by Tara Wylde
One thing is for sure: he’s not someone’s granny.
Harlan grumbles something in his sleep and shifts away from me. So maybe he’s not the greatest support system in the world, but he’s better than nothing. “Um, I’m not really sure why I called instead of just sending another text. I, uh, I hope you don’t mind.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone.”
It’s a good point that goes a long way toward easing my anxiety. Still using Harlan as a touchstone, I relax back against the headboard.
“But why did you decide to call?”
“Um.” My hesitation causes me to roll my eyes. I’m a successful business woman, I’ve run meetings, interviewed employees, and given lectures at important conferences. I shouldn’t have any trouble conducting a simple phone conversation, and yet I’m stammering like a nervous teenager talking to her very first crush. “I’m not sure, exactly. It’s just, I guess when you mentioned trust, I realized how weird it was that we hadn’t actually spoken.”
“Ah.” His incredible voice washes over me, making it difficult to focus on his words. “I thought that maybe you were worried about someone getting hold of your phone and seeing the texts.”
“Oh, God.” I literally feel myself pale. “I hadn’t even thought about that.” If it was one of my friends, like Tracy, it wouldn’t matter, I’d just have to endure a few teasing sessions before they were distracted by something else. But what if it was my Uncle Art? He’d never understand.
Reading my thoughts, Mister No O chuckles. “Just make sure you delete them and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“Sure.” ‘Cause it’s not like the average teenager doesn’t have the skills needed to somehow get ahold of my phone and access stuff that’s supposedly been deleted. I push the issue of the texts out of my mind and return to the content of his last message. “So, getting back on point. Why should I trust you?”
“Because I can help.” His matter of fact tone actually does put some of my concerns at rest.
“I don’t get how,” I tell him, pleased that my voice is steadily returning to normal. “It’s just that the whole thing seems so … strange.”
“Mmm. I understand.”
“So exactly how does this work? You invite me over, we strip down, jump into bed, and you show me everything I’ve been doing wrong?”
Mister No O chuckles, the sound sending a wave of prickly heat straight to my core. My vaginal muscles clench, startling me so much I nearly drop the phone. Shit. That’s never happened before … I like it.
“No,” he rumbles in my ear. “There won’t be any touching on my part.”
“Oh.” I can’t stop the sharp stab of disappointment.
“I have a strict no-touching policy,” he continues. “I feel it’s the best way to prevent any confusion.”
Too late. I’m already more confused, and turned on, than I can ever remember being before.
“I see,” I manage to say. “Wait a second, I really don’t. If you and I don’t have sex…” Never before have I even entertained the idea of sex with a faceless stranger. Clearly the old adage is right, there really is a first time for everything. “How are you supposed to help me? Are you giving me a pile of papers to read? Suggesting a few porn videos that are going to turn my life around? Field trips to sex clubs?”
“Sounds like fun, but no, that’s not how things start out.”
“So, what does happen?”
“First you, your boyfriend, and I try to figure out why things aren’t working out sexually.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I blurt the words out. “Not right now.”
“Oh.” For the first time since I called him, Mister No O hesitates. “I just assumed that since you were on the No O site, that you did and that the two of you were having some … problems.”
“I’ve been seeing someone,” I explain, my mind returning to Doctor Dan and the lackluster sex we had last night. “But it’s nothing serious. And I might have broken up with him.”
“Might have?”
“It’s, err, complicated.”
“Mmm.” Another hesitation. “Are you in love with him?”
“No.” I should end the statement there, but for some reason, I’m compelled to continue. “But I should be … at least eventually. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” An image of Dan floats across my mind. “He’s sweet, kind, seems genuinely interested in me.” At least he was before I kicked him out of my bed and out of my house. “I’d like to work things out with him, if I could just …” My words trail off.
“You could work out your sexual issues,” Mister No O finishes for me.
“Yeah.” I wait a beat before continuing. “Do you really think you can make that happen?”
“Before I can answer that, you need to tell me about your sex life so we can work out the reason that you’re not having an orgasm when you’re with this great guy you’ve found.”
“It’s not just him,” I mutter, not really meaning to say the words out loud.
“What?”
I suck in a deep breath and forge ahead. I’ve come this far, I might as well tell him everything, no matter how embarrassing and uncomfortable it is.
“I know what an orgasm is supposed to feel like. I’ve read lots of books. I keep waiting for it to happen to me, but whenever I have sex with a guy, nothing happens.”
“Nothing,” Mister No O echoes. He doesn’t sound as confident as he did.
“Nothing exciting, that’s for sure. At first, I thought I wasn’t ready or that I wasn’t sexually attracted to the guy I was with, but it didn’t get any better. Before finding the No O site, I thought I was defective, like I didn’t have enough nerve endings down there or something.”
“And now?” Mister No O prompts. There’s a soothing quality to his voice. Each time he opens his mouth, some of my tension eases. I could listen to him all night long.
“Now I don’t know,” I admit. “At least now I know that I’m not the only person who isn’t turned on in bed, but, well, the content on the site makes it sound like there’s some things I can do that will help but …”
“But what?”
