“I’m messing with you, Dylan. They were the wrong side of the tracks, trust me. You’ve been, you know what it’s like.”
“I do, but I also know that there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Who’s ashamed? I’m not. I love that I grew up there. I mean, it sucked most of the time, but mostly because there were too many people under that roof, but it was all that we could afford.”
“How many of you?”
“Seven people total. My parents, three brothers, and my little sister, Jessica, and me. The place we lived would have been tight for three, but somehow my parents made it work with seven. They worked some miracles.”
Hearing her talk reminds me of my own life. Miracles is what working class parents do—it’s all they do. “My Pop used to say that.”
“What?”
“That he could make George Washington believe that he was Benjamin Franklin. We weren’t poor-poor, but we were a few paychecks away from it. But somehow, I never felt it when I was a kid. I always had clothes, always had food on the table, and even the holidays were always happy.”
“Oh, me too! I don’t know how the hell they did it, but we always had a tree and presents underneath it. I didn’t realize we were poor kids until I went to school and saw some of the things the other kids had.”
“I know the feeling.”
The more we’re talking, the more I’m thinking about her original question—how likely it is that the two of us—two working class kids from Queens—ended up meeting in the place that we did. It’s actually kind of crazy when I stop and think about it. And when I think about that, I remember the whole arrangement with Chandler and it brings my mood down.
“Can I ask you something?” She takes a sip of her Pepsi and looks right at me. “And before I do, I realize that you’re going to ask me the question right back, but how. . . how did you end up. . .”
“With a guy like Chandler? I was wondering when you’d have the balls to just ask me that.”
“So? What’s the story there?”
She has no obligation to tell me that—or anything else for that matter, but part of me wants to know for selfish reasons. First, I just want to know because the two of them seem like a really unlikely couple. Besides that, I need to know if he was always such an asshole to her, or if this is a new thing.
“The story? How much time do you have?” She laughs, but it’s a strained one.
“As much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s kind of unoriginal, but I met him at a bar. I didn’t know he was from the kind of family I found out he’s from. At the time, we were just two college kids at a college bar in the city. He didn’t look like Richie Rich or anything. He was just another guy—a good looking one—sitting there with his friends having a drink like everyone else.”
“Where’d you go to school?” I ask.
“NYU. I got a full ride, which is hard to do.”
“Athletics?”
“Why?” she asks. “’Cause us street kids are good at sports?”
I smile. “First off, you weren’t a street kid—you had a home. And second, I’m a dick for assuming that, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. And I do know my way around a soccer field, thank you very much, but the scholarship was academic. I’m kind of smart.”
“I could tell that the second we started talking.”
“Thanks, Dylan,” she says. “Most people don’t. I appreciate that.”
“Anyone who doesn’t see that is a moron, just for the record. But go on, you were saying?”
I get a grin for that one. “I was fifth in my class in high school. I knew that the only way out of the place I grew up was either becoming a high-ranking drug dealer—which seemed a little risky.”
“Just a little,” I joke.
“Or working my ass off to get the kind of grades that could get me an education. So that’s what I did.”
“What’s your degree in?” I ask.
“Education. I wanted to be a Kindergarten teacher.”
For some reason I’m not expecting that, but in the best possible way. “Really? That’s amazing, how come?”
“I love kids. I used to take care of my little sister when my parents worked—which was practically all the time. I babysat other kids in the building as I got older so I could have some spending money, and I always knew that I wanted to do something where I could work with kids. It was always my dream.”
As I listen to her, I can hear a sadness in her voice, and I notice that she keeps using the past tense. “So what happened?”
“Chandler happened. God, that sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I sound like such a bitch.”
“You’re not a bitch, Penelope. And you sound honest. Keep going with your story.”
“Thank you. My pizza’s getting cold.”
“Well you’d better finish it, then. We can take a walk after, if you’re up to it.”’
“That sounds great.” She takes the last bites of her food and I notice something for the first time.
“Wait, you’re a folder!”
She looks at me sideways. “I’m a what?”
“A pizza folder. I was so caught up in our conversation I didn’t even notice.”
“Hold the phone. I was so caught up that I didn’t notice—you don’t fold your pizza, do you?”
“Hell no! Who does that?”
“I do. It’s the only way to eat pizza.”
Pizza folding is one of those divisive topics that all New Yorkers know well. It’s like asking a group of people whether they like cilantro or not—you’re going to get only one of two answers, and both will be passionate. The same is true of folding vs. not folding.
“I disagree, but we can finish that discussion later. I want to hear the rest of what you were saying. So, you met Chandler at a bar, and then?”
“And then he approached me. Normal stuff. I had an idea that he had a little bit of money, but he didn’t flaunt it in front of me right off the bat. I didn’t fully understand that he was Mr. Moneybags until I finally met his father, and that’s when it all became crystal clear.”
“Why’s that?”
