99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  He bursts out laughing at the sincerity in my voice. “I know. I was there.” He’s going black eyed as he looks down at me. I wonder what memory is causing that. Is the soreness in my muscles from last night or the night before? It’s all just an endless chain of nights, blurring together in the lushest way possible.

  I shrug. “You were definitely there, under me. On me. Behind me. That’s why you don’t have to be jealous of guys who sell pavers.”

  “Jealous?” There’s a deep timbre to his voice that something inside me always responds to. That ripple inside just gets deeper. I’m in trouble—or in luck. Let’s see which. I check my watch. The crew is due soon.

  He steps down to the floor, picks me up by my waist, and eases me back until my feet steady up on the bottom rung of the stepladder. It gets me closer to his mouth level. I feel the care he takes with me, even as his eyes turn a little dangerous. “You think I’m jealous? DB, they’re all jealous of me.”

  He takes my hand, twists my sapphire engagement ring straight, and puts his lips on mine.

  My world turns gold.

  Throughout my life, Tom’s been right there when I’ve needed him, his eyes narrowed in earnest thought as he assesses how to help me. Translate that to our sex life. I’ve never been able to test my physical limits with another man, but this one knows me, A to Z. Right now, there’s a screwdriver in his fist and I feel it against my back. It makes me smile.

  He’s the hottest kind of capable.

  Sometimes, when he’s especially inventive, my heart cannot keep up. He’ll ease off until our movements are languid, and he’ll hold me together until my system reboots and we can resume. And we resume plenty. He nearly kills me and that’s okay. I survive.

  Sometimes I nearly kill him. That’s my favorite thing to do.

  He breaks our lips apart to ask, “When are we getting your bed out of storage?”

  I shrug and in response he bites down on my bottom lip until he feels the shiver shake my bones. It’s a little reprimand for dragging my heels on this decision.

  We twist another screw into this lust. I feel a hand sliding up my back, tracing over the strap of my bra for a few shivering seconds.

  “Most girls would be sick of being in a tent by now. Not you.”

  “I wonder why.” I balance better on the balls of my feet to tiptoe higher. I put my hand into the hair at his nape and encourage him to move closer. “Tent sex is just ruining me for any other kind.”

  “I’m serious, Darcy,” he sighs when I allow him a breath. Then we’re sinking back together, his tongue against mine. He tries to ease us into something slower. “Is this going to be our house? You just told me it was perfect.”

  I end the kiss and look around, pretending to consider it. “It’ll shape up pretty nice,” is all I’ll say, covering the spike of fear inside. Tent life suits me. Am I the kind of person who can have a house forever? What would that feel like? When I inherited the cottage from Loretta, it had a built-in expiration date.

  Ever since Tom put this ring on my finger, he’s been challenging me to address my fear of forever. My heart condition has been so stable, I’m beginning to think I can.

  “Do you think I can do it? Live in the one place?”

  “I do.” He leans me against him. “I think we both can learn together.” I remember belatedly that he’s got just as much to feel insecure about. He’s moved around working on houses for years. I feel his hand put the screwdriver into the tight back pocket of my shorts. Then he squeezes hard. I like his grunt.

  I try to explain myself. “It’s my wanderlust. I think I was a circus worker in my previous life. I just love pitching that tent somewhere new.”

  “This can hardly count as travel.” He gets that worried look in his eye. He’s paranoid that he’s stifling my international travel aspirations, but he just doesn’t get it. I’ve already seen every corner, bar, and back alley. The novelty of these micro-journeys from house to house has been a delight.

  One day I’ll take Tom to all my favorite places. It’s one of my daydreams, working out the short list. It’s okay that we need a few more flips done first.

  He kisses my cheekbone. “Every time we buy a place, I think: This is it. She’ll love this one. This is our house. And then you sell it.” He’s melancholy now. “Two houses ago, you could have had a home studio. I saw your face when you stood on that Italian carpet. Then . . . sold.” He sighs.

  “We’re house flippers.” I smooth his hair down with my fingernails. “You got me addicted. I don’t want it to end.”

