Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“About what?” Davy said, looking confused. “Your family? I like them.”

“About your money. And about Friday. You know.” She patted the couch. “Here.” She took another drink.

“Get over it, Matilda,” Davy said.

“That was an apology.” Tilda got up and poured more vodka into her glass, making the orange juice fade. “A sincere, heartfelt apology.”

“Have you always had this drinking problem?” Davy said.

“No.” Tilda took the bottle back to the couch, drank more of her vodka and orange juice, and then closed her eyes as the alcohol seeped into her bones. “You are great at that. Getting people to give you things.”

“Thank you.” Davy took the bottle from her.

“It’s because you’re in sales, right?” Tilda hit the vodka again. Come on, tell me the truth.

“Sales?”

“You said you were in sales.”

“I said my father was in sales.”

“So what are you in?”

Davy looked at her for a moment. “Sales,” he said, and topped up her drink.

Tilda sighed. “Like father, like son.”

“Not even close.”

She sipped again and waited. Okay, he wasn’t going to tell her about the FBI. She clearly did not have Louise’s skills. At least she was pretty sure she didn’t. “So here’s a question.”

Davy waited, and she smiled at him again, feeling fairly loose in general.

“Question,” he prompted.

“Right.” She took another drink and steeled her nerve. “How bad was I?”

“You were great.” He stretched to put the bottle on the table. Lovely arms, she thought. Lovely lines to his body. That was probably why the FBI hired him. “You have a real flair for reading people,” he said as he leaned back. “I think Mrs. Olafson-”

“No,” Tilda said. “On this couch the other night. How bad was I?”

“You were fine,” Davy said, suddenly cautious.

“Hey,” Tilda said. “I deserve the truth. We’re partners now. Steve and Veronica. Ralph and Celeste. Whoever that was in the closet and Vilma. Tell me the truth.”

Davy sighed. “Okay. You were terrible.”

“Ow.” Tilda slugged back the rest of her glass. “I was hoping for mediocre. You know. Not so good.”

Davy offered her the bottle.

“Thank you.” Tilda held out her glass.

“It was my fault, too.” Davy poured a quarter inch of vodka in her glass. “I was still on a rush from burgling Clea, and I didn’t-”

“It’s me,” Tilda said.

Davy shrugged. “Well, you know, sex isn’t for everybody. Maybe-”

“I want it,” Tilda said. “I just don’t want it when there are guys in the room.”

Davy lifted an eyebrow at her. “Louise looks like she might swing both ways.”

“I don’t want women, either.”

Davy nodded and took a drink. “Do you have it narrowed down to a species?”

“When I’m alone,” Tilda said, “I’m very interested in men. Very interested.” She thought about Davy in the closet and thought, And sometimes, even with them right there. “I mean, sometimes I have thoughts that are really, well, wrong.”

“These are the thoughts you should share with me,” Davy said, over his vodka.

Like sometimes I have this incredible urge to walk up to you and say, “Fuck me,” just to get it out of my system. Except that would be wrong, not to mention difficult to explain, like the rest of her secrets. Besides, saying “Fuck me” to the FBI? That couldn’t be good.

“No, really, you can tell me,” Davy said. “I’m very open-minded.”

“No,” Tilda said. “There are some secrets you can never tell.” She sighed. “There are things I’m tempted to do, but when there’s another person in the room, there are so many other things to consider.”

Davy shook his head. “Short of ‘Don’t forget the condom’ and ‘Try not to choke on your spit,’ I can’t think-”

“Like how well do you really know this person?” Tilda said, giving him another opening. “Because I think you should know him pretty well before you let him inside you.”

“I’m the one going in,” Davy said, relaxing back into the couch, “so I’m good with strangers.”

“Right,” Tilda said. “It’s my space being invaded.”

“You want a guy who won’t invade your space?”

“Not in theory. In theory, I want a guy who’s all over my space. It’s just-”

“In practice.”

“In the real world,” Tilda agreed. “Space Invaders, not my game.”

“Problem is,” Davy said, “Space Invaders is pretty much the name of the game. Everything else is just a variation on the theme.”

“Maybe I’ll never have sex again,” Tilda said. “I’m trying to decide if that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell you what.” Davy picked up the bottle again. “Small bet.”

