A Song For Julia Part 2

He had a serious expression on his face as he stared at the White House. The sudden s.h.i.+ft to seriousness on Crank's part was unnerving: up until now, he hadn't seemed serious about anything. He stared at the White House with his jaw set, anger in the lines of his face.

"That must have been hard."

"Yeah, well, people don't get that this stuff affects real people's lives. It's all sign waving and protesting and policy, but when the rubber meets the road, it's guys like my dad who will be in harm's way. That p.i.s.ses me off."

"Are you and your dad close?"

He shook his head, an amused smirk crossing his face. "Can't stand each other."

I didn't know how to respond. I knew all about conflict with parents, but I wasn't discussing that with anybody. Ever.

"This is way too serious," he said. "And I haven't had enough to drink."

"You've had too much to drink, based on what happened back at Georgia Brown's."

He chuckled. "Forgive me, Julia."

I shrugged. "It's getting my parents to forgive me that will be the trick." I turned and started walking toward 14th Street. He followed.

"Seriously? How much harm are we talking?"

I sighed. "My dad's nomination for Amba.s.sador to Russia got held up for almost two years ... partly because of the stuff that woman was writing."

He coughed. "Your father is the Amba.s.sador to Russia?"

I shook my head. "He was ... he retired earlier this year, and the family moved home to San Francisco."

"So, you're like ... a society girl. An heiress."

"Something like that."

"That's wicked hot."

I stumbled, trying hard not to blush, and failed. "What?"

He let out a loud belly laugh. "Just kidding."

A couple years ago, this would have thrown me way off-balance. But I wasn't eighteen anymore, and it took more than a pretty guy flirting with me to do that. "Seriously. What's hot? Is it the heiress part or the society part?"

He smirked and gave me a frankly appreciative look, his eyes sweeping from my feet, all the way up my legs and entire body. I felt a s.h.i.+ver as he did it. Then he said, "I'd say, all your parts."

Nice. "In that case, I guess I'll forgive you."

"Man," he said. "You're too easy."

"Easy? No. Just forgiving."

"Sure, whatever. So you like, went to high school in Moscow?"

"No, three years in Beijing, then I finished out here."

"In Was.h.i.+ngton?"

"Well, Bethesda-Chevy Chase. It's just outside DC, in Maryland."

He shook his head. "Too much. Way too much. So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know. What about you?"

He stepped close and looked me in the eyes. "I want to take you back to my hotel and have my way with you."

I sucked in a quick breath. Not what I'd expected him to say. I swallowed, meeting his eyes, then dropping mine to his lips. Bad idea, because his lips looked very kissable, and I found myself wanting to find out what that felt like. Then I tried to speak, but my voice caught a little. I coughed then said, "I don't sleep with guys on the first date. And we're not going to have a second one."

In a motion so quick I would have missed it had I not been watching, he licked his lips, then stepped even closer. Too close. Way up in my personal s.p.a.ce. I could smell his sweat from the performance. He said, "Then I'll have to settle for a kiss."

I opened my mouth, speechless. No one was this forward. He was nuts. I took a breath, said, "I ..." and then he stepped forward just enough to close the gap between us and touch his lips to mine, and he was kissing me, and more disturbingly, I was kissing him back. s.h.i.+vers ran down my back as he put his hands firmly on my waist. His tongue darted forward and pressed between my lips, and mine met his, and I think I may have made a little bit of sound because he pulled me closer, and I was lightheaded, even though I'd barely touched my margarita.

I gasped and pulled back just a little bit. "We should ... stop."

He sighed and met my eyes. "Why?"

"Because I don't do this with guys I'm not serious about."

He replied, "I don't get serious about anybody."

"Neither do I," I said, trying for a flippant tone, but knowing I was failing. It's hard to be flippant when you can barely breathe. Crank was setting off every alarm I had. Crazy, a.s.sertive, a little arrogant. I'd been down that route before, and it ruined my life. I took a deep breath and tried to ground myself.

He chuckled and slid his arms up to my shoulders. He squeezed gently then dropped his arms. "Yeah ... sucks for me."

"I'm not your type of girl, anyway."

"True enough," he said. "You've got way too many clothes on, for one thing."

I laughed. "Why don't we grab some dinner or something? Since I didn't get to finish my salad before."

"Something ... all right. Where to?"

"I don't care."

"Then let's walk and see what we see."

I'd like that (Crank) So we walked, and we talked. I was aching to kiss her again, and I could tell she was too. Maybe I'd get lucky, maybe not. Whatever, I was having fun. As we walked, Mark sent me a text message, asking if I was coming back to the hotel. I sent back a response telling him to buzz off.

Her phone rang a moment after that. "Sorry." She flipped it open and answered.

"h.e.l.lo? Oh, hey, Brittany ... no, I'm out with ... a friend. Yeah, I won't make it tonight, sorry ... what? No, I was planning on staying at my parents' place in Bethesda. I'll see you soon. Bye."

She flipped the phone closed.

"Friends checking up on you?" I asked.

"Something like that," she said, looking distracted. "Let's eat here."

'Here' was a hole in the wall-a door to a half bas.e.m.e.nt just before the gate that led into Chinatown. It had a small, old and dirty sign written in Chinese characters above it. It did not look like a restaurant.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"Come on," she said, taking the four steps down and opening the door.

The smell of food flooded out the door when she opened it. Inside, there were six tables, four of them occupied. The diners were all Chinese, all older. The walls were a faded yellow, the lighting dim, and the room had none of the normal kitsch I was used to seeing in Chinese restaurants.

A woman came out of the back and spoke in a thick accent. "I'm sorry, we're closing for the night."

