Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  Baker gets back behind the bag and wraps his arms around it.

  “All right, fire away,” he tells me with a nod.

  I’m looking right at his stupid, dumb, hot face when I pull my arm back and smack it into the bag, hoping he can feel my wrath over how unprofessional he’s being, and how pissed I am that he’s not respecting my boundaries.

  Except I’m not really mad about it. I’m turned on.

  Boundaries? What boundaries? Take off your pants.

  It shows how not mad I am about it when Baker doesn’t say anything as I pull my fist away from the bag and get back into position. He just raises one eyebrow in amusement when he looks at me. Because my punch sucked ass. And in no way showed him any kind of wrath.

  “Good form, but you need more power behind that thing if you want to do any damage. Keep practicing,” he orders.

  Choosing to be the bigger person for once, I keep my mouth shut and do what he says, hoping he’ll annoy me and my anger will build so I can beat the shit out of this bag. I’m sure it will be any minute now. Might as well finally get the ball rolling with this interview.

  “It’s really peaceful being in here at night,” I tell him in between punches.

  Baker shifts from one knee to the other as he continues to hold the bag for me, a small wince of pain taking over his features for a second. I don’t even pause between punches. He’s a big boy. If he’s in pain and wants to sit down, he’ll say something.

  “It’s weird seeing this place so empty and quiet, but it’s nice,” I start speaking again, pulling my eyes away from his to concentrate on my hits and get him talking.

  “That’s one of the reasons I bought this building with the loft upstairs,” Baker tells me. “This job can get a little frustrating sometimes. But then I come down here from my loft after hours, when the lights have been dimmed even more, like they are now. It’s empty and peaceful. It helps me think. Helps me remember why I’m doing this.”

  “I’m not going to compliment you,” I quickly tell him as I continue to jab at the bag half-heartedly.

  “Didn’t expect you to.” Baker smiles. “Your turn. I’m assuming you’re a single mom; otherwise, naughty, naughty, picturing me naked.”

  I put a little more effort into my next punch, but it still falls flat.

  Even when he’s annoying, he makes me want to laugh.

  “I’m assuming,” he continues, “that you’re a single mom because of all the shit you’ve gone through, the shit you’ve gotten past, and the shit you’re trying to forget, and be happy. Tell me about the shit.”

  Nope, I will absolutely not get all aflutter just because he remembered every single word of the vomit that spewed from my mouth the other day.

  “That’s not how this works. You’re not interviewing me,” I remind him, taking a break to shake out my arms.

  “I’m not just going to sit here for hours and hours talking about myself this entire time. I have never bored a woman to sleep, and I’m not going to start now,” he informs me. “This is going to be an equal show-and-tell time, so I can feel comfortable enough with you to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Now, tell me about your shit. And keep punching.”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I get back into the fighter’s stance.

  “Talk about boring someone to sleep,” I mutter, pulling my arm back and smacking the bag again. “It’s pathetic shit. Asshole husband of almost ten years moves happy wife from her happy small town life and everyone she loves, to a big city she hates.”

  Bouncing on the balls of my feet a little, I stretch out my neck before throwing another punch, this one landing with the first, solid thwack since I started.

  “Three months after he moves his wife to this city she hates, while she’s been busy turning herself into a meek and mild little showpiece who’s only brought out to make him look good at dinner parties, he pulls the rug out from under her and fucking leaves,” I growl, another loud thwack echoing around the room. “And that selfish piece of shit knew what he was doing when he moved us here. Knew I’d be stuck here, knew I’d be alone, and he didn’t give a fuck.”

  My punches are flying faster and harder, and now I’m alternating between my right and left arm.

  “And he feels sorry for me.”

  Thwack-thwack

  “And he looks at me with pity every goddamn time he picks up our son.”

  Thwack-thwack

  “Because I miss home. And I still hate this city. And I’m so fucking tired of not being happy here.”

