by Kat Pace
“Nothing? I want to explain,” Brooks says, watching me.
“You don’t have to,” I say, shrugging. I play with my straw between my teeth. Brooks just shakes his head.
“I will try to behave while I’m here,” Brooks laughs.
“Good. You know, it gets kind of hard. Keeping up with your on/off switch.”
“Ha-ha,” Brooks fake laughs. “Like your mood is any easier to read!”
“Mine may swing, but at least it’s not gonna give you whiplash,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Challenge me.
“Fine, fine. Do you want me to leave?” He smiles.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling back. Damn it.
“Just say the word and I’ll leave.” Brooks stretches back in his chair.
I stare at him. That is all. I finally roll my eyes.
Like I’d ever ask him to leave.
“Back to why you’re here. No other Thanksgiving plans? Nothing else to do?” I fiddle with my sad empty coffee.
“I’d rather do you.” Brooks leans in, licking his lips.
He kisses me so lightly on the lips that I can hardly feel his. His breath is soft and sweet. The kiss of death. “That OK with you?”
“One more time. That’s IT.” I laugh. I’m dead after all.
“Just once.”
He cups my chin in his palm and kisses me again. He smiles and I can’t help but return it.
I walk him back to my studio. We pass 100 more hipsters on the way. We stand in the tiny corner of my studio I call a kitchen. New trashy tabloids are sitting on the counter next to an open bag of vegan chips.
“This is it.” I wave my hand, introducing my apartment.
“This is your place?” Brooks looks around. Takes in my one-room studio. The messy sink. My white duvet. Flamingo lights hanging around my closet.
“This is my place.” Thank god I made my bed this morning.
We walk further into the room. I yank yesterday’s yoga top off the edge of the couch. If you call it a couch. I stuff it into the makeshift laundry basket in the corner next to my closet.
Brooks looks around amused.
“Very you. Just as I expected.”
“You often imagine what my studio looks like?” I raise my brow.
“Studio, no. Bed, quite a bit.” Brooks turns.
I roll my eyes, but can’t help but smile.
“That was quite a workout.” His eyes linger on mine.
“You’ll be a pro in no time.” Not a chance in hell. “Do you want to shower?”
“Shower?” Brooks leans in to me. “Let’s. I’ll help you out of this top.”
He slides his hands under my tank. Still sticky from my back sweat. Fuck.
“I meant would you like to shower? Alone.” I nod to the bathroom door. His hand drops from under my yoga tank.
“Right.”
We both shower. Alone. I do have some self-control. I went first. I was VERY much aware of the sexy half naked man in my bedroom. I mistook every water drop for him cracking the door. Fuck I wanted him to join me. I wanted him. Period. But he didn’t come in. He went next and it took everything out of me to avoid the door.
It was driving me wild. Knowing he was there. Knowing he was right there and that only a single five-dollar Target shower curtain separated us. That’s it. I could rip it to shreds with my bare hands. I’d rip Brooks to shreds. Suddenly the hot girls on his story are years away. They were never there. I don’t care what Brooks has been doing (or who) these past months. It only matters that he is here now, in my studio, in my shower.
He emerges wearing a towel around his waist. Nothing else. His hair is dripping wet. I’m reminded of months ago –when we were trapped in the rainstorm on Higbee beach. He waltzes out of the bathroom cloaked in white like he’s some fucking marble statue chiseled in the likeness of an ancient god.
He is.
A god.
I look away long enough to twist my hair into a low bun. I sit on the edge of my bed in black panties you can’t see because of an oversized T-Shirt.
“So how long do you intend to stay?” I ask.
“Friday. I have to be in L.A. around noon.” Brooks shrugs. His mood so very nonchalant.
“Another promotion deal?” I ask him. I know it is. That or he’s meeting some supermodel social influencer wannabe. My stomach drops at the thought.
“Something like that.”
“That’s great, Brooks.” My voice catches on his name.
“It is. It also means we have to make the best use of the next 48 hours.” He stops in front of me at the bed.
“What about Thanksgiving?” I ask him.
“What about it? Oh shit, did you have plans?” He sounds suddenly worried. Like he may have said something wrong. “When you said your parents were going abroad again –I just assumed.”
“I don’t have plans.” I tell him. “I just figured maybe you did?”
“No. Mom and Brody agreed to visit my dad in Florida,” Brooks says. “I sort of was allowed to skip, since I have to be in LA on Friday.”
“Right. Of course.” My voice sounds childish to me, like I’m suppressing a squeal of delight but poorly masking it as disinterest.
Brooks is spending Thanksgiving here, in Seattle. With me. We are spending Thanksgiving together.
THIS IS ME RELAXED.
“Is that OK with you?” He asks, interrupting my silent party. And now he’s suddenly playful.
“I’ll allow it,” I laugh.
