Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) by June Hydra Read Free Book Online

difference mingles and makes our skin prickle.
Goosebumps radiate down his spine, and a chill crawls over my scalp, as if someone
were massaging the skin there.
    “My
turn. I spy something red too. It’s got two parts. And it’s really,
really fun.”
    “Fire
hydrant.”
    “Incorrect.”
    “Stop
sign.”
    “No.”
    “The
red light we passed.”
    “You’re
not very good at this game.”
    Bishop
mimics what I did, leaning over the console and firming his lips to my cheek.
“Or am I?” He kisses again. The suppleness behind his strength
indicates a care, a passion I’ve not felt ever. He doesn’t force
his lips there. He gently caresses them as if kissing a young girl, the girl in
me who needs to be cared for. The girl who’s always longed for compassion
and understanding that my parents could never give. This is what Bishop knows:
psychic comforts. How to play and be gentle.
    “We
both are,” I say.
    We
didn’t stipulate a rule for answering the questions right. I was scared
to suggest a striptease game. But he keeps kissing, and I keep receiving his
undying attention.
    “Green
light,” I say, slapping his cheek playfully. “You should be looking
at the road, cowboy.”
    “Kinda
hard to do when you’re the best distraction I’ve ever come
across.”
    Women
might tell you that guys will say anything to get sex. It’s not true.
Humans will do anything for anything. If there’s an obstacle, our great
brains will tinker upstairs until they produce concrete plans. Results.
    A
part of me wonders if Bishop’s a bad boy in a good boy disguise. Five
percent isn’t much to go off of.
    But
he makes no mention of sex the rest of the drive. We the play I Spy until we
hit my house, keeping our contact cordial.
    “You
want to come inside?” I say.
    “I’d
love to but got an early rise tomorrow. Text me tonight though?”
    I
slide out the passenger’s door with reluctance. I glance back, sensing
our magnetism. It’s palpable. If you stood on the corner and threw metal
fillings in the air, they’d cling to every line between us, never
separating even when I step foot in my house and close the front door, close
the mudroom door, close my bedroom door.
    God
Bless America rings throughout the house. Piranha picked an opera version
before her bed time.

CHAPTER 4
    “You
have to be nice to them. Don’t be your normal bad bitch self.
They’re sensitive.”
    “Angola has a machete on their flag. They had a civil war. I bet these girls are more bad
bitch than even I am.”
    Caddy
pierces an American omelet with his American fork and drinks from the now
brand-new all-organic all-American orange juice pitcher. Caddy hoards the sole
pitcher in the apartment, leaving the rest of us to use tiny cups.
    “You
have to be nice,” Caddy says after a gulp. “You have to coax them a
little, sure. But think internationally. Be a friend to these girls.
This’ll be one of their few interactions with people from
abroad—”
    “Americans,”
Piranha says. 
    “Right,
Americans. This’ll be an international experience. You want them to come
back to us when they’re done. They’re paying us for answers to
exams, they’re not exactly the most innocent party here. By the
way,” he says, chewing with his mouth open, “we have that website
updated pronto. Get on it today or I’ll send you a billion texts
throughout the day until you deal.”
    An
outsider’s analysis of my friendships would probably yield negative
conclusions. Why in the world would I stay with such annoyances? A guy who
chews, open mouthed, and willingly, without any guilt from the get-go, engages
in running a shady business? A girl with an unhealthy American-everything
obsession to the point where I questioned where or not she had mental illness?
    As
I leave our apartment, I wonder why too.
    If
only you could just up and leave with Prince Charming and live a fabulous
existence elsewhere, no judgment, no shame, no obligations or earthly ties.