by Tessa Blake
He consults a napkin beside the register, then picks it up so I can see the tally marks there. “Six,” he says.
I nod. “Yeah, that’s probably enough, then.” I toss it back, enjoy the burn as it goes down.
“Did it work?” He asks.
“Did what work?”
“Trying to forget her.”
“Who says there’s a her?” I snap.
“There’s always a her,” he says, his tone deadpan. “It’s either a lady or a business deal gone bad, and if it was a business deal, you wouldn’t have asked for the Ardberg.”
He has a point.
“No,” I admit. “It didn’t work. I’m honestly not sure what will.”
“Ouch.” He reaches under the bar and comes out with a damp cloth that he starts running over the rail and the surface of the bar. “Married, or…?”
“No,” I say softly. “No, nothing like that. I’ve only just met her.”
“She must really be something, then.”
“Yeah.” I push the shot glass across the bar and lean forward a little. “What would you say if I told you I only met her a couple of days ago? Crazy, right?”
“Pheromones,” he says, nodding knowingly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Pheromones.” He leans over with his elbows on the bar and points at me with one finger. “You have these receptors, okay? And she’s giving off these pheromones that you can … well it’s kind of like smelling, except not smelling.”
“She does smell good.”
“It’s not like that, exactly. You don’t smell it. It’s something like that, but not quite. Look.” With his finger, he draws a line across the bar and points to one end. “Here are your single-celled organisms. We know pretty much how pheromones work in that population.”
“We?”
“I’m premed at NYU. Anatomy and Physiology. So over here” —he moves his finger to the other end of the line — “are humans.”
“Okay.”
“So, like I said, we know how it works down here with the amoebas. But as you move down the line, we know less and less. I’ll skip the footnotes.”
“Thanks.”
“But what we do know, at this point, is that pheromones play some role in primate attraction.” He points at me again. “And if it happens in primates, it happens in you. End lecture.”
“So I can’t get her out of my head because she’s giving off invisible sex rays.”
He blinks, nods. “Yeah, kinda.”
The music playing over the speakers ends, and after a long moment of silence, a familiar soulful voice pours out, half a beat ahead of the music. “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Really? I think. Really? I groan a little.
“You all right?”
Yeah, I’m … her name is Sunny.”
He grins hugely. “My grandma would call that a sign from God.”
“And you?”
“Well, I’m more about science, myself, but … you gotta admit, it’s a little eerie.”
“Yeah.” I stand, throw a few bills on the counter. “Keep the change. And thanks for the science lesson.”
He picks up the money, salutes me with the same hand. “Good luck, man.”
I head out the door, knowing I’m going to need it.
When he opens the door of 2B, Isaac’s face is stony. “She’s not here,” he says, before I can get a word in.
“I’ll wait,” I say.
“I wouldn’t,” Isaac says. He leans again the doorjamb, crosses his arms over his chest. “Marcus will be home soon, he has a red belt in karate, and he’s not happy with you.”
“What’s his problem with me?”
“You made Sunny cry.”
“I certainly did not.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you didn’t stick around to see it, but she was still crying her face off when I got offstage ten minutes later, so I’m here to tell you, buddy — you did.”
I swallow. “I need to see her,” I say. “I have to tell her …” Tell her what? “I have to tell her that I’m sorry.”
“How do you know she wants to hear it?”
“I don’t,” I say, truthfully. “But she needs to hear it. What happens after that is up to her.”
“I don’t like seeing my friend cry,” he says, simply. His face is still set in hard lines, but his eyes look a little softer.
“Please tell me where she is,” I say. “I’ll never make her cry again. I can promise you that.”
He smiles wryly. “You can’t promise that. No one can.”
“I can promise to try.”
“That’s a start.” He sighs. “She walked down to the river. She likes to sit on the benches down there at the last pier, on 59th.”
“Thanks.”
“Go north to 59th first,” he says, “then go west. If you go west from here, you might get past the park alive, but you sure as hell won’t be wearing that watch anymore.”
I’m going to have to start dressing down to come here.
Assuming Sunny wants me here.
But she will. I just have to talk to her.
And, oddly, while I’d do anything to go back in time and not make her cry, I’m gratified to hear that she was crying rather than raging. Crying means there are some feelings in there.
Crying means I have a chance.
I follow Isaac’s directions, and as I approach the pier, a bench on the riverfront — and the figure sitting on it — grows larger and resolves itself to Sunny, still wearing the simple halter dress she was wearing at the protest. She has something in her lap — a sweater, maybe — but the evening air hasn’t yet grown cool, and her bare shoulders are bathed in the light of the setting sun.
As I approach, her eyes flicker to me, then away. She clasps her hands together in her lap, and says nothing when I take a seat on the bench beside her.
I let the silence go on for a few moments, in case she wants to speak first. But she doesn’t speak, or even look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It barely seems adequate, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment. “Isaac says I made you cry, and I’m sorry for that.”