In this moment, I cannot believe it’s been two months. Cannot believe it’s taken two months for one of us to cave and visit the other. Can’t believe it was him.
Marble god hovers over me. His washboard abs inches from my face. He pulls my hands to him and lets them drop on the hem of his towel.
He unfolds my legs and puts one on either side of him. I look up at him from the bed. Brooks slides my hands down over the towel. I can feel he is fucking ready.
“This is just from looking at you.” Brooks tucks a loose hair behind his year.
Holy fuck. My hand grips his dick through the dainty ass towel. I’ve gone too long without this. My body aches. I can literally feel myself dripping wet. Not from the shower.
I want to just take him. All of him. I want to taste him. To pleasure the absolute fuck out of him. Brooks leans his head down to mine. I squeeze my legs on either side of his towel. His fingers graze the front of my panties.
My body spasms at his brief touch. He pulls my hair slightly so I tilt back exposing my neck. His breath is heavy and hot against my neck.
“Stand.”
Yes fucking sir. I’m on my feet without even realizing how I got there. He grabs my waist and kisses me so deep. So rough. So like he’s been waiting two months to do this. I moan when he grips my ass in his hands. His fingers tighten. Then abruptly he drops it. He spins me around so I face the edge of the bed.
Marble god loses towel. I can feel him hard against my ass. He kneels, tugging my underwear off on the way down. I feel his hand glide up my back pushing me forward. I bend over until my chest is against the duvet. His fingers find my hair again and twists through it. My nerves are on fucking edge. His other hand presses down on the small of my back.
Brooks groans as he fills me. I groan more. Everything’s a contest with us. I feel him above me. I picture him above me. Hammering into me like some analogy I can’t even think of because everything is on fire right now. It’s a glorious NX-17 sight.
It feels like… well fuck it feels like I can’t believe I’ve gone two months without it. Without him. Without who I am when I’m with him. He hits the front of my inside, each push forcing me further onto the bed. His hands are back on my hips, holding me in place. I lose myself and give in entirely to his body. He doesn’t slow down even when he knows I’m on the edge. We’re both on edge.
He pumps faster. I have to bite my own palm and taste the sweetness of raw skin. It’s over too quick. I blame it on the two-month gap.
I turn onto my side and watch as he collapses onto the bed next to me, grinning. What a grin.
“Ok, well thanks.” I blurt out, sitting up. “I’ve got loads to do today so…”
“Good one.” Brooks laughs. “Better clear your schedule.”
“Oh yea? Why’s that?” I bite my lip.
“I made dinner reservations for tonight.” Brooks stretches across my bed.
We’re both still sticky with sweat. Our showers were an absolute insult to the environment.
“You made dinner reservations? In Seattle?”
“Yep,” Brooks nods.
“Well, aren’t you presumptuous? You just assumed I would let you stay?” I find it silly I’m even asking this. My chest is still prickly from sweat.
“I liked my chances.” A smug smile parts his lips.
I can’t help but love it. I sigh rolling my eyes. “Where is dinner then?”
“Some place on the pier. Supposed to be nice.” Brooks nods.
“Does this place have a name?” Zero details, always.
“Cor something Finn.” Brooks shrugs.
“Corbel Finn?” I ask, keeping my voice relatively calm. Trying to anyway.
Corbel Finn is one of the highest end, boujee spirited restaurants and bar in Seattle. Like, celebrities go there to get engaged boujee.
“Maybe,” Brooks shrugs again, making a face, like he’s no idea he booked a rezy at one of the most expensively extravagant spots in town.
“So listen, I’ve got to go back to the hotel. But I’ll pick you up at like 8?” He says, throwing his dirty shirt over his head.
He looks too hot in a dirty T-shirt. The way it only partly covers his shoulder-arm tats. The way it drapes loosely over his chest, the neckline stretched out. It’s just a T-shirt, Em.
“Hotel?” I don’t know why I assumed he’d be staying here. Guess I was too busy anticipating jumping his bones that I didn’t notice he wasn’t carrying a suitcase or bag or anything.
“Four Seasons. I figured with your roommate and everything, it was easier to get a place.”
“Fair. But my roommate is away for Thanksgiving. Back to her parents in San Diego. All alone.” I grin.
“Fair.” Brooks nods.
“So, 8?” I confirm.
Brooks smiles faintly and pecks a small phantom kiss on my head before leaving for the door.
So he’s staying at the Four Seasons, a ridiculously nice hotel only a few blocks away. I’m onto him. Onto the smirk on his face. Onto his showing up out of the blue (albeit a very light blue) and making reservations for fancy places. This isn’t us. This shit’s not agreed upon. Still, I can’t help but secretly love every minute of it.
After he leaves, I have a very solid and legit freak out session where I overthink absolutely everything that just happened. I overthink Go Zen and lunch and our afternoon quickie. I overthink his lips and his arms and his –well his everything.