  “Is that what you think will happen? That it will end?”

  “You’ll move to the next flip and be in the tent without me.”

  “You know I can’t do this without you. We’ll choose houses within travel distance and be home every night.” Patiently, he hammers down every concern I have. “Choose a house.”

  “Why?” I’m just playing along. I know why by now.

  “So I can make it your dream house.”

  “I think that tent is everything I ever wanted,” I reply. We stare into each other’s eyes and the edges of the room start to darken and fade off. “I once had an impossible thought. I decided that if you were mine—” I swallow my words when he tips my jaw to one side and begins to kiss my neck. It’s not fair. He knows I short-circuit from that.

  “If I was yours,” he prompts with a smile in his voice.

  “I decided, if you were mine,” I try again, and my voice is a raw, husky outward breath that hardens his body and sharpens his teeth on my skin, “I’d sleep with you in a tent, all night, as the wind howled and the rain fell. To be with you, I’d sleep on the ground for the rest of my life.”

  “And I told myself that I’d build a castle for the princess.” He moves closer still, and the stepladder wobbles under me. I don’t even feel a moment of fear. He’ll never let me fall. “That was what I promised myself.”

  “I don’t need that,” I argue, but he cuts me off.

  “I promised myself that when I was just a kid. Back when all I knew how to use was a hammer, I decided that one day Darcy Barrett would walk into a house I’d made and she’d look at me like . . .” He trails off, and his expression turns wry and wistful. “Actually, how you’re looking at me now.”

  “Like I’ve got everything I want, if I have you.” I make sure he understands me. “I love you so much.”

  He’s restless now, trying to work out how to convince me. “It’s so hard to spoil someone who doesn’t want to be spoiled.”

  “You spoil me every night.”

  I put my fingers on the buckle of his belt. His bottom lip drops open in surprise and I bite it. His hand tries to interfere, tightening on mine, but I just keep running my fingernail on the metal. It seems to be a conduit to some raw place of lust for him, because he can barely tolerate it.

  “You really want me to choose a house.”

  “Yes, please.” He sounds completely desperate. I look around the room. It’s still waiting for a wall to be moved and the cornicing is hideous, but the light shines in so pleasingly and I like the hedge of lavender humming with bees.

  I think how much I love him, and the next big way I can prove it.

  “This house,” I finally allow myself to say. They’re words I’ve held in for weeks now. The decision feels like a key in a lock. “This is our house.” I’ve got my hand on his jaw, tilting up his face just to look at his surprise. “Location, size, that lighting in the bathroom. Put me in that bedroom and never let me out.”

  “This is the one? You sure?” He pauses, a new thought giving him pleasure. “This is the threshold I’m gonna carry you over?” There’s a flare in his eyes; that animal inside him wants nothing more than to add a second ring of gold on to my hand.

  “Yeah,” I assure him, bracing for the kiss that I know is coming. It’s going to be something intense, with all of his heart and excitement in it. Finally, Tom Valeska can stop being that boy, locked out in the dar
k, waiting to be found. When he starts work again, it’s going to be a new experience for him. It’s going to be something he’s never felt before, and I’m so glad I’ve given this to him now.

  This house? It’s Tom Valeska’s house. It’s Darcy Barrett’s house.

  Holy shit, I’m living my own dream come true.

  He’s gathering me up now in both hands, ignoring the sound of car doors slamming outside and boots approaching. They’re going to catch us kissing, but that’s happened a hundred times before, and besides, this is monumental. Professionalism be damned; Darcy Barrett and Tom Valeska now have a home. He tips my head back, ready to show me how happy he is.

  “You know I’ll love you even if you make me live in a tent for the rest of my life. Are you really sure?”

  “So sure.” I close my eyes, and his mouth is on mine, and we are happy. It’s just as simple as that.

  The Hating Game Epilogue

  It’s a red dress kind of day.

  It’s Friday afternoon. I’m sitting in my office at Bexley & Gamin and I can see my reflection in my floor-to-ceiling window. Outwardly I look remarkably corporate, but on the inside I’m forever an immature little weirdo. I cross my legs and begin to play the Mirror Game with myself. The Staring Game. Even a whispered How You Doing Game. It’s just not the same without my opponent.

