Sally Thorne Quotes

Put me down. This isn't funny." My feet make little ineffectual spirals. This isn't the first time a big kid's thrown his weight around with me. Marcus DuShay in third grade once slung me onto the hood of the principal's car and ran off laughing. The plight of the little humans. There is no dignity for us in this oversize world.

"Visit me up here for a sec."

"What on earth for?" I try to slide down but he spans his hands on my waist and presses me against the wall. I squeeze his shoulders until I come to the informed conclusion that his body is extravagant muscle under these Clark Kent shirts.

"Holy shit." His collarbone is like a crowbar under my palms. I say the only idiotic thing I can think of. "Muscles. Bones."

"Thanks.

He glances over his shoulder, no doubt hearing my insanely loud shoes stop in their tracks. Then he looks again. It's a double take for the record books.

"I'm out stalking," I call. It doesn't come out the way I'd intended. It's not lighthearted or funny. It comes out like a warning. I'm one scary bitch right now. I hold my hands up to show I'm not armed. My heart is racing.

"Me too," he replies. Another cab cruises past like a shark.

"Where are you actually going?" My voice rings down the empty street.

"I just told you. I'm going out stalking."

"What, on foot?" I come closer by another six paces. "You were going to walk?"

"I was going to run down the middle of the street like the Terminator."

The laugh blasts out of me like bah.I'm breaking one of my rules by grinning at him, but I can't seem to stop.

"You're on foot, after all. Stilts." He gestures at my sky-high shoes.

"It gives me a few extra inches of height to look through your garbage."

"Find anything of interest?" He strolls closer and stops until we have maybe ten paces between us. I can almost pick up the scent of his skin.

"Pretty much what I was expecting. Vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, adult diapers.

Patty is a shiny shorthaired black and tan Chihuahua, with a big apple dome head. She's got a judgmental narrowing to her eyes. I don't take it personally anymore, but sheesh, this dog looks at you like you're a steaming turd. It's just her face. She remembers me. What an honor to be stamped permanently in her tiny walnut brain. I pick her up and kiss her cheeks.

Lucy," is all he can seem to say. "Lucy. How am I going to walk away from tonight? Seriously. How?"

I get goosebumps. I'm wondering the same thing. I let my head drop to one side, and we kiss.

I'm hoarse and breathless. "I'm gonna die tonight. Please take your pants off."

"I want that embroidered on a pillow.

Hating someone feels disturbingly similar to being in love with them.

I'm missing out on a pale yellow shirt today. It's the color of nursery walls when the unborn baby's gender is a surprise. It's the color of my cowardly soul.

He's not a doctor. Deal with it.

MY PAJAMAS ARE soaked with sweat when I jolt awake and there is a third person in my bedroom. A man I've never seen before. I begin screaming like an injured monkey.

"Calm down," Josh says into my ear. I scramble into his lap and press my face into his collar bone, huffing his cedar scent so hard I probably suck out his ghost. I'm about to be taken to a scary medical facility, away from the safety of my bed and these arms.

"Don't let them, Josh! I'll get better!"

"I'm a doctor, Lucy. How long and what symptoms?" The man puts on some gloves.

What are you imagining? Your expression is filthy."

"Strangling you. Bare hands." I can barely get the words out. I'm huskier than a phone-sex operator after a double shift.

"So that's your kink." His eyes are going dark.

"Only where you're concerned.

The thing that gets me is, when I switched to doing an MBA at night while working at Bexley, he was unimpressed. Like he'd had any kind of opinion. Like I wasn't even noticed or acknowledged enough to disappoint. But I have, Over and over, my entire life. My career is a joke to him."

I'm surprised by how angry I'm getting. I think of Anthony, his face permanently twisted into a sarcastic expression,

"He's lost something special in you, Why is he like this?"

"I don't know. If I knew, maybe I could change it. He's just been that way with me, and most people.

Well, well. Lucinda Hutton. One flexible little gal." He is reclining in his chair again. Both feet are flat on the floor and they point at me like revolvers in a Wild West shootout.

"HR," I clip at him. I'm losing this game and he knows it. Calling HR is virtually like tapping out. He picks up the pencil and presses the sharpened tip against the pad of his thumb. If a human could grin without moving their face, he just did it.

How somebody can't recognize their own eyes, I'll never know.

When I'm your boss, I'm implementing a corporate support uniform policy. No more of your weird little retro costumes. I've already got it circled in the Corporate Wear catalog. A gray shift dress." He pauses for effect. "Polyester. It's supposed to be knee length, so it should reach your ankles."

I am insanely sensitive about my height and I absolutely hate synthetic fibers.

