99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  I put my hand on his bicep and squeeze. If I’m not careful, I’ll slide it. Okay, whoops, it’s sliding. Too late to do anything about it. I watch myself feel up to his shoulder, dig the black nails in, and then make the glide to his collarbone.

  “Why the fuck would he want to be with someone else?” He takes another sideways glance. “I mean, I’m sure she’s a nice person but . . .” He looks back at me with a hot gaze and I know the end of that sentence. She’s got nothing on me.

  I show the indifference I know he craves. “He can do what he wants with his time. He isn’t mine.”

  “Has anyone ever been yours?” His fingers are on my shoulder and my brain empties out. “Don’t answer that.”

  “Of course not.” I have a full-body shiver. “Once someone’s mine, they’re gonna stay mine. One hundred percent, forever. You know what I’m like.”

  He leans down and tips his face into the curve of my neck to speak over the music. He’s just keeping up the façade for our audience. “If you had someone, you wouldn’t be sitting here with some random guy all over you.”

  “You’re not some random guy.” I almost say, You’re the guy. But thankfully I’ve still got a little of the safer humiliation left in my bloodstream. “I’d be sitting here with my guy and I’d be all over him.”

  He pulls back and our noses graze; we’re agonizingly close to a kiss. His eyebrow quirks at whatever my expression is. “What if he doesn’t want to be consumed, body and soul?”

  My confidence sizzles out. “I guess . . . I guess I’d just have to hope . . .” Everything pulls back into focus. We’re talking about a man who will not be Tom. I try to turn back to the bar but his knees press tight.

  “Hey,” he says, and strokes my cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m sorry. He’ll love it. He’ll only want your hands.” He hesitates, then plunges. “Being the full focus of Darcy Barrett is something else, let me tell you. It’s intense.”

  “Yeah, I know. Kitchen-smashing intense.” I reach for my wine. “Hopefully whoever ends up mine will know beforehand exactly what he’s gotten himself into.”

  Gotten into? It sounds too close to get in me. I need to make this conversation be a little more rhetorical. “What kind of guy would you approve of for me?”

  This should be the perfect thing to say. It’s light, it’s neutral, and it covers up everything that has been scribbling so confusingly inside me. But I’ve said the wrong thing. His entire body flexes. The big knees squeeze, the fingers on his hand close, and his jaw barely lets the words out. “No one.”

  Even if he’s jealous, it’s pointless. I look across the room. There’s Vince with a blond girl. Her face is lit up blue from her phone screen. I give him a nod, and he nods back, glum.

  “Ha ha, he’s having the worst night.” There’s not even a blip of emotion inside me.

  As soon as I’m looking back at Tom, no one else exists. I’m beginning to think that it’s going to be the case for life. It’s why I really should make an effort to find my silver medal. “Please, tell me. What kind of guy?”

  Tom responds like I’m testing his patience. “There’s no one in the world I’d choose for you. He’s still looking, then?” He weaves my bra strap between his fingers. “You wear some fancy stuff around my building site.”

  The lace stretches tight and I feel it everywhere. “Only up top. Down below, it’s nothing but sturdy, abusive cotton.”

  “What do they say? Right now?”

  “Oh yeah. They say . . .” I lean up to his ear. “None of your business.”

  “Your jeans are tight enough that I can almost make it out.” His fingers are on my hips now, sliding into my belt loops. The tiny tug he gives me rocks me another half inch into him. I’m turned on. In public, on another goddamn stool.

  “Hey, you’re blushing. That’s a pretty pink.” He presses a kiss on my cheekbone, sits back, and smirks in Vince’s direction.

  With each second, the light is changing on the planes of Tom’s face and he’s looking more like a stranger. I couldn’t care less if Vince is watching. “I swear, if you’re just messing with me . . .”

  His eyes spark in memory, and he uses my own words. “What is it like, being messed with by me?”

  “You’re so good at it, I’m starting to sweat.” I blow out a breath. “Seriously, don’t try this on anyone else tonight. I’ll break her face.”