Julia responded with a stream of words in Chinese. At least, I think it was Chinese. She might have been speaking Greek for all I knew. The only language I knew other than English were some choice curses in Spanish.

Whatever. The woman replied to Julia and then Julia spoke again. The woman beamed and led us to a table.

"You have hidden gifts," I murmured.

Julia grinned. "This place is locals only. The food here won't be anything like what you're used to."

I just looked around, taking a seat across from her and checking out the unusual surroundings. Not like I hadn't eaten in holes in the wall ... in fact, local sub shops are pretty much what I survive on. But this was different, if only because I was so used to seeing a certain look at Chinese restaurants in Boston. Plastic signs above the counter with pictures of the food, cheap pictures with oriental themes in badly constructed frames. This place could have been a burger joint anywhere, if it weren't for the customers and staff and that not a single person other than Julia and me spoke English.

The waitress appeared with tea in a small steel urn and water, but no menus. Julia spoke with her in Chinese, and the waitress answered. After a minute or so of the two chattering at each other, the waitress nodded and walked away.

"What exactly were you two chatting about?"

"Dinner," she replied. "Trust me. This will be good."

"Any other surprises? What other languages do you know?"

"Um ..." She bit her lower lip. The combination of that, and the stray hair hanging down the side of her face, made me want to lean forward and touch her. "I speak French, Cantonese, Mandarin, a little bit of j.a.panese. Some Spanish. Kind of goes with growing up the way I did. And I was always good with languages. It's good to know what the locals are saying."

I swallowed. "Do you read physics books in your spare time?"

She wrinkled her nose at me and tried to change the subject. "No. Definitely not. What about you? What do you do in your spare time?"

I shrugged. "I don't get any spare time, really. When I'm not with the band, I'm working or spending time with my little brother."

"Not in college?"

"No, I didn't finish high school. Dad and I never saw eye to eye, so I left home when I was sixteen."

Her mouth dropped open. "What do you do, then?"

"Cook. And play guitar and sing. The band is going well, that's where my focus is."

"That's risky," she replied. "Not going to school. What happens if the band doesn't work out?"

I shrugged. "Risk doesn't bother me. We're going to make it."

"I hope so," she replied, doubt written on her face.

"Hey," I said, irritated. "Don't judge me. I get plenty of that from my father."

She shook her head. "I'm not judging you."

I raised an eyebrow. "You are. You're going to college with the arrogant chowderheads across the river who plan to run the world some day. You're sitting there right now, wondering why you're having dinner with some guy who never figured out algebra."

Her reply was sharp. "Don't tell me what I think."

I blinked. That wasn't what I expected. Her expression was fierce as she spoke again.

"I'm not as wedded to the whole masters of the universe thing as you might think. Some of the people I go to school with are a bunch of overprivileged kids, yes. But I also go to school with people who busted their a.s.ses to get where they are. My roommate's mother waits tables at two different jobs for something like two dollars an hour, and sold her car in order to make up the shortfall in tuition this year."

"Hey...sorry," I said. "You're right. I make a lot of a.s.sumptions."

"It's all right," she replied. "And you're right ... maybe I was judging you a little. Everyone and everything I know points to education, doing well in college, going to graduate school, all of it."

I nodded. "Yeah, I get that. But sometimes those things aren't even options. If I'd stayed home, living with my dad ... we were at war with each other. At least now I can go over and see Sean and n.o.body gets hurt. Watching out for him is what matters."

"You love your brother. I can hear it."

I grinned. "He's a good kid. Misunderstood. But a good kid."

The waitress returned then, with a platter of food. I didn't recognize anything as she placed the plates in front of us. I kept my mouth shut as she filled the table up. She didn't leave forks, just chopsticks. This ought to be entertaining.

When the waitress left, I said, quietly, "I don't recognize any of this food."

"It's real Chinese food, not the stuff you get at takeout. Cantonese. Try it."

She pointed out which dishes were spicy and then laughed a little as I tried out the chopsticks. Next thing I knew, she was showing me how to use them, and we were laughing again. The conversation s.h.i.+fted: school, life, and politics. It was crazy. Except for Serena, I'd never spent this much time with a girl, not just talking. Don't get me wrong. I spend plenty of time with girls. But not for conversation. I'm usually not that interested in the talking part.

As she slipped around to my side of the table and took my hand in hers to show me how to hold the chopsticks, I noticed that in the middle of all the bracelets and bangles she wore on her right arm, she had an old faded friends.h.i.+p bracelet. It looked out of place. I met her eyes for just a second. Then I had to look away. It was wicked intense, and maybe a trick of the light in there made it seem as if her eyes had turned green, the pupils huge, dilated. Her eyes were framed by long eyelashes, but no mascara or other makeup that I could see. I caught my breath for a second. I don't fall for girls. I don't have time for the head games, the handholding, or the silly c.r.a.p that comes with it. But maybe because I was away from home, and for once had nowhere I needed to be, I just enjoyed it. My eyes dropped to her thighs, wrapped in a flowered green skirt that just touched my torn up dungarees. Her legs were effing perfect, and I had to look back to my hands before I just dropped everything.

She laughed when my rice fell through the chopsticks.

"Seriously?" I said. "Where did you learn this?"

"China. It's an acquired skill," she replied.

"You cook Chinese food, too?"

She scrunched her face up and grinned. "I don't cook anything."

She returned to her side of the table just as the waitress reappeared, and we sat and ate. I liked having her sit next to me. And that's the thing: I love girls. I love having them sit in my lap, I love touching them everywhere, I love taking their clothes off and licking the backs of their necks, and anywhere else. But when they get up and leave? Never bothered me. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with me now, that having her get up and move to the other side of the table made me feel different?

"What time is your train in the morning?" I asked.