We are adults undertaking a team-building activity in a professional capacity, so naturally we spend several minutes horsing around, striking poses with our paintball guns and making sound effects. Joshua and Sergeant Paintball watch us like orderlies at a mental facility.

What is his deal? He always looks furious." Danny shakes his head at my notepad and we do a bit more business-miming.
"That's his face."
"You guys have a weird dynamic going on."
"There's no dynamic. No dynamic." I begin swigging at my coffee. It's too hot and a terrible idea.
"But you know he's in love with you, right?"
I inhale my huge mouthful and being to drown on dry land.

Immediately I give myself a little mental slap. Fishing for compliments is a cardinal sin. "Never mind, I was only joking.

I need your hands more than I've ever needed anything.

So painting your nails tonight, desperately alone?" Lucky guess on his part?
"Yes. Masturbating and crying into your pillow, Doctor Joshua?" He looks at the top button of my shirt.
"Yes. And don't call me that.

Everything. If you were mine, I'd do everything." Our gold bubble locks shut, and a little universe fills it. The possibilities are infinite.
"I have a big imagination. Could you be more specific?" I put my hand on the side of his neck and stroke down to the hard bar of his collarbone. His skin is hot satin. His pulse nudges me.
Mine, mine, mine. One thousand percent mine until the end of time. He looks like he agrees.
"Everything you wanted or needed, I'd do it." Amazing how he can keep it clean, but it feels so dirty. That's the thing about good boys.
"I want and need a lot."
A big white smile now. "No kidding. Well, I'm a hard worker.

He advances like a floating Dracula. The menace is ruined by the sporting-goods-store bag loudly crinkling against his leg. A shoebox is in it, judging from the shape.

Imagine the wretched sales assistant who had to help Joshua choose shoes.I require shoes to ensure I can effectively run down the targets I am paid to assassinate in my spare time. I require the best value for my money. I am size eleven

There's still one solid-gold good man left out there. He's the high-tide mark in a world of inch-deep puddles.

Sunday night is my personal weekly Halloween.

I walk along slowly and drag my fingertips along the bars of chocolate. Goddamn, you sexy little squares. Dark, milk, white, I do not discriminate. I eat it all. Those fluorescent sour candies that only obnoxious little boys like. I suck candy apples clean. If an envelope seal is sweet, I'll lick it twice. Growing up, I was that kid who would easily get lured into a van with the promise of a lollipop.

Sometimes, I let the retail seduction last for twenty minutes, ignoring Marco and feeling up the merchandise, but I'm so tired of male voices.

"Five bags of marshmallows," Marco says in a resigned tone. "Wine. And a can of cat food."

"Cat food is low carb." He makes no move to scan anything, so I scan each item myself and unroll a few notes from my tips. "Your job involves selling things. Sell them. Change, please."

"I just don't know why you do this to yourself." Marco looks at the register with a moral dilemma in his eyes. "Every week you come and do this."

He hesitates and looks over his shoulder where his sugar book sits under a layer of dust. He knows not to try to slip it into my bag with my purchases.

"I don't know why you care, dude. Just serve me. I don't need your help." He's not entirely wrong about my being an addict. I would lick a line of icing sugar off this counter right now if no one were around. I would walk into a cane plantation and

The trick is to find that one person who can give it back as good as they can take it.

His scent is intensified in here perfectly, baked by summer, preserved by snow, sealed and pressurized inside glass and metal. I inhale like a professional perfumer. Top notes of mint, bitter coffee, and cotton. Mid notes of black pepper and pine. Base notes of leather and cedar. Luxurious as cashmere. If this is what his car smells like, imagine his bed. Good idea. Imagine his bed. He

Shortcake."
"Stop calling me Shortcake."
"Watching you pretend to hate that nickname is the best part of my day.

"Stop calling me" title="Sally Thorne Quotes: Shortcake."
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In my room, I scrub my eyes with makeup wipes and change into leggings and old band T-shirt. I'll let my teeth decay tonight.

A memory of last night drops through my body like a coin. Ripples spread through my stomach, shimmering down.

I hang up and don't even need to look at Joshua. I know he's shaking his head.

After a few minutes I glance at him, and he is staring at me. Imagine it's two minutes before the biggest interview of your life, and you look down at your white shirt. Your peacock-blue fountain pen has leaked through your pocket. Your head explodes with an obscenity and your stomach is a spike of panic over the simmering nerves. You're an idiot and everything's ruined. That's the exact color of Joshua's eyes when he looks at me.

Are you sure about that?" He looks down to watch my hand spread out over his stomach. I push at the hard flesh. It doesn't remotely give. "Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?" "I've got to in this office.

All I want to do is kiss you until I fall asleep. I want to slide in between your sheets, and find out what goes on inside your head, and underneath your clothes. I want to make a fool of myself over you. Mr.

