Summer of Supernovas by Darcy Woods Page B

the face I normally reserve for choking down her tetya ’s borscht.
    “As a matter of fact I do, KGB operative. Grant’s band is playing at Absinthe, and since I missed them last Sunday, I asked Seth if he’d be up for going. Want to meet up with us? You and…” I make a suggestive waggle of my eyebrows.
    “Not sure. I’ll text if we do.” Iri’s been tight-lipped about the mysterious suit-wearing cactus guy—Jordan Lockwood. The more I ask, the less she says. Also true to her word, she pokes my eye.
    “Ow! Okay, okay, enough mascara.” I wrench away to change the playlist and turn up the volume.
    “So, what’re you wearing on your date with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” I ask, before disappearing into my closet, flicking through the hangers.
    “His name is Jordan, not what’s-his-name— Valdyvort. ”
    “Voldemort,” I correct.
    “Whatever. I’m wearing snakeskin pants and a silver tube top.” She winks. “Maximum shock value.”
    I giggle. “What, is he a mutual-fund salesman? An Amish wood whittler? Ooh, is he a manager at that fancy mattress store at the mall with those adjustable beds?
    “Iri, I can do this all night,” I warn. I pull out a dress that feels all wrong and shove it back.

    “Mmm. Not telling till I know if it’s anything worth telling. Dorogaya, wear the blue dress with the belt,” she hollers over the music and screeching hangers. “It’ll be perfect with your eyes.”
    “Oh, I forgot about that one.” I find the belted, off-the-shoulder dress and slip off my robe. “Hey, Iri?”
    “Yeah?”
    I pause for several beats. “What’s the rumor about Grant Walker?”
    “Grant…what?” She chuckles. “Oh, I think the more pressing question is why are you still so obsessed with knowing?”
    I venture out of the closet, dress half on. “Will you zip me?” I turn my back to her. “The only reason I’m curious is because you won’t tell me.”
    Irina jiggles the old zipper to get it working as she releases a long, theatrical sigh. “Okay, fine. I’ll put you out of your misery. Here it is: Grant Walker’s said to have mad skills in the sack, like the kind that spawn urban legends. Maybe it’s because he’s got that sensitive-musician thing happening, or could be his dexterity that makes him so—”
    I cough.
    She gives my back a few hearty slaps. “Hey, you were the one who had to know.”
    I clear my throat. “So, does he have a girlfriend, then?”
    She fastens the pearl button above the zipper. “How would I know?”
    “W-well, what do you think makes someone skilled? Is it sheer numbers or the size of—”

    “Oh no!” Irina cries. I turn to find her scrounging through her bag. “I forgot shoes. How could I forget shoes?”
    “You can borrow a pair of mine. You might feel sorta geisha-like since they’re a size smaller, but you’re welcome to—”
    “Excellent!” She pops up to forage my closet. “An accomplished lover isn’t really about size or experience, well, maybe a little about that. Mainly, it boils down to whether or not he’s a ‘ladies first’ kind of guy.”
    “Ladies first?” I echo.
    “Yeah, meaning the girl’s pleasure is primary. If he’s concerned about her satisfaction in bed, stands to reason he’ll be tuned in to the other stuff.” She chuckles. “And believe me, any guy who unlocks another woman’s passion will forever be legendary.” Irina struts out. “These good?”
    My head bobs, but I’ve totally checked out. Images of Grant mingle with the words “pleasure” and “legendary,” until there’s no room for anything else.
    She fans my face. “Whoa, you’re burning up, Wil. Hey”—she lifts my chin—“is it possible that it’s more than curiosity? Maybe you feel something for Grant and that’s what’s really behind the questions?”
    “No! That’s crazy. I mean”—I shake my head vehemently—“he’s completely wrong. Good God, he’s a Pisces ! It doesn’t get more wrong. And anyway, why