by Marr, Maggie
“That won’t happen again.”
“Says the woman who still hasn’t gone out with a man in five years.”
“Not true. I . . . date.”
“You? Date?
“I do date. I don’t tell you, and I definitely don’t tell Lily, but I date on occasion.” She leans forward and tilts her chin. Her voice is a whisper. “There are men who take care of things for women, without dating.”
“Those are illegal and you’re a judge.”
“They aren’t all illegal. There’s one in particular I’ve heard of that is very legal, very discreet, and very selective. No money involved. He calls it his vocation.”
My chest tightens. My sister is talking about . . .
“Oh, really?” I ask, playing it cool because I’m the youngest and I can lie. I’m an excellent liar. Had years of practice. I’m telling you ladies, honesty comes on that extra bit of DNA that you get. Not us. Not ever. We have to learn to be honest. “Sounds dangerous to me. I’m thinking anything like that, has to be a sting operation by an overactive vice squad. Or maybe that TV show, you know, Dateline Undercover?
Color drains from Rachel’s face. The only thing big sis loves nearly as much as her family is being a judge. I’m hopeful I’ve just scared Rachel enough that she will never call any number that could be related to any rumor she’s heard about a man who has sex with women as a vocation. Especially one with a very special name. “Do you need me to watch Lily?” I ask. “While you and Cassidy go to lunch?”
Rachel shakes her head. “You leaving?”
I nod. Yes, it’s the only thing to do. Cut it. End it before it even starts. Make it clear that I have no interest. Lunch would send the wrong message, maybe even create hope. “I can excuse myself, I can even explain why. I don’t want you to feel exposed.”
“Go.” Rachel smiles. She shakes her head and pulls me in for a hug. I surrender. She’s my sister. I love her. I love Lily. I love Mom. I even, still, love Susie. I’m at seventy-five percent with females I love still being alive, so I guess the odds are okay. I’d give anything to have the stat be at one hundred percent.
“You have to let this go at some point,” Rachel whispers in my ear. “She’d want you to.”
Would she? I’m not certain. With the rage and the pain, I’m not certain exactly what Susie would want for me right now. Or ever. My sister, “the Judge,” might render a far different verdict about what Susie would want for me with regards to my happiness if she had all the facts. But this idea is more than I’m willing to wrestle with on a Saturday morning.
Lily runs from the kitchen and grabs my leg at the knee. “You’re leaving!”
She always knows. A sixth sense with this one.
“I’ll see you at Nana’s.” I bend down and lift Lily. Cassidy has washed up my sticky-chocolatey niece. Good woman. Attractive woman. Just not the woman for me. “There may be cake involved,” I whisper in Lily’s ear, planting a kiss on her cheek.
Her smile tells me this is an acceptable token of my affection. She kisses me back. I put her on the floor, hug my sister, nod to Cassidy—who stands just inside the doorway from the kitchen with a slight smile on her face—and make my escape.
As I always do.
* * *
Los Angeles is a small town. I know it seems impossible to believe unless you live here, but it’s true. L.A. is pockets of small communities nestled beside each other. My parents were raised here, I’ve lived my entire life here except during college, my sister is a judge here, and at this stage there’s one degree of separation between everyone—including celebrities.
I suppose it’s inevitable.
I stand in Gelson’s. I grasp a tomato. Which one is firm and round and needs to be grilled this afternoon? I hear a cart before I see her. I glance up.
Her face turns red. A pinkish blush. She swallows. She’s not nearly as “done up” as she was when we were together. It’s not Natasha, or Shelly or Carolyn or Leslie, or my personal longest vocation, Cheryl. This woman was many many women back—six or seven.
Jennifer.
