Page 4 of When There Was You
Hetsks me. “All good things come to those who wait. Besides, I want to run it by Remy first.”
Now I’m dying of curiosity, my pulse leaping. “You think he won’t go for it?”
Mick scoffs. “Are you kidding? Remy’s game for anything. This is right up his alley—and I think yours. It’s downright…raunchy.”
The tension in my belly grows tighter and wetness seeps through my pink bikini underwear.
“Fuck. Now I’ve got a raging hard-on. I’m going to start the steaks before I bend you over the table.”
My lips part, and my fingertips graze the bulge in his jeans. He shakes his head with a smile that says he can’t wait to finish what we’re starting.
An hour later, when Remy still hasn’t showed or called, we sit down and eat without him.
I sip my Cabernet, my irritation growing. “It’s not like him not to call. What do you think is going on?”
Mick slices off another hunk of steak. “I don’t know.”
I chew on my salad with more force than necessary, unable to stop stewing. “Maybe it’s his parents. Or just his bitch mother.”
“Maybe.”
“What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s in the hospital?”
“Jacqui,” he says, waiting until I meet his gaze. “We don’t know anything. All we can do is wait for more information. And you know Remy’s an irresponsible, reckless dipshit sometimes.” He tips his beer to his mouth and takes a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing the way I love.
I snort. “Mostof the time.” Sawing into my sirloin, I chew a piece, savoring the bite. “The steak’s delicious.”
His lips lift in agreement. “So are these potatoes, baby.”
As the turntable releases a new record, Mick steers our conversation elsewhere. “Fill me in on how your week went at school. What did you learn?”
I chuckle at the way he asks that last part, like I’m in kindergarten. “Journalism was good.”
It’s my most time-consuming class at three hours every day. We’re more like staff than students. Our newsroom is huge, with a separate advertising department across the hall. Together, we runThe Spartan Dailyschool newspaper. We have an advisor, but the entirety of every edition is created by students, then printed by theSan Jose Mercury News.
It’s fascinating to understand the inner workings of apublication and what drives the number of pages each day, plus see an article I’ve written make it into the final edition. It’s mind-blowing that something of this magnitude is left in the hands of undergrads. And no pressure—the newspaper has never missed a day in school history, so none of us intends to let that happen onourwatch.
I fill him in on what I hate (hard news articles) and what I want (lifestyle features), and how the editor allowed me to pitch him five suggested features, and he’ll green light one. Mick pours me another glass of wine as I rattle them off: how to get the perfect tan, best surfing spots in the region, finding true love on campus, what books students are reading, and advice faculty would tell their younger selves.
“Great ideas, baby. Bet he picks the last one,” he says. “It’s got a lot of meat to it. I can’t wait to read it.”
The familiar pride unfurls inside. I’m the plant and he’s the water, and with his praise, I bloom.
We finish dinner. While I’m cleaning up, Mick tries calling Remy again, but there’s still no answer.
“Should we call his parents?” I ask. “Maybe they know where he is.”
“Negative. That will only sound the alarms and piss off Remy.”
I sigh, frustrated and annoyed, even though he’s right.
Where the fuck is he?
We take our drinks and sit in the lounge chairs out front to watch the sunset. The sky is painted with vivid color over the Pacific, deep oranges and reds with slashes of purple and gold. We soak in the beauty, which almost seems created just for us.
As the sun begins its descent into the depths, my skin chills and I climb between Mick’s legs, absorbing his warmth as I lay back against his chest.
“Mick?”
