Wallbanger

by Alice Clayton

  “Thanks for the coffee, and the shower, and the pipe rescue,” I said, stretching as I walked toward the door. I nodded at the guy in the hallway and held up one finger to let him know I’d be right there.

  “No problem. It wasn’t the nicest way to wake up, but I suppose I deserved that one.”

  “Indeed. But thank you anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, and thanks for the bread. It was great. And if another loaf happens to make its way over here, that would be okay.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. And hey, where’s my sweater?”

  “Do you know how expensive those are?”

  “Pffft, I want my sweater!” I cried, slapping him in the chest.

  “Well, as it happens, I did bring you something—a sort of thanks-for-kicking-my-door present.”

  “I knew it. You can drop it off later.” I walked across the hall to let the guy in. I directed him toward the kitchen and turned back to Simon. “Friends, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “I can live with that.” I smiled and closed the door.

  As the maintenance guy went about fixing the problem, I wandered to my bedroom to check on Clive. Just as I entered, my phone buzzed. A text from Simon already? I grinned and flopped down on the bed, snuggling a still-freaked-out kitty to my side. He began to purr instantly.

  You never answered my question…

  I felt my skin heat up as I realized what he was referring to. I was suddenly warm and a little tingly, like when your foot falls asleep, but all over. And in a good way. Damn, he gave great text.

  About whether I’m fucking anyone?

  Jesus, you’re crass. But yes, friends can ask that, can’t they?

  Yes they can.

  So?

  You’re kind of a pain in the ass. You know this, right?

  Tell me. Don’t get shy on me now.

  As it happens, no. I’m not.

  I heard a thud from next door, and then a slight but constant banging on the wall.

  What the hell are you doing? Is that your head?

  You’re killing me, Nightie Girl.

  As soon as I finished reading, the banging resumed. I laughed out loud as he thumped his head against the wall. I placed my hand on the wall over my bed where the thumping was concentrated and chuckled again. What a strange morning…

  Chapter Ten

  I SAT IN MY OFFICE, gazing out the window. I had a list of things to do in front of me—and it wasn’t a small list either. I needed to run by the Nicholson house. The renovation was almost complete. The bedroom and bathroom were finished, and just a few details remained. I needed to get some new sample books from the design center. I had a meeting with a new client Mimi had referred to me, and on top of all that, I had a folder full of invoices to go through.

  But still, I gazed out the window. I might have had Simon on the brain. And for good reason. Between the pipe explosions, the head banging, and the constant texting all day Sunday asking for more zucchini bread, my brain simply could not expunge him. And then last night, he brought out the big guns: he Glenn Miller-ed me. He even knocked on the wall to make sure I was listening.

  I put my head down on the desk and banged it a few times to see if it helped. It had seemed to help Simon…

  That night I went straight to yoga after work and was climbing the stairs to my apartment when I heard a door open from above.

  “Caroline?” he called down to me.

  I grinned and continued up the stairs. “Yes, Simon?” I called up.

  “You’re home late.”

  “What, are you watching my door now?” I laughed, rounding the last landing and staring up at him. He was hanging over the railing, hair in his face.

  “Yep. I’m here for the bread. Zucchini me, woman!”

  “You’re insane. You know this, right?” I climbed the last stair and stood in front of him.

  “I’ve been told. You smell nice,” he said, leaning in.

  “Did you just sniff me?” I asked incredulously as I opened the door.

  “Mmm-hmm, very nice. Just get back from a workout?” he asked, walking in behind me and closing the door.

  “Yoga, why?”

  “You smell great when you’re all worked up,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me like the devil.

  “Seriously, you pick women up with lines like that?” I turned away from him to take off my jacket and squeeze my thighs together maniacally.

  “It’s not a line. You do smell great,” I heard him say, and I closed my eyes to block out the Simon Voodoo currently making Lower Caroline curl in on herself.

