by Liz Crowe
She glanced out the peephole to see her friends Val and Cathy, brandishing a pizza and a bottle of wine. She pulled her robe together, took a deep breath and opened the door. They burst in, made their familiar way to her kitchen, and stopped dead at the sight of their latest office heartthrob holding a plate of pie and standing well behind the tall counter.
Why the hell are you playing with him, Sara? New Sara chided her. He is not what you want. Don’t use him to cover what you really need – Jack. Back in your arms.
The girls popped open the wine and started pouring everyone a glass but Craig put his plate in the sink and begged off, giving Sara a chaste hug on his way out. She followed him to the door. As he was about to take the single step down to the sidewalk, he turned, walked back up to her, pulled her out onto the tiny front step and planted a firm kiss on her lips, one arm around her waist. He ended the kiss before she could wrap herself around him.
“I’m actually not sorry,” he said. “Can I call you?”
She nodded, stunned and quivering, then watched him fire up his ten-year-old SUV and screech out of the parking lot. She pulled her hair up off her neck and sighed. The girls had piled in behind her and were staring, open mouthed.
“What?” she asked them as she breezed past back into her home.
“No fair, Sara,” Cathy complained before they clinked glasses. “You get both Stewart hot guys?” Sara rolled her eyes.
Apparently, she did.
Now what?
Poor Craig didn’t have a chance, really. She knew damn good and well how she felt about Jack, and she had zero business letting Craig think anything different. But the memory of those stupid texts from “Heather” seared her memory.
A stalker? Not likely. And if she was, Jack must have done something to encourage her and the thought of that—of him touching, kissing, doing anything more than shaking hands with any other woman right now—made her head pound and her guts turn over. She waved at the handsome guy climbing into a somewhat janky looking SUV.
Two can play this game, Mr. Gordon. Oh yes they can.
Chapter Eleven
The next few days were a blur of business and gut-churning denial for Jack. The urges he’d resisted for years, the need to control, to be responsible for more than just the physical satisfaction of a woman, roared through him, coloring his every waking and sleeping moment.
Sitting down and writing out in an email how sorry he was and explaining away Heather’s texts the day she’d left had bought him some forgiveness, at least online, but he hadn’t actually seen Sara since. He was sick with worry after what she’d been through. He wanted her with him, in his house, with him. He needed her to need him. Yet he left her alone, thinking that was best for someone as strong-minded as Sara. But it sucked. Every last stubborn minute of it.
“Jack.” He tore his eyes from the computer screen and focused on his assistant.
“What?” He stood and stretched, feeling the pleasant soreness in his limbs from a punishing ten-mile run earlier, and let Jason walk him through the next couple of days. He zoned at one point, completely unlike him, but unable to stop.
“Yo! Dude!” Jason snapped his fingers. “Stay with me. There’s a lot going on.”
“Nope, sorry, I’m no use to anybody today.” Jack grabbed his suit jacket from the chair. “Send me an email with all details. I gotta get out of here.” He breezed past agents, secretaries, and others. His vision had darkened, tunneled, and he knew if he didn’t get out he’d rip into somebody who didn’t deserve it, or worse.
Without thinking about it, he found himself at Evan and Suzanne’s brewery, sitting in the car, trying to catch his breath. Closing his hand around his phone, he bit down on the urge to call her, to reach out somehow.
He took a seat in the already busy tap room, not meeting anyone’s eyes, unwilling to engage in any conversation other than the one he came here to have. Suzanne brought him a beer without a word, sensing his need for quiet. Evan emerged from the brewery, wiping his hands on a towel and tossing instructions over his shoulder. His smile widened at the sight of his friend. Jack raised his glass to him.
“What brings you here on a Wednesday?” Evan grabbed a glass and leaned across the bar.
“I need you to tell me I’m not losing my mind.”
“Huh.” Evan grinned at him. “Need me to help you put on your makeup, too? How about adjust your tampon?”
“Fuck you dude. You obviously missed the memo that we men are allowed to have feelings without being accused of going soft.” Jack knocked back the rest of his beer and pushed the glass at his friend. “What are you standing there for? Serve me.” Evan raised an eyebrow then turned and refilled the glass with the amber hoppy brew Jack liked. “You just blew your tip.” Evan flipped him off with a smile.
“You are not losing your mind. You’re just in love. I know the feeling. It’s whack, isn’t it?”
“Whatever, man, it is killing me.” He shifted, trying to release the skin-crawling sensation he’d sustained for four days. Four days of not seeing her, not even talking beyond some email and text exchanges while she “worked out” how she felt about him. “I’m obviously no good at this.” Evan rolled his eyes. A soft feminine hand on his shoulder made Jack jump and nearly spill his beer.
“Dude, relax.” Evan smiled over his shoulder, and Jack saw his face settle into familiar lines, happy ones. “She won’t bite. Well, unless you want her to.”
Jack smiled at the stunning blonde woman who’d captured Evan’s heart, kissed her lightly on the lips, and looked back at his friend. “Dude,” he emphasized the word. “You let this gorgeous creature out in broad daylight for anyone to gawk at? I mean, really. I’m disappointed in you.”
