I threw the journal back into the drawer, closed it with my foot, shut off the light, and lay back down. I put my hands behind my head again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the bulge of my bicep. It was bigger than when I had split with Gary. I had certainly achieved a better body. I looked down at my chest. In the moon’s glow I could still make out my birthmark, the large wine-stained swath across my left breast. I tightened my abs and let out a sigh.
I turned toward the empty pillow beside me and went to sleep.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
I pushed the button for the third floor. I normally would have taken the stairs, but I was running a little late for the meeting. The elevator doors closed.
I took in a deep breath and let it out. I was a little nervous. I hated board meetings. I didn’t usually have to attend them but every once in a while I got asked to present some charts and explain a few figures to the higher ups. “This one should be no different from the others.” I fidgeted with the spiral binding on my notebook. “You’ll be fine.”
The doors opened, and I rushed down the hall to try and make it before old man Whitfield got there. No one wanted to show up after the CEO.
“Shit,” I muttered, as I hurried past HR and saw his head of full white hair over the top of Cynthia Hanford’s cubicle. I dodged down her row to try and cut him off and get to the conference room before he did.
I caught Madeline Alvarez’s eye, and she turned to Whitfield. “Good afternoon, Mr. Whitfield,” she said. “How are you today?”
I neared the printer called Salem. We named our copy and print stations after North Shore cities and towns.
“Oh, Ms. Alvarez, just splendid, thank you,” Mr. Whitfield said. I could see him pausing by her cubicle.
Madeline, I owe you.
“Well,” Mr. Whitfield said, “isn’t that a pretty new plant you have.”
“It’s a New Guinea,” Madeline said and winked at me.
I slinked around Salem.
“Ah, new what?” I heard him say.
“A NEW GUINEA.”
“Yes, I know Ginny,” Mr. Whitfield said. “Poor thing.”
I ducked into the conference room and heard him start to explain Ginny, the marketing manager’s illness to Madeline.
I took a seat next to Barry from Sales. He moved over a little. A few minutes later, in walked Mr. Whitfield.
“Good morning, Mr. Whitfield,” said the group, nearly in unison.
A bunch of brown-nosers.
Mr. Whitfield nodded, shuffled over to the head of the table, and sat down.
Peggy, the head of Operations, started the PowerPoint presentation. The pitch was a monthly update on the various goings-on within the agency. I, thankfully, didn’t have to say much. I was there mainly to answer questions and speak about one slide on the financials in my boss’ absence.
Peggy was two slides into the presentation—a section about a new client in New Hampshire—when Dillon Deiss slipped into the room and slowly shut the door behind him. He was wearing a stunning, teal suit and had gel in his hair that made it look wet…and sexy.
Mr. Whitfield turned and glared at him.
The room fell silent.
“Mr. Deiss,” Whitfield said, “how nice of you to join us.”
Everyone giggled. I kept my eyes on my notes.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dillon said and started over toward me and the only available chair. I was glad he offered no lame excuse, like the elevator being slow or his Outlook not reminding him.
Mr. Whitfield watched him sit and then nodded to Peggy who continued with her outline of the New Hampshire client—a pool company in the summer, landscaping in the fall and snowplowing in the winter. As we had learned prior to Dillon’s entrance, the firm was yet to come up with a catchy slogan, a new name, and a radio spot.
Whitfield turned our way and cleared his throat. His eyes were enormous through the thick lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, and his threatening gaze settled on Dillon. “You listen to Kiss 108 radio, Mr. Deiss?” he interrogated.
Dillon fidgeted in his seat. He had been pulling some notes from a folder and, from the looks of his blank stare, hadn’t been listening. He looked at the presentation on the screen. Peggy had moved on to another slide.
Section II: Financials
“Um.” Dillon scratched behind his ear.
I slowly turned my back to Whitfield, leaned into my hand and whispered to Dillon, “We’re picking up a New Hampshire pool, landscaping and plow company. They want a spot on Kiss 108.”
