Page 53 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“I’m a weird guy.” I shrug. “And if you wanted to model it for me a few times before the competition, just to be sure it’s good to go, I wouldn’t mind that, either.”
“Gross,” she says, nudging my knee with hers. “No crustacean kink for me. But I wouldn’t mind having a booth here next year. My mind’s been full of crawfish recipes all day.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “You wouldn’t get sick of cooking outside in the heat?”
“I’m always cooking in the heat,” she says, glancing around. “It might actually be nice to be outside more. I mean, my location was great for repeat lunch customers, but being trapped inside an office building all day wasn’t my favorite. A mobile set-up would give me more flexibility, and give me the chance to incorporate work with travel in the summer.”
“Sound like someone’s having hopeful ideas…”
Her lips quirk. “Maybe. I still hope that appeal goes through, but…yeah. There’s a spark of hope.”
“All it takes is a spark,” I murmur.
The words hover in the suddenly loaded air. But it’s not just a “spark” with us. It’s the way it’s so easy to be with her, the way we get along like we’ve been friends forever, the way she makes me want to make plans for the future.
Plans that include her…
This isn’t normal for me. In the past, casual was the name of the game. I’ve been a “nice guy” and a decent boyfriend, but it’s also always been easy for me to walk away. Easier to bail than make the extra effort to take something temporary to the next level.
“One more beer?” she asks, peering down into her empty cup.
“Definitely,” I say, rising beside her. “Maybe two.”
As we make our way to the closest beer tent, the sun’s getting lower, painting the festival in a golden, forgiving glow that makes the zydeco music pumping from the stage seem romantic. The crowd’s getting drunker, louder, more committed to the ridiculous. Half the people we pass are decked out in somekind of crawfish paraphernalia, from hats to foam claws to brand new t-shirts. Makena and I take our beers to the vendor area to grab our matching merch. We’re tempted by the “Suck the Head. Pinch the Tail. Repeat.” and “Drink ‘Til the Tail Looks Good” designs, but in the end, we stick with the shirt that first caught our eye.
I change into mine right away, stripping off my sweat-tinged tee in the shadows by the booth, while Makena pretends that she isn’t checking me out.
But she is. I know she is.
So, I take my time pulling my new shirt over each arm, hesitating as I drag it slowly down to cover my abs, making her laugh and slap my hand. “Stop it!”
“Stop what?” I ask, all innocence.
“You know what,” she mutters, fanning her face in a way that makes me happy.
Very happy, indeed.
But before I can suggest we head to the dance floor near the main stage, where I’ll have a good excuse to get my hands on her, someone announces through a bullhorn that squeals with feedback. “Mating call competition in thirty minutes. Sign-ups close in ten! Claim your spot at the Riverside Stage before it’s too late.”
Makena grabs my hand. “Come on. This is our time to shine, buddy.”
“I don’t even know what crawfish sound like.”
“Neither do I. That’s part of the fun!”
The Riverside “Stage” is a flatbed trailer with Christmas lights stapled around the edge in front of a photo backdrop featuring a cartoon crawfish with bedroom eyes, much like the craw-zaddy on my shirt. By the time we get there, only about a dozen people have signed up—eight women and four men. Mackand I add our names to the list and go our separate ways, to the male and female holding zones.
“Do me proud, woman,” I shout as I duck under the rope into the guys’ area.
“Same,” she calls back, pulling her bandana from her hair and fluffing up the blond strands. She reaches into her pocket next, pulling out her lipstick.
Oh, shit. She’s ready to pull out all the stops.
I wonder if I should tie my shirt up around my ribs? Or just take it off completely? How raunchy is this “mating call” contest going to get?
As if answering my question, the MC calls out, “Remember, folks, we’re looking for authenticity, creativity, and raw sexual crawdaddy energy. These are crawfish in heat, y’all! Make us feel the hunger!”
Makena goes last in the female division. The women before focused mostly on tongue clicks while they wiggled around the stage, which seemed reasonable to someone with zero knowledge of crawfish mating habits.