  Clive came bounding out of the bedroom when he heard my voice and stopped short when he saw Simon. Unfortunately, he had little traction on the hardwood floor and skidded rather ungracefully under the dining room table. Trying to regain his dignity, he executed a difficult four-foot leap from a standing position onto the bookshelf and waved me over with his paw. He wanted me to come to him—typical male.

  I dropped my gym bag and sauntered over. “Hi, sweet boy. How was your day? Hmm? Did you play? Did you get a good nap? Hmm?” I scratched behind his ear, and he purred loudly. He gave me his dreamy cat eyes and then turned his gaze to Simon. I swear he cat-smirked at him.

  “Zucchini bread, huh? You want some more, I take it?” I asked, throwing my jacket on the back of a chair.

  “I know you have more. Simon says gimme it,” he deadpanned, making his finger into a gun.

  “You’re oddly into your baked goods, aren’t you? Support group for that?” I asked, walking into the kitchen to locate the last loaf. I might have been saving it for him.

  “Yes, I’m in BA. Bakers Anonymous. We meet over at the bakery on Pine,” he replied, sitting down on the stool at the kitchen counter.

  “Good group?”

  “Pretty good. There’s a better one over on Market, but I can’t go to that one anymore,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

  “Get kicked out?” I asked, leaning on the counter in front of him.

  “I did, actually,” he said, and then curled his finger to get me to lean in closer.

  “I got in trouble for fondling buns,” he whispered.

  I giggled and gave his cheek a light pinch. “Fondling buns,” I snorted as he pushed my hand away.

  “Just fork over the bread, see, and no one gets hurt,” he warned.

  I waved my hands in surrender and grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard over his head. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he nodded.

  I handed him a bottle of Merlot and the opener, then grabbed a bunch of grapes from the colander in the fridge. He poured, we clinked, and without another word, I started making us dinner.

  The rest of the evening happened naturally, without me even realizing it. One minute we were discussing the new wine glasses I’d purchased from Williams Sonoma, and thirty minutes later we were sitting at the dining room table with pasta in front of us. I was still wearing my workout clothes, and Simon was in jeans and a T-shirt and his stocking feet. He’d taken off his Stanford sweatshirt before draining the pasta, something I didn’t even have to ask him to do. He’d simply wandered into the kitchen behind me, and had it drained and back in the pot just as I finished the sauce.

  We’d talked about the city, his work, my work, and the upcoming trip to Tahoe, and now we headed over to the couch with coffee.

  I leaned back against the pillows with my legs curled underneath me. Simon was telling me about a trip he’d taken to Vietnam a few years before.

  “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen—the mountain villages, the gorgeous beaches, the food! Oh, Caroline, the food.” He sighed, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. I smiled and tried not to notice the butterflies when he said my name that way: with the word Oh right in front of it…Oh me, oh my.

  “Sounds wonderful, but I hate Vietnamese food. Can’t stand it. Can I bring peanut butter?”

  “I know this guy—makes the best noodles ever, right on a houseboat
in the middle of Ha Long Bay. One slurp and you’ll throw your peanut butter right over the side.”

  “God, I wish I could travel like you do. Do you ever get sick of it?” I asked.

  “Hmmm, yes and no. It’s always great to come home. I love San Francisco. But if I’m home too long I get the itch to get back out on the road. And no comments about the itch—I’m starting to get to know your mind there, Nightie Girl.” He patted my arm affectionately.

  I tried to feign offense, but the truth was I had been about to make a joke. I noticed he still had his hand on my arm, absentmindedly tracing tiny circles with his fingertips. Had it really been so long since I’d let a man touch me that fingertip circles sent me into a mental tizzy? Or was it that this man was doing it? Oh, God, the fingertips. Either way, it was doing things to me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine O waving at me—still far away, but not as far as she’d been before.

  I glanced at Simon and saw that he was watching his hand, as if curious about his fingers on my skin. I breathed in quickly, and my intake of breath drew his eyes to mine. We watched each other. Lower Caroline was, of course, responding, but now Heart began to beat a little wildly as well.