Where are you actually going?" My voice rings down the empty street. "I just told you. I'm going out stalking." "What, on foot?" I come closer by another six paces. "You were going to walk?" "I was going to run down the middle of the street like the Terminator.

I love him so much it's like a thread piercing me. Punching holes. Dragging through. Stitching love into me. I'll neve robe able to untangle myself from this feeling. The color of love is surely this robin's-egg blue.

Dad calls you other names starting with J, but never your real name."

"What?" He looks alarmed. "You've told your dad about me?"

"He's mad at you for being so mean. Julian and Jasper and John. One time, he called you Jebediah and I nearly peed myself. You'd have to grovel to my dad, that's for sure."

Josh looks so disturbed I decide to cut him a break and change the subject.

I call the GPS woman the worst names I can think of. I beg her to stop. But she doesn't. Like a total bitch, she directs me to Josh's apartment building.

Now we screech out of here like Thelma and Louise.

I wanted you here because I always want you with me.

The soundtrack should be a lilting indie affair; equal parts hopeful and with a broken, bittersweet lyric hook that makes your heart hurt for some unknown reason. But instead it's scored by the 1980s hair metal I found in an incriminating iPod playlist titledGym.

"You seriously got those abs while listening to Poison and Bon Jovi," I crow, and he can't deny it. It's just us, windows down, stereo cranked, the road curling in front of us like a tongue.

So this is what sex with you would be like." I can't resist teasing him. "I was hoping you'd participate a little more." He finally says something. "I'd participate. So well, you wouldn't walk straight the next day.

No matter how I look, it never seems to faze him. He always looks at me exactly the same way.

How You Doing, Little Lucy?" His bright tone and mild expression indicates we're playing a game we almost never play. It's a game called How You Doing? and it basically starts off like we don't hate each other. We act like normal colleagues who don't want to swirl their hands in each other's blood. It's disturbing.

"Great, thanks, Big Josh. How You Doing?"

"Super. Gonna go get coffee. Can I get you some tea?" He has his heavy black mug in his hand. I hate his mug.

I look down; my hand is already holding my red polka-dot mug. He'd spit in anything he made me. Does he think I'm crazy? "I think I'll join you."

We march purposefully toward the kitchen with identical footfalls, left, right, left, right, like prosecutors walking toward the camera in the opening credits of Law & Order. It requires me to almost double my stride. Colleagues break off conversations and look at us with speculative expressions. Joshua and I look at each other and bare our teeth. Time to act civil. Like executives.

"Ah-ha-ha," we say to each other genially at some pretend joke. "Ah-ha-ha."

We sweep around a corner. Annabelle turns from the photocopier and almost drops her papers. "What's happening?"

Joshua and I nod at her and continue striding, unified in our endless game of one-upmanship. My short striped dress flaps from the g-force.

"Mommy and Daddy love you very much, kids," Joshua says quietly so only I can h

Shyness takes so many different forms. Some people are shy and soft. Some, shy and hard. Or in Josh's case, shy, and wrapped in military-grade armor. "Josh,

I tug him down to lie on me properly. "I'm pretty heavy. I'll flatten you." "I've had a good life.

The trick is to find someone who's strong enough to take it. That one person who can give it back as good as they get

Anthony, it's been real.

I have a theory. Hating someone feels disturbingly similar to being in love with them. I've had a lot of time to compare love and hate, and these are my observations.
Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person. The heart in your chest beats heavy and bright, nearly visible through your flesh and clothes. Your appetite and sleep are schredded. Every interaction spikes your blood with adrenaline, and you're in the brink of fight or flight. Your body is barely under your control. You're consumed, and it scares you.
Both love and hate are mirror versions of the same game - and you háve to win. Why? Your heart and your ego. Trust me, I should know.

I can never decide if Tom's hair is the color of caramel fudge or chocolate. Either way, yum. The texture is like a romance novel that's fallen into the bath, then dried: vaguely sexual crinkle waves with the occasional curled edge and dog-ear. I want to jam my hand in it and make a gentle fist.

I look at Danny. If I'd thrown a torn-up wishlist into a fireplace, he's the guy Mary Poppins would have delivered.

Books were, and always would be, something a little magic and something to respect.

The plight of the little humans. There is no dignity for us in this oversize world. "Visit

There's a bookcase lining an entire wall. By the window there's an armchair and another lamp, with a stack of books illuminated beneath it. Even more books on the coffee table. I'm intensely relieved by this. What would I have done if he turned out to be a beautiful illiterate?

Unfortunately, the next thing I say sounds deranged. "I want to know what's going on in your brain. I want to juice your head like a lemon." "Why

Walking together, matching our footfalls, we exit the lobby like two television district attorneys gunning for justice.

