EnjoytheShow Read Free Page A

air-conditioning. Miles noticed, his eyes catching my
nipples pushing at the thin fabric, but politely not lingering too long.
“You’re cold,” he said. “You want me to go tell them to turn it down?”
    “I’ll be all right,” I said, rubbing my hands up and down my
arms. “Movie’s about to start anyway.”
    He looked at me shuddering and said, “Here, let’s get rid of
this.” He put the armrest up and then said, in a gently efficient way, “Come
here, cowgirl,” as he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close to him.
    Any notion that this was strange or fast or not what I’d
wanted went away when I felt his warmth. He had that man warmth that emanates
from the skin of a full-blooded male—no cold toes I’d shrink away from in bed, I
imagined. I snuggled up against him, this man who’d been a stranger twenty or
so minutes ago. I don’t know why, but I felt as if we both needed this. It was
like an excuse for a long hug.
    Warmth being the ostensible point of this maneuver, Miles
draped one of his big arms along mine and suggested with light pressure that I
feel free to come closer. I took him up on that. I was at a momentary and
unusual loss as to what to do with my hands. They were in my lap, trying to
appear nonchalant, but were very close to one of his legs, which was crossed
toward me. He solved the problem by taking both of my hands in one of his big
paws. His palms were smooth, his nails cut short and rounded. Having recently
come from being with someone whose idea of grooming was using his teeth, I
approved yet again of this Miles. Now I was enveloped by his warm body, yet he
still managed to be polite about it. Our heads went back to resting near each
other.
    On the screen, the theater ran its vintage signal that the
movie was about to begin, and we were serenaded with the old jingle— Sit
back, relax and enjoy the show . Miles took a deep breath, as though about
to do something that needed courage. “Here we go,” he said.
    The credits ran, just a black screen with the names of the
actors, none of which was recognizable until about the fourth one in that read Miles
Masterson . I tilted my head toward him with a question unformed, but he
didn’t look back. He seemed to be concentrating on the screen. I let him be.
    Cabin Fever quickly showed itself to have followed
all the classic hallmarks of a crappy slasher film. A group of friends in a car
passing around beers and joints, the jokey guys leering at the giggling girls
in low-cut tops. I was about to roll my eyes when I noticed one of the guys,
the one doing the driving out to the remote cabin in the forbidding woods. The
hair was shorter and his face was clean-shaven, but the merry eyes were
unmistakable.
    “That’s you!” I whispered. I looked back at Miles and it
took him a second to look at me. When he did there was something vulnerable
about him all of a sudden. “Kind of,” he said. Another cryptic statement, but I
didn’t want to quiz him now. I wanted to watch him.
    And watch him I did, especially when the movie got to one of
the parts typical to slasher flicks, the gratuitous sex scene. Miles’ character
and his girlfriend had gone to check out their bedroom in the remote cabin, and
within seconds they were making innuendo-laden jokes about testing the bed. The
camera came close for their deep kiss. I could tell Miles was a good kisser,
the way he went in, backed off, teased and went in again, this time meaning to
claim the woman’s mouth. Damn, the way he kissed was hot, and I didn’t mean to
shift in my seat, but I did. Flashes of his tongue set my mind to wondering
what he’d feel like kissing me. And more.
    In the movie, he took the girl’s halter top off, revealing
obviously plastic boobs. Not sexy. Then she took his shirt off and my eyes
devoured a feast of sculpted pecs and abs, the type that begged for a woman’s
finger to trace the spaces between them. When he unzipped his pants he revealed
a honey-colored