  “If I was really good at this, I’d tell you what I’d do when I got you home.” He visibly checks himself, sitting straighter, reaching for his beer. He sips it and his eyes look at his watch.

  Meanwhile, my body is absorbing what he just said, and it needs an answer. “Come back. Don’t stop.”

  He puts his hand on my bare shoulder and there’s a slow, warm squeeze. My nipples pinch. He sees everything, through the lace and the silk. I know he does, because his orange-stripe eyes are going black. “I’ve been wondering. What does hungry skin feel like?”

  “I just start feeling hollow, and lonely.” My throat is so dry I have to pick up my wineglass and tip it all into my mouth. His touch brings me relief, but also a restlessness. There are too many people in this room. They’re all a bunch of laughing, drinking jerks who don’t know that they need to get out. This is my room and my person.

  He’s watching his own hand as he touches me. It’s unbearably sexy. “I don’t like the thought of you being all hungry.”

  Someone jostles me and Tom’s eye line cuts above my head. He transmits a male warning: Don’t touch her. The air behind me quickly cools, his denim knees clasp gently, and he refocuses on me. It’s intoxicating, being tucked so safe inside this gold bubble.

  I really need to keep up with this conversation. “I just get crabby and irritated. Big surprise, I know I’m always like that. But I just need to feel someone else . . . It eases off the sharpness inside. It really is an actual thing. Skin hunger. I read a study about it.”

  “I think it’s because you’re a twin,” Tom says, and his hand lifts away from me, leaving me cold. “You were squashed up together in the womb for so long.” A tiny hologram of Jamie is hovering somewhere, Princess Leia–like, in our vicinity.

  “No, no, come back.” I press his hand back down onto my skin and although his mouth has a hint of disapproval, he strokes me in a way that feels like praise.

  “Like a rose petal, DB.” The fingertips trail, gentler than I thought possible; he’s thinking about my softness and it’s making me crazy. He’s getting shy, then glances casually to one side at Vince. When he looks back he’s got an edge to his stare.

  “If you were mine, I’d be careful with you. I bet that’s something you haven’t had much of.”

  My stomach falls down an elevator shaft. Those words, spoken aloud in his voice, crackle through my synapses, and right now, I’ve never been more alive. I am heartbeat and full lungs. If you were mine. What a glorious thought to cross his mind; I never imagined it would.

  “What else would you do?” I’ve got that husky voice he likes.

  The animal in him is honest with me. “Everything. If you were mine, I’d do everything.” Our gold bubble locks shut, and a little universe fills it. The possibilities are infinite.

  “I have a big imagination. Could you be more specific?” I put my hand on the side of his neck and stroke down to the hard bar of his collarbone. His skin is hot satin. His pulse nudges me.

  Mine, mine, mine. One thousand percent mine until the end of time. He looks like he agrees.

  “Everything you wanted or needed, I’d do it.” Amazing how he can keep it clean, but it feels so dirty. That’s the thing about good boys.

  “I want and need a lot.”

  A big white smile now. “No kidding. Well, I’m a hard worker.”

  I need to get to the reason we’re here tonight. It’s so obvious. We’re about to lay some ground rules before we go home and demolish each other.

  “So, are we having our talk?” When he says nothing, I gesture with my fingert
ips. “The bubble is officially in place.”

  He looks to one side, like it’s something he’d be able to see. He’s always gone along with my imaginary scenarios. When we make eye contact again, he sees the affection in me. But what I’ve said has tripped him up and he can’t find his words.

  I try to lead him into it. “It’s pretty clear what we need to talk about.”

  He sits up straight and lets out a breath. There’s a worried pinch to his brow and an awkwardness in his hands as he straightens his drink coaster. “I wanted to talk to you about taking the wall down between the kitchen and the living room.”

  I’m good at automatically laughing when I’m disappointed, and I do it now. He probably knows that little tic. I pick up my glass and it’s empty. “Okay, we didn’t need to go out to talk about that. The answer’s no.”

  The charade slipped into real, and I felt like we were on a date. That maybe I could be his. Thank goodness he’s not looking at me anymore; I’m hot and embarrassed. He’s got a pen and he’s drawing on the back of his coaster. It’s a floor plan of the cottage.

