’s saying is icing through me like Novocain.

“To hell with it,” he finally says. “I’m going to bed.” He flicks off the family room light on his way to the stairs, then climbs up while I stand there in the dark.

I hear his bedroom door shut at the top of the stairs.
Shut
. Not slam, but shut. Even his rejection of me is completely without passion.

So. Here I stand, no one to watch me if I should flounce out. No one to say the last word to. No one to even close and lock the door behind me.

I slink out of his house, stepping into the black, starless night. It’s so dark and quiet. Back there, in the house, Jack kissed me back. Jack was going to take me to bed.

And Jack isn’t drunk.

“There’s the lady of the hour!”

I turn so quickly toward the kitchen door that I slip on the wet floor and barely catch myself on the edge of the sink.

“Crispin…” I turn toward him with my feet firmly under me. Damn, that man is gorgeous. Like Phillip Michael Thomas with a dash of Rick Fox.

“Lisa?” He does a double take to get a good look at me.

I'm soaked from head to toe and covered with spaghetti sauce. “How are you liking our little shindig?” I ask. “Meeting lots of awesome people? Like these two?” I smile as Michael and Antawne come through to get another stack of clean dishes.

“Everyone is great,” Crispin agrees. “I’m glad I came.” His eyes flick across my messy body. “Too bad you got stuck doing clean up.” He steps closer, but not that close. “I was thinking that after the dinner we could go…”

“I'm going to take a shower then right to bed,” I say, then laugh. “That’s where I’m going. I’ve been annihilated by an annual spaghetti carnival.”

Crispin nods, “Yeah,” he says, his mouth turning down. “I hear that. But I would have thought you’d be out mixing with the people all day, being such a mover and shaker here at HEYA.”

“A good leader steps in where she’s needed,” I point out. Even though I totally volunteered to do clean up weeks ago because I hate schmoozing.

“Well, I was thinking about taking off soon.”

“Crispin,” I say, walking up to him– and he BACKS UP. “Thank you so much for coming, and for advertising this in your stores. You mean a lot to this project and to this community.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Good-night.”

I’m pretty sure he couldn’t get out of the kitchen fast enough. Good thing. I’m a very busy and important person.

Jack doesn’t think so, but so what? I turn back to the sink and resume washing dishes.

Big deal that he doesn’t even acknowledge me in class anymore. I don’t acknowledge him, either. And of course I haven’t tried to call. Why would I? We have no reason to contact one another except to arrange testing jaunts. And I sure haven’t invented anything.

I jump when the kitchen door slams open behind me. But this time, I don’t skid around all Bambi-like.

“Thanks, guys,” I call over my shoulder to Michael and Antawne, back for another batch of warm, clean, sanitized plates. “The clean ones are over there.” I gesture with a shrug of my right shoulder.

“LISA!”

I spin around to see Mr. Bennett standing in the doorway. He does not look happy. Not that he ever does. But this look is worse.

“
What
is going on in here?”

“Uh…” My eyes dart around the kitchen. Suds all over almost every surface, suds all over me, water dripping off the counters, clean and dirty dishes everywhere. Looks pretty bad to someone who doesn’t understand the way I clean up, which is pretty messy until the very end.

“LISA?”

“Mr. Bennet,” I jump at his booming voice just a little. “I’ve got this plan.”

“What are you doing to our kitchen?”

I stand up straight and lift my chin. “There has not been one single glitch for the past three hours with getting hot, clean, sanitized plates out there. I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re a mess.”

“I’m not done yet.” I make the pronouncement as I step carefully across the kitchen. I sweep my arms like a
The Price Is Right
model, indicating stacks of dishes. “This is part of a system, so don’t knock it.”

“A system?”

“Aw, don’t take that tone, Mr. Bennett. I’m in here to do a job,” I say more briskly, “and I’m doing it. I volunteered to do kitchen duty by myself so all you guys could mingle and show everyone why HEYA is worth investing in. So, go help save the center and let me take care of the kitchen.”

His face remains impassive. “Just get this mess cleaned up.” With a shake of his head, he finally leaves the kitchen.

I look around at my soapy domain and smile.

“Let’s hear about this system.”

My entire goes rigid as if I’ve just been stunned with a taser.

I take a few deep breaths, then turn around slowly, livid with myself for reacting like such a teenager to the sound of his voice. He’s standing in the other kitchen doorway, the one that leads to the back hallway.

“Jack.” I keep my voice even.

