Femme Read Online Free Page B

honey,” I said, unlocking my front door. As soon as I said ‘tea and honey’ he got a ridiculously happy look on his face. Odd, to say the least.
    He followed me in. As I closed the door behind him, I got a bit too close and smelled the beer he’d had and sweat from his game and a rather nice aftershave he’d put on many, many hours ago. It was a much sexier smell than I wanted it to be.
    “So, do you have a history of mental illness?” I asked.
    “That’s not a nice thing to ask.”
    Waiting around for me like that was sweet, but not well thought out. “No, it’s probably not a nice thing to ask. But it’s a good thing to know.”
    “I’m fine. Would you have made me leave if I wasn’t?” There was something defiant about his expression.
    “No. But I’d ask you a lot of questions.”
    “I have the feeling you’re going to ask me a lot of questions anyway.”
    That was probably true. I stepped into my miniscule kitchen and put the kettle on. When I returned, Dog was still standing in the middle of my living room. “You can sit down. It’s okay.”
    “There’s dirt on my shorts. I don’t want to ruin your couch.”
    On the one hand, the couch was fabulous. It looked like something Liberace had owned in the sixties. On the other hand, I’d gotten it at Out of the Closet for fifty dollars. Still, I’d spent a whole week scrubbing it clean and deodorizing it. I went into the living room, grabbed a cherry red throw that matched the walls, spread it over the sofa and said, “Better?”
    “Now I’ll get your nice blanket dirty.”
    “Are you angling to take your clothes off?”
    He blushed and sneezed.
    “Let me get you a decent tissue.” Leaving the room, I added, “And for Gawd’s sake, sit down. The blanket is washable.”
    I actually didn’t have any decent tissue, so I brought him his own personal roll of toilet paper from the bathroom and set it on the glass coffee table that belonged to a completely different era—fifties patio—but still managed to work with my couch. I watched him blow his nose, which he did in an oddly delicate way. When he was finished, I asked, “Why Dog?”
    “My name is Doug. The first day of practice some of the guys heard me wrong. It stuck.”
    I was expecting something more interesting, but was kind of glad I didn’t get it. “Well, that’s better than a story about you peeing on a fire hydrant.”
    “They made me do that after the first game.”
    “Nice.”
    “They’re good guys.”
    “Yeah, they’re okay. I know most of them. I’ve been working at The Bird for two years.”
    A cloud seemed to pass over his face and I was afraid he’d bring up my apparently-hanging-by-a-thread job again. Fortunately, the kettle whistled and I scurried into the kitchen. Making his tea, pouring the water over the bag, getting out the honey bear, squeezing a big glob into the cup, and then adding a tiny shot of whiskey, I felt very domestic. My mom used to make me something similar when I was a kid, not as much whiskey but some. She’d whisper in my ear when she gave it to me, “Don’t tell anyone.” It was our secret.
    Walking back into the living room, I wondered what I was doing. I had the sinking feeling I should never have invited Dog into my apartment.
     
    ###
     
    Lionel hadn’t answered my question, hadn’t said whether he’d have dinner with me. He’d said it was a bad idea, but that didn’t always mean no. It usually meant no, but not always. I needed to convince him that it was a good idea to have dinner with me. I just wasn’t sure how to do that.
    Or why? Why did I want to have dinner with him? I wasn’t sure. I just did. I liked listening to him. I mean, I liked having sex with him, too. But that wasn’t going to happen over dinner. It might not even happen after dinner. It definitely wasn’t happening tonight. Not while I had a cold. Making out with someone while you’ve got a cold causes oxygen deprivation. Not fun.
    Lionel handed me