Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

asked.
    “Yep.”
    “How long do we do it?”
    “Ten or fifteen minutes … usually. As long as it takes for the urges to pass.”
    Jake felt another twinge of resentment toward this unforgettable stud from Starbucks, then made himself let it go. “Just lemme know, dude.”
    “You can rock me, if you don’t mind. That’s part of it.”
    So that’s what happened. Jonah lay there in Jake’s arms, his body pulsing with warmth, his thick, wheat-colored hair smelling of coconut gel, while Jake watched AC Milan lay waste to Livorno. Since Jonah couldn’t see the TV screen, the undulating roar of the crowd and Jake’s own yelps of support sometimes stirred his curiosity.
    “Was that Ronaldinho?”
    “Yeah. Fucking brilliant block.”
    “Ronaldinho rules,” said Jonah.
    “Word,” said Jake, rocking away.
    T IME PASSED, BUT J AKE COULD not have said how much. He was lost in the easy communion of bodies breathing in unison, like those sea lions hauling out at Pier 39. This experience could have made him crave sex, but it didn’t; it just calmed him, released him from the usual expectations, the usual guilt. He had never lied to Jonah, and Jonah was getting the cure he’d been prescribed: tenderness from a masculine heart without the danger of lust. Hell, there wasn’t even the danger of dick. Jonah was getting a deal.
    The doorbell rang.
    “Shit,” he said, throwing Jonah off his chest.
    The kid, naturally, looked rattled. “You expecting somebody?”
    “No.”
    “What about your grandmother?”
    Jake didn’t bother to correct him again. “She’s not coming back until dark.” He left the bed, heading for the door.
    “Wait,” cried Jonah. “It could be one of the elders.”
    “How the fuck could it be one of the elders?”
    The kid looked sheepish. “I gave the address to a buddy of mine.”
    “Why?”
    “Just … you know … in case of emergency. They like to know where we are.”
    It was ridiculous how guilty the two of them were acting, so Jake tried to be the voice of reason. “Just stay put. I’ll take care of it.”
    Closing the bedroom door behind him, he headed for the front door. Through the peephole he saw Shawna Hawkins, the daughter of Michael’s old business partner, Brian Hawkins. Shawna was another of Anna’s chosen “grandchildren”—a lively, dark-eyed girl a few years younger than Jake and more than a few inches taller. She had changed her hair; her shiny retro bangs had given way to a shorter, simpler cut.
    He opened the door. “Hey there.”
    She seemed unusually subdued. There were dark circles under her eyes. “Sorry to show up unannounced, Jake. I really need to talk to Anna.”
    “She’s at the Symphony,” he told her. “She won’t be back till dinnertime.”
    “Shit.”
    She looked so disappointed that Jake couldn’t leave it at that. “Is there something I can do?”
    “No … I just, you know … need me some Anna.”
    “Right. Well, maybe this evening …”
    His nervousness wasn’t lost on Shawna. “You’ve got someone with you.”
    “No … not really.”
    “Yeah, you do.” She smiled conspiratorially. “That’s great. Don’t let me intrude.” Shawna, like Anna, took more than a passing interest in Jake’s love life—such as it was. Shawna could handle this situation better than anyone Jake knew—she wrote a sex blog, after all—but her assumptions were already making him uncomfortable. He wondered exactly what sort of Olympian fuck-fest she’d been picturing.
    “I’ll check back later,” she said. “I’ve got some errands to run anyway, so … oh … sorry to barge in like this.”
    This second apology puzzled Jake until he turned to find Jonah standing behind him.
    “No sweat,” Jonah told Shawna, before turning to Jake. “Talk to you later, dude.”
    “Please don’t leave on my account,” Shawna said, as Jonah made his escape down the passageway to the street.
    When he was out of earshot, Shawna widened her eyes. “Adorable. Now I really feel bad.”
    “Don’t,” said Jake. “It was nothing.”
    But it hadn’t been, he realized; it had definitely not been nothing.

Chapter 19
Refuge Once Removed
    P inyon City, she realized, had never been anything like a city. The highway and the main street were one and the same, and downtown, if you could call it that, consisted of a general store, a real estate office, a restaurant/saloon, and a derelict mini-mall that, according to a flaking sign, had been the “Sierra