  Thwack-thwack

  “Son of a—” Thwack “—bitch!” Thwack “I haven’t had sex in over a year and a half!” I scream.

  Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack

  “That is some bullshit right there, and I—”

  The heavy bag is suddenly moved out of my reach, and my last punch does nothing but fly through the air. And then Baker is right in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders and squatting down so we’re eye-level, while I pant and try to catch my breath.

  “Jesus Christ, scrappy,” Baker mutters with a low chuckle. “You feel better now?”

  “That was amazing,” I wheeze, pressing one of my wrapped hands over my racing heart, really hoping I don’t have a heart attack when I feel so good. “You’re an excellent teacher. Don’t let that go to your head. You’re definitely not the best. But you’re not the worst, either.”

  I should be freaking out right now that I just spewed all of that in front of Baker, but I’m not. Telling him I’m a mom didn’t work; maybe him hearing how pathetic I am will do the trick.

  God, I really don’t want it to do the trick. What is wrong with me?

  Baker stands back up to his full height, and I follow his eyes up as he goes. His hands are still hot and heavy on my shoulders, and he gives them a gentle squeeze.

  “That was all you. I just gave you the proper technique and something to be pissed at.”

  “I was pissed at you,” I remind him.

  “But were you really?” He smirks.

  He goddamn smirks.

  “Well, this was a lovely first interview. I’ll type everything up and send it to you later this evening,” I speak in a formal voice, shrugging his hands off my shoulders, and holding my hand out between us for him to shake.

  Like a fucking professional.

  “I’ll email you to see about your availability for the next interview,” he replies just as formally, wrapping his big hand around mine.

  “I think we can both agree that anything I said about sex was said under duress. Motion to strike it from the record,” I add, lifting my chin to show him how professional I’m being.

  “Motion approved.” Baker nods, our clasped hands moving slowly up and down.

  When he doesn’t add any kind of sarcastic remark, I let out a sigh of relief and start to drop his hand. Before I can let go, he grips it tighter, tugging me toward him until I bump into his chest.

  “Never mind. Motion denied.”

  “You can’t do that,” I argue, trying to pretend like being pressed up against him isn’t affecting me in the least.

  He dips his head down until his eyes are looking right into mine.

  “Watching you lose your shit on that bag was the hottest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen,” he says in a low voice. “If you think for one minute I’m not going to think about you and sex in the same sentence after that, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  Forget the boxing workout. My heart is beating so fast right now I think I’m getting lightheaded.

  Baker’s cheek slides against mine until his lips are right by my ear.

  “Let me know when I can turn the page,” he whispers.

  All of a sudden, he drops my hand and moves away, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his joggers as he starts walking backward, away from me.

  “All right then, so I’ll await that transcript, and I’ll email you about your schedule. The front door will lock on your way out. Have a pleasant evening, Mis
s Hastings,” he says with a smile as he turns away from me and continues walking.

  “Eat a dick, Mister Matthews!” I shout across the room to him.

  He responds with a laugh as he disappears into his office, and I stomp over to the table and grab my phone, pressing the stop button for the recording.

  Any day now, a picture of me is going to be turned into a meme that says: Professional. I don’t think that means what you think it does.

  CHAPTER 12

  I’m So Sure Whatever

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: Baker Matthews

  Subject: Re: Interview

  Dear Miss Hastings:

  As noted during the conclusion of our meeting last evening, I am emailing you to set up a time for us to convene again for a second interview. I have consulted my schedule, and I have Sunday evening at 7:00 open. Since it is now Thursday, I am optimistic you will have enough time to secure childcare. If not, I might have daycare options available to you.

  Additionally, please forward a list of topics you’d like to discuss at our next meeting ASAP, so I will have time to prepare.

  Upon receipt of this email, please confirm you are agreeable to the meeting time. Location to be determined.

  Mr. Matthews

  To: Baker Matthews

  From: Ember Hastings

  Subject: Re: Interview

  Are you high right now? Blake sent me a text about some crying, Frisbee story.

