Frickin’ contractors.
Nate was not happy. He was, in fact, at least two exits past “not happy.”
‘Gee, I’m sorry, sir. I know we told you the kitchen would be done three weeks ago, but that was before the factory sent us the wrong cabinets that we ordered by mistake. And I know we said at least one of the bathrooms would be finished by now, but we didn’t know you’d want to be able to use the shower.’
Un-frickin’-believable.
He paused on the front steps to fish a key from his pocket. At least Adam was cool about him staying. But one of the things currently making Nate not happy was that he was starting to feel like a sponge. Adam wouldn’t take any money from him, would hardly even let him chip in for groceries. ‘C’mon man, it’s not like I need it. You wanna do something, buy some beer, okay? Rent some movies.’
Nate slipped the key into the lock and let himself into the house. There was a light on in the living room, which meant Adam was still up.
If he hadn’t been so distracted, Nate might have noticed sooner that the light in the living room was coming from a few scattered candles, and that Adam wasn’t alone, and that both Adam and the person (the woman) he wasn’t alone with were in the early stages of undress - clothing askew, random buttons undone.
“Oh shit, man, I’m sorry.” Nate started to back out of the room.
“Nate?” came the woman’s voice from the tumble of bodies on the couch. Nate stood still, trying to place whoever the hell he’d walked in on.
The woman pushed herself up from Adam’s chest. He pushed back, playfully rough, landing her in the middle of the couch. He acknowledged Nate’s presence with a nod and a “‘Sup?” then leaned forward to rummage through a small box on the coffee table.
“Nathan ... don’t go,” the woman said. Nate could see her face now. God, what is her name? Sherri? Sharon? No, Sheryl. It's Sheryl – from Wardrobe. Yeah.
Sheryl from Wardrobe held out her hand to him. “C’mon, stay. We were gonna get high and hang out,” she said with a slow smile. Privately, Nate doubted that had been the plan. But when he looked over at Adam, the big man just shrugged and started rolling a joint.
“Um, sure. Okay.” Nate made for the recliner, the one they jokingly called Adam’s papa-bear chair. Sheryl caught his hand as he went by and pulled him down onto the other end of the couch.
“Much better,” she said, settling back against Adam’s shoulder and propping her bare feet on Nate’s lap.
Adam held the finished joint between thumb and finger, running a flame lightly along the seam. When he was satisfied the paper was dry, he put the joint between his lips and lit the end. He took a deep hit, holding the smoke in his lungs as he passed the joint to Sheryl. She handed it directly to Nate. “I can wait.”
Nate put the joint to his lips and inhaled. It’d been a while since he’d done this – Adam sometimes offered, but Nate generally preferred his altered states to come from a bottle. Although the acrid smoke made him want to cough, he managed to take a respectable toke. Still, he wished he had gotten a beer before he sat down.
He turned to hand the joint back to Sheryl, and discovered why she could wait. Adam cupped the side of her face in his hand, holding her still for what might have been a kiss if not for the wisp of smoke that escaped between them when they finished. Nate hit the joint again before passing it back to Sheryl.
Adam stretched his arms, then leaned back into the cushions with his hands behind his head. “Did Joss say anything else about the schedule? I ran into Malkovich this morning, and he still wants you to read for him.”
“No shit?” Nate grinned broadly. The part Malkovich had mentioned was a featured role, the kind of thing that would get him noticed as a Serious Actor. Woops, thinkin’ with capital letters. That’s some good dope you got there, buddy. He giggled.
“What’s funny?” asked Sheryl through exhaled smoke.
“Nothin’ ... nothin’,” he said, but giggled again. “Lemme have another hit.”
Sheryl shook her head. “Lightweight.” She started to hand him the joint, but thinking the better of it, clambered to her knees instead. She took another hit, then leaned over and put her lips to his, exhaling slowly.
Nate breathed deep. A shotgun hit was sweet, the smoke no longer dry and scratchy, although the whole thing was a little nasty if you thought too hard about the air coming direct to you from someone else’s lungs.
Sheryl flicked her tongue against his lip when she was finished. She dropped the roach into an ashtray, then leaned back again on Adam, her feet returning to their perch in Nate's lap. “How do you know Malkovich?” she asked, clearly impressed.
“From Steppenwolf,” Adam said absently. He nuzzled the side of her neck, dropping a soft kiss here and there. She sighed appreciatively as he put his arms around her, one hand coming to rest on her thigh, the other on her breast.
Nate plucked at his collar. “Kind of warm in here, isn’t it?” He wished again for a beer.
“Why don’t you unbutton your shirt?” Sheryl raised her foot and ran the ball of it slowly along Nate’s jaw. “Or your pants?”
Her pedicure was fresh, which he wasn’t sure how he knew, but it was, and her foot was hard and soft at the same time, and had she just said something about his pants? He gaped at her stupidly, wondering if he’d heard her right. His ability to decide was compromised by the fact that the blood headed to his brain took a precipitous southerly turn when she shifted her foot and caressed his ear with her toes.
Huh. Maybe she did say “pants.”
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