Dillon grinned at me and looked back to Mr. Whitfield. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I do happen to listen to the station. I think their demographics would work well with New Hampshire Pool, Landscaping and Snow’s needs.”
Mr. Whitfield’s head quivered a bit. “The what?” he barked.
Dillon repeated himself.
Mr. Whitfield took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I like it.” He nodded and put his glasses back on. “New Hampshire Pool, Landscaping and Snow. Good name.”
Dillon’s Adam’s apple gulped.
Mr. Whitfield threw in another throat-clear, which Peggy jerked at. “It’s a simple name,” he added. “But it’s what they do.” He motioned to Peggy for her to go back a few slides. “Wait, wait…one more. That one!” Mr. Whitfield pointed and then took a moment to re-read the slide.
Dillon jotted down a note and pushed his legal pad my way.
THANKS!
My pulse quickened. And I smiled and nodded.
Peggy adjusted the lapels of her red suit jacket. “They go by McLaughlin & Son now.” She looked over to Dillon. “It doesn’t really speak to what they do. I like the idea of adding New Hampshire to their name, since it is their locale.”
“Me too,” Mr. Whitfield said. “We may need to shorten it a bit but, Mr. Deiss, I like the suggestion.”
“Well…” Dillon started, and looked to me, “it was actually not—”
I shook my head. I felt like he was going to say it was my idea, and I didn’t want the credit or to explain.
Dillon went on without taking his eyes from me, “It wasn’t my best impression but it’s a start.”
Mr. Whitfield waved his hand at Peggy. “All right. Let’s proceed.”
****
“Hey, buddy. Wait up,” Dillon said, from behind me. I knew it was him by the smoky tone of his voice.
I was just about to open the stairwell door, but instead I turned around, feeling a tightening deep inside me.
He smiled. “Evan, thanks.” He walked at a hurried pace toward me. The pages of his legal pad flapped with each step.
I propped the door open with my back. He knows my name? I tried to think back to the meeting to see if they had mentioned me by name.
Dillon leaned into me and pushed the door open more. “You saved my ass in there.”
I nearly fell into the stairwell but caught myself. “Oh, no problem.” I started toward the stairs, my head down.
He bumped my arm with his elbow. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything tonight…” he said and then threw his head back with a soft laugh. “God, that came out wrong. It sounds like I’m going to ask you out.”
I stopped with my hand on the rail and looked up at him. I swallowed and then grinned nervously.
“What I was going to say,” he said, shutting the door, “is that a couple of us are getting together after work tonight, for a beer over at Sylvan Street.”
Sylvan Street was a pub over by the mall. A lot of people from the office liked to hang out there. I only went when it was for a company function.
I picked at my notebook’s spiral binding. “Oh, um, thank you but I have plans tonight.” The clip on my pen sprung free and it fell to the floor. I bent down to grab it but Dillon beat me to it. As we started back up, we stopped in awkward silence with our faces inches apart. He handed me the pen, and I nodded in gratitude.
He eyed the exit to the
second floor. “Too bad you can’t come…” He blushed and looked back at me. “…t-tonight. I owe you a beer.” He walked down a few more steps to the landing and stopped at the door. “Raincheck?” he suggested.
I went down another step, stopped to look back at him, and was momentarily thrown by what I saw. His crew-cut blond hair, brown eyes, and taut waist reminded me of an actor I had a crush on from one of the soap operas my mother used to watch. I repeatedly clicked my pen. “Sure.” I smiled.
He opened the door to the second floor, winked at me and left.
I stood there for a moment. Did he just wink at me?
He did.
A few steps down, doubt kicked in. No, he was just being friendly. After all, Evan, you can be rather gullible.
****
That night, after twenty minutes of core-strengthening planks, push-ups, and body extensions, I headed out for a jog. I was wearing the blue Adidas shorts I’d picked up at T.J.Maxx. I had them on over a pair of black spandex compression shorts, which helped to keep everything from bouncing around down there. I would love to jog shirtless but…the wine stain.
