"Come on, tell me." Lora's expression got serious. She bit her lip as she searched my eyes.

It all seemed stupid. I wanted to hide under the covers, but the bedspread was tucked neatly and I had nowhere to run. Feeling exposed and perverted, I started to get up, but Lora tightened her grip on my arm.

In her eyes, I saw something I'd never seen there before, almost like the hungry look Matthew sometimes gave me before we kissed.

56.

"Show me," she whispered.

Lora's words hung in my ears, and her expression unnerved me.

For the first time in my life, the idea of touching a girl crossed my mind, and for an instant, I saw myself kissing Lora. I had to be misreading her, had to be misinterpreting the visions in my mind's eye. She couldn't be suggesting that I show her what we'd done. She didn't really want me to put my hands on her. Surely I couldn't be considering it.

"What did you say?" I muttered.

"Show me." Her eyes were level, but her voice wavered.

I was mesmerized by her stare. "Are you serious? You want me to demonstrate?"

She slid an inch closer. I smelled s.e.x on her breath, felt it radiating from her eyes. Something very strange was going on, and I found myself caught up in it, wanting to take it a step farther.

"I don't know how." I wasn't sure she heard me, wasn't sure if I'd said the words out loud or only thought them.

"Did you touch his chest?" she whispered, inching still closer.

"Yes." I couldn't move, didn't want to.

"Then show me."

Never taking my eyes off hers, I placed my hand across my own chest as if about to pledge allegiance to the flag. My heart thrashed so hard I thought it would break through my ribs.

"Show me like this." Lora took my hand and placed my damp palm flat on her chest, just above her bra. Her skin seemed to burn through her blouse, searing my fingers.

I was on the verge of hyperventilating. Did she want me to do this?

Was she going to follow through, or was she toying with me? Would she stop at the last second and say it was a joke?

"Over or under his shirt?" she asked between shallow breaths. Her voice trembled. If she was acting, she deserved an Academy Award.

"Under." I let her control me, unwilling to instigate the wild and erotic acts racing through my head, for fear of retribution. If Lora wanted me to touch her, she'd have to make it so clear a blind man could see.

Holding my hand against her, she reached for the top b.u.t.ton of her cotton blouse. "Do you want to show me what you did with Matthew?"

Yes! Holy s.h.i.t, yes! My mind and body screamed, but I couldn't speak. She'd already loosened her last b.u.t.ton and was slipping her blouse off her shoulders. When the fabric fell from beneath my hand and I touched her naked skin, I almost stopped breathing. She was so soft, so small, yet her sheer intensity overpowered me.

57.

"Don't suppose Matthew had a bra on, did he?" she asked.

I shook my head.

Holding my hand against her, blouse dangling by one sleeve from her elbow, she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. It fell away, showing me all of her. My head started to hurt. I took a slow breath and let my gaze linger on her shoulders and eventually come to rest on her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She sat before me, bare and venerable, exposed but not ashamed. I was in awe of her.

For the first time in my life, I felt a connection with someone, a bond stronger than my raging hormones, deeper than our friendship.

Lora trusted mewith her reputation, her body, but most of all, with a part of her more meaningful than either. She knew I wouldn't hurt her.

Somehow she understood that I didn't want to take anything from her, that I only wanted to please her.

A craving rose in the pit of my stomach, a physical and emotional longing so intense it brought tears to my eyes. When I saw these feelings mirrored in her lovely face, my breathing went shallow and I thought I would faint.

It seemed natural when she released her grip on my hand and allowed my fingers to trace down the curve of her cleavage. It was like reaching toward heaven and experiencing the pure and simple beauty of a perfect white cloud. I touched her the way I wanted to be touched, with respect and appreciation for what she was giving me, a gift that, until that moment, I didn't know I needed.

Lora slid closer. Her blouse slipped away as she wrapped her arm around me. I leaned in and kissed her shoulder. She smelled of baby powder and honey, and I lingered in the curve of her neck, sliding my lips against her skin.

She moaned and pulled me closer, killing me with pleasure. I kissed her skin again, this time along her chest. She ran her fingers through my hair and grazed her nails along my shoulders. My lips found the place over her heart. It pounded even harder than mine. Guided by instinct, I traced my lips along her breast and, without hesitation, drew her erect flesh into my mouth. Sweet and ripe as a summer strawberry, her taste set me free. I reveled in herthe silky feel of her skin against mine, the rhythm of her breath, the subtle moans escaping her as my lips and hands touched her.

When she shuddered and stroked my cheek, I was overwhelmed by the need to kiss her lips. I had to give her part of me, accept her as she'd accepted me, but as I rose to find her mouth, an ice-cold pain pounded me between the eyes.

58.

"Lora!" Her mother's voice sliced down the hallway. "Chop, chop, young lady. You're going to be late for choir practice."

Lora jumped up, and I slid off the bed and tossed her the discarded blouse. When the door flew open, I was sitting on the floor, staring at a dog food commercial while Lora fastened the last of her b.u.t.tons.

Lora turned her back to her mother and tucked in her shirt. "Geez, Mom, I'm changing clothes. We'll leave in a minute."

Her mother glared at me, then at Lora. "I would think you two could find something better to do with your Sunday afternoons than watch trash on television." She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. "And for G.o.d's sake, Lora, take that scarf off the lamp. It looks like a wh.o.r.ehouse in here."

