Page 25 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
I’m a tall girl. I can reach high shelves and wear big shoes. I don’t often feel petite, but sitting next to Anders I feel practically dainty.
He snatches the controller from me. “That’s enough of that,” he says to the carnival mirror version of himself on screen, restarting the movie.
I’m thoroughly distracted when his hand rests on his thigh, clutching the remote. Why watch him on screen when I can ogle live-action Anders right here? Because even his hand is entertaining. It’s strong and tan, with these strangely attractive veins popping out that I want to trace with my fingers. He’s tapping his thumb against his leg like he’s antsy. After a few minutes of that, he drops the remote and flexes his hand and I am breathless. I am without breath. This is an outstanding performance.Five stars. Bravo!
But Anders is still fidgeting. His hand flops between us and he drums his fingers on the cushion. When his knee starts bouncing, I cover it with my hand to hold him still. He sucks in a breath.
“What is up with you?” I ask.
“What?”
“You. You’re like one of those wind-up toys with the spring coiled tight. Do I need to put you on the floor so you can spin in circles until you bang into a wall or something?” I scold, smiling at the mental image.
He laughs. “Yeah. I’d love to see you try.” He settles deeper into the couch, slinging his arm behind me. It’s an unspoken physical challenge.
He’s a big, solid guy who can undoubtedly hold his own. What he doesn’t know is I have a big, solid older brother, so I had to learn to fight dirty. Tickling is the old standby, but if Anders isn’t ticklish it won’t work and he’ll be prepared for my next offensive. I’ll lose the element of surprise, which is critical when going up against a big, solid guy. I hesitate to do what needs to be done, but I must. I’ve never been someone who can ignore a challenge from an arrogant man.
While Anders’ eyes are trained on the screen—watching himself, for the record—I slide my hand up to my mouth and lick my fingertip, leaving it nice and slobbery. Facing forward, I monitor Anders in the corner of my eye. I move my hand slowly, cautiously toward his ear like I’m docking a spacecraft on the International Space Station. I’m getting away with it. This is happening.Three… two…
Right as my juicy finger is about to make contact with Anders’ ear, his hand shoots to my wrist, holding it in place. He wraps my hand inside his big fist, drying the offending finger on the leg of his jeans. “A valiant effort.” He holds my palm in place against his thigh. “But were you really about to give me a wet willy? How old are you?”
“Twenty—” I start with a gusty exhale. I can’t think. My hand is pressed against Anders’ leg, with his warm fingers on top of mine. What was I saying? Oh yeah. “Six. I’m twenty-six. My birthday is this weekend. I’ll be twenty-seven.”Yes. Good math, Sunny, I compliment myself. “But you’re a big guy. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” My words are way too breathy.
The vein that runs across his tan wrist is calling to me: Just one tiny touch. What would it hurt? And before I realize what I’m doing, I drag the pad of my index finger down the length of the vein. Anders sucks in a breath and uses his free hand to hold mine in place. Now both of my hands are layered between his and I’m trapped—the world’s most willing prisoner.
10. Anders is Indiana Jones
Sunny is right. I can’t stop fidgeting. Every molecule inside me is fighting to pull her close and my body is humming with unspent energy. But Oliver’s obnoxious voice is in my head, holding me back. Look, don’t touch. Easy for you to say, Oliver. Everything is easier for an android.
But he’s correct, as androids tend to be. I can’t afford to lose my mind right now. Making this film count is important, because of what comes after it. A huge movie project has been promised to me, contingent on the success of this film. It’s independent of Micah Watson, the story is fresh, the role I’ve been offered has depth, and I am perfect for it. Imagine it’s 1981, and I’ve been offered the role of Indiana Jones. That is my life right now. At least, that’s what my agent, the director, the producers, and Oliver say. This job has the potential to change the trajectory of my career. Iconic role. Oscar buzz. Movie history being made. Blah, blah, blah. How are Sunny’s hands so soft? That’s all I care about at the moment. And what would she do if I kissed her?
When she ran her finger down the length of my hand, it weakened whatever remained of my self control. Now I have to touch her. That’s all. I settle for covering her hands in mine and taking deepbreaths to relax. It’s not helping things that her huge, brown eyes are blinking at me. I’m looking, with only a little touching. I need to calm down. What I wouldn’t give to belt out some Mariah Carey right now.
“Y-your birthday is this weekend?” I clear my throat. “Doing anything fun?”
Her sigh is shaky, and her small hands don’t move. “My mom is throwing a party for me. She always does. I figured I would take Imogen. It’s low key—just family and a few friends. Is that okay?”
“Is it okay to take my daughter to a party where I haven’t been invited? Nope.” When her face falls I add, “But only because I want to go. When’s the party?”
“Sunday afternoon. My mom usually makes a big dinner every weekend. This one will just have cake at the end. No big deal. You’re not missing anything. Besides, you have to work.” Her insufferable doe eyesblink, blink, blinkat me.
Why is she trying to talk me out of a party? “Yeah, but that’s not the point. You could have invited me.” I blink at her the way she’s blinking at me. Let’s see how she likes it.
“You think I should have invitedTheAnders Beck to my boring family birthday dinner, knowing full well you’d have to shoot me down anyway?” She arches an eyebrow, but her hands haven’t budged. She’s notthatannoyed.
“Yeah.”
“You know what would happen if you showed up at our family dinner?” She pulls her hands away and mimics a bomb exploding. At least, I think that’s what she’s doing. Maybe it’s fireworks.
“That” — I imitate her fireworks, including the sound effect — “sounds fun to me. You’re right, though. I gotta work.” At the moment, I don’t remember why I work so much.
Indiana Jones, Oliver’s voice reminds me in my head.
“Gotta make those blockbuster movies that keep Imogen knee deep in chicken nuggets.” She nudges me with her elbow.
I nudge her back.
She nudges me back. Hard.