“Bet?” Tilda watched as he slopped more vodka in her glass. The pineapple-orange juice was only a pale memory now. “Like poker?”

“I bet you,” he said, handing it to her, “that I can make you come, right here on this couch. No Space Invaders.”

“Uh-huh,” Tilda said dubiously over the rim of her glass. The coming part sounded good, but it was Davy. There was bound to be a catch. On the other hand, it was Davy. And she did want him. Even the FBI thing was a turn-on. Maybe she had some Louise in her after all.

“If you win,” he was saying, “I help you get the rest of the paintings. If I win, we play Space Invaders.” He thought about it. “Which means that you win either way. This is a great deal for you, Vilma.”

“Spare me,” Tilda said, willing to be seduced but not scammed.

Davy shook his head sadly. “I’ve never met a woman who was more afraid of orgasm.”

“I’m not afraid of orgasm,” Tilda said, indignant. “I’ve had plenty of orgasms. I just-”

“When Harry Met Sally,” Davy said. “First diner scene.”

“That was not a movie quote,” Tilda said. “Is everything a game to you?”

“Pretty much.” Davy met her eyes and smiled at her, and Tilda thought, Oh, Lord. “So, do you want to play or can we go to bed now?”

“There are two more paintings left,” Tilda said, her heart picking up speed.

“Fifteen minutes,” Davy said. “Time me.”

She drank the rest of her vodka and orange vapor, regarding him over the edge of the glass. He was so much fun to look at. And as long as she kept her mouth shut, what did she have to lose besides her dignity? Which, let’s face it, had gone with the wind the last time they’d hit the couch. That had to be the all-time low. And if it wasn’t Space Invaders, if she wasn’t letting him inside, maybe she wouldn’t say anything-

“Matilda,” Davy said. “I’m growing old here.”

Her heart began to pound and she swallowed again. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Yep.”

So even if it was bad again, it was only fifteen minutes. And if it was good, it might be Louise. She took a deep breath -there was never enough oxygen around when she started contemplating having sex with Davy- and she nodded. “You’re on.”

HE GOT UP and locked the doors to the gallery and the hallway, and she said, “That was thoughtful,” as he took her glass away from her.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

Tilda looked at him with contempt. “Well, duh. Would I be doing this if I wasn’t?”

“Good point.” He went over to the jukebox and started punching numbers at random.

“What are you doing?” She squinted at him through her glasses as the Exciters started to sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Cover,” he said, over the music. “In case you turn out to be a moaner for real.”

“Somehow I thought it’d be more romantic,” she said. “You know. Since we sort of know each other this time.”

He came over to her and took her glasses.

“Hey.”

“Reality is not a turn-on for you,” he said. “Stick with soft-focus.”

“Well, that’s a good point,” she said, and didn’t say anything at all when he turned the lights off so there was only the glow of the jukebox behind them. Then he came over, picked up her knees, and swiveled her around so her back was to the arm of the couch.

“Okay, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be more romantic than this,” Tilda said, as he pulled her hips down the leather seat. She managed not to roll off, but he stuck his hand out to catch her, just in case. A real gentleman.

“Here’s the deal,” Davy said, leaning over her. “You shut up. Both your mouth and your brain. You’ve probably talked yourself out of coming more times than you’ve come.”

“Hey,” Tilda said, annoyed, and he kissed her, that mouth on hers, hot and insistent, all that heat going straight into her brain and shorting out whatever it was she’d been going to say. “You do that really well,” she said, when he moved to her neck.

“I know,” he said into her shoulder. “Be quiet.”

He began to slide her T-shirt up, and she held onto it and tried to remember if she was wearing a good bra or not, definitely not one with safety pins but hopefully not a boring white one-

“Matilda,” Davy said.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re thinking.”

“Am not.”

“You had that look on your face, the one you get when you’re counting something.”

Tilda shrugged herself down on the couch a little more, which brought her into contact with him. Somehow, in all of the sliding around, he’d put himself between her legs. “How did you get there?”

“Practice,” he said. “Stop thinking.”

“It was sexual. I was wondering if my bra was good.”

He stripped her T-shirt over her head before she could stop him, catching it on her ear. She untangled it and looked down. White lace.