“Come on,” I coaxed. “I told you my gross embarrassing secret.”
“Yeah, except yours isn’t gross or embarrassing. Mine is.”
“Were you a gigolo?”
“Yes, but I never made this kind of money.”
“Seriously, what?” I grabbed his hands and squeezed. “What, what, whaaaaat? Tell me!”
“It’s stupid,” he warned me.
“Oh, I’m sure it is, but I want to know.”
“I won the lottery.”
“Come on.”
“I did. I won the lottery. Thirty-two million.”
I stared. He looked back calmly. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you embarrassed about it?”
“Because it’s so dumb,” he groaned, actually staggering under the weight of the dumbness of it all. “I never bought a ticket ever. I wanted a Coke and a Snickers and bought the thing on a lark, and I won thirty-two million dollars. It’s so dumb I can hardly stand it.”
“It is dumb,” I agreed, “but I think it’s nice. You deserve to have money.” Interesting how careful he was with his things. In his head, he was still poor. That was all right. In my head, I was still three people.
“Listen, the reason I’m here … I broke up with Patrick.”
He blinked. “I remember. We went over this yesterday.”
“Right. Don’t worry, I haven’t grown another personality. I remember the conversation, too. Most of it. But since then I’ve done some thinking and went to see my boss/mother figure, who I’ve forgiven for her betrayal because in a creepy way she did it out of sort-of love.”
“Okay.”
“And I still have a job if I want it.” At his puzzled look, I added, “I’ll get into that later.”
“You can’t mean the FBI would ever want to let you go. You?”
“I’m not sure,” I said truthfully. I’d like to think if the FBI knew my track record they’d want to keep me on the team after they let me on the team in the first place.…
(Focus.)
“Long story short, it looked like we were gonna have to shut down and now we don’t have to, but I’m not sure if I’ll stay or go because there’s some honesty issues. But it’s nice to have options.”
Max gestured to his warehouse palace and winked. “It is.”
“And I’ve moved into another house, my best friend’s old house, and I’d like you to come visit. Not right this second. But soon.”
He leaned in and kissed my mouth, still cold from being outside. “Can’t wait. And I love that you came over. And I love that you had a good day. Listen, I think I know why you’re here and like I said, I’m fine with it. The virginity thing. I know you’re gonna need time to—nnph.”
I’d seized him and kissed him back. “Is there a bedroom in the ballroom you live in?”
A man of instant decision, Max Gallo grabbed my hand and we galloped through the cavernous living room and kitchen (his warehouse castle was on an open floor plan), past floor lamps glowing with mellow light, a line of barstools around a stainless steel kitchen island, a low table and matching chairs in the dining area, down a window-lined hall—
“You live all by yourself in this big old warehouse, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
—and into his bedroom, which was narrow but quite long. The tall walls were the same cream color as the living room and kitchen, and the same enormous windows lined one side of the room, showing the lights from the Mississippi. There was a lone desk with a matching chair, and an open laptop up top, and a series of shelves on the opposite wall on which were stacked about a hundred T-shirts and pairs of scrub pants. The ceiling fan, twenty feet over our heads, spun lazily.
“Your home is beautiful, and your wall o’ scrub pants is lovely. It’s just like you. Like the warehouse. It looks one way on the outside and it’s something else inside.”
“I didn’t have a lot of space to myself as a kid, so I’ve overcompensated like any damaged adult.” He was rapidly divesting himself of his clothing as he talked. “Listen, we don’t have to do this tonight if you don’t want.” I heard the clink of his belt, the rattle of change as his jeans hit the floor. “You’ve been through a lot in a short time.” He kicked free of the denim puddle. “You should take all the time you need.” Off went the T-shirt. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. I’ll wait as long as you want. I’d wait ten years if you wanted.”
The socks went flying over my shoulder—why would he throw them at me? “So just … y’know.” He took me by the waist and kissed me harder than I had ever been kissed. “No pressure.”
“Ten years, huh?”
“Oh please no.”
I laughed and my mouth opened to him and I inhaled his sweet dark scent, cotton and leather. “My exact sentiments. Ummm … you taste really good.”
He groaned and sort of waltzed me to the bed, which if I’d seen it in a movie would have been corny, but Max Gallo pulled it off. “If you want this to last longer than thirty seconds, could you not talk? Or move? Or make eye contact?”
I laughed harder, but that could have been because his hands were up under my turtleneck, tugging gently at my bra and then slipping up under it … ack! Ticklish there, very ticklish there!
I felt his long fingers brush the undersides of my breasts and shivered as a bolt of pleasure went to my … knees? Weird. I didn’t know there were nerves that connected those parts. Then he was pulling the turtleneck over my head, and slowly unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down my thighs. He left my bra, panties, and socks alone, for which I was momentarily grateful: I didn’t want this to go too fast, and the floor was chilly.