“His dad’s like a Rupert Murdoch kind of character—he founded the media company that Chandler runs. When he got too old to run it he turned it over to Chandler, and the rest is history.” Yeah, a history I’d like to know a lot more about. “But like I was saying, when he took me to meet his dad, at their family’s house in Brookville, Long Island, was when I figured out he was from money.”
“Brookville?” I ask, well aware of how much money is over there. “At one point it was one of the richest zip codes in the U.S. That’s where that movie. . . the DiCaprio one, was based.”
“The Wolf of Wall Street. Great movie, by the way. That whole area—the Gold Coast of Long Island—that’s where the Great Gatsby took place also.”
“Lots of money.”
“Lots of wealth,” she says. “Difference. Those people don’t just have money, they have trusts, and shares in major companies, and property. The first time I saw the family home—excuse me, one of their family homes—it felt like I really was in a movie.”
“And did he know?”
“Know what? Where I lived? Yeah, I took him there as soon as I found out that he was from money. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t, just in case he wanted to break it off with me.”
“Break it off? Why would he do that just because of where you lived?”
“Oh, come on Dylan, you know what they’re like. The rich sons marry the rich daughters—they don’t go slumming in government subsidized housing to look for their future wives.”
“Chandler did.” I realize how that sounds as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I’m a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”
“I knew what you meant. And he wasn’t slumming—that’s not what I mean. I mean that I wanted him to know that I wasn’t the type of gi
rl he was probably used to, in more ways than one. It didn’t seem to bother him.”
It didn’t seem to bother him that he got another woman pregnant, either, did it?
“I hate to ask this, but I have to after what I saw.”
“Am I going back to him?” I nod. “Never. Not in a million years. I’m only thankful that I found out before I actually became that creep’s wife.”
I shouldn’t feel happy that she just said those words, but that’s exactly the emotion I’m feeling. “No chance of working it out?”
“Working it out, Dylan? Did you really just ask me that? Do you not remember the crazy bitch you had to personally escort out of the building? The one carrying my ex-fiancé’s baby? No. It’s over.”
“Does he know that?”
“If he has any sense he does. I mean, I stormed out after I threw the ring at him—and some other stuff—and haven’t been home in a couple of days. Not sure how much clearer I could make it.”
I start to think about Chandler, and how he isn’t a man who strikes me as simply taking no for an answer. People like him see other people as things—pawns in some fucked up game of chess that they call life, and losing is not an option.
“I’m glad it’s over, if I’m being honest.”
“You’re glad?”
“Not that your relationship broke up or anything. I’m happy that you’re a strong enough person to draw a line in the sand and not fall back into what’s comfortable. If we’re being honest, you’d have an easier life as Mrs. Chandler Daniels.”
“Easier, sure. But happier? There’s no money that can buy my silence as my husband was fucking other women and doing God-knows-what behind my back. I’m no man’s trophy wife.”
In love. That’s what I am.
“You’re awesome,” I tell her. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, but you seem like an amazing person.”
We have a look pass between us—it’s fast and it’s subtle, but she gives me that eye that you only give someone you’re attracted to. I’ve been giving her that look all night because it’s impossible not to, but for the first time since I met her, she just gave it back to me, and my body reacts like nothing else.
“Thank you, Dylan. Can we take that walk now? I feel like moving.”
“Let’s go.”
14
Penelope
I didn’t expect to feel like this.
I’m not even sure what ‘this’ means exactly, but I know that it means something. As I’m walking with this sexy man who I’ve seen before but never really had a full conversation with, except for the night I walked away from Chandler, I feel more comfortable than I’ve felt in a long time. It’s like we’ve known each other forever—at least that’s what it feels like.
We just shared a meal and a little life history, and I still can’t get over how similar our backgrounds are. It’s crazy to think we’re even here right now, walking along the streets of Manhattan, forgetting for a few minutes who we are and the stresses that wait for us at home.
We walk for forever, all around, talking and joking around. The first time I saw him, I felt an instant attraction to him—and honestly, what woman wouldn’t. He has the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen on a man, and the fact that he towers over me doesn’t hurt either. I feel safe and warm in his shadow, and the more he speaks to me the hotter he gets.
The first time I felt what he did to my body, I felt guilty. I shut the feeling off like a light switch because it was wrong—I was with someone, and to even have those thoughts about another man, no matter how hot he was, was just unacceptable to me. I’m faithful to a fault, and I had to turn off my natural impulses towards him.
Now, none of that matters. It’s true that I haven’t actually spoken to Chandler about formally ending things, but we both know that there’s no coming back from what he did. I try not to think of Chandler right now, though. I don’t want the high I’m experiencing being with Dylan to go away, and thinking about my scumbag ex will definitely make them go away.
No.
He doesn’t exist right now. That part of my life waits for me tomorrow, or the next day, but tonight it’s all about Dylan. I know that he’s feeling me too because of the way he’s looking at me. He’s trying to hide it—no man wants to seem too eager—but I can see the desire behind his eyes. When we got up to walk, he took the opportunity to put his hand on the small of my back. He didn’t have to do that. He wanted to touch me, and he may get another chance real soon.