“You didn’t make me cry,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But Isaac—”
“Oh, I cried.” She turns to face me, her eyes huge and sad. “I cried because I knew I was wrong, and I figured you were walking out of my life forever.”
“You weren’t wrong.”
“I was wrong not to talk to you,” she says. “I wasn’t wrong to go to the protest, and if I had it to do over, I would do the same thing. But I would tell you.”
“What purpose would that serve?” I ask. “I would have tried to talk you out of it.”
“You wouldn’t have succeeded.” She smiles, just a little. “But you wouldn’t have felt so … blindsided.”
“That’s true.”
We sit in silence for a little while, then she gestures at the expanse of riverfront land to the right of us, stretching off into the distance.
“There’s a guy who wants to build high-rise apartments right on the river, from here all the way up to the 70s,” she says. Her voice is contemptuous, as though this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “He bought an option on the property, and the neighborhood blocked him. But I know he’ll try again. They always do. So I come to sit here and look, in case it’s all gone soon.”
I can’t help calculating the value in my head. All that empty space, just looking to be developed. If I’m right — and I know I am — it’s got to be worth 100 million, easy.
“I see you,” she says. “You’re looking at it with dollar signs in your eyes.”
I shrug. “It’s how I’m made.”
“Let me tell you how I’m made. I see bike paths and walking trails and playground equipment.” She turns to look at me. “How do we reconcile that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But we have to.”
“We do?”
“Yeah,
we do.” I reach out and take her hand in mine. “Couldn’t someone build half as many buildings, and set aside the rest for bike paths and all that?”
“Someone could.” She tilts her head. “Would they?”
“It would increase the rental value.”
She laughs. “You’re never going to change, are you?”
“I’m never going to be anyone but myself.” I put an arm around her, and she leans her head on my shoulder. “But I’m also not my father. I already told you some of the things I’m pushing him to do—”
“You did, and I’m sorry I assumed.”
“It’s okay.” I brush my lips over her hair. “I can only be me, and I’m always going to look at a space like this and see skyscrapers and dollar signs. It’s how I’m wired.”
I feel her nod. “Okay, but—”
“But that doesn’t mean there’s not room for playgrounds.”
She lifts her head, and smiles at me. It’s brilliant, dazzling. “No, it doesn’t.”
“So … now what?”
There’s a long, long pause. It’s hard to breathe, waiting for her answer.
Finally, she asks, “Are you still going to vote for Reagan?”
I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. “Seeing as I’d like to keep some of my money, probably.”
“Capitalist.”
“Hippie.”
She nods. “You’re damn right. I’m never going to change, you know. I’m going to keep tilting at windmills.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. Maybe we should look into investing some money in wind power.”
She throws back her head and laughs; I take her hand and look out over the water, and think of everything that’s in front of us. And I know it’s going to be amazing.
Sunny
One year later…
I look myself over carefully in the full-length mirror, tucking a few stray wisps of hair under my tiara. Makeup’s good; hair mostly good, except I need a few more bobby pins. Everything sparkles — the tiara, yes, but also the bodice of this dress, the veil, the enormous diamond on my left ring finger, shining bright in the sunlight streaming into this dressing room.
Everything shines brighter, since Slate.
My heart soars when I think that in less than an hour, we’ll be married. I can scarcely believe it’s real, but it is. It really is. What started a year ago on a humid maintenance rooftop in the Village is about to come to fruition here, on a rooftop terrace overlooking Central Park.
There’s a faint knock on the door. Thinking it might be my mom, who slipped out a few minutes ago to find those bobby pins, I call out, “Come in.”
The door opens, and it’s Slate.
“You can’t come in here!” I turn my back on him. “It’s bad luck to see me!”
“Seeing you could never be anything but good luck,” he says. I hear him step across the room, then his arms wrap around me from behind and he brushes his lips over the nape of my neck.
His hands rest casually on my stomach. He obviously doesn’t notice the almost imperceptible swelling there, and I’m not going to point it out right now. I’ll save that for later, when we’re alone and this crazy, wonderful day is behind us. And our whole crazy wonderful life is ahead of us.
“I’m not looking at you,” I say. “We’re not supposed to see each other.”
“You’re being silly,” he says, and turns me to face him.
He’s impossibly handsome in his tux; warmth sweeps through me, all the way down to my toes.
Mine, I think. All mine.
He bends to kiss me. “I saw your mother pass through the staging area. Does that mean we’re ready to start?”
“I need a few more minutes.”
“How, when you’re perfect now?”
I melt into his arms and let him ruin my lipstick. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear my mother clear her throat. I look over Slate’s shoulder, and she’s standing in the doorway, looking amused.
“You can’t wait another half hour?” she says to Slate.
He actually looks sheepish; my mother is a force to be reckoned with.
“Of course,” he says. He lifts my hand and kisses the very tips of my fingers, something that never fails to send a shiver through me, then turns to go.
