Leon's Way Read Online Free Page A

slender, my hips curve bell-shaped below my narrow waist. Oval and deep, my belly button delves in toward my secret. I use my hands and brush up from my pelvic bone. Over the soft skin of my stomach and up to my breasts.
    I squint, studying them like I do every morning as of late. They feel full. My nipples are sore, so “ I’m here, and don’t you forget it, ” wanting me to remember my miscalculation. The sensation of gravity pulling at them doesn’t make sense, because they’re not that heavy. Not yet.
    Ingela’s on the phone in the kitchen. “No-no-no. Shut up, Cameron. You’re a jerk.” I smile at the way her pitch twists on “jerk,” courtesy of her mother tongue, Swedish.
    “Wait, I’ll ask,” she continues, giggling a bit too hard. “Nej, because you started it! Wait—wait… ARRIANE!”
    No one yells as loudly as Ingela. No one. I puff out a breath and start getting dressed. A single wall divides the kitchen from my bathroom, and seriously, if she whispered my name, I’d hear her.
    “Still here,” I breathe out as a test.
    “Well, you’re taking forever, and Cam has a question for you! Come out!” she screams.
    Whatever question our fellow bartending colleague has, we both know it has to do with hairy triangles and that the answer is, and should always be, “no.” I’m also pretty sure he doesn’t want her to ask me, because they all think I’m the runner-up boss at the bar. Even Ingela, only she has no respect for authority. The staff as a whole has decided it must be a cultural thing. We’re starting to believe everyone in Northern Europe has this as a birth defect.
    I’m impressed with how well Leon handles Ingela. A month ago, she appeared at Smother with blue eyes shining and a wide smile lighting her face. “I’m Ingela, I’m an international exchange student, and I like your bar, so I shall work here,” she had explained. “I need a job because I’m totally, totally broke.”
    I don’t ask, but my guess is she’s in the country on a student visa. Leon must be taking his chances with the IRS by paying her under the table.
    Thankfully, Ingela’s little phone chat is over by the time I’m out of the bathroom.
    “You missed out.” She nods, her signature broad grin in place. Short, blonde bangs hop over her perfect eyebrows as she speaks. “Cameron is…” She frowns, thinking. “Heell—hellar—” Then, she cops out and goes, “Funny.”
    “Hilarious?” I suggest, and she smacks her hands together.
    “Yeah! Hilarious.”
    “So, not ‘rude as hell’ or ‘gross?’”
    Ingela cups her mouth with a palm, laughing. “Oh yes, uh-huh! He called just to be gross with me.”
    I’m not surprised—at either of them. Ingela grabs the last piece of whole-wheat toast with liver pâté and shoves it into her mouth. With the other hand, she ruffles the short layers of hair brushing her neck.
    “I have class first, but I’ll be at work in…” She checks her watch. “Bah, when I get bored. Or soon anyway. I’ll take the campus bus—the Silver Line. It drops me off by Smother.”
    “Okay, so you won’t be late?” I ask.
    Ingela dons washed-out jeans peppered with holes. Tall and skinny, the stereotype of a Scandinavian girl hikes her odd little backpack up on a shoulder and strides to the door. “Never.” She bats her lashes.
    “You bringing those?” I point. The black slacks she’s supposed to wear beneath the bartender apron remain on the counter.
    “No, I’m wearing these,” she explains like I can’t tell.
    “Ingela,” I begin, “your pants are, um. Broken. Also, they’re not black. Wouldn’t it be nice to surprise our dear boss by bringing the actual uniform without being reminded? He’d be excited.”
    “Ha!” she exclaims. “Leon can’t get excited. No way.”
    We’re talking about completely different things, but my mind strays to the dawn of New Year’s Day. In my experience, the man is excitable. Very excitable. “Yeah,