“It’s good,” he said. “Now make your mind a blank. Try not to pass out.”

“How long have we been doing this?” Tilda said. “Is my fifteen minutes up?”

He bent and licked her stomach, and she shut up, and then he moved down, flicking her belly button with his tongue as he slid her zipper down, and Tilda felt the heat spread low, which was surprising because there he was, right there in the room, dangerous as all hell.

She looked at the ceiling and thought, This could be good. As long as she kept her mouth shut. Positive thoughts. “I’m positive,” she said, surprising herself when it was out loud. “I’m positive I want the most incredible orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Okay.” He eased her jeans down, and she lifted her hips to help him because given the amount of hip he had to negotiate, that was only fair. “What’s my standard of reference?”

“Pretty damn good,” she said. “Scott knew what he was doing.”

“Scott?” Davy looked up at her. “Who’s Scott?”

“My former fiancé.”

“And you wait until now to mention him?”

“He’s former,” Tilda said. “Am I making snarky noises about Clea? No.”

Davy shook his head. “Okay, if it’s only pretty good, you’ve got it,” he said and bent down to her again.

“Talk’s cheap,” she said, but his hand slid between her legs as his cheek brushed her stomach, and his mouth was hot on her skin, and Tilda felt herself flush with something that wasn’t embarrassment. If she thought about it, she’d have to stop, but the deal was she wouldn’t think, and when he pushed her knee up, her hips rose to meet his hand and then his mouth. She gasped once as he licked inside her, and she grabbed the arm of the couch over her head to keep from sliding off, and then he licked again and got serious and she gave herself up to the pressure he built slowly in her, thinking, This boy has a great mouth. Don’t think about where it is.

Behind her, Betty Everett sang, “It’s in his kiss,” and Tilda relaxed into the familiar lyric and Davy’s unfamiliar mouth, thinking, I’ll never hear this song again without remembering how this felt, easing into heat, breathing in pleasure. When she was breathing pleasure so hard they could have heard her in the hall, Davy pulled back.

“Nice try,” she said, as Betty trailed off behind her.

“Quitter.” Davy bit her inner thigh.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “The deal was-”

Davy pointed his finger at her. “Fifteen minutes. And you’d be quiet.”

The thought of where that finger had been made her blush. Not to mention where his head was now. “Well, what-” she began, trying to brazen it out, but then the jukebox started the Sisters, and by the time they’d finished the first line of “All Grown Up,” Davy’s head was back down, and he began to slowly lick all that heat back into her. She shivered and felt the tension start in her again, as tight as it had been before, and she slid back down the couch, closer to him, she hadn’t lost anything, and this time the heat rose much faster so that when the Ladybugs finished “Sooner or Later,” and Davy pulled away again, she smacked his shoulder and said, “Don’t stop.”

He shook his head. “I should have gagged you,” he said, and kissed her stomach, and she shivered under him. He slid down again, and then stopped as the Shirelles began to sing “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” “This music,” he said, sounding exasperated, and then he bent back to her and started the heat all over, kicking it up higher, each time he stopped it went higher, only this time he kept going, this time his hands were rough on her hips, this time she felt the heat come welling up, and she squirmed and clenched and gasped and thought, Don’t say anything, until finally she broke, her body arching under his mouth as she bit her lip, and the aftershocks made her jerk even after he slid up to kiss her neck. When she’d stopped, still clinging to him, he said in her ear, “And a minute to spare. I win.”

“Uh,” she said, realizing vaguely that the Shirelles were gone and Damita Jo was singing “I’ll Save the Last Dance for You,” and Davy was hard against her, and then he pushed her knee up again and slid inside her -Space Invaded, she thought- and he felt good as she relaxed into afterglow, holding him absentmindedly while he moved and shuddered and came, and she felt warm but not really involved in what he was doing.

When he pulled away from her, she wasn’t sure what to say, so she tried, “Thank you,” and tugged her jeans back on and looked for her T-shirt.

“You know, you have a really short attention span,” he said, as he got rid of the condom. “You come once and you’re gone.”

“I faked it,” Tilda said, pulling her shirt over her head, and when he laughed, she gave up. “Okay, you won.” She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the leftover warmth. “Thank you.”

“I’m feeling fairly grateful myself,” he said, his voice as calm as ever.

