Read Online Loud is How I Love You by Mercy Brown - Free Book Online Page A

down the hill and he’s got his key in the door, that’s all I can think about. I’ve already sucked down half a large coffee, thinking about how much I want to suck on every part of him.
    “Do you want me to take a look at your paper?” I say.
    “I’m only halfway done with it,” he says. “I was going to ask you to proof it tomorrow while I’m at work.”
    “Oh.” Well, then.
    I don’t go, even though I know I should since things are so nice and normal again, and he’s got work to do. Instead I linger there as Travis puts his jacket on the coatrack. He turns around and studies me for a minute.
    “Come on upstairs,” he says. “You can read what I’ve got so far and let me know if it makes any sense.”
    This is a terrible idea. A terrible, wonderful idea, because we just got things back to normal, and if I go upstairs with him now, something is very likely going to happen here that falls well outside the realm of normal and inside the world of awesome, but that awesome world, let’s be real here, is a little bit too much for me. It’s like winning a rocket trip to a different star system and I forgot my space helmet.
    I go upstairs anyway.
    Travis is one of these rare guys who’s not a slob. He’s not exactly a neat freak, but he’s organized. We’re in his room and his bed is made. (Seriously, what twenty-two-year-old guy makes his bed?) There are no dirty clothes anywhere except a few things in a laundry basket sitting on the floor of his closet. The closet door is open and his shoes, of which he has exactly three additional pairs (a pair of black Converse high-tops, a pair of black dress shoes, and a pair of Adidas running shoes), are all lined up on the floor. His guitar sits out in its stand in the corner, like it’s watching me. Judging.
Stop that, Les Paul. Cut it right out.
    There are books on the desk—actual books about international political economy. They’re stacked up with Post-it notes sticking out where he’s marked passages. He’s actually
read
these books. There are also well-notated photocopied articles and a handwritten outline for his paper and his father’s old Apple PowerBook with a blinking cursor right in the middle ofan unfinished sentence, and holy shit—he really was writing a paper. I’m so happy right now I could jump him.
    “I was wondering where that sweatshirt was,” he says.
    “I have to wash it,” I answer.
    He points to the chair in front of the laptop, one of those black, spinny, armless office chairs. I sit down and he’s on the edge of the bed and it’s a small room, so he’s basically right behind me, his knees straddling either side of me on the chair. I’m paging the cursor down, trying to read this paragraph about Bob Marley and the song “Buffalo Soldier,” and I guess it’s interesting but I can’t really tell you because the proximity of Travis is driving me crazy, and I mean that in a purely sexual way. His adorable boy face is right here, over my shoulder like a devil whispering, “Let’s fuck,” in my ear. He’s not actually saying that. But I can feel his breath on the back of my ear, I can hear those quiet little mouth sounds he makes. He clicks his tongue softly and it makes me shiver.
    “Are you cold?” he asks, at the same exact time I say, “Is it warm in here?”
    I laugh and pull my (fine, his) sweatshirt off over my head, totally conscious of how my tank top rises up over my back and I quickly tug it down. I get up and hang the hoodie on the hook behind the door and when I turn back around he’s sitting in the desk chair, leaning back with his arms crossed in front of his chest. And he’s glaring at me.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask, honestly confused.
    “You did not come over here in that tank top with no bra on expecting to leave in once piece, did you?”
    Well, no, not really. I fold my arms across my chest though, because fuck him for declaring the obvious.
    “Emmylou.”
    “What?”
    “Come here,” he