This woman gave me the name Jennifer. I don’t flinch. I don’t give her any hint I recognize her. I don’t let on as though I’ve caressed every inch of skin. Pulled the nipples of her perky breasts, now hidden behind a sweatshirt with Stanford emblazoned across the front, into my mouth. I don’t let on that I remember she has a special penchant for fucking in the bathtub, or that she likes to be blindfolded while having sex. No. I push all of the sexual specifics, every last lovely detail, from my mind. I compartmentalize—as men are so very able to do—and I simply smile and say, “Hello.”
Her head jerks back and the skin between her eyebrows creases. One quick breath, as though she considers whether she’s lost her mind.
“Never able to pick a good tomato,” I continue. “They’re always mealy when I get them home.”
Now she’s uncertain I’m the man she thinks I am. It’s been over a year, and while her memory of our time together is so vivid she can feel every touch, every thrust—in fact, I’d bet her panties are wet right now—she’s unsure. I mean, people do look substantially different when they’re fucking.
“You want to go with firm.” She lifts a tomato and presses the round red fruit to her nose. Her gaze meets mine. No, no, she knows it’s me. Her tongue flicks out over her lips. “This one is the one you want.” She holds the juicy flesh out toward me.
I take it. Our fingers touch. A zing pulses through me, and I’m hard. Simple as that. Hard as a rock.
“Thank you.” I lift an eyebrow, incline my head, and walk away from the produce section, toward checkout.
I don’t sleep with every woman who calls. Nor is every number with Wonderfuck scrawled above it mine. I’m selective. Careful. Detailed. One can’t be too careful when meeting women to fuck away their insecurities and heartbreak.
As for the other men who share my name and my vocation, I haven’t met them. Perhaps we should form a club.
Chapter 5
The elevator doors slide open and there, standing on my floor in my hallway, is Douchey-McDouche-Face. I want to jab him in the nose. In my opinion, Greg’s getting close to stalker territory, since Tara has made it pretty clear to him that their relationship is over. I walk out of the elevator and he gives me the head jerk. No hello. Nothing.
What. A. Dick.
The elevator doors slide closed, which is lucky for me, because a couple of minutes more and I might’ve said something or thrust myself into a situation that has nothing to do with me. I walk down the hall, but instead of veering to my left to open my door, I veer to the right. I get really close to Tara’s door.
What the fuck am I doing?
Am I trying to listen? Am I checking on her? Why do I care? A week ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about Tara, or Douchebucket, or how she’s feeling.
What the hell is my problem?
I shake my head and turn toward my door when Jango barks. Once, twice, three times. Jango is barking, not in that get-away bark that dogs use to protect their pack, but in that oh-my-God-I-love-you-open-the-door-and-pet-me bark.
I stop, kind of frozen. I’m never frozen, but now I’m frozen in front of Tara’s door when it opens and Jango bolts out and pummels me with his paws.
“Jango, down!” Tara says with a coiled leash in her hand. She smiles at me, but there’s sadness in her eyes. She’s obviously just had some kind of conversation with her ex-fiancé, which doesn’t necessarily breed a happy state of mind.
“Hey,” I say. “Walk?”
“Three times a day,” she smiles. “I have a walker that helps, but since I’ve been working from home . . . it’s a great break in my day.” She leans down and clips the leash to Jango’s collar. He sits in front of me, his tail wagging back and forth across the floor, staring at me as though begging me to come too. Okay, buddy, I get it.
“Want some company?” I offer up.
Tara seems surprised.
&nbs
p; “I mean if you want to be alone, I get it—”
“No, I’d love the company. Yes. Yes, please. Come with us. Jango will love it.”
* * *
And he does. Jango loves his walk. I discover he also loves people (the ones who aren’t Greg), children, squirrels, flowers, and bicycles, but not skateboards. Definitely not skateboards.
“He’s a funny dog. Where’d you get him?”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you”—Tara leans in close to me—“Jango is a girl.”
“What?”
Tara nods.
“I guess I never checked Jango’s bits. Fair enough. Where’d you get her?”
“Westside German Shepherd Rescue downtown. I love her.” Tara stops and leans down to stroke Jango. “She makes everything better.”
“I agree. My niece wants a dog.”
