by Sidney Ivens
“Your Nick’s good for Chris.”
“He’s not my Nick.”
Her aunt gave her a playful nudge. “My sweet, darling girl. The more you insist you don’t like him, the more I know you do.”
“No, I don’t.” She gave a vigorous head shake. “At all.”
“And why not? He’s big and masculine and gorgeous and funny.”
“He’s shallow and self-centered and a horrible man-whore.”
“Man-whore? Is that what the girls call it these days?”
“The term originated with him.”
“He hides how much he loves his mother. Did you notice?”
How could she not have noticed the empty stare, as though he went somewhere else? The glimpse of sadness.
Whiskers twitching, Norman stretched, and his eyes blinked.
The male sneeze from the living room didn’t come from her brother.
Her aunt smiled. “He might do something wonderful with this old building.”
“He might open a strip club, too.”
I sneeze again. Damn cat.
Funny, me of all people noticing the painted-over fireplace. About two gallons of off-white paint had been sloshed over those bricks, and three stockings have been hung with care at the mantle. And I think of the cozy fireplace guy. How I’m not a cozy fireplace guy.
The TV’s pretty loud. The Patriots are annihilating the Jets, and it’s the third quarter. Chris and I sip on two Cokes I grabbed from the refrigerator. He’d carried over Elena’s cell phone and it’s on the coffee table, vibrating. Curious, I flip it over. Kyle Hotchkiss.
I almost pick it up but don’t. He’ll call back.
I sit in the armchair and lift my feet to rest on the ottoman. While Chris has quieted down, my thoughts yell at me in CAPS. WHY THE HELL am I sitting here when I could be sneaking down the stairs to freedom? Do I really need to subject myself to Act Three of this sad family drama?
My hands are still shaking. Not from the disaster known as the Turkey Valdez—that floor was crazy slick—or helping Chris settle down. Even the effin cat has vacated the room, although my nose apparently doesn’t recognize his absence. No, my hands are shaking from being with her.
Come on. Both my dick and brain tried to reason with me. Straight up fluke. Simple explanation: delayed gratification. I’d delayed getting my hands on her, and now that I had, all that backed-up sperm had gone gonzo.
She’s a girl. A beautiful sexy girl who keeps a tight rein on herself. When we started kissing, she lost control, and that excited the hell out of me. It’s lust, pure and simple. Unfulfilled lust.
Underneath the couch is an empty red French fry box. My mind starts “associating.” Yeah. Random hookups were like those scratch-off cards from a fast food joint. You’d at least win a free fry, sometimes more. Same with women I’d picked up at clubs and later had a rollicking time at my place. Some girls were fries, easily devoured, the empty box cast aside. Or hate sex, that’s when they got the order wrong, like when you’d ordered a burger and got buffalo wings instead . . . you were horny and fucked like crazy anyway.
But maybe, just maybe, a sensation I’d been unwilling to admit, after orgasms I’d experienced a letdown, some kind of morbid fizzle. Someone had told me about it, la petite mort, the little death.
Emptiness.
Before, I’d be concentrating on performance. Staying hard. Doing everything to drive a woman insane. I was good at it.
Kissing Elena, we became entwined around each other, and somehow her vines and mine had wrapped around each other, not in a strangling, constricting way but in some strange exciting way. Doing something with her, rather than doing something to her.
Kissing her felt like I’d snorted sunshine. I’d felt euphoric. Saying that aloud would be insanity, as bad as a Navy SEAL finding a pink Barbie backpack in my locker.
This is a problem. Elena will not do a hookup. I can’t leave her alone, and my testicles don’t handle frustration well.
Chris clears his throat. Shoulders slumped, blank expression. The angry steam holding him together has faded.
Her brother has problems. Serious problems. This would normally send me running. After all, I’m used to delegating. I don’t deal direct; I order.
The smartest tactic here: do not get involved. Secure the building sale, wait for them to vacate, get started on renovations ASAP. Open the sports bar before the competition swoops in.
