Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [10]
“AHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“Happy to see me?”
“BOW-WOW-WOW YIPPIE YO YIPPIE YAY!”
“I'm happy to see you, too. Happy anniversary!”
Our anniversary. He remembered that he had deflowered me one year ago. It's nice to know that mine stands out among all the many petals that had fallen before me.
I licked his laughing face.
“Down, girl, down!” he said, rolling out from under me.
“I'm just! So! So! So!”
Words failed me. I barked.
“Happy?” he offered.
“WOOF-WOOF! ARF-ARF!”
No surprise that all this commotion attracted the attention of my mother, even amid the deafening chaos of a one-year-old's birthday party.
“Jessie,” I heard her shrill voice coming up the stairs, “what are you d—?” She stopped in my doorway midinquiry, stunned by the sight of her daughter dry-humping Marcus's leg.
“Oh,” she grumbled, tugging at the bow at the back of her halter top as if it were a silken noose. “It's you.”
She would have been happier if I'd been rutting bin Laden.
Marcus hopped to his feet. “Hi, Mrs. Darling. It's nice to see you again.”
Mom ignored him. “Jessie, we need you back downstairs. We want Pinky to bring out the birthday cake for Marin.” She turned on her high heels and went out the door.
Marcus waited a beat before whispering, “Did your mom get some work done?” He froze his face into a startled Halloween mask. It would have been funny if it weren't so true.
“Botox,” I replied. “She willingly injected a deadly toxin into her flesh.”
“She looks permanently pissed off.”
I patted his head with my paw. “No, honey,” I said. “That's only her expression when she sees you.”
Marcus was unfazed. “I've been hated by more fearsome moms,” he said. “Besides, your dad is feeling me, so I can settle.”
“My dad tolerates you,” I said. “There's a difference.”
“Well, we better get downstairs if we want our mediocre rapport to continue. . . .”
But I wasn't ready to face my family yet. I kissed him. And he kissed me back in his liquid-lipped way I had missed. I don't mean that in the sense that it was wet and sloppy, but that our mouths melted away. . . .
“Mmmmmmm,” I murmured. “I don't want this to end . . .”
“We have all summer,” he said, nuzzling my furry shoulder.
“No, we don't,” I corrected him. “We've only got half of June and just weekends in July. At least we've got August before we go back to school. . . .”
“I just got here,” he said, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “Why are you saying good-bye to me?”
He was right. I was already feeling nostalgia for this moment.
“I'm sorry,” I replied. “Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!”
“That's more like it,” he said, lifting my furry helmet onto my head.
Hours later, before we shared a legitimate good-bye, he told me he liked my hair.
He's a liar.
But I love him for it.
the fifteenth
Marcus has been home for a week.
AND WE HAVEN'T HAD SEX YET.
It's my hair. I just know it.
Let's look at the positives of this situation. If left up to our devilish devices, we could, conceivably, have sex all day long. But since we've been deprived of these pleasures, we've been forced to come up with more ways of spending our time. So in the past week alone we have: kayaked on Cedar Creek, hiked in Double Trouble Park, surfed (well, he did—he picked it up in California—I wiped out and nearly drowned), and done several other very physical activities that help sublimate our sexual urges.
It's not working.
Marcus is pure celibait. The longer we go without, the more difficult it is for me to stop myself from just ripping off his clothes. It's not my fault. I know from my Mind, Brain, and Behavior class that it's all biochemical. Blame the surge of serotonin in my ventral tegmental! Curse the dopamine in my caudate nucleus!
Men are much more affected by visual stimuli, so it's not Marcus's fault that he doesn't want to have sex with someone sporting mental-patient hair. Of course, he has assured me a