  Stop being weird. And Sunday is fine. My son is with his dad this weekend. We don’t need a location. We’re meeting at the gym.

  Ember “Don’t Piss Me Off; I Can Throw a Punch Now” Hastings

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: Baker Matthews

  Subject: Re: Interview

  Dear Miss Hastings:

  I spend 24/7 at the gym. During these interviews, I would like to be relaxed and comfortable, which is not always achievable at my place of employment. Please forward your address to me, so I can secure a car service to pick you up and meet me.

  In regards to my “weirdness” as you say, you have requested for this to remain professional. I am giving you my utmost professionalism. I do believe

  HEY, EMBER! It’s Blake! Baker made the mistake of walking away to take a phone call. You know, on the phone where he has that great ass shot of you saved. That he was drooling over while he typed up this email, before he got a call. Does that say professionalism to you? I think not. Sending this email now before he comes back. Text me. Let’s do lunch.

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: Baker Matthews

  Subject: Re: Interview

  I was hacked.

  Baker “I Wasn’t Looking at That Picture I’m So Sure Whatever”

  To: Baker Matthews

  From: Ember Hastings

  Subject: Re: Eat a Dick Interview

  I took it upon myself to change the subject line of this email to better reflect my feelings right now.

  Also, you are not sending a car to pick me up. This is not a date. That’s just ridiculous. I will meet you wherever you tell me to. As long as it’s in public and not a murder lair.

  Ember “Stop Looking at My Ass” Hastings

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: Baker Matthews

  Subject: Re: Eat a Dick Interview

  You seem to have dick on the brain quite a lot. A year and a half you say? Makes total sense now.

  Lastly, I’m sending a car for you. Where we’ll be going is close to The Barracks, and I can just walk there. You are not riding the goddamn train then transferring to a bus to get to me again. If I had known that’s how you did it the other times, I would have sent a car then. Don’t argue. Accept the nice, comfy ride in a clean car all by yourself, instead of being sandwiched between two people who ate raw onions for lunch, on a train that smells like pee.

  Baker “Don’t Cut Off My Balls Because I Gave You an Order” Matthews

  To: Baker Matthews

  From: Ember Hastings

  Subject: Re: Eat a Dick Interview

  I sent my address (UNDER PROTEST) to your sister. I don’t trust you to have this information. You could still be a creeper.

  List of topics I’d like to discuss on Sunday:

  Why Baker Matthews is a pain in the ass.

  Why Baker Matthews is annoying.

  Why Baker Matthews no longer has balls.

  Ember “Maybe I Like People Who Smell Like Onions” Hastings

  CHAPTER 13

  Ember

  Turtle Chinchilla

  “Wear the flannel T-shirt dress I left last time I visited,” Brooklyn says from my phone.

  Tonight’s FaceTime call is taking place in my bedroom, where she’s currently perched on my nightstand.

  “That’s a sexy outfit. I’m not wearing a sexy outfit to a business meeting,” I remind her, holding up a hanger from my closet in front of me and turning to face my phone.

  “You cannot wear a pink cardigan. You’re not a virgin librarian. Wear the goddamn flannel T-shirt dress. My stomach is going to be the size of a Volkswagen soon. Be sexy when I can’t, Ember. You’re my only hope,” Brooklyn wails.

  “Stop being overdramatic. Your stomach won’t be the size of a Volkswagen. More like one of those mini, electric, smart cars.”

  “Suck my dick.”

  “Such language from a mother,” I admonish with a playful tsk.

  “Really? Says the mother who’s going out to get herself a good dicking from her boss while her son is away.” Brooklyn snorts.

  I mask the blush I can feel heating up my face by whirling around and disappearing back in my closet to put the cardigan back. “There will not be any dicking!” I shout back to Brooklyn over my shoulder as I shove as hard as I can to move aside my clothes and wedge the cardigan back in.