Mrs. Tyler knew what we'd been doing, I was sure of it. She'd shape-shifted into a fly or a gnat and flown through the keyhole, or turned herself into a fog and crept under the door. She'd watched us and was now plotting a slow and agonizing death for the girl who'd done unspeakable things to her daughter.

"Come on." Lora's tone was edged with frustration. "I have to go."

The moment was over, but I was swimming in pa.s.sionand drowning in fear. We'd made a terrible mistake, a horrible, wonderful blunder. What would the kids at school say? Oh G.o.d, what would my parents think? It wasn't right. It wasn't normal. Lora and I would be cursed for life if anyone found out. Worse than that, we'd go straight to h.e.l.l. Everyone knew that's what the Bible said. Touch a girl, go to h.e.l.l.

That's what it said, right?

But why did it feel so good? Her arms had felt so small around me.

Her skin had been so soft, not like a boy's. Not at all like a boy. Guys were big and rough, usually taking what they could get. Lora hadn't taken anything. She'd given me somethinga part of herself.

I struggled to my feet and followed Lora from the room, my eyes lingering on the seat of her jeans as she walked me to my car. I tried to stop looking at her but couldn't. I tried to stop imagining how she'd look naked, but my mind's eye worked of its own accord, stripping off her clothes and returning my lips to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Oh, G.o.d, I had to be insane.

It was October 24.

My new birthday.

CHAPTER 12.

It's six o'clock on Friday night, and I'm meeting Rebecca in an hour.

I step out of the shower and towel-dry my hair. Jitterbug tries to lick the water droplets from my calves, but I'm too fast for her. I learned a long time ago to dry my legs first, or I'll get a doggie tongue-bath, and Jitterbug will get an upset stomach from drinking hot water. Tonight of all nights, I don't want to spend my time cleaning up after a sick dog.

I dry my hair and put on my makeup. Dressed only in my underwear, I go to the walk-in closet and stare at the rows of blouses, slacks, and pullovers. Rebecca said casual, so a pair of jeans, tan v-neck sweater, and Birkenstock mules should do.

I pull on my leather jacket, put Jitterbug in the guestroom, and check the time. 6:50. I'll be about five minutes late. Perfectdon't want to seem too anxious.

When I get to Choppy's, the lot is packed and I have to park at the dry cleaners across the street. Rebecca's car is not in the usual spot, and for a second, I consider turning around and going back home to Jitterbug and a TV dinner. Think of the embarra.s.sment if she's forgotten our plans. I'll feel dumber than dumb if I wander in and wait for her for half an hour only to find out she's ditched me for some hunk driving a Jag.

But if I turn back now, I'll never know for sure, so I grit my teeth and prepare for the worst.

Inside, I find the restaurant as full as the parking lot. Not accustomed to being in Choppy's on Friday night, I take a long look around. The crowd, ranging from business people in suits and dresses to university students in jeans and sneakers, is crammed around tables, hovering around the bar, and leaning against the exposed-brick walls. I scan the faces but don't see Rebecca. I saunter to the hostess stand and ask the college-age girl in a low-cut black dress if Rebecca is in. The girl gives me a huge grin and points to the bar. "She's the worst bartender I've ever seen."

"Thanks." I slip by and head for the bar.

59.

60.

Sure enough, Rebecca is there, juggling highball gla.s.ses and customers. The woman talking to her through a tequila sunrise is the regular bartender. As she watches, Rebecca measures the liquor and mixer like she's in a chemistry lab.

I slip sideways between a rough-looking biker in a black leather jacket and a geek in aviator frame gla.s.ses. My smile feels huge, but when Rebecca looks at me, it grows.

"Hey," she says. "I'll be right there."

"No rush."

She looks muddled and tired, but she's grinning when she steps toward me and slaps a c.o.c.ktail napkin on the bar. "Might be a few minutes. How about a drink on the house?"

"What's your specialty?"

Rebecca leans in close to my ear and cups her hand beside her mouth. "I suck at this. To be safe, you'd better have a beer or a gla.s.s of wine."

I like the way her sweet perfume mixes with the alcohol on her hands, so I fake indecision, savoring the closeness. "Make it a Bud," I finally say, wishing to inhale her again.

When Rebecca turns away and bends over the cooler for my drink, I stare too long. I'm still thinking how good she looks in khaki pants when she puts the frosty mug on my c.o.c.ktail napkin and pours the beer.

She glances toward a man with a droopy mustache and an empty gla.s.s. "One of my regular bartenders called in sick. His backup is on the way, but it might be thirty minutes or so. Is that okay?"

"I'll take a free beer any time I can," I reply, hoping I don't sound like an alcoholic.

She laughs and turns her attention to the biker beside me. "Ready for another?"

"Ready for you, darlin'," he says. "Why don't you come out from behind there and let me take you for a ride?"

Rebecca grabs a clean highball gla.s.s from the drainer and fills it with whiskey. "Now, George, you know I can't go for rides with customers."

George turns his bloodshot eyes to me. "How about you, darlin'?

Wouldn't you like to feel the wind on your face and my hog between your legs?"

I recoil. Men like him always throw me off. "No thanks. I'm waiting for someone."

"h.e.l.l, darlin', a looker like you shouldn't wait on a man. I'm here for you now." A wave of his booze breath washes into my face.

61.