RoamWild by Valerie Herme´ Read Free Book Online Page A

parked in a palm tree lined gravel lot behind the building, between a dry cleaner delivery van and a bike rack. He punches a button on his keychain. The Lexus turns on its lights, starts its engine, and lowers its ragtop. He opens the passenger door for me.
    I’m aware of how my bare legs steal the scene when I settle in the leather seat. When I glance up to see where his eyes are roaming, they’re partly watching my face and partly a zillion miles elsewhere. If he’s thinking of sex, I can’t sense it.
    The car and the city are wonderful together, the lights around us passing in bright streaks over the polished metal of the hood and fenders, the soft night air, the breeze playing with the fringes of my hair. The drive ends in front of a stucco bungalow identical to the ones around it except for its nicer yard and the other expensive cars parked in front.
    I’m making the biggest mistake, the one they warn you about at Seattle Young—letting a hotshot in my real life. Except I don’t have a real life. I’ve burned away the scars of my secrets in the heat of the glass rooms. All I want is to feel as good moment to moment as my heart, mind, and body will let me.
    The three of them aren’t doing badly.
    Crossing the threshold feels like invading someone’s home, but the interior of the place is a glitter of white tablecloths, candlelight, and polished floors. A widely smiling man in a white dinner jacket approaches.
    He says, “Good evening, Phil. Inside table or veranda?” Though he spoke to Phil, he looks to me for an answer.
    I say, “Outdoors sounds nice.”
    He says, “Excellent.” He touches a finger to his pursed lips, and looks at me as if he’s measuring. Turning to the wine rack, he runs his hand across a row of bins, selects a bottle, and holds it for my inspection.
    It’s a California Chablis. I ask, “How did you know?”
    He says, “I love matching the wine to the person.” The tables he leads us past are set with light blue plates and heavy, plain silver. Three diners at a table near a window are watching a waiter serve sushi.
    I’m underdressed for this place, but the glances of the two men at the table don’t object. The woman between them is dolled in a spangled short red dress. She acts as if she doesn’t notice me.
    The rest of the tables are empty, though it’s nearly seven. The white-shirted staff looks primed. I get the impression the place will fill quickly.
    We’re guided to a table for two on an angle of the veranda at the back of the house. A candle glows in a tall glass vase on the tabletop. The maitre d’ settles me in a chair, uncorks the wine, pours a sip in the glass beside my plate, and waits with seeming anxiety while I swirl it in my mouth and nod. He fills my glass and Phil’s, sets the bottle on the table, and leaves us. We’re alone.
    The veranda opens on a steep treed hillside. The dark ocean lies below. Waves curl in white moustaches as their lips slide over the rocky shore. Their sighing is muffled by the trees.
    Phil watches me take it all in. I sip wine and try to collect myself. He says, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
    Is the ocean breeze raising goose bumps on my arms and legs, or am I reacting to his line? And if it’s a line, why can’t I read his desires? Being with a man whose sex thoughts are hidden makes me feel naked inside.
    I’m still wondering how to end the silence when the maitre d′ hurries out with a shawl. I let him wrap it around my shoulders. A waiter lays plates of sushi in front of us.
    When did I last eat an actual meal? Day before yesterday, a chicken wrap for lunch at a deli near the law office. I told them to hold the mayo.
    My raw fish is gone in a few bites. Phil nibbles his and watches me, always my face. The cool air makes my nipples show. I pull the shawl over my tits. His eyes don’t follow the movements of my hands.
    I say, “This is better than the sushi I tried in Japan.”
    He asks, “What were you doing