  Then Clive jumped up on the back of the couch, put his bum right in Simon’s face, and killed that real quick. We both laughed, and Simon moved away from me as I explained to Clive that it was not polite to do that to company. Clive seemed oddly pleased with himself, though, so I knew he was up to something.

  “Wow, it’s almost ten! I’ve taken up your entire evening. I hope you didn’t have plans,” Simon said, standing and stretching. As he stretched, his T-shirt came up, and I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from licking the bit of skin showing above his jeans.

  “Well, I did have a rather exciting night of watching Food Network planned, so damn you, Simon!” I shook my fist in his face as I stood up next to him.

  “And you even made me dinner, which was great, by the way,” he said, searching for his sweatshirt.

  “No problem. It was nice to cook for someone other than myself. It’s what I do for any guy who shows up demanding bread.” I finally handed him the loaf I’d left out for him.

  He grinned as he grabbed his sweatshirt off the floor next to the couch. “Well, next time, let me cook for you. I make a fantastic—huh, that’s weird,” he interrupted himself, grimacing.

  “What’s weird?” I asked, watching as he unfolded his sweatshirt.

  “This feels damp. Actually, it’s more than damp, it’s…wet?” he asked, looking at me, confused. I looked from the sweatshirt to Clive, who sat innocently on the back of the couch.

  “Oh no,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face. “Clive, you little shit!” I glared at him.

  He jumped off the couch and darted quickly between my legs, headed for the bedroom. He’d learned I couldn’t reach him behind the dresser, and that’s where he hid when he’d done a bad, bad thing. He hadn’t done this in a long time.

  “Simon, you might want to leave that here. I’ll wash it, dry clean it—whatever. I am so, so sorry,” I apologized, horrifically embarrassed.

  “Oh, did he? Oh man, he did, didn’t he?” His face wrinkled as I took the sweatshirt from him.

  “Yes, yes, he did. I’m so sorry, Simon. He has this thing about marking his territory. When any guy leaves clothes on the floor—oh, God—he eventually pees on them. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’m so—”

  “Caroline, it’s okay. I mean, it’s gross, but it’s okay. I’ve had worse things happen to me. It’s all good, I promise.” He started to put his hand on my shoulder, but seemed to think better of it, probably when he realized the last thing he’d touched.

  “I’m so sorry, I—” I began again as he started for the door.

  “Stop it. If you say sorry one more time I’m gonna go find something of yours and pee on it, I swear.”

  “Okay, that’s just gross.” I finally laughed. “But we had such a nice night, and it ended in pee!” I wailed, opening the door for him.

  “It was a nice night, even with the pee. There’ll be others. Don’t worry, Nightie Girl.” He winked and crossed the hall.

  “Play me something good tonight, huh?” I asked, watching him go.

  “You got it. Sleep tight,” he said, and we closed the doors at the same time.

  I leaned back against the door, hugging the sweatshirt in my arms. I’m sure I had the goofiest grin on my face, as I remembered the feeling of his fingertips. And then I remembered I was hugging a pee-stained sweatshirt.

  “Clive, you asshole!” I yelled and ran for my bedroom.

  Fingers, hands, warm skin pressed against mine in an effort to get closer. I felt his warm breath, his voice like wet sex in my ear. “Mmm, Caroline, how can you feel this good?”

  I moaned and rolled over, twisting legs with legs and arms with arms, pushing my tongue into his waiting mouth. I sucked on his bottom lip, tasting mint and heat and the promise of what was to come when he pushed into my body for the first time. I moaned as he groaned, and in a flash I was pinned beneath him.

  Lips moved from my mouth to my neck, licking and sucking and finding the spot—that spot underneath my jaw that made my insides explode and my eyes cross. A dark laugh against my collarbone, and I knew I was done for.

  I rolled on top of him, feeling the loss of his weight but the gain of my legs on either side of him, feeling him twitch and throb exactly where I needed him to be. He pushed my hair from my face, gazing up at me with those eyes—the eyes that could make me forget my name but scream his own.