“Oh, God, you’re so beautiful!” His hands were on my waist and his mouth was still hard against mine; I could feel his fingers wanting to dig and clutch, felt him force those digging fingers into immobility.
“It’s okay,” I said, licking his lower lip. “I came here to be mauled.”
“No eye contact!” He took a full step back. “Whew! Close one. Seriously: I’m doing you a favor by lowering your sexual expectations.”
“And what a favor,” I teased. I slid my arms around him and slipped my fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, the only thing remaining after the blizzard of clothes he’d whirled through. The skinny guy had an outstanding ass. Like if I ran a quarter down his back and let fly … zwiiiiiip! “Don’t worry. I can’t imagine it could be anywhere near as spectacular as I’ve spent over a decade imagining.”
He groaned good-naturedly, rubbed my back, then slid his fingers beneath my bra strap, but so lightly and slowly I could barely feel—
(fwip!)
“Wow,” I said, impressed as my bra seemed to unhook itself. “That was practically telekinetic.”
“Now isn’t the time to discuss how I worked my way through medical school, but remind me to bring it up later.” He was kissing my collarbone, my shoulders, the hollow of my throat. He was leading me further into the bedroom until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Then he slowly went to his knees, moving my bra aside and trailing kisses down my body as he did.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against my cleavage. He slipped the bra down one shoulder and then the other, and, still on his knees, took my waist in his hands and licked the tender undersides of my breasts. “Brave. Strong. Smart. Oh, God, you’re lovely.” His lips were on my stomach, his tongue darted into the cup of my belly button—more nerves that ran right to my knees! Weird—and still he went lower.
He reached for my socks—“Ack, no! The floor is freezing!” (Stupid warehouse.)—then left them on, nudged my legs apart, and began kissing the insides of my thighs. I gasped and then he didn’t have to do any nudging; I was nudging my own damned legs apart, thank you very much.
He never touched my Cookie Monster panties; instead he kissed and teased and licked the tender skin between my thighs for more tha
n a thousand years. I let my head loll back on my shoulders until I was staring at the ceiling and not seeing a damned thing. He could have not had a ceiling at all and I wouldn’t have noticed, and fuck the snow.
Around year 1,267 my knees started to go and I fell back on the bed, and now thank God, thank Christ, at last his hands were on my panties
(“C is for cookie, that’s good enough for meeee!”)
and he was sliding them past my knees and then my ankles and then they went flying (I figured they’d hit somewhere near his socks).
He was supporting himself with one hand on the bed and kneeling over me holding himself with the other and I reached, I reached for him and found him long and velvety and hard at the same time, and he said, he slurred, he stammered through black lust that matched my own, “Are you all right, C-Cadence? Can I—?” And speech had left around year 231 so I nodded and tried to subtly convey my need by grabbing his shoulders and yanking him like I was going to cuff him
(Ooh!)
and for once I was glad
(Fuck me, oh fuck me, you’re going to fuck me now because I really insist that you FUCK ME NOW, PLEASE, AND DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT TWICE.)
I was thinking out loud.
He sort of groaned and sighed at once as his lovely length slid into me, and if I’d retained any ability to speak I would have lost it in that moment. The feeling, the fit—indescribable. All I knew was, all those women’s magazines had gotten it wrong. By a lot. Because this was like nothing on earth. The earth wasn’t moving and it wasn’t a little death; it was a little life. It was like that and more and I would have liked to keep pondering it, but that was beyond me now. Everything that wasn’t Max Gallo was beyond me now and all I could do was clutch his shoulders and cry out into his mouth while his tongue took me above while his cock took me below and I
(oh)
felt every barrier
(ohhhh)
every membrane
( )
every wall within and without just
( )
give way.
I shivered and clutched him and realized he was holding me with hard hands that shook and was whispering or thinking out loud
Oh God I love you I love you oh I love you oh I love you I love you
the same things I was.
chapter sixty-three
“Cookie Monster, huh?”
I snorted laughter, which turned into guffaws as he began tickling me and I jabbed him in the ribs and I thought, again, I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s.
Later he showed me his glorious shower: two showerheads, sand-colored tile, and big enough to hose down elephants. Shower sex, I found, was a lot like going apple picking. It sounded great, and in the beginning it was fun, but then reality sets in and you realize you’re farming, which is not fun. Farming is hard work. So is trying to come while also trying to help the person with you have fun while making sure nobody accidentally shuts off all the cold water. Or worse, all the hot water.
But kitchen island sex is fun! (After you put lots of towels down—stainless steel is chilly anytime, but especially in December.)
And a shower after bedroom sex and shower sex and kitchen island sex is bliss itself, especially when a lanky brunette with tired eyes and a wicked smile is there to scrub your back.
I led him back to his bedroom and kissed him goodnight—no, good morning. “Nnn unnh?” he managed, already slipping into sleep.