  The only thing I miss about the three months we spent in that massive apartment when we first moved here is my closet. It was the size of this entire bungalow, and even had one of those fancy couches with no arms or back right in the middle of it. I never understood the purpose of those things. Do you really get so tired trying to pick out something to wear that you need a nap? I used that uncomfortable couch as a dirty clothes hamper.

  “I don’t date jocks, remember? They are nothing but douchebags in the end,” I yell out of my closet, groaning as I shove my shoulder in between some clothes, and push back as hard as I can so I can swipe through the hangers.

  “He’s hot. He’s a wounded war veteran. He opened a gym for other wounded war veterans. He’s funny. He likes that you’re a smartass. He’s protective of his sister. He likes kids. It turned him on when you threw up your baggage all over him. Am I forgetting anything?”

  Halfway through Brooklyn’s spiel, I stepped out of the closet and stared at my phone screen in annoyance as she counted off Baker’s many attributes on her fingers.

  “That means nothing. Just like every other jock I was attracted to, he’ll still wind up being a douchebag in the end,” I remind her.

  The conviction in what I’m saying leaves my voice before I even get to the end of that sentence until I finished it off in barely a whisper. I don’t even believe what I’m saying, so why am I still saying it?

  Because I’m afraid.

  “Stop being a chicken shit,” Brooklyn orders, making me smile that even so far away, we still share the same brain sometimes. “Fine, so every hot, athletic guy you’ve dated before wound up being dickholes. You switched tactics, went for the polar opposite of what you’re typically attracted to, married him, and he turned into a dickhole. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

  “That I’m clearly a magnet for dickholes and I should never date again? How many cats does one person need to procure the title of Crazy Cat Lady, exactly? More than five, but less than ten?”

  “For fuck’s sake, who’s being overdramatic now?” Brooklyn scoffs. “Stop being afraid that every man you’re attracted to is going to turn into a douchebag. There are ge
nuinely good guys out there. They aren’t just in romance novels. Baker sounds like a pretty good guy.”

  “Yeah, you did get a genuinely good guy with my brother,” I reply.

  “Oh, fuck that. Clint is a dickhole. He ate the last piece of pumpkin dump cake you sent home with me to freeze the last time we came to Chicago,” Brooklyn complains. “Seriously, stop being a pussy about this and give the guy a chance to prove you wrong.”

  I sigh, staring down at the outfit I pulled off the hanger before I exited the closet. I know Baker is a good guy. But I absolutely am a chicken shit. He scares the hell out of me. I’ve never felt such a strong connection to someone I just met. Hell, Brandon and I didn’t even go on our first date until I’d known him for a year, because a heavy conversationalist, he was not, and it took forever to get to know the guy. Unless he was talking about drugs, and not the fun kind. He never shut up about work stuff. I like talking to Baker. I look forward to it every time I see his name in my inbox, or walk into a room with him. Brandon and I also didn’t even have sex until we’d been dating for six months. He wasn’t really big into dirty talk or foreplay. His idea of getting me in the mood was saying, “I’ll meet you upstairs after CNN Tonight is over.” Baker’s foreplay is… him. Everything about him. He’s a goddamn weapon of mass sexual destruction.

  “He’s still my boss,” I remind Brooklyn. “For now, I have a job to do. When that’s finished… who knows?”

  It’s fine. I can do this. Who cares if I’m so fucking starved for affection that humping the washing machine on the spin cycle sounds like a stellar way to spend a Wednesday afternoon? Get the job done, and then… maybe.

  Turning back around, I squeeze back into my closet and shove the boring, long-sleeved, black funeral dress I’d grabbed back on the cluttered hanging rod. Swiping a few things out of the way, I grab another hanger and walk back out into my room.

  “Your brother and I dry humped for the first time when I wore that dress,” Brooklyn muses, as the red-and-black flannel T-shirt dress slips from my grip and my arm slowly lowers from holding it up in front of me. “He gives great dry humping orgasms.”