4:13 PM
Not a TON of time to relax, re-shower, and dress for dinner. Coming down from my giddy-high I decide to text Zoë and ask for some womanly advice. She’ll know the importance of it.
Hey Zoë
…
Emmy! Wondering if I’d hear from U.
How’s the hottie ;)
…
Hottie is taking me to Corbel Finn !!!
…
SHUT UP no shit
…
I know. What should I wear?
…
Nothing. OK well u have to wear something but wear nothing under something.
I crack up at Zoë’s text. She’s always looking out for my sex life’s best interest. Good gal. To be fair, we’ve never exactly gotten into a deeper friendship than that. Still, it’s nice. Asking Zoë about Brooks. She doesn’t know our history. She can’t chastise me the same way that Trix or Meg or my mother can.
But really?? Dress right?
…
Course a dress. Black if u have it. Get it girl.
I send her back some winky face emoticons because I’m still refusing to resign to the millennialhood that is emojis.
OK. Black dress. Little black dress. LBD. I got this.
I sift through the shit in my closet. Skirts. Jeans. Dozens of camisoles. Silky. Cotton. Black. White. No LBD. How on the earth? My hands find a navy maxi with long velvet sleeves. I remember it right away because of the slit up the leg, holy fuck does it look good. It’s close enough to black. It will have to do. I wonder if the long sleeves and slit are too ~sextra~ (sexy extra; extra in a sexy way, duh), but it is November. And nighttime. It seems appropriate.
I steam the bottom of the dress. Then shower again and decide to blow out my hair. I curl the ends and pin it back. The fact that I tried to push it off my face has the right effect. It looks like I spent a lot more time than I did. Simple make up but slightly darker than usual so it compliments my navy gown. Plum lips for the win. Dark lip drip.
I keep checking my phone, waiting for it to light up. To buzz and bring me back to reality. It doesn’t.
Legit, I’m standing in my bathroom, mascara in hand and it’s hitting me what this is. A date. My first date with Brooks. Would he call it a date? Idk how he’d get away with calling it anything else considering he trekked across the continental US to make it happen.
7:58 PM
Brooks arrives on schedule. He’s wearing black dress pants that are V snug around his tush and a matching black button-down. A charcoal sport jacket stretches across his shoulders. No tie but he doesn’t need one. Let his clothes be a lesson in aesthetic for inferior men. His face lights up when I answer the door in my is-this-a-date sextra dress. I grab my black almost floor-length coat and shut the door behind us.
“You look,” he pauses. “Like every other girl should stop trying.”
I smile and can’t help but almost laugh.
“You could give some guys a run for their money.” I say, exuding nonchalance. Hope I am anyway.
Can’t give all my cards away. Don’t want to let on that I’m still replaying our afternoon romp on a loop in my mind. And probably will be all during dinner.
“Only some?” Brooks feigns disappointment.
We walk next to each other down the hallway and stop in front of the elevators. Doors open. We step in. Doors close. He stands away from me but just close enough that I can smell him. Cue jazzy elevator music. I want to jump on him so damn bad.
“I’ll call a car.” Brooks says, opening an app on his phone.
“What, no limo? What kinda date is this?”
Shit.
Corbel Finn lives up to its hype.
It’s modern and chic and so ~adult~ albeit still hipster at the same time. It shouldn’t be possible. We walked past the fancy valet stand and up to the door. Giant bamboo plants stood like determined guards on either side of the insanely heavy glass door. Under a mystic blue light you could just make out the lobby-foyer on the other side of the door. The atmosphere is a wild vibe.
The attractive hostess stares at us the entire way to our seats. I wondered briefly how we look like to the outside eye. A young, well-groomed, attractive couple with a $1000 to spare on an evening out, I supposed.
“You ever been here before?” Brooks asks as we sit down.
“The bar lounge once, on the other side,” I jerk my head toward the direction we came from. The bar lounge is a separate bar that is off the main lobby. Drinks only, no food. We did a cocktail hour there for a wedding I went to about two years ago.
Menu is fucking cray. For starters, it’s a bound book. Like a best-selling bound book with a carefully crafted table of contents and glossary in the back. Bibliography required.
An entire section –no chapter is dedicated to bottles of wine, draft beers, cocktails, etc. $20 for a martini made with pressed cucumber and a rosemary bush sticking out of the top. For an extra $8 you can get a bushel of carrots. $22 for an orange citrus crush with lemongrass powder and magical fairy dust. For an e
xtra $5 it guides you to Neverland.
Don’t get me started on the Appetizers and Entrées.
I watch him watching me from across the table. He smiles politely as the waiter displays the bottle of wine he selected from the menu. The waiter pours a small amount first, waiting for approval. Brooks smiles and nods. Two minutes later the waiter leaves us alone together –just two kids sitting at a dimly lit table with white linens and six different forks at each setting.