I locked the house, threw the key under the mat, and headed out onto my little dead-end street for some cardio. I didn’t like to measure miles. I preferred timing myself instead. I clicked on my stopwatch and started at a slow pace.
By the time I got to the end of the road, I was jogging at a good clip. Mrs. Johnson, my elderly neighbor, was out weeding her flower garden. She waved. “Go get ’em, Evan!”
“Hi, Mrs. Johnson!” I waved back. Despite her eccentricities—hundreds of cheesy paintings of Conant Lake—there was something about her I liked.
A dog barked behind the fence of the Matthews’ home, which used to be a small cottage—similar to mine—but had since been bulldozed and a much larger colonial built in its place.
The cool, dusk air felt good. The perspiration from my core-strengthening workout helped to cool me down as the wind whipped past. My nipples chafed against the inside of my T-shirt. I checked for a spot of blood on my shirt like last time, but there was none.
I turned the corner onto Cedar Street and jogged a little longer, ’til I got to the town line of Wenham. There, I started sprint cycles. I went all-out for thirty seconds, stopped for ten, and repeated. This went on for several rounds, ’til I was panting and drenched in sweat.
With my hands on my haunches, I stopped to catch my breath about a mile down the road from my street. It started to rain. I headed back in a slow jog.
The rain felt good, except for it slushing around inside my sneakers. As I made my way back, I thought about Dillon. A car like his passed me. I had visions of it pulling over, him coming out with an umbrella, and giving me a ride home where we would…
Alas, no rescue.
When I got closer to the Conant town line, I could see the highway in the distance. There was another Yankee Neighborhood Beef Company ad near the on-ramp. I stopped.
Don’t let your meat loaf.
I chuckled.
The billboard had a picture of a rather handsome man, shirtless under an apron. He was holding a delicious looking meatloaf in front of him and wearing a pair of oven mitts. The Yankee logo was imprinted to the right. A woman, who looked similar to the model from the other ad, sat in the background at a table. She fondled the petals of a long-stemmed rose in a vase in front of her.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
The Barnes & Noble at the North Shore Mall was always a little crowded on Saturdays. I was sipping a black coffee in the café, reviewing my planned purchases. I had picked out a nice leather-bound journal to start my new entries. The one I wanted from Moleskine was discontinued.
Beside the journal were several books I had gathered to peruse to while away a rainy summer afternoon.
Harry Potter. I never did read the last one.
There was a book on native New England plants that caught my attention. It was written by a lady I had seen speak at an Environmental Defense Fund conference.
I had shoved a book called Biological Exuberance, about homosexuality in nature, in the middle of my stack. I looked over my shoulder and slid it out, cracked it open, and sipped my coffee.
I read about this tribe of monkeys, the bonobos, who were gayer than the Village People. Bonobos were a horny bunch and, as of recent, I could relate.
By the time I had nearly finished my coffee, I felt more bonobo than human. Maybe I just need to have sex more often.
I put Biological Exuberance down, rubbed my eyes and combed back my hair with my hands. I thought about heading home, but it was still raining. I looked over at the magazine section, near the entrance. Maybe I should grab a copy of Economy Today.
The automatic doors parted and in walked a hot set of legs wearing khaki shorts, topped by a tight T-shirt speckled from the rain, and a Red Sox baseball cap. The bonobo in me began to rise.
As the man shook the rain off, removing his cap in the process, I sat up. “Holy shit,” I muttered. It was Dillon Deiss.
A lady sitting next to me looked up from her book; she glanced over at Dillon and then back to me.
I cleared my throat and took a sip of the cold remnants of my coffee.
The lady went back to her book, and I back to Dillon.
Who would have thought he could look just as hot dressed down as gussied up for work? The way his dirty-blond hair stuck out from under his cap made me smile. He looked ten years younger. He walked toward the cash register and asked the clerk something. The khakis contoured his buns perfectly.
