Page 24 of Spiral
“Okay,” I said brilliantly.
Words were too hard to untangle right now. On good days—with no sensual Brit leaning over an armrest with a cup of soda resting in it—my head had fits with vocabulary. With his lipspressed to mine, there was no way I was cooking up anything witty to say. Which was totally fine with me. I had better things to do with my tongue than articulate. It was put to much better use sliding between his buttery, salty, plush lips. I placed my hand on the back of his neck, massaging the nape, as his tongue met and then knotted with mine. The kiss was wet, sloppy, and hot. He made these delightful little sounds of pleasure that took me right back to our night of lust and how bossy of a bottom he had been. I wanted to peel him out of his pretty clothes, throw his glasses aside, and plow his ass like a newly worked alfalfa field.
An unexpected burst of sound and light filled the theater. We parted guiltily, both of us panting softly. The film choked a few times, skipping right to the scene of San Francisco then a close-up of a window overlooking the city,SPADE AND ARCHERpainted on the glass.
“Much as I love Bogart I’d rather look at your face,” I whispered my confession. He reached up to stroke my cheek. A few people returned and took their seats.
“We’ll return to kissing later,” he confided before letting his head come to rest on my shoulder.
Later was good. Not as good as right now but given we had to share the musty theater with five other people I’d have to settle for later. I sat back to drink in Sam Spade rolling a smoke as Effie informed him about a knockout dame in the outer office.
The next hour and forty minutes raced by. Even though I knew the movie inside and out, it never lost its appeal to me, and to Jamie, it seemed, as he was smiling throughout the screening. When Sam walked off holding the Falcon after uttering that famous line about the stuff that dreams are made of, the seven of us in the theater applauded loudly. The lights slowly rose in brightness.
“How great is that movie?” I asked Jamie as we gathered up our trash and headed for the lobby. “I can watch that a thousand times.”
“Same here. Oh hell.” He sighed while I dumped the empty tub filled with candy wrappers into a large garbage can beside the snack shop. “It’s still raining.”
I turned to look out of the glass doors. The dark streets were puddled, the steady pitter-patter of rain hitting the puddles and making them dance.
“We can make a dash for it,” I offered as the other moviegoers ran out into the deluge with coats or arms over their heads.
“Right. Let’s do that then.” He peeled off his waistcoat, balled it tightly, and then tucked it under his arm like a football. “On the count of three. One, two?—”
I bolted out of the door on two. I heard Jamie call me a wanker as I ran outside, the rain soaking me in no time. Jamie splashed after me, catching up when I skidded to a halt to wrap him in my arms.
“Oof! What the bloody hell are you doing?” He laughed out loud, his glasses dotted with rain, his hair flat to his head.
“We’re doing the more kissing thing now,” I said then captured his mouth. He sighed into the kiss, opening for me, his free hand clutching at my sodden shirt. We stood there under a flickering streetlight making out as if it were a clear night. We only broke apart when a low rumble of thunder rolled over us. I drew back, just an inch, and cupped his wet cheek. “I think we should do lots more dating and kissing.”
“I so agree. Shall we stroll to the cars?”
“Yes.” He took my arm, and we sashayed to our rides, sniggering madly, as the heavens rained down. Anyone passing by may have heard us humming “Singing in the Rain” amid thesnorts and giggles of two men falling deeply into feelings for each other.
Chapter Eleven
Jamie
How is this my life?
I was fervently defending the merits of Marmite, trying to convince Jackson of its legendary status back in Britain. “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Marmite on toast,” I insisted, spreading a generous layer on a piece of toast to demonstrate.
Jackson made a face that clearly showed his skepticism. “That stuff looks like tar!” he exclaimed, backing away with exaggerated horror. Then, with a playful shout toward the living room where Oliver was flipping lazily through a sports magazine, he yelled, “Oli, your best friend is trying to kill me with this… this motor oil on toast!”
Oliver laughed from the other room, not bothering to look up. “Just eat it, Jack! It’s an acquired taste!”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to even sniff it, let alone eat it,” he muttered.
Along with my Yorkshire tea and my supply of custard creams, Marmite was one of the other things I’d found online to order in, and after Oli suggested I have a cupboard in the kitchen for my Brit-stuff, as he called it, I now had five jars of Marmite in stock, three packages of biscuits, and over a thousand tea bags.
Just in case.
“It stinks,” Jackson said with a theatrical sniff.
“Don’t you have donuts to buy and bad guys to arrest, Columbo?” I deadpanned.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t stereotype me,Hugh.”
“Do I need to break this up?” Oli asked, and bumped Jackson off his stool.