  It’s been a shitty day. I spent the afternoon fighting a valiant battle against Mr. Bexley over electronic distribution royalties, and then I found out that there’s a bug in our latest e-library app. I’m so tired I can feel my own skeleton. I need to be lying on my perfect couch but it’s not going to happen tonight. It’s so quiet I can hear the fluorescent tubes buzzing.

  The elevator bings.

  Whoever’s just arrived on the tenth floor needs to be kept out of my office so I can get the hell out of here. Scott, our executive officer, is a pretty good gatekeeper. I can hear muffled conversation, and then there’s a rap on the door. There’s only one person in the world who can put so much short, sharp love into a single knock.

  “Come in,” I say. The door swings open and there he is.

  Joshua Templeman is dressed in black. Everything, from his underwear to his cufflinks to his tie, is ink-black midnight. He enjoys the drama of it on a Friday, sliding into people’s office doorways like Dracula just as they’re loosening their ties and thinking about their weekends. All he needs is some devil horns and a pitchfork. I feel vaguely bad for whoever he’s been terrorizing today.

  He leans against the doorjamb and we’re playing the Staring Game for a minute until his dark navy eyes spark. “Shortcake,” he breathes like he can’t believe I’m real. “I missed you so bad.”

  My. Heart. Bursts.

  I stand up and go to him. He picks me up off the ground, kissing my jaw, my cheekbones, his fingers stroking my nape. He turns me in a circle and I cross my ankles prettily. The tiredness falls out through my feet and dissolves.

  He’s here, and I’m lit up. It’s the kind of light that never fades.

  People in the opposite building might be able to see us. Motorists at the traffic lights below can probably make out the silhouette of a ridiculously large man twirling around a ridiculously small woman. During one slow revolution I catch sight of Helene and Mr. Bexley, standing near Scott’s desk. They’re all looking at us like we’re the most gorgeously silly couple in the world. It’s accurate. We are.

  Helene glances at Mr. Bexley with a wry expression, and I swear I see a little moment of connection between them. I’ve been suspecting it more and more. I know love-hate when I see it.

  I speak into Josh’s neck. “I hate not being able to stare at your pretty face all day.”

  I breathe in his addictive, perfect scent. Deciduous trees in the sun. Evergreen trees in the snow. A pencil sharpened to a razor point, pressing into fresh white paper.

  “It’s against HR policy to stare at your corporate rival all day.”

  I hug him harder. “Whose HR policy?”

  “One of them, I’m sure. I’ll look it up.” Josh sets me down and kisses my cheek again. Once he starts, he can’t stop.

  In the elevator I’ll wipe off my Flamethrower lipstick so I can get my proper hello kiss. If I’m lucky he’ll hit the emergency stop button, although we’ve been pissing off the security guards with that.

  I treat myself to a nice squeeze of his torso before I remember the door is ajar. “Who have you made cry today, Overlord?” At the Sanderson Christmas party, I overheard his nickname and had to laugh. He earned it.

  “Nobody,” he tells me with adorable sincerity and a blink. “Not a single person. I’m a changed man.”

  I’m trying to teach him how to be more approachable. More understanding. More like me.

  At the first Sanderson Christmas party, I stood alone and awkward for an excruciating two minutes, during which time I was the subject of speculation. I felt like the word how was said a lot. I could hear their drunk, high-pitched whispers. She looks normal. Sweet. So small! How does she cope with that . . . monster? We should rescue her.

  Maybe he keeps her chained in his basement.

  I waved like a dork to show that I was not shackled and was there of my own free will. They shrank back, then fell totally silent as their chief financial officer, aka the Overlord, approached me with a glass of wine. His eyes were soft with tenderness and my heart stopped beating until he restarted it with a kiss. The Overlord snuggled me into his side, fitting us together just right. Hard and soft. Darkness and light. Good cop, bad cop.

  I registered the jaws dropping. He’s smiling!

