feather

twenty-four: so i can have makeup sex

"Shit," Taylor cursed, and then looked at me. "Dude, I've already been arrested for being high and cocaine posession. I have a court hearing in two months. Shit." 

"I'm the one that's tied to a chair in a warehouse full of mexican gang guys with guns," I pointed out. "I think I win." 

"Jamie, now is not the time to be competing to see who has it worse," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

"I hope you fall off of a cliff only to be carried up by an alien tractor beam where they probe and perform experiments on you when you're awake and not under anesthesia," I said, smiling. Now I was just trying to come up with the best one. "I know you'd like it when they stick the probe up your ass, through." 

"Jamie, just stop please," Taylor said. "I'm really sorry I jumped to conclusions and didn't have more faith in you and I'm an asshole for not telling you my father ran a drug ring. I'll do anything to get you back even if it means getting a stick stuck up my ass. Can you please forgive me?" 

I pretended to think about it for a moment, but Taylor seemed more serious than I'd ever seen him before; almost as serious as I was about my food. "Anything?" I asked, grinning. 

"Especially if it's sexual," Taylor grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. 

"I'm going to have you vacuum my house," I decided and then added, "I forgive you. But only after you vacuum every last square foot of carpet." 

"That's like six thousand square feet," he glumly protested, then added jokingly, "You know I have a weak back, Jamie."

"Take it or leave it," I deadpanned, putting on my best straight face. 

He grinned, and my insides melted like chocolate chip ice cream on a warm summer day. Just less tasty, probably, and a lot more organ-y. "Anything for you, my spoiled rich white girl." 

Huzzah! Now all was right in the world, except I was still tied to a chair in a sketchy-ass warehouse with the police setting up a call for hostage negotiation for goodness' sake. This was lowly me stuck inside a warehouse, not the president trapped in a terrorist den. "Let's focus on getting out of here first," I suggested. 

"Okay," he whispered, touching this forehead to my head. I internally. cringed because he could probably see the small blackheads on my face or that scar on the side of my eye from when I was attacked by a cat (Matthew told me that Oscar liked having his tail pulled). "But afterwards, we're definitely having makeup sex." 

Fat chance.