I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking, but I don’t give a damn anymore. I know I’m hurting and that my life got upended the other day, but I’m very clear about how I feel right now. Eventually the walk takes us back to the hotel I’m staying at. I offered to grab an Uber, but Dylan told me that he wouldn’t feel right putting me in a car—that he was a gentleman and wanted to walk me back to my place. I hope he’s not too much of a gentleman, if you know what I mean.
“I have to thank you,” I tell him. As he looks at me, those baby blues freeze my whole body in place, and I get lost in them.
“Thank me? For what?”
“You didn’t just take me out, you took me away—from everything. I needed that more than I can tell you. I was going nuts stewing about everything in my room, alone.”
“You should never have to suffer alone. Ever. I’m happy that I could do that for you. My hand is always there if you need it. All you ever have to do is just reach out.”
That’s all I need to hear. His support of me does something besides just comfort—it starts to turn me on in ways that demand satisfaction. The date might be over, but the night is just beginning. I’m taking the mother of all chances by being this forward, but screw it.
“Come upstairs with me, Dylan.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me.”
“You don’t need to be excused, Dylan.” I reach out and grab his arm, pulling him gently towards me. “You need to come up to my room right this second.”
He looks surprised, but only for a second. That shock on his face turns to acceptance, followed by excitement. That’s when he does it—he leans down and puts his face right next to my ear, and the feeling of his warm breath against my neck makes my whole body feel electric. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that all night. I need to fuck you right now, Penelope.”
All of a sudden, I’m soaking wet—my panties are getting drenched with every syllable he whispers in my ear, and whisper he does—how hot he thinks I am. How much I turn him on. How much he needs to be inside me. The things he’s going to do to me.
Then the talking stops, and he pulls me up the stairs like a man possessed with a hunger he’s never felt before. As we walk up the stairs, my mind is racing with anticipation—I start to imagine him, naked, standing over me, ready to. . .
The walk to my floor feels like an eternity, but as soon as our feet hit the hallway, we’re all over one another. I took only a passive look around to see if anyone else was out in the halls in the hotel. I’m pretty sure we’re alone, but I don’t really care at all. I need this man right now and he needs me too—if anyone’s watching, I hope they enjoy the show that they’re about to get.
He slams me against the wall. It’s so forceful that it surprises me—not the impact of my body against the wall, but the fact that he’s so strong. I like him taking control of me, putting me in a place where there’s nothing in this world except him. He’s towering over me, and as I look up into those blue orbs I feel every fiber in my entire body come to life like never before.
He leans in again, only this time my neck isn’t the destination of his lips. They press against my mouth, and as he thrusts his tongue into me, his body moves in so close that there’s no separation between us. My nipples get rock hard, and I feel his hands all over me.
“We need to go inside right now.”
He’s right. I open my eyes and look around as he steps back. Luckily there’s no one watching us, and even if there were they’d hav
e to follow us inside to see the rest of the show. And it’s going to be a show alright.
Inside, he’s a complete animal as soon as the door closes behind us. All of the niceties and chivalrous behavior is replaced by a complete savagery that makes me ache between my legs. I can feel the throbbing as he kisses me harder than I’ve ever been kissed before. The passion he’s feeling comes through his lips, only now that we’re inside it’s time for our clothes to go away. I feel his big, powerful hands running all over me—around my hips, grabbing my ass, pulling me so close that our bodies are practically smashed together.
I jump up and wrap my legs around him and he holds me up in the air. He makes me feel like a feather, and his strong arms hold me up in place. He walks me over to the closest wall, his lips never leaving mine. I’ve never been this wet in my entire life. My back hits the wall again, and when it does my feet hit the ground.
Our lips finally separate, and, when they do, he takes a step back to take off his shirt. What I imagined underneath that tee shirt is nothing compared to the reality of it. His muscles know no end—he’s chiseled like a Greek god, with a six pack that looks like it’s out of a magazine. “Holy shit,” I say without thought. He has the best body I’ve ever seen, and I’m only seeing half of it.
I want him to take off his pants, but he doesn’t yet. Instead he comes back towards me and pulls my shirt up over my head. As soon as it’s off, he wants my bra gone, and he spins me around forcefully and unhooks it. I let it fall past my shoulders and down my arms, until it hits the floor beneath me. I don’t turn back around. He won’t let me. He holds me in place by the waist, and then he lets his hands explore my naked back, rubbing the tension right out of my shoulders with his powerful fingers. I moan because it feels like nothing I’ve experienced before—his fingers are like magic as they knead into my muscles, then down my back, all the way to my skirt.
It takes no time before he pinches the material and pulls it up over my ass. I hope he can see how wet I am—how much my body needs him right now. I feel that throb between my legs, powerful and continuous, and every second he’s not touching me I get more and more anxious. It doesn’t last long. I feel his other hand working its way past my ass, down the outside of my thigh, and then back up. He lets go of me as I hold myself up against the wall.
Secret Keeper Page 8
