by E. Cleveland
Mrs. Clark hasn’t been subtle about trying to hook me up with one of her boys. “Aha, there it is.” She pulls what looks like the first iPhone out of her purse’s purse. Damn it. I want to grab that thing out of her hand and toss it in the trash can.
Ding!
Instead, I grab my own phone out of my pocket and read the text.
Griz: hey
My head pops up straight. I turn around and spot him, barricaded by the secure glass door to the building. Flutters rise in my stomach, and I slide my hands down over my hips. I’m not sure why they’re sweating. It’s not like it’s a real date. For a grand, I should be out at some kind of red-carpet event with Griz towering over me, his arm holding me steady as I navigate that carpet in heels. Instead, I’m wasting what could have been a fun time on moving this ridiculous couch.
“See?” Relief floods me, and I’m overdoing it with my double-handed pointing, but I’m desperate to get Mrs. Clark to put her phone away. “There he is.” My voice is too loud. “My friend is here to help me move the couch.”
I practically leap across the floor. Griz smiles as I open the door. Cold winter air whirls in as he walks in past me. It’s crisp and has a fresh, clean, man-just-out-of-the-shower smell that swirls inside with him.
“You’re late,” I whisper, walking him back toward my neighbor. For once, she doesn’t look worried. She looks up at Griz, slowly. Her eyes stay half-lidded when she finally makes her way to his face. She stands taller, like she’s growing vertebrae by vertebrae.
“Practice ran late.” I can hear the unspoken apology in his voice. His dark eyes wander down me. I pretend not to notice, but my body doesn’t go along with it. A flush of warmth billows inside me, lifting me to stand a bit taller and smile a bit broader.
“That’s your friend?” Mrs. Clark seems to remember that her mouth isn’t for catching flies and words come out of it. “Well, I guess you have this under control then.” She gives him another long look and summons the elevator by pushing the button.
“Thanks again, Mrs. Clark,” I call after her as the doors slide closed behind her. I’m not sure she hears me. It seems like all her focus is on just one thing, and I’m not it.
Not that I can blame her. Griz is over six feet of perfectly hung pants, a snug winter coat and sexy dark features. Plus, he smells really good. I can’t help but smile at him, even though he’s late. Part of the smile is relief that I won’t have to deal with Donnie and Kyle tonight. The other half is because I just can’t help it when I see him.
Griz pulls off his winter jacket and tosses it on the sofa. His t-shirt hugs his shoulders and chest, and I think I’m staring for too long.
“I’m digging the Rosie the Riveter look.” His eyes travel over me.
I pat the red scarf tied in my hair and blush. “Thanks.” This seemed like a good moving-a-couch-but-still-look-cute outfit. I layered a plaid shirt over a tank top and tied it up at the waist, just where it touches the edge of my high-waisted jeans. In hindsight, ballerina flats were a dumb idea. Too much cute and not enough practical.
“You look surprised.” He’s clearly amused by it.
“I didn’t take you for a big feminist-symbols guy,” I admit.
“Oh, I’m a feminist. Who the fuck isn’t now? Who still believes women deserve less than men?”
“You’d be surprised.” I don’t bother getting into stories of the many men I’ve met in my life who have gone out of their way to make me believe that very thing. That I deserve less. Or worse, that I am less. And that’s not even getting into the whole subsection of men who threaten not to fuck me with the random dicks they apparently carry around.
“I know.” He’s so serious all of a sudden. The twinkle disappears from his dark eyes. Griz frowns, and it’s like watching a black cloud casting a shadow over his face, but it quickly rolls back out. “That’s why you need more guys to say it. Just normalize that shit. It’s weird that people still aren’t on the train.”
I hate to admit that I didn’t expect a jock to say he’s a feminist. I guess I need to question my own stereotypes. It turns out I’m not living in a John Hughes movie where a bunch of two-dimensional characters all get detention on the weekend. Cardboard cut-outs have more depth.
“So, you’re saying ‘this is what a feminist looks like’.” I give him a double-barreled, finger-gun point that I instantly regret.
“This is it.” His eyes keep drawing me in. They are dark and deeply intense one moment and sparkling with boyish charm the next. It’s hard to look away. “This is my big-beard feminist face.” He smirks, and I laugh.
Griz looks at me like he’s waiting for something, and it’s crazy, but something flickers inside me. In my mind, I let myself get lost in a daydream fog, one where he’s in a three-piece suit, dressed to kill for my sister’s wedding. I can see the heads turn when we dance together. The flicker becomes a fire. My mind forms a clear image of his thick hair and big beard looking so rugged and perfect against the refinement of the suit that’s been tailored to his broad shoulders. The fire just leveled up into a five-alarm blaze.
“So, that’s part of the reason I’ve got no problem telling you that I’m gonna need your help with this thing.” He pops the little dream bubble over my head, forcing my attention back to the heavy, plastic-wrapped sofa.
I’ve got the thousand-dollar muscles with a charming smile attached. I’ve got the couch. Let’s get the most expensive non-date of my life started.
8
Couch Condom
Griz
“Looks like this is gonna be harder than I thought.” I frown at the sofa that’s refusing to fucking cooperate.