  “Buyers want open-plan living. These older cottages were always built as small individual rooms, so they could be heated. But the walls block the flow and light. I think this wall needs to go.” He scribbles across a line to show me.

  “That’s the fireplace. Where will the new owner hang up their bras?”

  “The clothesline. This wall isn’t a supporting wall. If we just take it out, the light comes in from three sides. When buyers walk in, they’ll see all the way to the back door, and they’ll think it’s a big, bright place.” Tom the professional is talking now. “The flooring will all match, front door to back, and there’ll be a sense of flow.”

  “I know what you’re saying, but no. That fireplace is a selling point.” I’m sitting in a business meeting. What on earth did I expect? “I can’t believe you’d even ask me this.”

  “Even if a buyer did want a fireplace, that one has got serious issues. The bricks are collapsing inward. I got the quote from the chimney guy. It’ll cost a fortune to restore. We’d have to demolish it and rebuild it.”

  “You could do that, I bet. It’s just bricks. You just said you’d do everything. That’s what I want.”

  “Then I’d have to redo the roofing, replaster, paint. I take it out, it solves so many problems.” He looks like he’s beginning to panic. I can’t be reasoned with.

  “What does Jamie say?”

  “He says he trusts my judgment.” He assesses my face. “Have I . . . hurt your feelings?”

  Either I’m terribly transparent, or he’s perceptive. I think I know the answer from a lifetime together. He can practically feel this little tight lump in the base of my throat.

  “No.” I frown at him until he’s partly convinced. “I’m just surprised that we’re two-thirds of our way toward a wall being knocked down, and you’re trying to flirt me into agreeing.”

  “Flirt you,” he protests, a guilty flush on his cheekbones. “I’m not. I’m just recommending the best option for your sale.” He thinks for a moment on how to sell it to me.

  “Try to imagine you’re waking on the couch in the living room after a nap. It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m in the kitchen cutting up potatoes on the marble countertop. Darce is grouchy after sleep and needs feeding.”

  “Talking about floor plans is not high on my list of kinks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Actually . . . Keep talking.”

  His eyes crinkle. “You open your eyes and you can see me. No wall. There’s light just flooding through, and there are flowers on a dining table between us. Pink oriental lilies that I got you, just because.”

  I can see it: The denim sagging at his butt and a white T-shirt stretching tight across his shoulders as he stoops over the countertop. The pollen-powder smell in my nostrils. Girls like me keep their favorite flowers as embarrassing secrets, but he knows.

  “What else does this fantasy floor plan offer?”

  “I look over and say, ‘Hey, you’re awake,’ and you stretch and say, ‘Tom, I’m so glad I agreed to let you take that wall down, it’s improved the layout beyond my wildest dreams.’” He risks a grin.

  “I’m pretty sure I’d say something different than that. ‘Damn, those jeans. Get over here.’”

  I’m imagining patting the couch next to me. He walks over with a half smile and a hand on his belt, vegetables forgotten. It’s a beautiful fantasy, and it’s just made me realize that I want it badly. A home. Being domesticated, caring about dinner. A dining table and flowers. Who would want that with me?

  “Was this Jamie’s idea? Drinks with the difficult client? Next time ask me questions about house stuff on-site. This was unprofessional.” I twist away and signal to the bartender. “Your second-worst whiskey, please.”

  “Here’s what just happened.” He takes my hand in his. “I’m sitting next to Darcy Barrett, close enough to smell her perfume, and she’s looking at me with a question in her eyes. And I know the question. I panic and I blow it. I’m not brave like you, Darce.”

  “I’m done with being the brave one, because it really doesn’t feel great, hanging out on this ledge by myself. The next brave thing is coming from you. You’re not the only one here with something to lose.”

  “That’s why I’m working so hard on this.”

  “Not the house. I’m going to lose you. I’m going to fuck things up with you.” I put my elbows on the bar and my face in my hands. “Okay, actually that was the last brave thing I say to you.”

