Story Girl by Katherine Carlson Read Free Book Online

showed me his pectoral muscles, just exactly as I’d predicted he would. They were hard and soft and hairless and masculine all at the same time. I had to look away for fear of lurching across the carpet and chewing at a handful of his chest.
    “See,” he said. “No piercings.”
    “I stand corrected.”
    To my absolute and secret delight, he took off his shirt and tossed it across the floor.
    “The walk made me sweaty, and now I feel gross,” he said.
    “You’re not gross.”
    I was sitting on my hands much like a guy in a strip club awaiting a lap dance. It had been quite some time since I’d been with a man – unless I count John. John and I had great chemistry until I found out that he was one of those sorry souls who have to stand on the corner dressed like a sandwich. He explained to me that he really enjoyed waving to people, and that the ‘gig’ was only two days a week. I felt bad for being such a snob, but I could no longer allow the pastrami king access to my privates.
    “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
    “Pardon?”
    “That I’m topless.”
    “Not at all. Topless is good.”
    “Okay.”
    “I mean, feel free. Whatever.”
    James began to stretch his upper body, giving me an eye-full of his torso. I had more body hair than he did.
    “Do you shave your arm pits?” I asked.
    “Yeah, just an old habit. I used to swim.”
    “And so that makes you faster?”
    “Something like that.”
    Now I felt beastly – once again aware of all my overgrown
    “Hey – there’s half a script over there,” he said, as if talking areas. about one of John’s uneaten sandwiches.
    “Want some?” I asked blandly.
    “You never told me you’re a writer.”
    “I’m not.”
    “You are so, unless your cat wrote it.”
    “Lucy deserves more credit.”
    “What’s it called?”
    The damned script was the last thing I wanted to talk about.
    “Space Boy. I’ve completed fifty-one pages in one hundred and fifty three days. That does not make me a writer.”
    “You keep track.”
    “I do not.”
    “So is that like one page every three days?”
    I watched him calculate the math in his head, and I made a hurried scan of his features: thick black eyelashes, ice blue eyes, and a small vertical scar running the length of his cheek.
    He looked right at me, caught me in the act, “What?”
    “Would it be rude of me to ask how you got the scar?”
    “Oh, that.” He ran his finger along it. “I was a little kid – tried to shave with a knife.”
    “How little?”
    “I think it was the day before kindergarten,” he said, looking instantly sad.
    “Did you get much sympathy?” I asked.
    “My parents were pretty worried.”
    Despite his primo ability to feel sorry for himself, I immediately wanted to lick the scar, give it the good ol’ Popsicle treatment –up and down, circle, and again. I imagined it would taste like thick skin – smooth, hard, and salty.
    “Are you okay, Tracy?”
    “Now?”
    “Of course now.”
    “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Why?”
    “You look a little dazed.”
    I couldn’t admit that I wanted to Popsicle his scar.
    “Well gee, I was just in a car accident,” I said – amazed at my ability to transform my goofy moment into his.
    “Of course. I’m sorry.”
    “Plus – I’m just not a writer.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I fooled myself into thinking I had a passion for it, when it was really just a mad dash scramble to get out of Bumble Fuck.”
    “Otherwise known as?”
    “Small-town Minnesota.”
    “Tell me more.”
    “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Why not? I’ve told you my stuff.”
    “No.”
    “Please.”
    “Fine. My father drove a rig. He hauled grain and sugar beets across the plains. Blah blah blah, he’s retired now. And my mother was Betty Crocker homemaker. There. Nothing too exciting.”
    Now he was running the side of his thumb down his scar – I could almost feel it on my own cheek.
    “Oh, and they think I’m insane for not