“Lily?”
“Wow, that’s good, I’m impressed.” I walk to a cart and spring for two ice creams.
“Your sister stops by sometimes. We’ve chatted in the elevator.”
I nod. How strange. I never even considered that Rachel might know my neighbor.
“But I haven’t seen Lily since she was really little.”
“Rachel doesn’t want a dog.”
“Rachel doesn’t like dogs?” It’s as though I’ve told Tara that instead of putting criminals in prison, big sis drowns puppies for a living.
“No, no, no. The problem is Rachel loves dogs. She never got over the death of our family dog. So I think she’s a little afraid to fall in love again.”
Tara sighs. Whoops. Bad timing to mention “falling in love again,” even if it is with a pet.
“What’re you working on?” I change the subject, then take a lick of my chocolate cone.
“I have this idea for an investigative piece. I’m still trying to figure out whether it works or not. Right now I’m researching.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“Not really. So far it feels more like an urban legend than anything real.” Her tongue skirts around the edge of her ice cream, and I’ve never in my life so badly wanted to be a scoop of mint chocolate chip. “And you? Any great businesses you’re thinking of giving money to?”
I smile. I can tell her some details, but not many. “There’s one I like, met with the founders twice. We might end up with a deal.”
“When you say deal can I ask . . .”
“How much?
She nods.
“They want two hundred million.”
She coughs. Actually, she nearly chokes. I pat her on the back and she looks at me. Jango turns back and sits on Tara’s feet. “Uh . . . wow. That’s a lot of money. Is it your money?”
“Not all of it.”
“But a lot.”
I say nothing. Discussing my financial value is tiresome. I don’t like to, so I don’t. Big sis doesn’t even know the investments that I’ve made for her and Lily, which are in a trust making more money each month than Rachel makes in a year.
“Do you like what you do?” Tara asks.
What an odd question. I don’t think anyone has ever asked me if I like what I do.
“I like finding people with great ideas and then helping them make those ideas become real things. We live in a capitalist society, and it’s nearly impossible to make something work in business without capital.”
“But two hundred million.”
“They’ve earned the right to ask for that much.” I smile. “They’re not just two guys straight out of Cal Tech in a garage somewhere. Although one of the best businesses I gave VC to was just that. Only it was two women.”
“Do you keep these businesses?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes the creators buy back my part. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes I stay invested.”
“But you don’t manage them. You don’t get emotionally invested in these businesses.”
I stop and turn toward Tara. She has no idea how insightful her statement is, or how her words apply to every part of my life.
“Emotionally invested? No. I don’t allow myself get emotionally invested.”
“I get emotionally invested in television commercials.” She bites her cone. Tara has a smear of chocolate on the corner of her mouth. I reach out and dab it with my napkin. Those bright blue eyes lock onto me.
We’re standing close to each other. I take in the scent of her body, the warmth of her nearness, Jango laying on the grass, and the fading sunlight. Her lips are close to mine.
This is a moment.
I know moments. I spend my life as Wonderfuck cultivating these types of moments so that the women I wonderfuck have these memories to hold onto. This is the moment where, if I was attracted to Tara, which I am, I’d kiss her.
My desire for her is thick in the air and trails along my skin like a living thing. There is more than simple physical desire here. I like Tara. But to kiss her, to allow myself to start something with her, would be to untie a part of me that I’ve knotted up so tight that with one loose strand, all of me might unravel.
I step back, away from the moment, away from Tara’s sexy mouth and the potential kiss. The risk of real intimacy is too great. I ball up the napkin that I used to wipe the chocolate from the corner of her mouth and do the absolute most obtuse guy thing possible—I take my shot at the trash can.
I make my two-pointer, but lose the moment.
Sadness lingers in Tara’s eyes. Women recognize a moment. Some women even create moments to give men opportunities. Tara’s energy shifts. She was hopeful I’d take the moment, with the sun warming both of us and the soft breeze of afternoon air.
