The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [95]
“So not true,” Maria objected, employing one of Linda’s expressions. “I tapped her on the shoulder when she tried to step in front of me during a scene rehearsal. She tripped and hurt her toe, and the whole thing got blown way out of proportion. And I didn’t almost get kicked out for it, either. Anna saw the whole thing.” Everyone in the school referred to “Anna,” so there was no need to explain the reference.
Richie nodded. “Well, between you and me, I think Judy Caswell’s kind of a bitch.”
“Between you and me,” Maria said, lowering her voice to what she liked to think was its most sultry tone, something she had also practiced in front of the bathroom mirror, “the top of her range isn’t bad, but her middle sounds like a dying cow.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Richie responded as he stepped around Maria and blocked the door so that—when she did not move out of the way—only inches remained between them.
Maria felt seasick with physical longing. “Unless you want to die,” she said, “you better move.”
“Maybe I want to die.”
Moving closer, she tilted her head down. “Maybe you want to kiss me?”
“I think a cup of coffee would be more appropriate,” he said and pulled back just slightly. “I hate to play the stereotype.”
Maria stepped back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, we only met five seconds ago and you’re already hot and heavy? You don’t think that has anything to do with the fact that I’m black?”
“I never thought of it exactly like that,” Maria admitted, as she tried to decide if he was insulted or not, or if she was insulted or not. “I see your point, but I can tell you that of all the black guys at this school, you’re the first one I’ve ever wanted to kiss.”
Richie’s smile contained a mix of wry skepticism and intelligence. “So what do you have against black guys?”
“Oh, fuck you,” she said and laughed a bit uneasily.
“If you say so,” he said and inched closer to her, so that she now was in a position to kiss him again.
“You’re sending very mixed signals,” she whispered.
He looked at his watch and then reached behind her, locked the door, and then pulled a cord to close the blind on the small door window facing the hallway. “We only have fourteen minutes.”
They kissed for a few seconds as Maria, gripped by something magnetic and propulsive, leaned into him. She loved how sturdy he felt on his feet and the sight of her own blue hand against the russet folds of his neck added to the excitement, as did his beard—softer than she expected—when it brushed against her face. She knew what she wanted and decided there was no point pretending; he was obviously thinking the same thing. After a furious removal of shirts and unbuttoning of pants, Maria was on the floor, and for once remembered her experience with Joey Finn with appreciation as—with Richie’s hairy gut spread out over her—she wrapped her hand around his dick to help guide him into her, where after a few seconds she found it very much to her liking. As he began slowly to move, she dug her hands into his back and in an urgent whisper reminded him that time was at a premium; he responded in kind, pushing to allegro for a few minutes before a molto vivace finale that left her pleasantly numb and transparent, after which she reluctantly watched her body reappear from somewhere else.
He rolled off, and she tried to speak. “That was—”
“Intense?” Richie looked at his watch. “Shit—we have to clean this place up.”
Maria looked at the clock. “Relax—we have four minutes,” she joked with the cavalier grace of a veteran before they threw on their clothes, wiped up the floor (again), and—in Richie’s case—packed up his music and instrument, which left ten seconds as they walked out past a violinist who appeared at the end of the hall.
Exhilarating as the night had been, by the time Maria got back to her apartment, she felt uncertain. As she considered what had happened, she knew it had been a performance of sorts—and one she had enjoyed—but this also made it feel untenable. She wanted to