On the TV, a big play just happened, and the crowd roars. The color commentator crows, “Did you see that?”
Chris stares at the slow-motion replay, and then his head makes this funny twitch. He tugs on his ear. Poor bastard.
His problems are too deep. Too sad. Usually, there aren’t sunny outcomes for a guy like him. He’d have to have relatives take care of him for the rest of his life, or maybe move into one of those group homes for adults with Down’s.
I don’t deal well with this kind of thing, but I cut myself some slack; a lot of people couldn’t. I surround myself with pretty, well-dressed people who don’t face catastrophe. The extent of their problems is when they can’t get the window seat at their favorite restaurant, or they grumble their ACT scores weren’t above 30.
Chris’s problems are bigger than this shabby little place, bigger than what the two women can handle.
Leave. Vamanos. Make up some excuse, someone to see, another place to be.
But I remember Elena cutting up his food, how she set down his dinner plate and patted his arm. I’m used to people who provide a service for a tip. Not to the person who helps from the heart.
Her phone buzzes again. Kyle Hotchkiss, the guy I called “Studly.”
Suddenly I feel like a callous asshole, calling him that. They’d gone through boot camp together. Survived combat. What had I ever done like that?
“Hey, Chris.” My legs fly off the ottoman and I’m on my feet, nudging his arm. “Want to shoot some pool?”
They halted at the crrrack and the sound of a miniature bowling bowl rolling.
At Nick’s condo, Elena and Aunt Robbie followed Chris’s loud whoop past the living room and kitchen, past the Lake Michigan view. In the gourmet chef kitchen, the recipe box had been pulled away from the backsplash and a handwritten note card popped out. The lasagna recipe. Elena smiled.
Finally, they located Nick and Chris in what appeared to be a tricked-out man cave featuring beautiful furnishings, a sepia-dyed sectional with a direct view to an oversized TV that receded into custom cabinetry. Under the TV was a dramatic fireplace, large slate tiles floor to ceiling, black onyx framing the orange glowing flames. The wet bar was stocked with all kinds of liquors and wines, as well as spanking clean glasses in every shape and a high-end blender.
On the other side of the pool table, Nick pretended to take off a helmet and stared with ominous intent. “I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.”
Chris hooted and laughed. “Gladiator.” He cleared his throat. “Okay. My turn. ‘You speak treason,’” he said in a gruff voice. Then, mimicking a second character, he lifted his chin. “Fluently.”
“No fair. You watch those old movies.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s from Captain Blood.”
The men were so immersed in their one-upmanship that they didn’t see either Aunt Robbie or her loitering at the pocket doors.
Nick had removed his sports coat and pushed up the long sleeves to reveal his ice blue tee, a military-style watch on his left wrist, his lean fingers splayed over the tip of the pool stick. The cue ball struck a striped ball, which banked off the corner of the bleached oak pool table.
“Yippee-ki-yay, mother—”
“Die Hard!” Chris laughed, all traces of his dark mood gone. He’d tugged out the ends of his plaid shirt and paused with a glass of juice in his hand, shaking his head. “C’mon, man. You’re handing them to me.”
“Next one.” Nick pretended to press a cell phone to his ear and looked pained, brows deeply furrowed. “What
I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you—”
“Taken!” Chris pounded the edge of the pool table, laughing harder.
Her aunt leaned over, squeezed her arm, whispered: “They’re really hitting it off.”
She nodded, amused and concerned at the same time. Chris was susceptible and lonely. Kyle, his closest friend, lived so far away. A lot of the vets who frequented the same neighborhood VFW as Chris weren’t close to his age. Nick had this spectacular condo and made Chris feel included. But a pool game wouldn’t translate into a dependable friend.
Someday, Chris would want to hang out, and Nick would let his calls bounce to voicemail. Ignore his texts. Nick would break her brother’s heart.
Just like he would hers.