I didn’t.
Instead of taking it, I let the moment fade away.
Chapter 6
After my walk with Tara and Jango, I toss my Saturday mail onto the counter and pull my Wonderfuck phone from my pocket. It’s like the Batphone, only for women and for fucking. My vocation saves my soul from the abyss that threatens to swallow me and prove my nothingness.
Cheryl.
Cheryl is special. My connection with Cheryl is . . . deeper. Not love, no, not that, but she somehow sees beyond her own needs and beyond my Wonderfuck façade, seems to see me.
Yes, me.
She was my first Wonderfuck.
I listen to her message. My cock is hard. Her voice, with its hint of southern dialect, coos in my ear. The curve of her hip. Her breasts. The rounded, lush swell of her belly. She’s a gorgeous woman. All of her walks through my mind.
Her outrageous power is both sexual and real.
I glance at my other phone as I listen to her ask if we can meet tonight. We can. I pull the Wonderfuck phone from my ear and text her. That’s all it does, receive calls and send texts. No apps. Nothing. It’s an old-school flip phone. A burner. Disposable. This phone, like wonderfucking, is good for one thing and one thing only—physical connection.
* * *
“Darlin’, there is nothing on this planet that makes me feel as good as you. I’ve tried Pilates, yoga, meditation, and every drug known to man, but nothing compares to a Wonderfuck.”
Cheryl’s words please me. I stretch out on the king-sized bed. The sheet drapes at an angle across my thigh. Her gaze rakes over my body. I love being good at my vocation. She traces a fingernail between my pecs, down my chest, and across the ripple of my abs. I grasp Cheryl’s hand and pull the palm to my lips. She’s the closest thing I have to a regular. I’ve lost count of number of times and places we’ve wonderfucked.
“You sure you don’t want to come to Kauai next week? Just you, me, the sun, the sand? I won’t even make you leave the house if you don’t want to.”
“Too much going on.”
“Your mom?”
I say nothing. Cheryl knows more about my life than I’m comfortable admitting, but over time we’ve both collected details about each other’s lives.
“That disease is some kind of bitch.” Cheryl shakes her head. “Watched my aunt go through it when my
kids were little. Tore our family up.” She stands from the bed. Her body is marked by life, with scars from her two kids, a car accident, stretch marks. Cheryl isn’t young, taut, and thin, but she is sexy as hell. She inhabits each mark on her body as though it were a fucking award. That—her shameless unapologetic comfort with her body—makes her sexier than the women I wonderfuck who are half her age.
My cock is hard.
“Look at you, finding this old broad so sexy,” she purrs, a ghost of her old-south accent coming through even after decades of living an upper-crust lifestyle in Los Angeles. “Darlin’, I wish I had more time,” she turns toward the bathroom, “but I’ve got a gala to save something, I don’t even know what. One of those things I have to do with those stuffed shirts that run my husband’s company while he’s off in Malaysia or New Zealand or some damned place.”
I hear water gush from the showerhead and hit the marble tile. Usually I’d join her, but I know where that will lead, and she’s in a hurry. Cheryl is happy to stay and play for days if we’re both available, but when she’s busy, she has to go. I know this about her. I also know her kids’ names and where they each live and what they do, just like she knows about my mom. Funny what she knows, when she doesn’t even know my name.
I get up and look out the window at Beverly Hills. Cheryl may be the closest thing to a relationship I’ve had since Susie.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” Cheryl walks from the bathroom with a towel around her body. She drops it to the floor and again, my cock is instantly hard. “If I got that kind of reaction from my husband we’d still be sleeping on the same continent,” she says, taking her panties and bra from the chair. “But it’s been close to twenty years since his cock got hard for me.”
“What’d you do for the other fifteen?”
She lifts an eyebrow and sends me a teasing smile, but says not a word. She proceeds to put on her Chanel skirt. I leave her, sitting at the dressing table in her bra about to apply her makeup, and head to the shower.