I didn’t even make a dent in his concentration, she thought. It had felt good, okay great, but not great enough to get rid of this damn weird feeling that always hit her afterward. You don’t know me. You think you’ve had me, but you don’t know me.

Of course, it was a damn good thing he didn’t know her. She was going to have to stop saying yes, or he’d get to know her. Maybe she needed therapy. Maybe she and Gwennie and Louise could go, and they could get a family deal.

“You’re thinking again,” Davy said as he pulled his pants back on.

Tilda opened her eyes and forced a smile. “Just that you’re off the hook for the rest of the paintings now.”

“Oh, we’ll get the rest of the paintings.” Davy stood up, dressed again. “But it’ll have to be quick. I’m on my way to Australia.”

“Right,” Tilda said, not surprised that the other paintings were still a sure thing. Davy kept all his promises and got everything he went after. Which was why from now on, she had to be something he wasn’t going after. He was just too damn dangerous.

Behind her, the Paris Sisters sang “I Love How You Love Me,” evidently not the kind of women who ever had weird thoughts after sex, and Tilda felt depressed and wondered why. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Long day. Strong orgasm.

“You’ve got that look again,” Davy said.

“Really tired.” Tilda stood up and zipped her jeans. “Well, good night.”

“Celeste, we’re sharing the same bed,” Davy said as she unlocked the door.

“Right,” she said. “See you there, Ralph.” Then she took the steps two at a time while he stood at the bottom, shaking his head.


TILDA GOT up the next morning careful not to wake Davy. She couldn’t find Nadine, so she turned Steve over to Gwen for baby-sitting while she went to work. Gwen didn’t seem to mind. “Variety,” she said, looking down at the little dog. “I live for it.”

“Are you okay?” Tilda said, taken aback.

“Fine,” Gwen said.

“Mason was sweet last night at poker,” Tilda said, prodding a little. “How was lunch?”

“Nice,” Gwen said.

“Gwennie?”

“We talked about the gallery. He appears to yearn for it.” She flipped open her Double-Crostic book.

“Maybe we should talk about the gallery.” Tilda picked up a little yellow paper umbrella Gwen had stuck in her pencil holder. “Drinking on the job?”

“Don’t you have to paint today?”

“Just the base coat,” Tilda said, looking at the crostic book. Gwen had been doodling little umbrellas in the book margins. “And then Davy and I are going after a painting. What is it with you and umbrellas?”

“So how is Davy?” Gwen said. “Happy?”

“Asleep.” Tilda put the umbrella back and escaped out through the office.

But when she opened the door to the van, Nadine was sitting in the passenger seat.

“Hello?” Tilda said.

“I want to come along,” Nadine said, and she still looked a little rocky from the Poor Baby, so Tilda said, “Sure,” and climbed in.

“Here’s the thing,” Nadine said when they were heading north. “With Burton gone, so is the singing gig.”

“There are probably other bands,” Tilda said. “You have a great voice, Dine.”

“I didn’t like singing with the band,” Nadine said. “I know that’s where the money probably is, but it was noisy and a lot of the songs were stupid and nobody really listened anyway. It wasn’t really music.”

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Do you want me to talk to your dad about the Double Take?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Nadine said. “I’m underage. I can’t sing there for another two years even if he wanted to let me, which he doesn’t. But that’s okay. I’m thinking I might want to be a painter.”

“Oh,” Tilda said, light dawning. “Well, today is not going to be very interesting. I’m painting the base coat and looking at color samples under the light there. Tomorrow I’m doing the underpainting. You can help with that if you want.”

“That’d be good,” Nadine said. “Because you make pretty good money doing this, right? I mean, you were in that home magazine and everything.”

“That helped,” Tilda said, thinking of Clarissa Donnelly and her sunflowers, the magazine left strategically nearby. “But it’s not exciting work, Dine. It’s a lot like you and the band. It’s painting, but it’s not art. I’m copying other people’s art to make wallpaper.”

“But it makes money,” Nadine said.

“You do not have to support this family,” Tilda said.

“Right,” Nadine said. “You think I could learn to do this?”

“I think you can do anything,” Tilda said.

“Cool,” Nadine said, and sighed. “So what’s this about Mr. Brown?”