“Okay, okay,” Chris said, arms lifted in the air, fingers fanned out. “Today . . . “ He mimicked a stadium echo. “I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
“Pride of the Yankees,” she said.
They both turned toward her voice.
“We watched it on TCM with Auntie Rob last week.”
“No wonder I’m losing.” Nick flung up his arms. “Ladies. Glad you made it safely in.”
“The security code you gave us helped a little.”
Laughing, he strode over to the bar and rubbed his hands with anticipation. “What can I get you? A Coke? Sparkling mineral water?”
“No, thank you. We need to get going.”
“We can’t trust Norman alone. He’ll throw some wild party,” her aunt added.
“Aww, man,” Chris said. “I want to stick around.”
“Auntie Rob’s tired.” Elena picked up his russet-colored Carhartt jacket from the sofa arm.
“I can take him home.” Nick twisted a blue cube of chalk over the tip of his pool stick.
She pursed her lips and draped the jacket over her arms.
Nick’s eyes narrowed at her. “Better head out. Otherwise your sister will go Vesuvius.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Stop over anytime. Mi casa, bro.”
Her aunt took the jacket from Elena’s arm and walked over to her nephew. “We’ll go wait in the car, Christopher, and let these two say goodbye.”
They made their way out the pocket doors and down the wide hallway, their voices floating behind them.
She and Nick were alone.
“Well. Don’t want another ticket. Thanks for inviting him over.” She waved a mitten-covered hand.
Nick nodded toward her hand, grinning. “You’ve lost your mittens, you naughty kittens.”
“Nick.”
“You’re great at naughty.” Eyes fixed on hers, he strolled around the pool table in steady steps. A slow smile curved his lips, a sexy, dangerous smile.
She trembled and moved in the opposite direction. “What else happens on your pool table? Human sacrifices? Sexual rituals?”
“Stay and find out,” he said huskily.
“I can’t.”
“C’mon. I saw you admiring the fireplace.”
“I also admire tigers at the zoo, but I won’t go into their pens.” She anchored her purse straps over her shoulder, hoping to telegraph the evening was over.
His silence surprised her. What, no one-liner?
“Elena.” He looked down, running a forefinger over the edge of the table. “I was just as affected as you were.”
Did he mean that, or was this a new tactic from his seduction playbook? Because if he meant it, she might dissolve into a puddle of spineless ooze.
“Stay,” he said. “They’ll survive without you for one night. We’ll talk.”
“We don’t talk. We argue and—” She felt lightheaded, struggling with crazy attraction, amplified by this potent hint of vulnerability. If she stayed, though, they’d just wind up in bed, and she couldn’t stand seeing him revert to his slick usual self in the morning.
His eyes were earnest, stripped bare. “You have a great family.”
His sincerity shocked her. He lived in this palace, had all these extraordinary things, the view, the lifestyle. Practically anything at his fingertips. But he looked so lonely.
The last of his steps closed the gap between them, and her senses whirred a bit at the proximity of his broad shoulders and lean body. The sexual sizzle was there, but something else was, too. Something deeper.
She looked up at him.
“You’d better go.” He reached over to brush his fingers over her upper arm. “Before I turn back into a pumpkin.”
Still tingling from his touch, she slipped free. Yes, hurry and leave before she melted into him. She passed through the opening and partially opened pocket doors and hastened down the hall.
He followed her, pool stick in hand. “No, I had it wrong again. The coachman turns back into a mouse.”
“You’re too big to be a mouse.” She arrived at the private elevator door.
“A rat, then. You’d have to agree to a rat.”
She stalled at the elevator and then rushed back to him. Stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. “Thank you for what you did for Chris.” She caressed his cheek, roughened from a day’s beard. She pivoted and returned to the elevator, getting on this time, a thickness expanding in her throat. As the door closed, he stood there, shadowed and alone.
Her kiss is still warm on my cheek, and I can feel my pulse in my throat. The urge to hold her is still there, powerfully strong. How beautiful she looked in the elevator, face flushed. She’d wanted to stay.