My inner bonobo was rearing its…head. The small of Dillon’s back formed the bottom of a V-shape, supporting a pair of broad shoulders that were not overly muscular. Just right, the way I liked them. I couldn’t believe it, but I was becoming aroused. I fidgeted in my seat. These days, it didn’t take much for me to get excited. I had been holding back on…pleasuring myself—another one of my supposed accomplishments that I chalked up to having gained better control of my impulses.
Evan, stop!
The clerk, a tall, lanky boy most likely just out of high school, laughed as he talked to Dillon. I raised an eyebrow. He then pointed to the back of the store, and Dillon went in that direction. The clerk watched him walk away.
As if on instinct, I started to get up to chase after Dillon but then I realized the predicament in my pants and quickly sat back down. Where the hell do you think you’re going, anyway?
I pulled out the plant book, thinking it would divert my arousal.
What are you? A teenager?
It continued to throb and was at full mast.
I took a sip of cold coffee. “Dead nuns, dead nuns,” I muttered, trying to think of something awful to distract my libido. After a few seconds thinking about bloodied habits, the tightness in my jeans subsided. I breathed a sigh of relief and pushed back my chair. I should just buy the journal and leave.
“Evan,” said that alluring voice.
I jerked around. Another audible sigh. I felt my face flush.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. He was holding a book called Signs of Opportunity. “You weren’t leaving, were you?”
Yes. “No! Not at all.” My hand pointed toward the seat next to me, offering it up. What are you doing?
He pulled it out and sat down. With a scuff or two, I dragged my chair back in before the thing in my pants decided to reappear.
Dillon smiled. “So…you come here often?” His smile quickly vanished, and he blushed. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “Dude, I didn’t mean it like…” He scraped his face with his hand and looked over his shoulders. “Sounds like another fucking come-on.”
I chuckled. “That’s okay.” It is? “And, as a matter of fact, I do come here often.”
He went on to tell me that this was his first time at the Peabody store. I just watched his lips and mouth move, barely hearing a word. He continued on about the store in Boston’s Downtown
Crossing. I got lost in the softness of his brown eyes, which in the light had just a hint of green.
“They sell ice cream and sushi now,” he said, through those pearly whites.
I arched my brow, and my mind wandered again as he rambled on. It was odd, but it was as if I felt this inner tug toward him. The tightness down there returned.
I shook off the reverie. For God’s sake. What, are we in high school? Enough with the spontaneous erections.
“You have one?” he asked.
I coughed and quickly rewound the memory banks to recall his question: something about everyone having a Kindle or a Nook. “I do,” I said, “but I don’t use it often.”
“Is it full-size?” he asked holding out his hand in measurement.
I blinked. “It’s decent.”
He nodded. “You’ll have to show me someday.”
We stared for a moment. I think my mouth was agape. He opened his book and began to read.
I pushed my stack of books away. I was afraid the page opened at the horny bonobos would send the wrong impression. “What are you here for?” I asked.
He held up his book. “For work. Got to keep the ol’ noggin up-to-date. A friend of mine back in Seattle recommended it.”
I rubbed my hand along my pant leg. “Seattle? Is that where you’re from?” A little small talk won’t kill you.
He looked up from the book. “I am. Born and raised just outside of Tacoma, Washington, in a town called Renton.”
I picked at the denim bunched at my knee. “I heard it’s nice there.” You have?
He thumbed through his book and put it down on the opened pages. “Washington’s not bad. But I like it better here.” He turned around, looking thoughtfully at the ordering area. He got up, rubbing his stomach. I saw a hint of flesh under his T-shirt. “You want anything? I’m starved.”
I pointed to my mug. “Oh, no. I just had some coffee.” I tipped the cup toward me. “Thank you, though.”
He leaned over, took my empty mug and went over to the counter.
I watched him walk away. Evan Capri McCormick. Stop ogling. But I couldn’t help it. That damn tug was pulling me in again. The way his butt filled his shorts, the soft-looking hair on his legs, his thick calf muscles, the fitted cap hugging the back of his head. “Dillon,” I said, and he turned. Oh my God. I said his name out loud! I faked a cough. You’re a hot fucking mess.
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