Chapter 7

Still Laura’s turn:

Okay, just maybe the experience of helping John bathe and dress himself might’ve changed the dynamics.

He was smiling when I returned to the living room dressed in my pajamas.

“I’m guessing that your smile’s because of the drugs.”

“No, Laura. The arm still hurts, drugs or not. Just appreciating...”

Okay, I’ll play. The guy’s been one heck of a lot more decent than I’ve expected so far.

“Appreciating what?”

“The way you jumped in and helped. Work. And now me.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No, not really...”

“You ARE! Was I supposed to make some skeezy comment about your nudity?”

“John, I ... don’t make fun of me. I know my boobs are small ... I’m...”

“I’m not supposed to notice, Laura, but hell, I’m not DEAD! You’re beautiful.”

“Flat.”

“Boob size is unimportant. Any guy with any sense isn’t concerned. I’m not. Nice that you have some, preferably two, but size doesn’t matter. Commodity.”

“Commodity?”

“Yeah. If boob size is what a guy wants, he can shop around, or find a convenient platform and pay for the size that makes him happy. Hell, lot of women will pay for them out of their own pockets. Stupid. Plastic boobs. Just as well get an inflatable doll...”

“Wow!”

“Drugs.”

“Is not. You’re an honest sort.”

“You made the point of bringing them up. Speaking of points...”

“Don’t...”

He snickered. “Okay. But YOU started it.”

“Wanted to understand.”

“John Hebert is not a ‘boob guy’. John Hebert is a brains and eyes and face, and hell, maybe legs. You can GET legs if you wanna spend the time at the gym or whatever, but you can’t get brains. You’re dealt those from the start. Brains, and a sense of humor that ties to the eyes and to a pleasant smile ... You can’t buy those, and you can’t fake ‘em to somebody who’s paying attention.”

“Boobs...”

“I think they’re made by Dow-Corning. Call a doctor, dial up a size, go for it. Then spend the rest of YOUR life wondering if this guy or that is there for your carefully engineered tits or he bought into the whole package and has to put up with the idea that at one time you thought your self-worth was based on your bra size.”

“Wow. You DO have an opinion.”

“You poked the rotten log. You get to see everything that scuttles out into the sunlight.”

“Oooo-kaaayyy!”

“And by the way...”

“What?”

“Perfect.”

“My boobs?”

“Whole package. Tits and all.”

“It IS the drugs.”

And the bastard smiled and dozed off.

And left me sitting there wondering why I cared what he thought about my boobs, anyway. And Laura Landry, if you’re having THAT thought, why are you all satisfied about the fact that he said ‘perfect’?

I pulled something up on TV but I honestly can’t remember what it was. Something about cooking, I think. I watched for an hour or so, then went into his bedroom, pulled the covers down, fluffed the pillows, and went back and retrieved him.

“Bedtime, John.”

“I dozed off.”

“No joke. Just before I had to do you bodily harm. Be careful of your arm.”

“Oh yeah...”

“You can’t have another pain pill for at least three or four hours, so don’t get it to hurting...”

He stood. I stayed close at hand in case after-effects from the painkiller might’ve made him wobbly. Got him to his bed, made him lie down, then, “Your PJ bottoms. On or off?”

“Off, please.”

Here we go again. He raised his butt so I could pull them off. I managed to snag his drawers as well, and in my vigor, exposed him yet again.

“Oops!” I squeaked, trying to get him covered up.

“You’re making a habit of this.”

“You’re NOT helping, John. I’m trying to be all useful and supportive, and you’re...”

“Waving my dingus around...”

“You’re testing my resolve,” I said, helping him pull his drawers up, right arm useless, left hand indecisive between the choice of modestly covering himself or pulling at his waistband.

I left, returned with the pillows from my bed.

“What are you trying to do?”

“Fix my pillows.”

“Laura, you can’t sleep with me.”

“Scootch over on YOUR side, and hide and watch. And see if I can.”

“Baby, we’re not married, and I...”

“John Hebert. We were chaste in the hotel room. We’ve been chaste in this house. And sorta chaste in the shower. We can do this. If you need something in the night, I’m right here.”

Little light flickered in my brain to illuminate the list of things a man might need in the night with me in his bed. Funny! The list doesn’t seem as horrible as it once did.

He twisted and sat up. I thought it was Stage Two of the protest, but, “I gotta go pee...”

