Rachel Caine: Dead Girls' Dance

He was watching her closely, in a way that made her feel warmth all over her skin, like a light sunburn.

“How about us?’” she heard herself ask. “Don’t we deserve a little fun?’”

I did not just say that.

Only she had.

He smiled. She wondered if the shadows were ever going to leave his eyes again. “I could do something fun.’”

“Ummm…’” She licked her lips. “Define fun.’”

“Quit doing that, jailbait. It’s distracting.’”

The whole idea that somebody would even think of her as jailbait was tremendously exciting. Especially Shane. She tried to hide that, and act like she wasn’t quaking on the inside like a Jell-O fruit salad. “So now you want me to stay up? I thought you said I should go to bed.’”

“You should.’” He didn’t put any particular emphasis on it. “’Cause if you stay down here, there’s going to be fun. I’m just saying.’”

“Video game fun?’”

His eyes widened. “You want to play video games?’”

“Do you?’”

“You are the weirdest girl.’”

“Please. You live with Eve.’” She was not doing this right. How did girls seduce boys? What did they say? Because she was pretty sure that talking about video games and bringing up roommates wasn’t in the have-fun game plan. She was hyperaware of her body, too. How was she supposed to move? She felt awkward, all angles, and she wanted to be one of those graceful girls, all delicacy and elegance. Like in the movies.

Eve would know. She’d had those garter hose on, and those thong panties, and Claire didn’t even own those things, or have any idea how to get them. And Eve had worn them for Michael, or maybe just as a secret little excitement for herself around Michael. Yeah, Eve would know what to say.

Say something sexy, she commanded herself, and in a blind panic, she opened her mouth and blurted, “Do you think they’re doing it?’” She was so appalled that she clapped both hands over her mouth. She’d never in her life wanted to take back words so much, and so fast…and for a second, Shane just looked at her, like he couldn’t figure out what she was talking about.

And then he laughed. “Man, I hope. Those two could use a good—uh—’” He blinked and she saw her age flash in front of his eyes. “Hell. Never mind.’”

Words weren’t working for her. She leaned forward and kissed him. It felt weird, and awkward, and he didn’t immediately respond—maybe he was too surprised. Maybe she was doing it wrong, or she’d been wrong to make the move on him….

His lips parted under hers, damp and soft and warm, and she forgot all of that. Her entire life focused in on the sensations, the gentle pressure that grew more intense the longer the kiss went on.

Chaste kisses, then dirtier ones, and man, those tasted good. They tasted better the wider her mouth opened, and especially after his tongue touched hers.

She could have done a whole semester of kissing with Shane. Intense personal study. With lab classes.

Time really wasn’t happening for her, but eventually Claire realized that there was a soft glow coming from the windows, and she was numb and sore from sitting on the floor. She winced as a muscle in her back protested, and Shane reached out, pulled her up, and settled himself on the couch.

He stretched out, and extended a hand to her. She stared, tingling and confused. “There’s no room.’”

“Plenty of room,’” he said.

She felt breathless and kind of wild, stretching out on the tiny area of sofa cushion available next to him, and then smothered a yelp as Shane picked her up and draped her over his chest and, oh my God, over all the rest of him, too.

“Better?’” he asked, and raised his eyebrows. It was a real question, and he was looking for a real answer. Claire felt a blush building a fire in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from his gaze.

“Perfect,’” she said.

It felt like being naked, except for all the clothes. The kisses this time were wet and urgent and deep, and the feeling of Shane’s muscles tensing and relaxing under her was incredibly exciting. This should be illegal, she thought. Well, it was kind of illegal. Or would be, if any clothes came off.

Shane might not have been Michael, with all the responsibility, but he definitely wasn’t that impulsive. At least, not with her. His hands roamed, but never to places where she wanted them to—badly—and some of the places they roamed made her wonder why she’d never wanted someone to touch her there before. Like the small of her back, where the skin dipped into a shallow valley. Or the back of her neck. Or the inside of her arms. Or…

As he was bringing his hands up her sides, his fingers just barely brushed the outer curve of her breasts, and she gasped into his mouth.

Shane immediately sat her upright, and moved to the other end of the couch. His face was flushed; his eyes were bright and no longer looked even a little bit tired. “No,’” he said, and held out his hand like a traffic cop when she tried to scoot closer. “Red flag. If you make that sound again, we are in trouble. Or I am, anyway.’”

“But—’” Claire felt that blush creeping in again, and had no idea what it was going to be like to put this into words. “What about you? You know—’” She made a vague gesture that could have been anything. Or nothing. Or anything.

“Don’t worry about me. I needed this.’” He was still breathing deeply, but he did look better. Steadier. More like…Shane, instead of that lost and hurt little boy terrified of his nightmares. “So? Did we have fun?’”

“Fun,’” she agreed faintly. So much fun she felt like a fizzed-up soda, ready to burst. “Um, I need to—’”

“Yeah, me, too.’” But Shane made no move to go. Claire swallowed hard and took the course of the better part of valor, up the stairs to her room. She shut the door and locked it, threw herself on her brand-new mattress—she hadn’t even put sheets on it yet, and they were a little light on blankets after using most of them to fight the fire—and bounced. The room smelled like a wet smoky dog, but she didn’t care.

Not at all.

Fun.

Oh yes.

Around noon, Claire heard the doorbell, and ran downstairs. Shane was lying on the couch, sound asleep. Still no sign of Eve, and she didn’t expect to have any Michael sightings, given the daylight hours. She raced down the hall to the door, which was braced with a wooden chair as a temporary lock, and hesitated.

“Michael? You there?’” A chilly breeze swept across her, ruffling her hair. Wow. He was strong today. “Can I open the door? One for yes, two for no.’”

Apparently, yes. She pulled the chair away and peered outside. There were two men standing on the porch, both tall; one was lean and hard-looking, with black hair; the other one was a little pale (but not vamp pale) and heavyset, and where he wasn’t balding, his very short hair looked brown.

They both displayed badges. Police.

“You’re Claire, right?’” the lean one said, and extended his hand. “Joe Hess. This is my partner, Travis Lowe. How you doing?’”

“Um…’” She fumbled for the handshake. “Fine, I guess.’” Lowe also shook her hand. “Is something—I mean, did you find—?’” Because she both hoped that Shane’s dad was in a holding cell, and was afraid of what that would mean for Shane. She rocked nervously back and forth on her heels, her eyes darting from one of them to the other.

Joe Hess smiled. Unlike most smiles she’d seen since coming to Morganville, this one seemed…uncomplicated. Clean, sort of. Not happy, because that would have been weird, but comforting. “It’s okay,’” he said. “No, we haven’t found them, but you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. May we come inside?’”