  “Simon!” I cried, feeling his hands grab my hips and push me against him.

  I sat straight up in bed, my heart racing as the last dreamy images left my brain. I thought I heard a low chuckle from other side of the wall, where the strains of Miles Davis came through.

  I lay back down, skin tingling as I tried to find a cool spot on my pillow. I thought about what was on the other side of that wall, inches away. I was in trouble.

  Later that morning I sat at my desk getting ready to meet a new client—one who’d specifically requested to work with me. Still a new designer, much of my work came from referrals, and whoever had referred this guy to me I owed big time. All new interiors for some fancy apartment—it was practically a gut remodel, a dream project. Whenever I prepped for a new client I pulled pictures from other projects I’d designed and had sketchbooks ready, but today I did it with particular intensity. If I let my mind wander for a second, Brain immediately returned to the dream I’d had last night. I blushed every time I thought of what I’d let Dream Simon do to me, and what Dream Caroline had done to him as well…

  Dream Caroline and Dream Simon were some naughty kids.

  “Ahem,” I heard from behind me. I turned to find Ashley in the doorway. “Caroline, Mr. Brown is here.”

  “Excellent, I’ll be right out.” I nodded, standing and smoothing my skirt. My hands pressed my cheeks, hoping they were not too red.

  “And he is cute, cute, cute!” she murmured as she walked beside me down the hall.

  “Oh, really? Must be my lucky day.” I laughed, rounding the corner to greet him.

  He certainly was cute, and I would know. He was my ex-boyfriend.

  “Oh, my God! What are the chances?” Jillian exclaimed at lunch, two hours later.

  “Well, considering my entire life now seems ruled by odd coincidences, I figure it’s right on track.” I broke off a piece of flatbread and chewed determinedly.

  “But I mean, come on! What are the chances, really?” she wondered again, pouring us another glass of Pellegrino.

  “Oh, there’s nothing chance about this. This guy doesn’t leave things to chance. He knew exactly what he was doing when he approached you at that benefit last month.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “Yep. He told me. He saw me, and when he found out I worked for you? Bam! He needs an interior designer.” I smiled, thinking of how he’d alwa
ys arranged things exactly the way he wanted them. Well, almost everything.

  “Don’t worry, Caroline. I’ll move him over to another designer, or I’ll even take him myself. You don’t have to work with him,” she said, patting my hand.

  “Oh, hell no! I already told him yes. I’m totally doing this.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. No problem. It wasn’t that we had a bad breakup. In fact, as far as breakups go, it was mild. He didn’t want to accept the fact that I was leaving him, but eventually he came around. He didn’t think I had the balls to do it, and boy, was he surprised.” I played with my napkin.

  I’d dated James most of my senior year at Berkeley. He was already in law school, steadily moving through it on his way to a future of perfection. My goodness, he was beautiful—strong and handsome, and very charming. We met at the library one night, had coffee a few times, and it grew into a solid relationship.

  The sex? Unreal.

  He was my first serious boyfriend, and I knew he wanted to marry me at some point. He had very specific ideas about what he wanted from his life, and that definitely included me as his wife. And he was everything I’d ever thought I wanted in a husband. Engagement was inevitable. But then I began to notice things, small at first, but over time they revealed the big picture. We went where he wanted to for dinner. I never got to pick. I overheard him telling someone that he figured my “decorating” phase wouldn’t last long, but it’d be nice to have a wife who could make a pretty home. The sex was still great, but I was irritated with him more and more, and I stopped going along to get along.

  When I began to realize he was no longer what I wanted for my future, things got a little strained. We fought constantly, and when I decided to end the relationship, he tried to convince me I was making the wrong choice. I knew better, and he finally accepted that I was really done—and not just pitching a “feminine fit,” as he liked to call them. We didn’t keep in contact, but he’d been a major part of my life for a long time, and I cherished the memories we had together. I cherished what he’d taught me about myself.