You and I, Me and You (27 page)

(oh)

felt every barrier

(ohhhh)

every membrane

(                     )

every wall within and without just

(                           )

give way.

I shivered and clutched him and realized he was holding me with hard hands that shook and was whispering or thinking out loud

Oh God I love you I love you oh I love you oh I love you I love you

the same things I was.

 

chapter sixty-three

“Cookie Monster, huh?”

I snorted laughter, which turned into guffaws as he began tickling me and I jabbed him in the ribs and I thought, again, I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's.

Later he showed me his glorious shower: two showerheads, sand-colored tile, and big enough to hose down elephants. Shower sex, I found, was a lot like going apple picking. It sounded great, and in the beginning it was fun, but then reality sets in and you realize you're farming, which is not fun. Farming is hard work. So is trying to come while also trying to help the person with you have fun while making sure nobody accidentally shuts off all the cold water. Or worse, all the hot water.

But kitchen island sex is fun! (After you put lots of towels down—stainless steel is chilly anytime, but especially in December.)

And a shower after bedroom sex and shower sex and kitchen island sex is bliss itself, especially when a lanky brunette with tired eyes and a wicked smile is there to scrub your back.

I led him back to his bedroom and kissed him goodnight—no, good morning. “Nnn unnh?” he managed, already slipping into sleep.

“Gotta go,” I whispered, stroking his hair back from his forehead. “I'm dying for a bagel and I want to get back to the new old house and get some unpacking done so I can have a sleepover. And hey! Good job with the whole taking my virginity thing. Now that's off my to-do list. I'll call.”

“Love you.”

“Well, I hope
so
.” I kissed him on the mouth. “Love you, too. Sleep, my exhausted sex angel.”

His chuckle followed me out the door.

 

chapter sixty-four

I smelled bagels
and blinked. Bruegger's, on Nicollet Mall. Faugh. I loathed bagels.

I
was
hungry, though, and pleasantly tired, as well as squeaky clean. No idea what Cadence had been up to, but it could not have been too terrible as I felt fine and was ravenous. So I went down the street for a rare sugar indulgence—chai latte (pet peeve: people who said
chai tea
unaware they were saying
tea tea
) and a blackberry scone, which I wolfed down in three bites.

Still chewing as I went back outside—it had finally snowed last night—I pulled our phone and saw that there was a voice mail from Cadence. It was refreshingly, yet puzzlingly, brief.

“It's over! It's all done with.”

Eh? Ah! She had finalized the breakup with Patrick and moved all our things to Cathie's—to our new home. Outstanding. Cadence was impressive when she cared to try. That was considerable work, and the physical part, moving boxes, was the least of it.

I would still have to seek out Patrick. I was sure Cadence had explained that we were
all
breaking up with him, but I still owed him the courtesy of a personal visit, and an apology for my part in helping us lie to ourselves.

All in good time, because I realized what her message meant for me: I was free, too.

I sucked down my tea on the way to Dr. Gallo's warehouse in the North Loop. I will not deny I had been startled to find he was well-off. A lottery winner, of all things. How absurd and amusing!

I pounded on the door with the flat of my hand and after a long while heard zombie-like footsteps. Well, it was early. The door was jerked opened and there stood Dr. Gallo, deliciously rumpled and yawning, shirtless in a pair of gray boxer-briefs that did nothing to hide the muscles in his long legs or his, ah, morning enthusiasm. If that was the word.

I dispensed with pleasantries and greeted him with, “I appreciate that you wished to give me time. I no longer require time. Kiss me. Then fuck me. No, never mind: I shall fuck you.”

“Huh?
Oh
.” I kicked the door shut behind us and walked him into the back where I assumed he had a bedroom. “Shiro…”

“I know,” I murmured against his mouth, struggling out of my jacket while backing him toward the bed. “I have wished for this, too.”

“Oh boy … the thing is, I'm really tired.”

“I am, as well. Tired of denying my feelings. The time for that is all past. Kiss me back! We shall make love all morning.”

His groan affirmed that, at last, our lives were on the right path. I would not trade mine for anyone's, not ever.

 

suggested reading

Of course, BOFFO and its employees don't exist in real life (oh, to dream), but the psychiatric and neurologic quirks they have do exist, and, I'm sorry to say, serial killers exist, too. Below are some of the books I used for research. Some of them have been out less than five years; others have been around for decades. Any one of them is a pretty fine way to spend a few afternoons. I don't have the drive or the attention to detail necessary to work in the mental health field, write true crime books, see the world as a synesthete, or go on a killing spree, but I have great respect for those who do. Except for, you know. That last one. The other stuff, though: big-time respect.

Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens: How Synesthetes Color Their Worlds,
by Patricia Lynne Duffy.

The Sociopath Next Door,
by Martha Stout.

The Onion Field,
by Joseph Wambaugh.

The Stranger Beside Me,
by Ann Rule.

 

ALSO BY MARYJANICE DAVIDSON

Me, Myself, and Why?

Yours, Mine, and Ours

Outta the Bag

 

about the author

MaryJanice Davidson is a former model and medical test subject, as well as a
New York Times
bestselling author who has no idea why she is a success at what she does. (“No idea. At all.”) Her books have been translated into several languages and are available in fifteen countries. (“No one is more surprised than I.”) She frequently speaks to book clubs (“I don't know why my books sell”), writers' groups (“I don't know why I'm on bestseller lists”), and World War Two veterans (“Thanks for driving Hitler to suicide!”). She lives with her husband, family, and dogs in St. Paul, Minnesota, and loves (“No, really … I do!”) hearing from readers. You can reach her at [email protected], by visiting her Facebook page, or joining her Yahoo! group. Also, check out her blog if you have a chance:
www.maryjanicedavidson.blogspot.com
.

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

YOU AND I, ME AND YOU.
Copyright © 2013 by MaryJanice Davidson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by Olga Grlic

Cover photograph by Gregg Paprocki

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Davidson, MaryJanice.

    You and I, me and you / MaryJanice Davidson. — 1st ed.

           p. cm.

    ISBN 978-0-312-53119-5 (hardcover)

    ISBN 978-1-250-02335-3 (e-book)

    1.  United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Officials and employees—Fiction.   2.  Murder—Investigation—Fiction.   3.  Sisters—Fiction.   4.  Romantic suspense fiction.   I.  Title.

    PS3604.A949Y66 2013

    813'.6—dc23

2013002636

First Edition: March 2013

*
She is a stupid girl
; translated from Mandarin.