  He’s the Overlord, he calls them his Underlings, but I can see the little signs that he’s getting better at this. At a lot of things, actually.

  “Did you remember your dad’s present?”

  “Yep. We’d better get going if we’re going to make the party. Mindy and Patrick have been texting me obsessively. Don’t be late, don’t be late.” He’s sarcastic but I know how much this means to him.

  “Yep. We’d better get going if we’re going to make the party. Mindy and Patrick have been texting me obsessively. Don’t be late, don’t be late.” He’s sarcastic but I know how much this means to him.

  I give his arm a stroke and a squeeze. “We won’t be late.”

  I can’t lie on the couch tonight because I’m needed in Port Worth. I’m Josh’s little lucky charm. When I’m there, he and his dad don’t fight. Luckily for them both, I’m always there.

  “Got quite a collection by now, Shortcake,” Josh says, looking at the rows of Matchbox cars on the shelf behind me. He forgets our hurry and takes a red Volkswagen beetle out of his pocket, sliding it into one of the gaps.

  “My toys have given me a reputation for being quirky and approachable.”

  “No one would guess this strawberry-sweet exterior hides a complete hard-ass.”

  “I learned from the master. I’m known for being firm but fair.”

  “Mmm. Tell me more.” He loves sitting at my desk to look at everything I surround myself with, and he lowers himself down into my chair like it’s a milkmaid stool. His eyes are lit with a creepy kind of devotion as he looks at the castle of books against the wall, and the Smurf hidden in one of the battlements. He finds my bottle of perfume and smells the lid as he strokes my computer mouse.

  “That’s where you’ve been,” he says in a scolding tone to the cardigan slung on the back of my chair. He folds it into a breadslice square on his knee.

  I’ve turned him into such a total freak.

  I’m an even bigger freak when I visit his office. I once touched the speed dial button on his phone marked SHORTCAKE just to make my cell phone ring. Then I was jealous of myself. That’s a sensation I feel a lot.

  How am I living this life? How did I win so much?

  Like he can read my mind, Josh picks up the framed photograph on my desk. It’s us together in the strawberry fields. Our eyes are summer bright, and I am sitting between his legs leaning b
ack against him. Around us is a carpet of green, studded with red. The picture is a tiny bit crooked because my dad was a little overexcited by the secret he was keeping.

  Five minutes after this photo was taken, Josh said, “Hey, it’s an old Smurf in the dirt.”

  He knew nothing would make me drop to the ground faster. I scratched frantically through the leaves. Where? Where? What I found in the vines at Sky Diamonds Strawberries was a Tiffany blue box. Then I realized he was kneeling down, too.

  Lucy blue. True-love blue.

  Even as he squeaked the box open and began to speak, I was dimly aware of cheering from the house. My parents were spying from the office window.

  After I brushed the squashed berries from the back of his T-shirt, I learned that Josh had become an expert in diamonds. Carat, cut, color, clarity. He shivered with delight as he described staring at imperfections through a loupe. I could just imagine his laser eyes crumbling stones to ash. The way he tells it, he searched through a pile of worthless pebbles until he found something worthy of my tiny finger. I tell him it’s too big, too much, too perfect. He just laughs and says, I know, then makes me forget whether we’re still talking about the diamond.

  I think my cheeks are going pink right now. When he looks me in the eye, he smirks. He’s definitely a mind reader.

  “We need a vacation,” he decides, his finger straightening the terra-cotta tile I use as a coaster. I got that tile in Tuscany. “I’m taking you back. Cheese and wine and sleeping in the sun.” His eyes follow the line of my dress down my body. “Red dresses and champagne and carbohydrates.” A pause, and there’s a little vulnerability in his expression now. “I didn’t go crazy and dream it all, did I?”

  “I have frequently assured you that I’m real.” I take his hand in mine and use it to pinch my forearm. “I was there for every incredible second. I always will be. Now, quit talking about carbohydrates. You’re turning me on.”

  He laughs. “We’d better get out of here.” He grabs my coat and walks out to chat with Helene and Mr. Bexley.