“What if it doesn’t work? What if I go through all this and still can’t, you know? Then what am I supposed to do with myself?”
“Erin.” His voice is calm and confident, it settles over me like a warm, fuzzy, familiar blanket even as my blood continues to hum and prickle. “I promise, I can help you. All you have to do is trust me enough to take care of everything. Can you do that?”
There it is, that trust word again. Tension crawls down my spine. I tangle my fingers in Harlan’s soft coat. “How can I trust you when I don’t even understand how we’re talking?”
“Well, you see, the sky is full of satellites that beam a cellular signal.” Humor warms Mr. No O’s voice, making it sexier than ever. “Those signals are than sent down to our phones, enabling us to enjoy a nice conversation.”
“Cute.” I refuse to let myself be swayed. “But I want to know how you got my phone number. I rarely give this one out.”
There’s a long pause, so long I actually pull my phone away from my ear and look down at the screen to make sure it hasn’t disconnected.
“This number is registered to your internet account. When you visited the No O website, I was able to use your IP address to track down your phone number.”
“Really?” I furrow my brow. His explanation makes sense, though I could have sworn that when I signed a contract for the business’s internet, I’d used my other cell phone number. Of course, I’d been distracted the day I’d signed the contract, so it’s possible I made a mistake and written the wrong telephone number. I made a mental note to check into it as soon as possible.
“Really,” Mr. No O repeats. “Now I’m going to ask you again. Do you trust me?”
Technically speaking, I wouldn’t say I trust him. There are still so many unanswered questions, but he does intrigue
me, and if he can help with my problem, then surely a leap of faith is a small price to pay.
“Yes,” I softly say into the phone.
Chapter Nine
Garret
It feels like a truck load of dirt has been dumped under each of my eye lids. Groaning, I slide my glasses off and rub at them, which only makes them feel worse.
To my left, the Tucson sun is starting to work its way over the horizon, bringing with it the promise of yet another hot day to Arizona. That’s fine with me. After spending my childhood in Canada where the winters are long and frigid, I’ve yet to take Tuscan’s heat and sunshine for granted.
Yawning, I shut down my computer and look around the room. A few beer cans adorn the side of the desk and a low coffee table. Several books are scattered around the room, torn bits of paper I used as bookmarks sticking out of them at odd angles. Loose sheets of paper covered with my scrawling handwriting lay on the floor. A large pizza box from the all-night place that delivers lies next to a small plastic trash can, surrounded by a few napkins that failed to make it into the can when I threw them.
I roll my shoulders and yawn a second time. I should tidy the place up, at the very least take the time to throw away the trash and beer cans, but I’m too tired. Hannah, my housekeeper, will be here in a few hours and since cleaning up after me is what I pay her for … guilt gnaws on the edge of my brain and I actually lift one of the beer cans before I remember that Hannah is having all sorts of trouble with her fourteen-year-old son who managed to get himself suspended from school for the week. Hannah was so angry with him, she was making him go to work with her and help out. She wouldn’t be cleaning up the mess, her teenage son would.
Sammy, the battered, three-legged gray and white cat I adopted from the local animal shelter shortly after Maddie’s death, jumps up on my lap. He presses his scarred head against my chin and meows demandingly. His message is clear. He’s patiently waited all night while I looked over the profile Erin posted on a few online dating sites as well as the profiles she expressed interest in. Now that it is morning, his patience has snapped. His stomach and his food bowl are empty, a problem he feels I should have handled several hours ago.
We go through the same ritual every single morning. Even though Sammy’s lack of patience irritates me from time to time, it’s also one of the main reasons I got a cat. After Maddie’s death, I was so depressed I realized that if I didn’t have something else living with me, something that depended on me, I’d probably stay in bed until I simply faded away.
For a long time, filling Sammy’s feed bowl was the only thing that kept me going. Gradually, that morphed into me taking an interest in other things. I haven’t forgotten Maddie—not a single day goes by when I don’t miss her like crazy—but with Sammy’s help, I learned how to keep living.
I rub my eyes and struggle to wrap my brain around the idea that it’s morning all ready. “Okay, big guy, let’s see what we can find for breakfast.”
Recognizing the word breakfast, Sammy jumps off my lap and stalks out of my study, his tail twitching with excitement as I follow at a slower, groggier pace.
Sammy jumps up on the counter. He head butts the container containing his kitty kibble and meows plaintively.
I roll my eyes. “If someone didn’t know better, they’d think I only feed you once or twice a week. They’d never believe that you get two good meals every single day.”
Sammy looks at me with his big yellow eyes, blinks twice, and goes back to lavishing love on the container.
Deciding that it won’t hurt for him to learn that, contrary to what he thinks, he doesn’t rule the place, that I’m occasionally allowed to put my own needs first, I ignore him, make my way to the coffee pot and start measuring out my favorite blend of French roast.
Grumbling, Sammy stalks across the counter and glares at the coffee maker.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn in a low tone. I swear he is debating using his paw to swipe the glass carafe off the appliance and onto the floor. “If you do, I promise that your supply of cat nip and crinkle tunnels will get thrown out the window, and that you’ll never sleep in my bed again. Understand?”
