Page 70 of I Did Something Bad
“We’re… not?” I ask, perplexed. The way this conversation is going—not to mention the way my body is spasming all over—I don’t think even the earth splitting apart underneath our feet right now could stop me from shoving my face against his.
“No, we aren’t, because it would be unethical,” he reminds me, each syllable heaving out like he’s being coerced into saying them. The way his hands are pressing into my back also tells me that his body and brain are, not unlike mine, waging World War III right now. “Because you’re a journalist writing a story. On me.”
I swallow as my brain conjures up an image of meonhim. “Right,” I say nonetheless. “We can’t. But, just for the record, if wecould…”
He chuckles. His eyes descend down my face, my neck, and start roaming across my upper torso. As though they’ve become sentient, my nipples pinch under my shirt. “If we could…” he repeats and trails off like I did. I can’t stop staring at that mouth: delicious and daring and soft and rogue, even if he’s not aware of it.
I have a vague memory of a whiteboard somewhere, of big block letters that I wrote down for myself specifically to avoid this exact scenario. Another one of May telling me something about all the reasons she refuses to get entangled with Tyler and me silently agreeing, because it all made sense. Itdidmake sense. Back then.
Now, though? Now, the thought ofnothaving him hurts so much I have to do something to alleviate this craving or else I’m going to die.
“Kiss me.”
His fingertips dig into my shirt as though in reflex to what I just said, and I suddenly cannot think of anything other than that I wish they were making contact with my skin, heat on heat. I watch the reactions play across his face as if the latter were an Etch A Sketch. At last, the lines fade, and, I notice, spine already straightening to reach up, he asks, “Are you sure?”
I let out a short, impatient laugh, my own posture bending to meet him halfway. “I swear to god, Tyler, if you don’t kiss me right this s—”
His lips are a few dry ridges rougher than I expected, but as soon as his mouth leans into mine, all I can think is,Finally. He doesn’t take it slow; this is not like a first kiss at the end of a good first date, when you’re bothprettysure the other person wants to kiss you just as much as you want to kiss them, but not sure enough to go for it. Because Tyler fucking goes for it. His tongue licks my bottom lip and I open my mouth and it’s intense and heavy andhot. His touch slides down my spine, roaminguntil it finds the hem of my shirt. When I drag one hand into his hair so I can gently tug a fistful, he groans into my mouth.
“We have to stop,” he whispers, although our lips are still touching, our torsos still converged across as much surface area as possible.
No,my brain protests immediately. Then,More. I want more. I wantall.
“I know,” I say, pulling away but not standing up, not just yet.
Our breathing is labored, like we actually went all the way instead of simply kissing for a minute—or was it twenty?
“You should go,” he says. His eyes have this haziness to them now, and he’s trying to maintain eye contact but failing as he keeps glancing at my lips, which must be as swollen as his are.
“Why?” I ask, and then want to fling myself out the window when I hear how whiny I sound.
“Because—” He shifts in his seat, the movement drawing my attention to the hardness under my thighs. Instinctively, I glance down. When I look back up, he’s smiling. “Well, because of that,” he says through a dark chuckle. “Because you drive me wild, and if you don’t leave right now, if you, god forbid, stay the night—” He swallows, and the unyielding hunger in his voice and on his face makes me want to ignore everything he’s saying and go in for another kiss. “I already know for a fact that nothing short of the apocalypse will get me out of bed come morning.”
I can’t resist. I trace his jaw from the bottom of his chin to his earlobe, lean in, and whisper, “AndIalready know something else that would’ve made you come in the morning.” He lets out a guttural groan that sounds like it’s barely tethered to his last shred of sensibleness, and I add, “Again.”
Sixteen
I try to tell myself that I’m not thinking straight, that what I feel for Tyler is an inane crush. Sure, we kissed—but one, it wasjustkissing. And two, I’ve kissed dozens of guys.
Except it’s the fucking cliché that I cannot overlook no matter how hard I try: Tyler isn’t just another guy.
Because something’s changed, and I don’t know if it can be un-changed. It’s fireworks: the difference between that first, singular, unassuming streak of orange that’s shot upward, and the succeding brilliant, all-consuming, can’t-take-your-eyes-off-of-it, visible-from-a-hundred-miles-away light show that paints the whole sky.
We don’t talk about the kiss—don’t even come close—but we don’t have to. I know how that mouth tastes, the electric shudders it sends through my body when it presses into my own, and without him ever alluding to it, I can tell he keeps thinking about it, too.
It’s the way his fingertips do a quick, delicate, inconspicuous jog across mine whenever we’re standing next to each other. The fact thatI now notice how the instant Yasmin yells “Cut!” his eyes immediately jump over to me, as though his subconscious is always keeping track of my presence. How, on the days where I get to set first, I somehow find myself needing to answer just enough emails in my car until I see him pull in; how, on the days thathe’sthere first, he’s always having a conversation with Yan that wraps up right as I step out. It’s him sitting at lunch with me and May one day and then, out of nowhere, squinting up at the craft services tent ceiling as though deep in thought before saying, oh-so-casually, “So I listened to all ofRedlast night, and wow, that album was absolutely robbed of a Grammy,” and my this-is-the-hill-I-will-die-on instincts prompting me to yell, “Wasn’t it?!” before realizing the full gravity of what he’d said.
How at the end of each day for the past week, he’s found a way to steal us a few minutes alone so he can whisper “No news” with a quick reassuring hand squeeze that I know is meant to remind me that I’m still okay, and, more important, that he’s still looking out for me. That he’salwayslooking out for me. Just like he promised. Every day still feels like that crescendoing scene in the horror movie where you know the serial killer is going to pop out any second now, but knowing I have Tyler in my corner makes the fear manageable.
As the cameras start rolling on the last take of the last scene before we break for lunch, the additional coffee I’d had that morning makes its presence known in my bowels. And, of course, it is a very tense, high-stakes scene during which no crew member even dares exhale too loudly. Mra’s ex-fiancé has shown up right as Nanda was about to profess his undying love for her, and he’s asking her if she knows without a doubt which one of them she wants to be with because a part ofhimhas known ever since she walked into the office five years ago that she was it for him, and she’s crying, and I would be crying, too, if it weren’t for the fact that I am now really wishing I hadn’t worn a thong today of all days.
“You good?” Jason whispers when he catches me tiptoeing out.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Bathroom.”
Once I’m outside, I power walk to the ladies’ bathroom, pleading my butt cheeks to stay squeezed for a few seconds longer.
I try the first door. “Occupied!” someone calls out, and the un-turning latch confirms it.
