Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [77]
This encouraging revelation doesn’t change the fact that Jessica is asleep. Asleep. This must be another test. Another game to play. He’s tempted to belly-flop on her bed and call bullshit on this catnap, but he opts for a more tactful approach.
“Jessica,” Marcus says at a volume that is half conversational, half conspiratorial. “Are you really asleep?” He expects her to crack a smile, wink open an eye, and sound off with a “Gotcha, sucka!,” but she doesn’t stir. “I want to tell you the rest of the story,” he continues, thinking this gambit might persuade her to end the charade. “I want to tell you about…”
He pauses here, stoops down, gets within an inch of Jessica’s face. He hovers above her a moment, studying her features for any subtle shifts that would reveal she’s really awake and faking it. But her mouth is unattractively slack, her nostrils flare in and out with each breath, and her eyeballs roll beneath the surface of her thin lids. All signs that she is indeed authentically asleep. If she is faking it, this is a triumphant moment in her acting career.
Marcus stands up and guffaws out loud, not even bothering to muffle his amusement. When he considered bedding Jessica down, this was not what he’d had in mind. Still shaking his head in wonderment (How can she sleep at a time like this?), Marcus decides to go ahead with his shower.
But not without exploring a measure of last resort.
He plants himself directly in what would be Jessica’s field of vision, that is, if her eyes were open. He pops open the button on his corduroys. Pauses. Then, as if in time with an imaginary burlesque drumbeat, swivels his snake hips as he begins to unzip … lower … lower … as low as it goes. When his pants slip to the floor, Marcus cartoonishly, coquettishly cups his privates with his hands and even mouths Oops! just to keep in ridiculous character. With one hand still providing obscenely inadequate coverage for his crotch, he uses the other to take hold of a trouser leg, which he then, with a great sense of pageantry, swings around in circles above his head (yes, like a lasso) before finally letting it fly. With a final showstopping flourish, Marcus ta-das! with his head flung back, feet wide-stanced, arms outstretched. Whether he knows it or not, it’s nearly identical to Barry Manilow’s triumphant pose on the infamous decoupage toilet seat cover at the heart of Jessica’s half-told story, only the Showman of Our Time was wearing an electric-blue bedazzled spandex jumpsuit, and Marcus is starkers.
Jessica snorts and rolls over but is otherwise unmoved by this comedic lasso-dickery. Now thoroughly convinced that she’s genuinely asleep (How can she sleep at a time like this?), Marcus retreats to the privacy of the bathroom to take his long-overdue shower.
I need to come clean, he thinks as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, and then he laughs again, at himself and the situation. Knowing how much pleasure Jessica gets out of parsing double meanings, he makes a note to repeat this thought out loud later on for her enjoyment. I need to come clean.
He considers his naked reflection and isn’t too impressed. He has always been too skinny. He can’t tell the difference between his abdominal muscles and protruding internal organs. The hair on his chest is darker and coarser than the reddish-brown hair on his head, and patchy. It collects in thick bunches around his nipples, then again in the trail that would lead down, down, down into his pants if he were wearing them. But he’s not, so Marcus contemplates his cock. This modicum of attention, when combined with the awareness of Jessica on the bed on the other side of the door, inspires his cock to jump up and be noticed: Huzzah! Yes, it’s bigger than most, but not as big as the numbers (“ten inches of New Jersey Whitesnake