J.C. exhales, a grin breaking out. “You just glad to see me or is this a hernia check?”
Her boldness turns J.C. on as much as the slight pleasurable pressure. Fuck Samson. When she wants something, it opens up all kinds of possibilities. He bends to her ear to ask if she wants to go to the house in a little while. She listens closely, her hand tightening steadily around his balls and it begins to hurt, a discomfort that immediately increases as the rush to tumescence goes into painful reversal.
She licks her lips. “Looking for action?”
Fumbling for her wrist, J.C. gasps, “You’re hurting me!”
“I should rip’m off, you shit.”
He thinks he’s going to faint from the pain. “Leggo. Please.”
She lets go. If it weren’t a public place, J.C. thinks, he would—he pushes the thought away. Payback later. He closes his eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath, and finds a thin smile for her.
“Jesus, D., chill out. What’s your problem?”
“How come some guys are so nice until you put out for them, then presto, you turn into a slut? Can’t wait to tell their homo buddies who they banged, what little sleaze went down on them? You know anybody like that?”
The light glimmers for J.C. and he relaxes.
“You been talking to Samson?”
“Sure. And you, you prick, you been talking to anybody who’ll stand still for it.”
J.C. frowns. “Really, baby, you gotta chill out. How ‘bout a ‘lude?” He begins to grope a pocket for a little med. “You know, you shouldn’t let other people’s hangups get to you. It’s no big deal.” He presses the cap in her hand.
Funny how shiny they feel. It’s not a real ‘lude—those are about impossible to get anymore—just some rip-off junk, margarine for butter. That scared little tremor in her tummy is still there. This will make it go away. She helps herself to his Pepsi to wash it down.
“Lemme get you one,” he says, jumping up to go to the counter. When he comes back, he pats her leg. “Better?”
“Better.”
Relieved to be back in charge, he grins. “Lookin’ for something?”
“You never forget.”
“Ah, baby.” His finger smoothes her eyebrow. “Grey says you’re not partying.”
“Not till hoop season’s over. I can’t afford to miss any more games. Just need my b.c., is all.”
“I might want something special,” he says.
Sure he will. He’ll need to get back for her giving him a hard time. The best she can do is get everything she can for it.
She moves his hand up her thigh and speaks in a light mocking tone. “Pig.”
He laughs. “Hey, I was just talking you up. Cross my heart, baby, it’s just between the two of us from now on.”
She lets him squeeze her breast before he slides out of the booth. He does it hard too, on purpose.
“Is tomorrow night still hoop season? I’m going to Lewiston, do a little partying. This high school scene is getting old, you know? You want to go with me?”
She shakes her head no. “Not this time. How ‘bout Wednesday? After practice?”
“Too bad,” he says. “All right, I should be recovered by then. You’re skinning it though. I gotta split or I’m gonna be late. See ya around.”
She doesn’t bother to watch him leave—he has to work the room as he goes, leaning into people’s faces, flashing the smile, gladhanding jerking them off too cool for school blah blah, she could tell them a few things about Mr. Smooth. If she’s skinning it, it’s his doing. He could give it to her early if he wanted. It’s just more payback for getting hard on him. He’s holding out on her to make her nervous, squeeze her tit a little harder. No big deal. Mr. No Big Deal. Right. Every fucking breath is a big deal to him. He makes deals with his own dick when he has to pee.
16
Through the stutter of blacklight, the Mutant sky walks over the surf boom of the music and the choreic crosscurrent of dancers. When the blacklight blinks over her, it luminesces the white of her T-shirt, slit in the front to reveal the cones of her red brassiere and the white spandex capri-length tights underneath her raveled jeans and jumps along her chains and the dancing miniature plastic skeleton in her ear. The lacy cups and the cross-threads of the jeans, the leather laces from her high-tops to her thighs and the mime’s malevolent pinched diamond drawn around her right eye flash black. The effect is a weird striptease, the lighter clothing become a more naked skin, lace titties and jungle stripes modeling the shape of her body, the crotch of her jeans a black delta in the confluence of the silver flowing chains. Shivering over the turbulence, the tight wire of the lighting catwalk vibrates with the music. It feels trippy to spy unnoticed, at least so far, above the crowd. She has a god’s-eye view of a dozen interactions, approaches, rejections, tiffs, making-ups. Who’s making time, who’s getting panicky, bored, wrecked. Pete Fosse snarling at Cady Flemming, Cady shoving his class ring halfway up his nose in fury before stalking off. Sarah Kendall with her tongue in Rick Woods’s ear, Rick squeezing the amazing Kendall ass with both hands. The Jandreau twins targeting Todd Gramolini as victim of the night—Melanie gives him the come-on and Melissa moves in as soon, as Todd loses his grip on his skepticism that this is happening to him. After fifteen minutes of hot-eyed attention from the twins, he has a stupid grin on his face and an obvious boner. And he’s unaware of Deb Michaud observing the circus with growing fury. Bither herds Kerry Hatch onto the floor and proceeds to make a spectacle of himself doing his Vanilla Ice act, until poor Kerry is cringing
