Mia had a sister standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a punk-nerd hurricane about to destroy hell.
Her brunette hair, shaved off in a jagged undercut on one side, fell in messy wave in the other, where it caught the light of the fairy lights in the pastel-pink bedchamber of Mia.
A nose ring was twinkling silver, and her massive Ramones tee shirt hung loosely over tattered black pants, She held fantasy book, the cover worn out with use.
Her hazel eyes flashed with anger, and pierced Gezza like a razor.
He stood still, half entangled in the plush comforter of Mia, his sweat-smeared skin clingy to the material, the air filled with the fragrance of lavender candles and the erotic odor of their passion.
His tattered gray sneakers, the laces tattering, the soles thick with street-dust, hung around the bed, a wretched contrast to the gentle light in the room.
"Mia, are you serious?" Tara gave a sharp, broken-glass tone of voice, and her book was waving like a gavel. "I am attempting to read and your god-forsaken howling rattling the walls!"
Mia pulled the comforter up, and her blonde hair was a sweaty mess and her cheeks were still flushed with their romp.
"It is not everyday, Tara, calm down" , she replied, her voice slightly on the defensive but with an undertone of the warmth of the Playbooks, as she looked up at Gezza, her blue eyes still smoldering.
"Relax?" Tara lifted her nose ring and stepped forward, scuffing the hardwood with her boots. "I cannot read a line of Storm of Scales you are making this place a porn set Repeat it and I am reporting you to Mom."
Her eyes turned to Gezza and ripped through his greasy hair, patchy beard, and scaggy hoodie. "And you--what did you come in here like a skeezy prowler?"
Gezza's stomach lurched. Caught. Second score, and I'm screwed. His ego balloon that Mia, high school queen, had banged had burst.
He groped at his jeans, the denim harsh on his thighs, his heart racing like a panther that found itself in the midst of danger.
He muttered something, "I'm just, uh, hanging out", and his voice croaked, his inner perv melting in the eyes of Tara.
The Playbook had made him the dream stud of Mia, but to Tara, he was a basement loser with fading sneakers and a beat up hoodie.
Tara scowled, her hands over her lap, the novel low under one arm.
"Hanging out? Why should you even touch this guy, Mia? she said, her glance going over Gezza, her lip drawing up. He is like he lives in a rubbish-bin. No shade, dude, but... come on." Her language was stinging, cynosurer than the ancient taunts of Greasy which Mia had so often heaped upon her, and the fists of Gezza were set tighter in the comforter, and his anger was burning.
Trash can? Fuck that.
Mia pouted, and her hands fiddled with the comforter. "Tara, back off. chill of Gezza," she said and her voice was soft and firm and the magic of the Playbook still enveloped her words in the unnatural affection.
Tara scowled and her hazel eyes fluttered looking at Gezza, a second too long and then they returned to Mia.
Gezza, getting a cunning smile on his face, muttered under his breath, Tara. Tara Larson. Same surname as Mia--bingo. He shuffled down the bed, his sneakers pounding on the carpet, and picked up his backpack, the leather cover of the Playbook giving the canvas a warm feeling.
"I am going to hit the bathroom", he said to her, Mia, who nodded, still under the spell of the book.
He scurried off into the hallway, the flooring chilly on his socks, and opened the Playbook.
Its runes glowed in the low light, as though they were joking at his daring. He wrote Tara Larson on a piece of paper in an empty spot, the ink slightly sinking in with a slight glowing effect, then fading away. Let's see you roast me now.
In the bedroom, Gezza was leaning against the door frame, his battered sneaker-tapping the floor, as he attempted to appear calm, in spite of his racing heart.
Tara was also still ranting, her book flying about as she lectured Mia. You are going to smash this place and I am not going to clean up after you-- Her voice broke and she looked up at Gezza once more.
A flush spread over her cheeks, a paler pink stealing under her freckles, and her scowl melted away, as a blaze in a breeze. "Anyway, keep it to yourself, just... keep it quiet", she said in a less scathing, almost neutral tone.
Her eyes lingered on him, and her hazel eyes followed his jaw, his shoulders, and then flicked off, and her fingers tighter on her book.
Gezza's grin widened. Gotcha. The Playbook was in action, airbrushing her face, softening her hard lines. Mia scowled, feeling the transfer, yet remained silent, her nails penetrating the comforter.
Tara had turned back to the kitchen and her boots were clacking on the hardwood and Gezza felt opportunity buzzing in his mind.
He ought to have bolted--run out the back the way Elena had done--but the book was too good. One more test.
After her, his sneakers squeakless, the air became that of cold coffee grounds and lemon washing powder as he entered the kitchen.
Tara poured tea out of a kettle, standing behind the counter, steam veiling her like a ghost.
Her Ramones tee-shirt started to slide down one side of her arm, exposing the dragon tattoo that zigzagged over her collarbone and a line of ink bright against her pale skin.
Her eyes tightened in a glance up, yet the bad blood had vanished, and in its place was a bewildered squint. "You still here?" she said, her voice becoming lighter, nearly inquiring, her fingers touching her under cut, as she stared at him.
Her cheeks blushed, again, but more deeply, and she changed her position, her shoes scratching on the tile.
Gezza leanted against the fridge, and its icy metal was chilling his back in his hoodie.
"Couldn't leave without saying good -bye, Tara," he teased, trying the waters with his low voice. "You are so serious about that book-thing, you know? Dragon tattoos and all."
His smile was wobbling and confident, and his head was already in perv mode, and he could envision her tattoo on his lips, and her scowly mouth open-jawed in his name.
The fantasy struck the chord of a spark, his breath was stopping and the demeanor of Tara changed still more.
Her eyes were opening, her lips were parted, and with her fingers shaking, she put her mug down with a gentle clink.
"You are strangely not a bad person", she said, her voice faltering, eyes glancing all around his face, his chest, as though she was peering beyond his dirty sneakers and His stained hooded jacket.
She blushed and her freckles flushed and, scuffing her boots over the tile, she came nearer. "What's with you? I mean, you're still a mess, but..." She hesitated, lost in perplexity, her hand touching her nose ring, as though she were trying to put herself down.
His sneakers squeaked, his heart beats, and Gezza closed the distance. "Well, it looks like am growing on you, I suppose", he was leaning up--low rumble, he purred.
His brain had all the slime in it, of her lying against the counter, her dragon mark on his tongue, and her body against his.
This idea was electric, and Tara gasped, darkening her eyes, and her fingers itching to seize him.
But--shit--his body twitched, a jerking surge that stabs through his chest, as a wire snapping in him. He fell over, and grabbed himself on the counter, the heat of the Playbook burning his backpack. It was too much, too soon, his book was warning him.