“Okaay.”

Then, “Uh, Laura ... problem...”

Welcome to the ‘Dongs of My Life’. This time I gave it almost no thought when I snaked it through the opening of his briefs.

“Thank you.”

“De nada.”

Snicker. “You’re getting good at it.”

“Thought about leaving you with no pants and sleeping in my own bed.”

“You could do that.” He finished his stream, shook it. (I watched. Kinda fascinating how it works) started to try to tuck it back into place.

“Hygiene,” I said. “Wipe it off.” Handed him a pad of toilet paper.

“Guys don’t do that. A shake is enough.”

“A dab is better.” And I dabbed it. And it grew right before my eyes.

“See?!? That’s what I didn’t want to happen. Laura, you’re...”

“Get over it,” I said. I helped him get tucked back in place. There was rather more of it to go back than came out.

“Now, get back in bed and stop bein’ silly,” I told him after noticing his goofy grin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I grabbed the back of his t-shirt. “Wait!”

“What?”

I swung him around and kissed him good and hard. “That’s for bein’ a great guy and scaring the crap out of me and recovering.”

He sure had a strange look on his face when he got back in bed.

I went right to sleep. After all, it’s been a really stressful day. The fact that I was in yet another unfamiliar bed? No obstacle. That there was a MAN in it with me? No obstacle.

Waking up in the middle of the night finding myself cupped up behind him with my arm around him?

Bit of a shocker. Felt good, though, so deal with it.

Converse was a bit more of a shock. He was lying on his left side, had me nestled in his arms. Well, left arm. Right arm in a cast, propped up somehow on his side. His left hand ... well ... Not like he was feeling me up. It wasn’t moving. But it was very precisely anchored over my right breast.

Ignore THAT, will ya. The choice was to wake him up to move it and thereby create an incident, or...

I snuggled back into him and went back to sleep. Eventually we both moved. And moved back. I wasn’t in his arms. My butt was pushed back into him. We were very close. And he moved. And what I felt was very hard, pushing against my butt.

Oooo-kay, then ... I wiggled just a little bit to gain some clearance and was chased. I want to think that this was reflexive on his part, but seriously, the boy pushed, kind of surged, and I heard a definite “Mmmm...”

“John?”

“Wha...”

“What are you doing, John?” I asked as I rolled away.

“I was sleeping.”

“Part of you was awake...”

“I tried to tell you, baby...”

“You did. You want another pain pill? Help you sleep without molesting me?”

“I molested you?”

“Only vestigial amounts. I’m not permanently scarred.”

“I can get my pill when I get up. I gotta...”

“Oh, here we go again...”

He’s right. I am getting good at it. And yes, I did dab it off afterward.

In fifteen minutes he was sound asleep. I, on the other hand, it’s two in the morning and I have had a lot of experiences today, much food for thought. Lying on my back thinking. Rolled over toward him. In the dim light, he looks so peaceful. Right arm is resting across his chest, left arm down his side.

I reached over, traced his chest with my fingers. He’s asleep. Drugged, right? I snuggled against him, let my fingers intertwine with his left hand. Okay, now I can sleep, my cheek against his shoulder. I felt good about it, not the way I’d imagine some drunken sorority girl would’ve felt cribbed up with some guy on a beach. This was secure. Right.

“Laura,” and a gentle shake.

I opened my eyes, squinted at the clock. A bit after five.

“Again?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah. It’s okay ... This time I leave ‘em off...”

I was joking.

“Good idea...”

Now go back to sleep with THAT picture, Laura Landry.

Got another hour, more or less, before I woke up, tried to get out of bed without disturbing him.

“You getting up?”

“Breakfast. Then...”

“I can help...”

“Do what, One-arm?”

“Got a point.” He got out of bed, turned on the light, went to the bathroom.

I’ll give it to him. Guy’s got a nice ass and great legs.

“Call me when you need to get dressed.”

“Okay.”

Kitchen. Oven on. Cast-iron skillet on the stove, preparatory to bacon. Biscuit mix. Channeled Mom: “The mix’ll work better than the cans. But add some butter. Make it your own.”

While all that’s going on, I’m getting dressed. Jeans. Work socks and shoes. Sports bra. Shake head, getting image of a manly hand cupping my inexperienced breast. Chambray work shirt. Belt.

Back in the kitchen, he’s trying to make coffee with one hand.