Page 71 of Talk Nerdy To Me
Chapter 22
BRITT
“Sticks is not his real name, right?” Base shakes his head in answer to my question. “Is it because he plays the drums then?” I ask, carrying on our conversation about the band as Base lies down on the opposite end of the couch from me.
He’s lying mostly on the couch, but his feet are on the ground. He laughs, grinning as he idly starts massaging my ankle. “He instantly hates anyone who asks him that question.”
Ankles are not notably erogenous zones, so why does that simple touch have me working to form more words?
“It’s an obvious deduction, given the fact he is a drummer, and numerous drummers are reported to have the same nickname,” I point out.
“Oh, that nickname is definitely because he’s the drummer. But it’s so obvious that he hates anyone who he feels is asking a rhetorical question and awaiting an answer. That’s just how Sticks is.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to fully understand that.
“What question do you hate the most?” Base asks me suddenly, eyes coming up to meet mine as his massaging hands move up to my calf.
He’s yet to discover I’m not wearing anything but lacy underwear under this long T-shirt. Harley told me to stop wearing pants at home if I really wanted him.
Usually, I shy away from physical contact, for the most part. I thought if anything was an issue during my quest to remove maidenhood that would be it. But Base touches me a lot. And I like him touching me.
“What do you mean?” I ask, clearing my throat as I try to focus.
“For instance, I hate it when someone asks me if my name is Base because I play bass.”
“You play electric guitar, not bass, and the two forms of the words are homophones spelled differently,” I state, confused.
His grin spreads. “That’s why I hate the question.”
After thinking about it a second, I finally come up with an answer. “I dislike it when people expect a simple answer as to why certain social interactions are more difficult for me than they should be.”
His lips twitch as he continues massaging my calves, his eyes on his hands as he does so. I’m exceptionally happy I’ve kept my legs shaved.
“It’s not as much of an issue now as it used to be,” I go on, relaxing as I let his fingers do magic, finding his touch far more enticing than usual.
Maybe that’s why he makes me panic. I like his touch too much.
“Adults are better at hiding how terrible they are than ruthless kids,” he surmises, causing me to smile even as my eyes drift shut.
“That’s what Maverick says. It’s also because I try harder.”
“To fit in,” he says as though he’s disappointed.
I say nothing. He seems unable to comprehend the why to this unending disagreement, and he’s entitled to his opinion. He just likes to try and make me agree with him as well.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“I’ve never understood why people can’t just disagree dispassionately, understanding where the other person stands on a matter. They want people to think the same way they do, yet rave for people to ‘think for themselves’ in the very next breath, simply because they disagree. None of us have to agree about anything, yet we can still exist in harmony.”
His hands pause on my leg, and I shake my head in refusal to his silent request, feeling thoroughly trained at this point to open my eyes. I never gave much thought to psychology when they stood firm on the matter of “conditioning” a mind to perform specific reactions unconsciously.
Until I started sensing when I was supposed to look up for his camera without being asked. In a very unreasonably short amount of time, I should add.
I bet I’d be susceptible to hypnosis too.
“I’m not succumbing to your need to photograph my eyes, because I don’t want you to stop massaging,” I tell him.
A soft rumble of laughter has me tempted to open my eyes, but before I can fall prey to temptation’s snare, his hands start doing those really incredibly movements again, resurrecting my momentarily disrupted relaxation.