“Gotta go,” I whispered, stroking his hair back from his forehead. “I’m dying for a bagel and I want to get back to the new old house and get some unpacking done so I can have a sleepover. And hey! Good job with the whole taking my virginity thing. Now that’s off my to-do list. I’ll call.”
“Love you.”
“Well, I hope so.” I kissed him on the mouth. “Love you, too. Sleep, my exhausted sex angel.”
His chuckle followed me out the door.
chapter sixty-four
I smelled bagels and blinked. Bruegger’s, on Nicollet Mall. Faugh. I loathed bagels.
I was hungry, though, and pleasantly tired, as well as squeaky clean. No idea what Cadence had been up to, but it could not have been too terrible as I felt fine and was ravenous. So I went down the street for a rare sugar indulgence—chai latte (pet peeve: people who said chai tea unaware they were saying tea tea) and a blackberry scone, which I wolfed down in three bites.
Still chewing as I went back outside—it had finally snowed last night—I pulled our phone and saw that there was a voice mail from Cadence. It was refreshingly, yet puzzlingly, brief.
“It’s over! It’s all done with.”
Eh? Ah! She had finalized the breakup with Patrick and moved all our things to Cathie’s—to our new home. Outstanding. Cadence was impressive when she cared to try. That was considerable work, and the physical part, moving boxes, was the least of it.
I would still have to seek out Patrick. I was sure Cadence had explained that we were all breaking up with him, but I still owed him the courtesy of a personal visit, and an apology for my part in helping us lie to ourselves.
All in good time, because I realized what her message meant for me: I was free, too.
I sucked down my tea on the way to Dr. Gallo’s warehouse in the North Loop. I will not deny I had been startled to find he was well-off. A lottery winner, of all things. How absurd and amusing!
I pounded on the door with the flat of my hand and after a long while heard zombie-like footsteps. Well, it was early. The door was jerked opened and there stood Dr. Gallo, deliciously rumpled and yawning, shirtless in a pair of gray boxer-briefs that did nothing to hide the muscles in his long legs or his, ah, morning enthusiasm. If that was the word.
I dispensed with pleasantries and greeted him with, “I appreciate that you wished to give me time. I no longer require time. Kiss me. Then fuck me. No, never mind: I shall fuck you.”
“Huh? Oh.” I kicked the door shut behind us and walked him into the back where I assumed he had a bedroom. “Shiro…”
“I know,” I murmured against his mouth, struggling out of my jacket while backing him toward the bed. “I have wished for this, too.”
“Oh boy … the thing is, I’m really tired.”
“I am, as well. Tired of denying my feelings. The time for that is all past. Kiss me back! We shall make love all morning.”
His groan affirmed that, at last, our lives were on the right path. I would not trade mine for anyone’s, not ever.
suggested reading
Of course, BOFFO and its employees don’t exist in real life (oh, to dream), but the psychiatric and neurologic quirks they have do exist, and, I’m sorry to say, serial killers exist, too. Below are some of the books I used for research. Some of them have been out less than five years; others have been around for decades. Any one of them is a pretty fine way to spend a few afternoons. I don’t have the drive or the attention to detail necessary to work in the mental health field, write true crime books, see the world as a synesthete, or go on a killing spree, but I have great respect for those who do. Except for, you know. That last one. The other stuff, though: big-time respect.
Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens: How Synesthetes Color Their Worlds, by Patricia Lynne Duffy.
The Sociopath Next Door, by Martha Stout.
The Onion Field, by Joseph Wambaugh.
The Stranger Beside Me, by Ann Rule.
ALSO BY MARYJANICE DAVIDSON
Me, Myself, and Why?
Yours, Mine, and Ours
Outta the Bag
about the author
MaryJanice Davidson is a former model and medical test subject, as well as a New York Times bestselling author who has no idea why she is a success at what she does. (“No idea. At all.”) Her books have been translated into several languages and are available in fifteen countries. (“No one is more surprised than I.”) She frequently speaks to book clubs (“I don’t know why my books sell”), writers’ groups (“I don’t know why I’m
on bestseller lists”), and World War Two veterans (“Thanks for driving Hitler to suicide!”). She lives with her husband, family, and dogs in St. Paul, Minnesota, and loves (“No, really … I do!”) hearing from readers. You can reach her at [email protected], by visiting her Facebook page, or joining her Yahoo! group. Also, check out her blog if you have a chance: www.maryjanicedavidson.blogspot.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
YOU AND I, ME AND YOU. Copyright © 2013 by MaryJanice Davidson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover photograph by Gregg Paprocki
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Davidson, MaryJanice.
You and I, me and you / MaryJanice Davidson. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-53119-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02335-3 (e-book)
1. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Officials and employees—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Fiction. 4. Romantic suspense fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.A949Y66 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013002636
First Edition: March 2013
*She is a stupid girl; translated from Mandarin.
You and I, Me and You Page 20
