Right Now | Rafe Cameron

03: forbidden flesh taste the sweetest.

THREE

forbidden flesh taste the sweetest.

"Pasteurized milk; last name legweak; 1973 Pink Floyd," Billie smirked, pleased with herself. They had been roped into being a team in this strange game Truman wanted to play. You had to describe the word, but you couldn't say the most obvious related words to it, and the other person had to guess, and link all the hints in a way that made sense. Everyone was a judge of that. But the game had sort of escalated.

"Pasteurized milk; last name Legweak; 1973 Pink Floyd," Billie repeated.

"The moon," Rafe said immediately. His face held not a sliver of doubt. Everyone around the table oooh:d, save Billie. She looked at him with raised eyebrows, challenging him to explain.

"Justification?" Truman said and sipped his drink.

"Wallace and Gromit think the moon is made of cheese, which is pasteurized milk. Legweak is the opposite of Armstrong, first man on the moon. Pink Floyd, 1973 album: The Dark Side of the Moon. The answer is the moon. Easy," Rafe said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course, Billie thought it was. But as she looked around, her friends' heads alternated between her and Rafe and she realized that maybe it hadn't been as obvious as she thought. She turned to Rafe, who looked pleased with himself. She didn't like that. God, he is annoying.

"You do one then." She glared at Rafe who smirked at her mysteriously. Can he stop? We hate each other.

"Okay," he said and took a quick swig of his beer before sitting up straight and putting the bottle on the coffee table. He thought for a few seconds while rubbing his hands together and then looked at Billie with a cunning smile. She rolled her eyes in contempt as he worded his riddle for the group.

"Sylvia Bell; Mauvais Papa; George Binks."

"What the hell," Truman laughed. Billie looked around the sofas at her friends, who all looked dumbfounded.

"I have one," Percy said. Rafe gestured his hand towards him to bring forward his suggestion. Billie knew Percy didn't know, and she also knew Rafe knew that Percy didn't know. The look on Rafe's face told her he was pleased with himself, too pleased. And she didn't like the smugness on him, it made her itch, made her want to hit or bite something in rage. Percy seemed to give it some more thought. "George Binks was an Irish footballer."

"That's George Best, Perce," Truman dismissed.

"Ah," Percy accepted defeat and nodded. "Then I'm lost."

Rafe turned to look at Billie who stared at him with a serious gaze.

"Jar," she finally said. Billie bit her lip to hide her pleased smile. The change in Rafe's expression told her she was right. His smile turned into a straight line: defeat.

"Jar?" Uma laughed. "Surely not. With what motivation?" she asked amused, not convinced in the least.

"Sylvia Plath wrote The Bell Jar. The opposite of Mauvais Papa is Bonne Maman, a company that makes jam and marmalade in aesthetic jars. The character Jar Jar Binks is a character in George Lucas' Star Wars prequels," Billie said quickly. "Did I miss something?"

She looked at Rafe. He didn't answer, he just looked at her with narrowed eyes, like he was trying to figure her out again. There was a tension between them that Billie couldn't decipher. Hatred? Uma cleared her throat and changed her position on the sofa.

"Very impressive," Uma said, clearly bored. "Let's have another game."

***