Sammy doesn’t look like he believes it, but he sits back on his haunches and stares at me.
I tug his yellow bowl out of the dishwasher and start filling it with his morning kibble ration.
“You know, considering that I saved you from a life on the mean streets, put a roof over your head and make sure that you’re always well fed,” I tell him, “the least you could do is be a little nicer to me this morning. I’ve had a long night.”
He ignores me.
“You’re a crappy roommate. You expect me to feed you, clean your shit out of the litter box, and keep you supplied in catnip.” I close the container and slide the bowl across the countertop toward him. “Considering all that, it wouldn’t kill you to pretend to take an interest in my life.”
Sammy ignores me and buries his head in the bowl of kibble, all of his considerable focus concentrated on the act of attempting to fill his seemingly bottomless appetite.
Hannah has a fit whenever she catches Sammy on the counter. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s read me the riot act because she feels I’m a derelict pet parent. She swears that if I’d just spend some time working with him, Sammy would learn to stay off the counters and tables. I don’t understand her problem. Both Sammy and I are perfectly happy with the arrangement.
Watching him triggers a familiar pang of envy. He eats and eats and eats and still has a rangy, borderline starved appearance. I’m in good shape, but only because I make a concentrated effort to work out and only indulge in pizza one or two nights a week.
The rich scent of coffee fills the spacious kitchen. It’s enough to give my synapses a good strong kick, making me feel slightly more human.
I reach out and stroke Sammy’s boney back. “It’s been a long time since I’ve lost sleep over a woman. Even longer since I’ve pulled an all-nighter.” I roll my neck from side to side, trying to work some of the exhaustion and soreness from my muscles. “I’d forgotten how painful both can be.”
The coffee maker falls silent and I shuffle across the kitchen to fill my favorite Superman mug with the life-giving elixir.
“I don’t know what to think about Erin.” I continue talking to my cat and do so without feeling the least bit silly. It’s the result of spending too many years holed up in this apartment with nothing but Sammy for company. “I know I don’t know her, but she seems like a nice enough woman. The kind that has everything going for her. Looks, brains, even money. Hard to believe her life isn’t as perfect as expected.”
The first few swallows of coffee hit my stomach, warming me while also giving me a much needed surge of energy. I drag a plastic bag full of bread out of the fridge and pop two slices into the toaster.
“Erin says she hasn’t ever had an orgasm. She’s not sleeping with every guy she goes out with, but like she says, surely along the way she’s met up with at least a few guys who knew what they were doing. I would.”
The thought of having sex with Erin sends a sharp, hot stab of heat through my lower belly. My cock swells, the intense pressure against my fly startling me.
I suck in a deep breath. God, it’s been a long time since my body has reacted so strongly to the mere thought of being with a woman. Not since Maddie passed away. I never want them. In my mind, I’ve always been a one-woman man.
Down, boy, I silently order my hopeful member. This is a job, a distraction from the daily grind. You won’t be coming out to play.
I think Erin is an incredibly sexy woman, from the moment I first saw her, she’s intrigued me. The way she smiles and her bright eyes melts some of the ice that enveloped my heart after my Maddie died. There’s something about her that makes me want to edge closer, to step away from the relative solitude I shrouded myself in. And as good as that feels, it also makes me feel guilty. Maddie has only been gone for a
few years. Surely it’s too soon for me to be taking an interest in other women, on any level.
The sound of Sammy’s sharp teeth shattering bits of kibble is the only sound in the room. I lean against the counter and try to puzzle out my sudden and intense reaction to Erin. The fact that I noticed her wasn’t a surprise. She’s a beautiful woman, and I do notice attractive women, I’m not dead, but usually once they’re out of my range of vision, I forget all about them. But not Erin. There’s something about her that pulls at me. I’ve tried to ignore it, but I’ve never had much luck.
I’ve never admitted this, not even to myself, but somehow I’ve managed to make note of her routine and frequently find myself hanging out in the building’s lobby or near the elevators whenever I know she’ll be around.
When she walked into me in the lobby the other day, it represented the longest we’d ever been near each other. It was also the first time in a long time that I took an active interest in another person’s life.
There’s something about the warmth of her smile that helps soothe my bruised heart, and whatever that something is, I’m steadily becoming addicted to it. That’s probably why I so impulsively sent her that text after learning she’d been poking around the No O website.
Sammy finishes eating and sits back on his haunches. His large yellow eyes study me as his long pink tongue lashes out, removing a few stray crumbs from his whiskers.
“I’ve gone through Maddie’s notes.” It’s something I haven’t done … ever. When I lost her, I’d been too shocked to do anything except go through the motions of trying to survive. After that, the idea of going through her notes, even the ones that pertained to joint ventures like No O, had felt too intrusive.
But last night, reading through her stuff, seeing the quirky comments she’d made to herself, recalling the phrases that only she used, and learning from her observations, had felt good. The experience had reminded me about how much she’d loved nearly all the aspects of her work, how committed she was to genuinely helping people improve the quality of their lives.