Hattie has a special key from her superintendent that is keeping the elevator door locked open. She told her she had twenty minutes to make this furniture move happen. That was at least half an hour ago.
“The plastic is so slippery, I can’t get a good grip on it.” Hattie sighs.
I know she’s getting stressed, and it’s easy to understand why. This is like an exercise in frustration. I get that. What I don’t get is why she would buy a piece of furniture that is too big to fit in the elevator. Measuring tapes are your friend, people.
“Yeah, the couch condom is not helping things.”
Hattie laughs. “Couch condom. That’s exactly what it’s like.” Her smile makes the last thirty minutes of annoyance worth every second. Those lips are a distraction.
Damn, I bet they’re as soft as they look. My thoughts start out innocently enough, imagining her lips on my own. Of course it takes all of one second for my caveman brain to start wondering how soft they’d feel on more sensitive places.
No more hook-ups. No more distractions. No matter how sexy or soft.
“Let’s see if I can get a better grip from the bottom. Maybe if you pull the legs from that end we can squeeze this in,” I direct her to the side pressed up against the gaping hole where the elevator door would normally be.
“I’ll give it a try.” Hattie nods. She touches her hand to the scarf tied around her hair, adjusting it so it won’t slip off.
Her phone is half hanging out of the back pocket of her curve-hugging jeans. When she climbs up over the couch and gets inside the elevator, it clatters to the floor. There’s so much ass in that stretched denim, they just can’t handle any other responsibilities. Not too much though. There’s no such thing as too much ass. The bigger the booty the better, as far as I’m concerned, and Hattie has got the best I’ve ever seen. It’s distracting.
The screen lights up, highlighting the crack that the fall caused across the top corner. “Of course.” Her voice is more bitter than lemons. “Of course my screen broke. Why wouldn’t that happen?” Her entire body slumps in defeat. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this.” She shakes her head and pulls her plaid, button-up top down, giving me another distraction when I get a peek of the light purple bra she stuffs it into.
Hattie may have fucked up with the measurements thing, but I�
�m not going to let that stop me. She spent one thousand dollars for this help. A thousand bucks. I don’t care if I have to rig up a pulley and a rope and drag it up the stairs myself; I’m getting this thing up to her apartment one way or another.
We’ve tried pushing, pulling, shimmying and twisting, but so far we’ve had no luck getting it inside the elevator. It doesn’t help that my legs are getting that Jell-O feeling, thanks to coach making me do a strong-man competition at Powerskate. Why did I have to do that victory dance?
I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and make better decisions. Of course, if I really had a time machine, that might not be the first bad decision I’d fix. On the long list, it would probably be near the bottom.
The number one spot would definitely be to go back and stop a drunk and stupid me from sticking my dick in the bunny who let me think I knocked her up last term. Then I’d go back and tell my teenage-self to go jerk off before I went on my date with Nellie Jackson. I don’t know if it would have made a huge difference that night I lost my virginity. Maybe I could’ve been a five-pump-chump instead of two.
“Let’s see if we can slide it in there.” We both get our grip on the legs of this beast. “Are you ready?”
“Let’s try it.” She takes a deep breath.
“Okay, here it goes.” My voice strains along with my back and legs. “Fuck, it’s tight,” I grunt.
“Ahhh! Oh, God. It’s too much. It won’t fit,” Hattie groans, trying to pull the end in.
“I’ll make it fit,” I growl, throwing my entire weight into a shoulder check against the side of the thing like I’m an FBI agent trying to bust through a seedy motel door. The sofa gives a bit, but barely.
“Griz! It’s in a little. Not much, but it’s something. Let’s keep going.” Hattie keeps tugging, but it won’t budge any further. We’ve just managed to jam the elevator.
“I’m gonna try something different, see if I can slip in there,” I pant. Sweat beads across my brow as I fight exhaustion.
“Okay, go slow though. I don’t want to do any damage,” she answers. “Do you still want me to stay like this? Am I helping?” She pops up.
“Yeah, just like last time, but I’m going to put it in on an angle this time and really try to cram it in there. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she answers, disappearing as she leans down to grab the legs on her side again.
I lift the legs high, up to my shoulders, trying to wiggle and push the frame as she pulls it toward her. We both pant and groan and give it everything we have, but it hardly budges.
“Almost.” My voice is as tight at my muscles. “So…fucking…close. Damn it.” Disappointment and anger start to wash over me. I drop my end of the sofa and it crashes down to the floor.
“What if we rip the condom off?” she suggests.
“I mean, it might make a difference. It’s worth a try.”
It takes both of us slicing the protective plastic with our keys to get it off, but we manage. There’s shredded plastic everywhere, and the couch is still stuffed half in and half out of the elevator and, at this point, I’m tempted to lie down on it and take a fucking nap. Mama didn’t raise no quitter, so I guess that nap’s going to have to wait.
“Alright, the condom is off. That should give us a bit more room to work with.” I wipe sweat off my brow with the bottom of my shirt. Hattie still looks fresh-faced and full of energy. That’s what happens when you’re on the pulling end. “I’m going to try the angle thing again. Are you ready?” I warn her, and we both tuck down in the same position that’s worked for us.
