Read Online The American Girl by Kate Horsley - Free Book Online

behind me makes me jump. Turning around, I see Raphael on the shady side of the patio. I do a little double take, a triple take actually, since I’m now acutely aware that I’m wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and underwear. No bra even. Meanwhile, Raphael’s lying on a yoga mat in nothing but a kind of Indian yogi loincloth folded around his groin like a man-diaper. He’s doing stomach crunches, his stomach glistening with sweat. Now he’s rising from his yoga mat like a gleaming god and he’s beckoning to me and smiling, not that blinding Colgate grin of his, but a subtle half smile, inviting me over.
    And so I go, crossing hot patio stones to get to him and feeling a little freaked to be walking towards a near-naked man I barely know, in the brazen light of day. As soon as I reach him, he lies back down on his mat, beckoning me to some weird exercise headspace he’s in where our near nudity is in no way embarrassing.
    â€œCome,” he pants.
    I stand over him shyly. “Where?”
    â€œHere.” He gestures to his exquisitely muscled thighs and grins the Colgate grin.
    â€œUm, you’re kidding, right?” A blush creeps over my throat, along my breastbone, making my skin glow—I imagine—the red of irradiated apples.
    He shakes his head, grinning away. “I’ve been working so hard, my abdos are nothing. I look female almost. No muscles de l’estomac at all. It’s disgusting, no?”
    â€œOh yeah, totally gross.” I avoid looking down at his perfect six-pack in case I get vertigo. “Um, so how am I, um . . .”
    â€œI need a little weight on my quads to stop me tipping up when I crunch, tu sais ? It would be a big help for me.” He leans up on his elbows. I find myself thinking he is too cute, too obviously gorgeous, and he knows it. I don’t even like guys like this. I’m from the East Coast. I like dark and wounded. And clothed.
    But I don’t want to be rude, so I sit down obediently on his thighs, trying not to let my whole weight fall on him, holding myself taut as he pulls his torso up easily and silently, an oiled piston pumping away in the heat. Sweat drips from his neck, runs down his smooth chest. It pools under my butt, forming a salty film that joins us together. Is this a way of flirting?
    Stop it. Stop it , I tell myself. Don’t think. Don’t try to work out what’s going on. Just imagine it’s some surreal carnival ride. I do, just letting him rock me, watching the clouds. Even still, I keep thinking the ride will stop, that Raphael will tire, or at least take a break. But he doesn’t even get out of breath. A butterfly goes past, a huge blue one with tattered wings, seeking out a blown golden poppy inches from Raphael’s face. I smile at the weirdness of my life.
    The weirdness makes me think of yesterday, of Freddie, the text. “Hey, you know that Freddie guy. Is he kind of a weirdo?”
    Raphael doesn’t break from his sit-ups. He just says, “Oh no, he’s a great guy, not very cool with the girls. But you know, I’ve known him since I was two.”
    â€œIt’s just that yesterday he nearly drowned me.”
    He laughs. “No, it was not serious. He only meant fun . . . to play.”
    â€œIt didn’t feel like playing,” I say.
    He says nothing, keeps going, and I suddenly have this weird sensation that we’re being watched. Seconds more and something catches at the corner of my vision. I look up to see a dark shape flit behind an upstairs window, then turn, pale face to the glass. Noémie. She scowls down as if she wishes we would die. I almost tumble off my precarious flesh-perch. I mean, she’s been bitchy before, but I’ve never seen that look on her face. That kind of homicidal look . . . who knew she was even here?
    I stumble up, sweat slick, mumbling an apology to Raphael, who stops all of a sudden and grunts some