I don’t know what else to say or how to say it. I’m not sure how I feel. But I’m pretty sure I’m blushing.

I’m so ridiculously glad he’s here. And this makes me want to smash every plate in the kitchen.

“Let’s see,” he says, walking into the kitchen, surveying the scene. The first time he acknowledges that I exist in over a week, but he looks around the kitchen instead of at me.

“Wash, put in the rack, rinse everything with scalding hot water from the hose on the sink.” He looks at the counters, considering. “How are you going to dry up all the excess water at the end of the night?”

Mr. Smug thinks I haven’t thought it through. “Dishtowels under the sink,” I say. Clipped, terse. “I’ll bring them home to launder tonight, return them tomorrow. Plus I have some moving blankets in my car for the floor.”

Still looking at the counters, Jack nods. “Good plan.”

“I know.”

Then he starts… he starts… helping. Just like that. Without even asking, he picks up a dirty plate from a stack by the sink, scrapes what's on it into a big plastic bin designated just for food scraps, then puts the plate in the sudsy sink.

“Why are you here?” I demand.

“I saw The Spaghetti Supper ad in the
Times
.”

“I mean here, in the kitchen, right now. How is it that you showed up just when Mr. Bennet did?” I look out the small barred window toward the parking lot. “What are they saying about me out there?”

“I saw Pacquito running around out there,” he says, clearly not answering me.

I decide to humor him for just a sec. “Gabriel, a kid who comes to the center a lot, loves Pacquito. I bring him in whenever I can so they can be together.”

“Gabriel is the kid with crooked glasses?”

“Yup.”

Jack nods. Doesn’t say anything else.

Ha! His attempt to derail the conversation led nowhere.

“So,” I say. “What are they saying about me out there?”

“Nothing much. Michael and Antawne….”

“Those two ratted me out? After I made them a paper towel path so they wouldn’t slip on the floor?”

“They didn’t rat you out. Mr. Bennett just thought he’d check to see how things were coming along.”

“It was bad enough for you to follow him.”

I’m listening to the angry blood of betrayal marching through my ears when I hear something else. Jack squeaks.

Squeaks?

Then his shoulders jerk a few times.

Then he breaks into hoarse, choking peals of laughter. “Really, Lisa,” he manages to say, “I was just curious.” He looks at me, then starts laughing even harder. He turns from the sink to lean his butt against it as spasms of laughter rack his body.

He finally chokes down the guffaws. “Michael and Antawne said you were ‘one whack bitch,’ and I had to come check it out for myself. And you do look pretty funny.”

“I’ve got dishes to clean,” I snap, hip checking him as I position myself in front of the sink. I grab the sink hose to rinse the dishes. But instead of turning the water to hot, I turn it to cold.

Then I aim, hit the trigger, and blast Jack right in the face.

“Hey!” He grabs my wrist, forcing the jet of water to hit him squarely in the chest. He wrenches the hose from me and drops it. The second he releases me, I have the good sense to back away.

Jack looks down at the wet spot smack in the middle of his chest, where the faded T-shirt is now soaked to midnight blue. “You are going to be so sorry that you did that.”

“What are you going to do to me?” I challenge. “Get me wet?”

He comes at me with a menacing gait. I can almost hear the distant whistle signifying an Old West duel.

“You’ve got me there,” he says. “You definitely can’t get much more soaked.” He reaches up to the shelf just above us and picks up a big canister labeled FLOUR.

“Jack, no.” I try to look serious.

“I think I remember from kindergarten that when you mix flour and water, you can make paste.”

“Jack, no,” I say again. “That belongs to HEYA. They must use it for baking cookies or brownies or something. You’d be stealing from HEYA, Jack.”

“I’ll pay ‘em back.”

I run for it. In about a step he catches me.

“Aaahh!”

With one arm clamped securely around my neck and shoulders, he dumps the flour over my head.

But it’s not flour. The can was labeled wrong. It’s sugar.

SUGAR.

Sugar stuck all over my soaking wet body. “Iiiiiiiick!”

He lets me go. As I stumble away from him, he launches the rest at me.

“Nooo!”

“Relax,” Jack says, standing back to get a look at his handy work. “You look…” he flashes me a cocky grin, “sweet.”

I glare at him.

But his stare doesn’t flinch as he moves in on me. “Let’s see how you taste.”

Just like that, he scoops me up against him, then sinks his teeth into my neck for a bite. Oh, God. His fingers dig into my hips, work their way under the soaked waistband of my shorts to my wet skin.