“Ready,” she answers.
“Get. In. There.” The words hiss through gritted teeth. I’m lifting, wiggling, tilting and pushing all at the same time. Hattie keeps calling out to God and tugging with all her might. Finally it gives. The sofa bed from hell slides in past the door frame and into the elevator as we grunt loudly.
“It’s in.” I’m fifty percent in disbelief but one hundred percent relieved that the first part of this is finally done. “Fuck yeah!”
9
Nightmare on Ice
Griz
Hattie pulls the key and the doors slide closed. We lean against the flowery couch, battered and bruised but not beaten, as we travel up to the third floor. The door pops open much sooner than I was hoping. My body isn’t ready for another round of squeezing this sofa through the doors like toothpaste out of a tube.
It doesn’t take nearly as long now that we’ve got the condom off and figured out the angle thing. Within ten minutes we’re free from elevator hell, and it’s actually pretty easy going to get it to her apartment. With one final shove that makes my shoulders and calves burn, I slide it into the spot Hattie cleared for it against the wall.
Well, judging from her set-up, it’s part living room, part office, and the rolled up mat and big purple exercise ball in the corner tells me it’s part yoga studio too. I rest on the couch that almost broke my back, dying for a break.
“There it is. We did it. Mostly you, but, yeah.” Hattie doesn’t look entirely thrilled with her new piece of furniture…probably because I’m sweating all over it. I lift my shirt and soak up the drips off my face. When I pull it back down, she looks frozen. Just staring.
“Is there any way I could get some water?”
“Oh, um, of course. Sure.” She seems to snap out of a haze, blinking too quickly and too much.
I watch the way her jeans hug that perfect ass as she walks out into the kitchen. Just because I’m sworn off hook-ups doesn’t mean I can’t look. I’m taking a break from sex, but I’m not dead. I can hear her getting glasses out of the cupboard when I start checking the place out in more detail. I don’t know the first thing about decorating, but you don’t have to in order to see that this new sofa really doesn’t match the rest of her space. It’s kind of like cramming a big bunch of dandelions in the middle of a bouquet of roses. The couch looks even uglier because of how nice the rest of this room is. Weird.
My eyes drift over to her desk. There’s one of those picture gallery walls right behind it covered with framed photos of Hattie at different places. I get up to be nosy and take a closer look. There’s some vacation photos, some pictures of strangers, one of a golden retriever, and then my eyes stop on one in particular.
It’s Hattie in her high school graduation gown. She looks almost exactly same as she does now, and her face is full of pride. Next to her are three tall, thin blondes. From the looks of it, she must have been adopted. The man and woman are clearly her parents, but she couldn’t look less like them. There’s a girl who looks a few years older than Hattie who clearly came from the same strand of DNA.
Another photo grabs my attention as Hattie walks in with two large glasses of ice water. It makes me laugh when I take a closer look. I point. “What’s the story with this one?”
“Here.” She hands me the glass, and I chug half of it right away. It’s worth the moment of brain freeze that I suffer. I’ve been dying of thirst. I can almost hear my coach’s voice echoing in my brain about how important it is to hydrate - hydrate - hydrate.
“Oh, that.” Her eyes flicker to the photo, and she laughs too. “That’s when my parents took me to see Disney on Ice at Madison Square Garden. I was so pumped.” She starts to explain and then stops to take a drink.
“Yeah? Doesn’t look that way.” I glance back at her young face, frozen in what looks like a scream of terror, standing next to an oversized red crab.
“No, I mean, in that picture not so much. I was really pumped to go originally. When I was a girl, I was so obsessed with The Little Mermaid. Not now, obviously. I hate the whole girl-gives-up-everything-for-the-guy theme. Like, not cool, Disney. Not cool. Back then, all I cared about was that Ariel was my red-headed soul sister. Gingers unite, or something like that.” She laughs.
Her deep, red hair is striking. “The Little Mermaid, huh. So, how did it all go so wrong?” I nod at the framed picture.
“And this guy?” I point to the overstuffed crab mascot.
She stares forward at the wall, like a sinner spilling out her deepest secrets in a confession box. “Yeah, so I was getting ready to pose beside Sebastian the crab, one of my favorites in the movie, when, I dunno…in my kid brain, something snapped. Up close, he didn’t really look like a crab to me. With all the legs and everything, he just looked a lot more like a...” – shudders travel down her, and she stops looking at the picture – “more like a spider,” she whispers as if speaking the word will bring it to life.
“Not a fan?” I don’t mean to smirk at her.
“You could say that,” she answers. “It kind of went from Disney on Ice to Nightmare on Elm Street. Wanna sit down?” she offers as she walks over to her new sofa and does exactly that.
I join her, both of us finishing up our waters, earning a hard-fought-for break. There’s an awkward silence that seems to surround us. I’m not really sure how much longer this “date” is supposed to go or what we’re going to do, but my sore muscles aren’t in any hurry to leave.
“So, you went to Madison Square Garden a lot? Are you from New York?” Nothing like small talk to fill the air with meaningless noise, am I right?
