“Looks like you’re getting a ‘fall’ after all, Wickham,” I say, enjoying the way he flinches as I lead Darcy past him. “Might want to brace yourself. I have a feeling the landing is gonna be rough.”

I yank at the doorknob, pulling open the camouflaged door. Wickham’s almost-silent “Shit” of defeat barely registers over the rustle of paper, but it is the sweetest sound I could have ever hoped for.

Darcy and I are deposited into an alley and a group of smokers. We weave through them and I pick up the pace, the mix of victory and giddiness propelling me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. We get around the corner before I slow, then pull Darcy up the steps of a darkened barbershop. I move to the stair above him, bringing us to eye level. One look at his grin, and I’m undone. I press my lips to his.

It’s fast and firm and hungry, and he kisses back with the same intensity, taking the last step and backing me against the storefront. His hands slide to my waist, then under the skirt of my dress to grip my thighs. A second later I have my legs wrapped around him. He’s already hard, the front of his trousers and the wisp of material covering me a negligible barrier against the insistent press of his length. He surges against me, and I moan—

A flash of red and blue lights makes me flinch, and we separate with a shared gasp. Darcy hunches over me protectively, but beyond his shoulder I see the cop car moving up the street and away from us. The siren starts to blare and the cruiser speeds off.

I let out a wobbly laugh. “That may have counted as public indecency.” I loosen my grip on Darcy’s shoulders enough to look at his face. Even in the near dark, he looks shell-shocked. A giggle escapes me. The sound borders on manic. “Wickham. I hate that guy.”

Darcy presses his forehead to mine, still breathing heavily. “If this is how you handle hate, I’d be more than happy to review your enemies list with you.”

“I keep that list at home.”

He lets out a low sound I’ve learned is a promise. His fingers press into my hamstring and I suck in a whimper. “Then I’m calling us a car.”

Opening Night

I cannot fix on the penis, or the member, or the man-meat, or the bratwurst, which laid the erection. It is too long a phallus. I was in the junk before I knew that I had dong.

I glance over the Mad Libs sheet at Ming, who trembles with suppressed laughter. “You found a thesaurus, I’ll give you that.”

“It doesn’t even make sense,” says Momma, reading over my shoulder. “The last one is supposed to be a verb.”

“Poetic license.” Ming chuckles and resumes her eyelash application.