Page 8 of Touch Me
George was a smoking hot man. His skin was smooth caramel, firm and taut over hardened muscles. His dark hair was thick and styled, and, now sufficiently ruffled.
His chocolate eyes, steeped with curiosity, studied me. Really, truly examining me.
I reached for my coat, tugged it over my nakedness, grabbed my bag, and strode to the door.
“Please . . . at least tell me your name.” His tongue curled over those overripe strawberry lips.
With my fingers around the handle, I turned to George and smiled. “My name is Memphis.”
As I walked out the door toward the elevator, I sang my favorite Marc Cohn song because my feet really were ten feet off the carpet.
I floated to my room, gliding on a high as if soaring through the air.
A long shower was calling. As the hot needles massaged my ravaged body, I replayed my morning with George through my head. It didn’t matter how many times I visualized it, though—it was with relief that my morality verdict was always the same.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
He could have told me to leave his room at any time, and I would have.
After toweling off and moisturizing, I sat on my bed, reached for the diary Lolita gave me, and flipped to the details page at the very front.
Next to the space for my name, I wrote: Memphis.
I turned to the 1st of January and wrote George Whiteman, Room 39, and filled the page with details of what I did with my sexy school friend.
I placed the diary on my side table and slipped under the bed covers.
Rolling onto my side, the waves crashing into the shore outside matched the turmoil crashing through my brain.
Oh my God! What the hell did I do?
Chapter Three
It had been four days since I did the most shameful thing in my life. But irony came with that shame because that experience was also the most thrilling moment of my life.
How could I be both repulsed and blissfully overjoyed by what I’d done?
I had tried to carry on with my day-to-day life as if nothing had changed. But it had. Memories of my sinful transgression overpowered every moment I was awake. And some of my dreams. That one reckless decision had been a hasty intention to kick off this year with something exciting.
Instead, it had defined me in more ways than I’d thought possible.
The worst part was about to come. In twenty minutes, I was due to meet Lolita at the gym. My best friend’s sixth sense was as acute as that of a bloodthirsty cheetah on a hunt. Lolly’s ability to sniff out danger, or a man who was having an affair, often made me fearful she could read my mind.
I hoped like hell she’d be preoccupied today. Yet, even as I made that wish, I knew hiding my uncharacteristic walk on the wild side from her would be impossible.
I was more nervous about telling Lolly what had happened four days ago than I had been the day I asked my mother to put me on the birth control pill. I’d been seventeen at the time, and I’d spent the night before kissing Joel Patterson at the Blue Light Disco in the barn that also doubled as the Mildura community hall.
Joel and I had literally rolled in the hay until a rash threatened to crawl over my entire body.
Not that I was complaining—he’d picked me. Of all the girls in small-town Mildura, Joel Parkinson, lead guitarist in the town’s only rock band, Crunching Crickets, had chosen me. And that was a freakin’ miracle.
My mother hadn’t shared my joy.
The flutters in my stomach failed to settle during the elevator ride from my room down to the Hot Horizon Hotel lobby. They hit a whole new level as I strode across the marble expanse toward the gym. I could barely breathe as I opened the gym door and scanned the sweating bodies, looking for Lolita.
She was easy to locate. With blonde hair up in a high ponytail and a bright pink Lycra top, she stood out like a firecracker on carrot cake. Her sports top barely concealed breasts that were a considerable amount perkier than mine. And I hadn’t had kids yet.
Lolly had the body of a twenty-year-old in training for a triathlon. She worked hard on her figure. Some would say she was obsessed. Lolly had once told me that she combined her crushing exercise routine with an equally crushing bedroom regime. Then again, if I was married to Calvin Bell, I’d want a body like hers, too.