Thanksgiving is over, my first real holiday in a long time. Elena passing me dishes, careful to use potholders on the hot bowls full of mashed potatoes, yams, broccoli. That Mona Lisa smile of hers.
Now I’ve got to deal with whatever crazy shit is floating around inside my head. This mental fuzziness. Heart’s practically banging against my chest, and then I hear it. Mama’s voice, a ghostly whisper.
See what’s right in front of you, Nicky.
See what?
The whisper comes again, soft as the first time, but more urgent.
See what’s in front of you.
My phone chirps and I reach for it too fast, sending the gadget to the floor. Cursing, I fumble for it again. Maybe Elena forgot something. But it’s not her, it’s from my father’s personal secretary, Cecily Tompkins.
C. TOMPKINS
Your father wishes to speak to you immediately.
Come to his office.
Huh? On Thanksgiving evening, at nine o’clock, the old man wants to talk? The last I heard, he was in Dubai, a fifteen-hour flight from here.
My phone chirps, another message.
Your father is upset.
Miss Tompkins—even her damn cats called her Miss Tompkins—wasn’t much in the looks department. Still, he’d give her five words, even cuss words, and she’d write a polished letter for which he took credit.
I call Miss Tompkins, but she doesn’t pick up, so I fire over a text:
Answer your phone.
Her reply:
Come at once.
Me again:
What’s another gasket blown if he’s already volcanic?
WTF? Can’t this wait until tomorrow?
Her response:
It’s urgent.
Maybe he’d found out my plans. If there is one thing Dad can’t stand, it’s disloyalty. Me, the fruit of his loins, being disloyal? He’d whistle for the Braveheart executioner and his ax-carrying buddy to come and gut me.
Naw. This is Chicago. There would be wiseguys holding blow torches.
Do I really want to face my father after our last conversation? Hell no.
Now steamed and wired at a higher voltage, I head to the lower level garage, hop into the Aston and drive downtown, where my father’s office is located. Rivaling a film villain’s headquarters, the black lacquer furniture stands out from the walls, which are coated in a silver python pattern. From the windows, th
e city’s skyline glows against the night sky.
The back of his executive chair faces me, and cigar smoke rises above the leather’s tufted edges.
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “Dubai can’t compare to our Chicago winters.”
The chair swivels around.
It’s Lexi.
New hair extensions, spray-tanned, a color block dress, a middle zipper that’s pulled low to show off her gonzo implants.
WTF is she doing in my dad’s office.
“Rhymes With.”
“Junior.” She grinds the cigar in a crystal ashtray. Her eyes move over my fitted leather jacket, dark jeans. “You look good.”
“You look well-maintained. Fresh off the plastic surgeon’s slab.” Even though it’s cold in here—cold the way a morgue keeps the bodies stiff—I unzip my jacket, exposing the light blue tee underneath, and plop into one of the two empty leather chairs facing the desk. I raise my legs and drop my ankles and feet on the wooden edge. “How much turkey did you eat?” I ask, resting the back of my head on my hands. “And was it white or dark meat?”
She smiles and steeples her hands. “Both.”
“So what’s the game today, Lexi? Twenty questions until I guess how you got into my father’s office and commandeered his secretary’s phone?”
She pushes up from the chair and struts around the desk. Amazing how well she can walk on those five-inch stilettos, strappy things meant for S&M antics.
Itching for a reaction.
Instead I stare into her eyes and cruise on a cocky smile.
Her green eyes bulge and her nostrils flare.
She resumes her strut in the opposite direction around the desk and stops. Hovers. Plants her hands on the desk’s edge, about two feet apart. Sticks out her curvy firm ass and wiggles it. “You had me hold the pool table like this, right?” She glides her tongue across her lower lip. “C’mon, Nicky. I bet you have a nice big hard-on. You’re dying to fuck me.”