As he leaves, my mother looks at me and shakes her head. “He’s ridiculously in love with you.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around myself. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It is.” She comes over and wraps her arms around me, too, and we stand like that for a minute. “Now let’s get you ready to go out there and get married,” she says, holding up several bobby pins. ”Your Aunt Gretchen took these out of her own hair to give to you.”
I let her tuck the last bits of hair in neatly and pin them in place, then fuss with my tiara, my veil. She redoes my lipstick, tsk-ing the whole time. She spritzes me, just a little, with perfume, and dusts the palms of my hands with baby powder, so they won’t be sweaty.
And then I’m ready.
I follow her down the hall and through the staging area, empty now. Everyone has gone out to wait for me. My mother kisses my cheek then heads out to take her seat by my father.
We decided I will walk myself down the aisle, because no one has the right to give me away. My dad thought it was great; my mom agreed. Slate muttered something about hippie feminists, and I punched him in the arm.
I’m pretty sure he only does this stuff to rile me up.
I peek out the door into the bright day, and see that even though we kept the guest list small, the roof is full.
Slate has taken his place under the pergola at the end of the aisle. He stands, at ease, his hands behind his back, speaking softly with his best man, who’s standing beside him. Just across from them stands Isaac, waiting for me.
I can’t wait for what comes next. Not the wedding and the honeymoon — although that’s great, of course — but everything after. Making the house we bought last month into a home. Traveling. Children. Growing old together.
I hug myself again, and step out into the sun.
The End
The Billionaire’s Contract
I hope you enjoyed Mr. Slate! If so, you might want to check out The Billionaire’s Contract, the story of Slate & Sunny’s oldest son, Rafe Garrett. It’s a billionaire romance with big feels, big twists, and all the kinky bedroom fun you could want. Read on for a sneak peek!
Rafe
I watch her there, dancing, and I know that I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.
I’m not normally one to be impulsive—I didn’t get where I am by rushing blindly into things. I asked a few discreet questions, and nobody seems to know who she is, so I’m biding my time, waiting to see if she reveals anything. And I gave Marco a little … investigative task. But I’m watching her. I’m watching her dress slide along the subtle curves at her hips and breasts as she allows herself to be guided across the dance floor. I’m watching her slender neck bend as she looks down and smiles at the balding, out-of-shape asshole she’s dancing with, and I’m thinking that he’s in for a surprise. I’m just about certain that I’ll be fucking her before the night is out. Running my hands down the curve of her back, which is currently exposed in some long, black backless couture thing. Wrapping those long legs around my waist.
But first I have to figure out who she is. Just in case.
“Rafe,” a quiet voice says, and I look to my left to find that Marco has come back from the coat check room.
“Anything?” I ask.
“The coat check girl recognized her, showed me her coat and purse.” He passes me a small rectangle of plastic—a New York State driver’s license.
I turn my back to the room and peruse it. Brigitte Pierce, it says, and it lists height, weight, and hair color that could belong to her, but— “This isn’t her,” I tell him. “But I know that name.”
“Odd, isn’t it?” he say
s. Marco’s sort of my right-hand man—a jack-of-all-trades—and low-key to the point of comatose, a quality that comes in handy, and for which I pay him handsomely. “And yet, it came from her purse.”
“Really?” I ask, looking back over my shoulder to check her out again. 5’8” looks about right, and the hair—a deep, striking blue-black—is the right color. But the woman in the photo has a shorter, snubber nose, and a rounder face. And there’s no way this woman I’m looking at weighs 140 pounds. “How can you be sure it was her purse?”
He hands me another flat plastic rectangle—a second license. “Because this was in her purse, too. Tucked behind the other one.”
Marco’s unfailing thoroughness is another thing for which I pay him handsomely.
I palm the second license and bring it close to my chest so I can study it. 5’8”, 120. That’s more like it. I like women in just about every size—what’s not to like?—but the last few women I’ve fucked have been lusher, curvier. I could stand a change for a while.
I look at her again, her smile strained as she blocks her dance partner’s hand from moving a little too low in the “lower back” area. Not that I can blame him. Each tight ass cheek is a perfect handful; so is each of her sexy little tits. I can’t wait to get my hands on her. Get my mouth on her.
“Ainsley Dumont,” I say, reading the name off the license. “That mean anything to you, Marco?”
Marco hands me his smartphone, already displaying a web page that tells me who Brigitte Pierce is. Now I know why the name was familiar: she’s a reporter for one of the local channels. I don’t watch the local news—why would I?—but I’ve caught her on screen from time to time. She would have been invited to the gala; this sort of ribbon-cutting bullshit is the reason local news was invented. Did she send this Ainsley woman in her place? Why?
Is she a coworker? A reporter? I won’t abide reporters in my place right now. I’ve had my fucking fill of reporters—enough to last me a lifetime—since this latest bullshit scandal.
I hand the phone back to Marco. “So that’s Brigitte,” I say.