So . . . how are we getting out of here? Do I still have to?"
"Yes. That thing over there"-he points as he unhooks my coat from the hanger-"is an elevator. You've been in it before. With me, in fact. I'll step you through the process."
"What if someone sees us?"
"You say that now? Lucinda, you're priceless."
I slap my keyboard to lock my computer, snatch my handbag and clatter after him. I try to tug my coat from his arm but he shakes his head and tuts. The elevator doors open and he tugs me in, his hand at my waist.
I turn to see Helene, leaning on her doorframe, her posture one of casual amusement. She then throws her head back and laughs in delight, clapping her hands together. He waves to Helene as the doors close.

I haven't seen you today. I've been feeling mixed up and desperately sad, and for some reason seeing you might help the weird pain in my chest. I don't have friends. Except for you. Except you're not.

Joshua Templeman is going to spray his coffee out his nose when I walk in. I don't know why I want him to - but I do.

What a confusing thought to fall asleep with.

His smile is worth a thousand of anyone else's.

I love you, Lucy Hutton. So much, you have no idea. Please be my best friend.

He releases the button on my coat with the snap of his fingers. The traitorous garment flips open, as if to say Help yourself, mister!

So. This is it. Your car." Danny stops, frames his hands around the car. "It's incredible."

"Isn't she?" I lean on the door. "Free at last, free at last."

"Did you just quote Martin Luther King Jr. in relation to your car?"

"Um. Yes, I guess I did . . ."

He bursts out laughing. "Man, you're awesome."

"I'm an idiot.

I've had a chronic case of the heavy sad sighs lately

He holds the elevator door open with one enormous hand and leans out to look at the weather. Then he swings those dark blue eyes to mine, his brow beginning to crease. The familiar bubble forms in my head. I wish he was my friend. I burst it with a pin. "I'll give you a ride," he forces out. "Ugh, no way," I say over my shoulder and run.

Tom Valeska has an animal inside him, and I've felt it every time he's looked at me.

Truth or Dare," he says. He always knows the exact right thing to say.

"Dare."

"Coward. Okay, I dare you to eat the entire jar of hot mustard I have in my fridge."

"I was hoping for a sexy dare."

"I'll get you a spoon."

"Truth.

So, how was work? You clearly missed me."

I put my hands on my face in embarrassment and he just laughs a bit to himself.

"It was boring." It's the truth.

"No one to antagonize, huh?"

"I tried abusing some of the gentle folk in payroll but they got all teary."

"The trick is to find that one person who can give it back as good as they can take it." He takes out a pan and begins to fry the vegetables in a single, stingy drop of oil.

"Sonja Rutherford, probably. That scary lady in the mailroom that looks like an albino Morticia Addams."

"Don't line my replacement up too quick. You'll hurt my feelings.

It's going to happen, Josh. We just need to get it out of our systems. I think that's what it's all been building toward."

"You sound a little resigned."

"I can only apologize in advance for the things I'll do to you.

I just get crabby and irritated. Big surprise, I know I'm always like that. But I just need to feel someone else . . . It eases off the sharpness inside. It really is an actual thing. Skin hunger. I read a study about it.

I hope it's not too forward of me to say, but your eyes are incredible, Lucy. I die when you blink.

I crank the shower and it spits and steams. Then I stand in the water and when I cry, the tears wash away. The perfect crime

Helene and Mr. Bexley peel out again like Wacky Racers.

In the privacy of my mind I can imagine whatever I want, and they aren't progressive, twenty-first-century thoughts. They're depraved, brutal cavewoman thoughts. In my mind, he's electric with the animal instinct to protect me, his heavy muscle braced over my body. He absorbs each impact and it is his privilege. He's injected sharp and hard with nature's superdrug, testosterone. I'm wrapped in him, safe from anything the world wants to throw at me. Anything painful or cruel will have to get through him before it has any chance of touching me. And it will never happen. "Alive?

Watching you pretend to hate the nickname is the best part of my day.

How long have you done it?"

"Since the second day of B and G. The first day was a bit of a blur. I've always meant to compile some stats. Sorry. Saying it aloud sounds insane."

"I wish I'd thought of doing it, if it makes you feel better. I'm equally insane."

"You cracked the shirt code pretty quick."

"Why do you even wear them in sequence?"

"I wanted to see if you noticed. And once you did notice, it pissed you off."

"I've always noticed."

"Yeah, I know." He smiles, and I smile too.

He did not smile back, and somehow I feel like he's been carrying my smile around in his breast pocket ever since. He's one up.

I love the energy we create between us when we banter like this. It's the most intense sensation of pleasure, knowing he'll always have the perfect response ready. I've never known anyone like him; as addictive to talk to as he is to kiss. "Truth