  “You can’t fuck things up with me.” He says it like we’re family. Like he has to forgive me, no matter what I may do.

  I look sideways at him. “Friends and family are the only ones I have a chance of keeping forever. And that’s what I want. To keep you, forever.”

  He nods like I haven’t said something too intense or strange. “That’s what I want, too.”

  “We need to be eighty years old, hanging out on a cruise ship together, laughing our asses off about this one day. Hey, Tom, remember that time when our young bodies tried to fuck up everything? Your wife will be there, and she’s someone I like, because otherwise I can’t have you forever . . .” I trail off, and I feel it, right in my chest. That little old ticktock. “If I make it to eighty.”

  He’s aghast. “Of course you will.”

  “I know you didn’t mean it, but you telling me things that will never happen? Not in that house and never with you? It hurts. Well, fuck it, if it’s so important to you, knock the goddamn fireplace down.” I seize the glass of whiskey and absorb it into my very being.

  I can’t take the look in his eyes and walk to the bathroom, and spend a few minutes just staring at myself in the mirror. I wipe off my lipstick and jam my fingers into my remaining hair. I overlay Megan on top of me and my eyes fill with tears. I want to go to the second stall from the end and flush my heart. If this is what being brave feels like, color me yellow for the rest of my life.

  When I’m composed, I push back out into the music and laughter and Vince takes me by the elbow. “Hey.”

  I shake him loose. “I’m here with Tom.”

  “I could see that,” Vince says. He’s not jealous, because the arrangement we have is a worthless waste of time. “What’d I tell you about him falling in love with you?”

  “That won’t happen.” I can hear the flat desolation in my voice. “I can’t have a guy like that.”

  “You could have one like me, though,” Vince says with a smile. “The chick I’m here with keeps telling me about her rescue rabbits. Let’s get out of here. Text him on the way out. Save me from getting my ass kicked.”

  “I’m not going to do that to him.” Is this seriously the kind of person he thinks I am? “You think I’d just walk out of here and leave him?”

  “You’ve done it to me. Darcy, you are hot, but you are a complete bitch.” He’s pretty matter-of-fact about it.

  “Hey,” Tom says, materializing
beside us. He’s regarding us both with an unreadable expression. “Fuck off.”

  “No need to be rude,” Vince says, but he has no steel in his words. He’s at risk of being stubbed out like a cigarette.

  Tom steps behind me and wraps both arms around my body. I feel like I sink six inches into his rib cage. We’re merging. Enveloping. Get in me.

  “Don’t come around, don’t call her. Don’t bother,” Tom says above my head. It’s that alpha voice. It turns heads from halfway across the room. “Got it? Or do you want to find out if I’m serious?”

  “She’s gonna leave, dude.” Vince shrugs a shoulder. “She has left town on me like, six times now. At least.”

  “Yeah, she will leave,” Tom says, and his words rumble right through me. “But I’m having her as long as I can before she does.”

  He turns both our bodies and we’re walking, his arms still around me. We’re a compass and we’re pointing to a bed. Vince is flushed away behind us. The crowd parts for us; eyes flicker from me to Tom; women look jealous, the men avert their eyes.

  When we halt to let a bachelorette party pass us in a succession of tiaras and feather boas, I tip my head back. How can I feel this powerful, wrapped in his muscle? Because it’s mine now. “You never told me what you would do with me when you got me home.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Tom replies, and when I miss a step in the crowd near the door, his body presses even tighter against my back. His hand finds the hem of my top and slides in, a flat palm across my stomach. “You know I can’t tell you.”

  “All I need is a clue.” Too soon, we’re out on the sidewalk, the air so cold it burns. I turn in his arms but he’s already stepping back, his warmth receding. The watch on his wrist from my father ticks.

  “I’d say good night,” he says with visible difficulty. He’s reining himself back in, and it hurts to witness. It labors his lungs and the veins in his inner arms are cords. “And I’d make sure your door was locked.”

  “I don’t think so.” That bass hum in my bones is back. That trash-a-kitchen feeling. “I’d ask you really, really nicely to give me what I want. Everything,” I remind him.