I grab his T-shirt with both hands, but suddenly I remember Michael and Antawne with their ever-present cell phones. Video-taking cell phones. In a flash, I imagine shots of my getting nailed in the HEYA kitchen posted all over the Internet.

“We can’t,” I say, trying to back away. “Not here.”

Jack’s off me in a second and pulling me along behind him as he dodges through the kitchen door into the back hallway. In the darkened corridor, he presses me up against the painted cinderblock wall and kisses me.

Wow. He’s never kissed me like–

“C’mon.” He grabs my hand, runs down the hall, and pulls me into the small office Jimmy and Edgar share. He shuts the door, then asks, “Which desk is Edgar’s?”

“You know Edgar?”

“Just met him. Which one?”

“This one.”

After a few seconds of ransacking, he finds a box of condoms.

“Wow,” I say, just before I jump him.

* * * * *

I’m back in the kitchen, trying to hose off all the sugar from the kitchen floor, the counters, my skin, my hair, my clothes. Jack is cleaning up the sugar trail we left all the way to Edgar’s office.

By the time Jack comes back into the kitchen, I’m back to my dish-cleaning frenzy. Without saying a word, Jack steps in next to me.

And here we are. Not like a companionable couple cleaning up the supper dishes or anything. More like the girls from
The Facts of Life
when they’re first assigned to KP duty together under Mrs. Garrett. Resigned, but still willing to engage in shenanigans.

It’s so weird. We just had sex, but I’m pretty sure we’re still not getting along.

“I meant every word I said last Saturday,” he says quietly, out of the palest of blues.

Jesus. He
is
still mad at me. Damn.

He better not list all my copious faults. AGAIN.

“But,” he continues, “I didn’t acknowledge that at least you were trying to do something decent. As messed up as your plan was, you were thinking of me.” He hands me a plate to put in the rack. “Thank you.”

I swallow. Jack used sex as an icebreaker. He walked in here, knowing he had something all girly to say, something almost like an apology, so he seduced me to make it easier.

The first time we have sex indoors, plus all that fantastic kissing on the mouth? He just needed to get himself ready to say something quasi-nice to me.

Bastard. He doesn’t need an icebreaker when he’s telling me what an annoying bitch he thinks I am.

“Okay,” I say. “You’re welcome.”

What else
can
I say? I mean, if this is how the guy operates, I’ll just have to cope. If I have to put up with hot sex every time Jack wants to have a nice conversation with me, I’m okay with that. I didn’t even have to try to entice him or anything. I look like a refugee from a flooded Peeps factory, but still I got this totally rocketing orgasm. All for the small price of having to listen to the guy when it’s all over.

Score.

We stand there in silence for a few minutes doing dishes. I begin to wonder how much conversation the sex is good for. I know I’m pressing my luck, but I can’t seem to bludgeon my curiosity into submission.

“Jack,” I say, “I don’t get it. Not really.” Am I really going to say this? Am I really? “Why do you bother with me at all? You have a pretty comprehensive list of everything about me that bothers you. It doesn’t make sense.”

Jack lets go of the plate he’s holding. It sinks below the suds, and after a few seconds, he flicks the soapy bubbles off his hands. He turns to me. “You presented me with a unique opportunity.”

“Are you talking about the gear?” I probe. “Because there are lots of absolute beginners out there. Just throw a rock.”

“But they’re not like you.” He dries his hands on a towel that’s too wet to do the job. “I knew you’d have the guts to do what needed to be done. With you, I wouldn’t have to spend all our time together coaxing you into jumping, or swimming, or climbing, or whatever.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“That first day on the mountain, for one.”

“And for another?” That’s me. I just keep pushing and shoving.

He doesn’t answer.

“How did you know I’d work out?”

I
really
want to know. I mean, he’s saying I’m The One. Not in a romantic or life-partner kind of way, but The One for this project. And I’ve never been anyone’s The One before, not for anything. It’s never before been the case that someone’s particularly needed me, Lisa Flyte. Finally, I’m the star of the show. You bet I want to know all about it.

“Lots of reasons,” he says.

Really? Lots?

“The way you tried to head-butt that guy in your apartment,” he says. “Even the way you write.”

“Write?” I echo. “Write what? I haven’t written anything since a haiku in tenth grade. It was supposed to be a sonnet.”

“Anything you write,” he explains. “The way you write stuff on a page, with a pencil.”