My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 6

6

I GRIPPED THE DOORKNOB, turned it slowly, and pushed the door open. Except for a pair of white stockings from mid-thigh down, Ashleigh was stark naked. She lay amid a mountain of pillows with her arms thrown back over her head and her legs cocked outward at the knees. Half a dozen lighted candles scented the room and provided the only light. The sight of her took my breath away. She looked like a movie star—Julia Roberts in person, naked.

My internal control system changed gears and my movements slowed.

She raised a Polaroid camera high and giggled. "Take my picture, Mr. Photographer."

I snickered. "You're not going to get much of a picture with that thing."

"I don't care. I just want to see what it looks like."

I sipped my drink, set it on the dresser, took the camera, and stepped back. My heart thumped hard in my chest as I framed her in the viewer. She puckered her lips and cut her eyes at me.

"Don't try to look sexy," I said. "Just relax." Her face softened and her eyes smiled. "Bring your chin down just a little. That's it." I rose on my toes and pressed the shutter release. The camera's tiny strobe blasted the room with light and a motor pushed the undeveloped photograph out the front and left it hanging there. She pushed the pillows aside and patted the bed next to her. "Now, take one for me. You don't have to be naked, just get up here with me."

"I don't think so," I said, pulling the self-developing photo from the camera and tossing it on the dresser.

"Please. The two of us." She rolled onto her side. "Just this once."

I could hardly hear the thunder for the blood rushing in my ears. "Why would you want a photo of me with you like that?" I placed the camera on the dresser and picked up my drink.

Bounding off the bed, she grabbed the camera and poked a finger into my chest. "What's the matter, Mr. Photographer? Don't like having your picture taken?"

I stumbled backward trying not to spill the drink. "Not like that, I don't."

"You're a famous director. This could be important to me." She poked me again.

I laughed and juggled the drink. "I'm not a famous director and even if I was—" She pushed again and I got annoyed. My voice sounded dark and evil inside my head. "Ashleigh, stop that! You're going to spill my drink."

She lowered her head and rolled out her bottom lip. In that light, with her eyes sparkling and her beads dangling and her breasts jiggling and my head spinning, she was bewitching; almost irresistible. "I'll tell you what. Put something on and we'll take one."

Throwing an arm around my neck, she kissed my cheek and at that instant, the camera went off with another blinding blast of light.

"Oh, no!" she groaned turning it over to check the number on the back. "Thank goodness. There's four more." Tossing the wasted picture on the dresser, she set the camera on the foot of the bed, slid into a robe, and left the front of it hanging open. "Better?"

I sighed letting my eyes travel down to her breasts. "Well..."

"Man, this is more than I wear to the mall."

Drums were beating a steady rhythm in my brain. I was getting weak. "All right."

I lifted the camera, downed the rest of my drink, and wrapped my left arm around her clasping the front of her robe together. With rain pelting the bedroom window, I turned the camera lens toward us, placed my thumb on the shutter, and stretched my right arm out as far as I could.

"Ready?"

Lightning flickered. "Ready."

Again the flash dazed me the instant it went off and Ashleigh shoved me backward onto the bed falling on top of me, tickling my ribs. Sliding up and down me, she teased me, daring me to touch her. With her beads slapping the side of my face, she brushed her lips lightly over mine and kissed me ever so gently. It was sweet and natural. Her fragrance filled my head and I felt as if I was suspended in some other place in some other time with a chorus of male voices holding the same note for what seemed like minutes.

Normally, the more selfish and demanding a woman is, the more distance I want between us. And she was way too young to be interested in me. At least, she should have been. Yet here she was—naked, squirreling around on top of me, and holding my hands to her breasts. Something inside told me there was something wrong.

I tried to roll her off me, but she flattened against me and held me down. The music in my head changed to harsh noises. My strength was gone and my limbs tingled. I raised my head and whispered, "Please, Ashleigh."

"What's with you? Are you gay?"

I saw my father's eyes glaring at me and felt the same heaviness in my heart that I always feel explaining myself to him. I shook my head from side to side, but no words came. My skin felt cold and the bed began to turn. My heart hammered against the walls of my chest and sweat ran down my neck. I threw my head back and gulped air.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I think...I need...to go." I tried to move, but fell back against the bed.

"Do you want another drink?"

The bed spun faster and my eyes rolled back into my head. I tried to raise my hand, but my arm wouldn't co-operate. Damn. How much have I had to drink?

"Ashleigh," I whispered. "Can you...help me up?"

Straddling me on her hands and knees, she lifted my left eyelid and studied my pupil. "Don't worry, Richard Baimbridge. You'll be just fine." She licked my cheek and that's the last thing I remember until I awoke with a splitting headache around 3:30 a.m. lying on the deck outside my back door in a cold rain.