Julie’s laugh was light. “Yeah, keeps him on his toes.” She accepted a glass of deep brown lager. Evan brushed his fingers across her lips before leaning back over to Jack. Suddenly struck by the bond between them, Jack couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was as if he could actually see it: a thin, strong strip of light from Evan’s hand to her. He shook his head.
Damn, he’d be crying next and would indeed require a tampon adjustment.
As Julie leaned back on her bar chair, Jack saw it. Just a flash of metal around her neck he knew would be platinum, forged with a single connection that took a small key to release. He sucked in a breath, memories of what he’d hoped he’d have with Jenna all those years ago bombarding him. He blinked so clear his mind, and to picture Sara, naked but for a giant god damned ring on her left ring finger, holding out her arms for him. “It’s okay, Jack,” she said to him in his mind. “You don’t have to be what Evan is. Just what I need you to be.” He ran a hand down his face, suddenly exhausted.
“We’re going to the club this weekend.” Evan nodded at Julie. “I think you should come.”
“I don’t know, man. I think I’m over that whole thing somehow.”
“Maybe get Sara to come, too? Even if you can’t, you should join us. I really think it will help you.”
His phone buzzed with a text at that second. He glanced at it and he felt his vision darken slightly at the sight of Sara’s name. A single word flitted through his consciousness.
Mine.
“Speak of the devil.” He sat back down. “But no, she isn’t ready for that. Especially not after what happened to her last weekend.”
“Yeah, you may be right. But the invite stands.” Jack watched as Evan and Julie exchanged a silent bit of communication. Julie was a fiercely independent woman – owner of a successful beer and wine distribution company. She was foul-mouthed, hard-drinking, smart as a damn whip and tough as nails.
It really proved what he’d always known. A true submissive had to be that way in order for the relationship to thrive. Choosing to submit took strength of spirit. A weak-willed personality, who wanted nothing but to be topped day and night, did not lead to success in a situation where so much depended on the meshing of two personalities. He sighed.
; That had been Jenna, in a nutshell. Weak-willed while pretending to have strength. It had been her fault, but also his as he’d been young and untested, just going with his natural rookie instincts. He didn’t want that life, no matter how well it seemed to be working for his friend and his friend’s smoking hot woman. He wanted something else sand he wanted it with the woman who’d just sent him a simple, one-word message:
“Hey.”
He stared at it, realizing it spoke volumes about where she was in her head regarding him. Knowing full well how hard it must have been for her to summon the wherewithal to reach out to him.
Okay.
Ball’s in my court now, baby.
He smiled and typed.
“Is your pussy bare and ready for me?”
Sara grinned at Jack’s text in spite of herself. “Busy,” she shot back.
“Big deal. I’m having a beer but thinking of you and your bare pussy – multitask with me.”
She waited about twenty minutes before sending back: “Well, my bare pussy and I are about to sell a million-dollar house, so there.”
“Cool. Remember, don’t push. Million-dollar buyers need more handholding than you think.”
Then after about another half hour she got his next message:
“What are you wearing?”
Even though she really was trying to show these places and get one sold she couldn’t help but smile as she responded while her buyers traversed the current gargantuan house.
“Ok, Mr. Cliché. I’m wearing a skirt, blouse, shoes, you know the usual.”
“No, underneath.”
“Nothing, except a sheer bra. I’m sort of getting used to the no panties thing if u must know.”
“Nice. Just the picture I needed to get me through the rest of the day.”
Sara carried on until about five p.m., when she was with another set of buyers before her phone alerted her to another text: “I want to lick your nipples.”
Her scalp tingled.
“Might be awkward right now, with people.”
“Let ’em watch – something tells me you’d like that as much I would.”
She sighed and tried not to grin. But she couldn’t help it. The memory of an email he’d sent her, the night after she’d bolted from his house had still wore a groove in her brain.
“I hope you realize that this is the first time in the better part of a decade that I’ve felt the need to apologize to any woman for the presence of any other,” he’d begun, which had pissed her off and almost made her delete the thing unread.
But as if he could anticipate her exact reaction to it, his next line was, “Wait! Before you delete this without reading any further, I need you to understand something.”
Her finger had been poised over the little trash can icon. She’d let her hand drop to her lap, stunned by how much the man seemed to get her.
“You may not want to accept this fact but you and I are a lot alike.”
She’d scoffed at that but something in the back of her brain knew he was right about that. “We’re driven, competitive as hell, Type-A+ through and through. It’s one of the many things that attracts me to you.”
Sara had to get up and pace around her apartment after reading that fun factoid. After pouring herself a glass of expensive cabernet, she squared her shoulders and sat back down in front of her laptop.
“I kind of feel crappy since we sort of jumped into the middle something, you know, that night in your office? I’ll admit to you right now, at that time, I had no purpose other than to have sex with you. You are so god damned gorgeous, sexy, and amazing.”
She sipped and frowned. If he’d been in front of her she’d have said “flatterer” to him, told him he was laying it on way too thick. But she re-read that nine-word sentence at least a dozen more times, loving it and the way it made her face heat up and her skin tingle.
“Please don’t get me wrong here. That night was incredible. But something else happened to me that night.
You. You happened to me. And if I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t feel prepared for that. Or even worthy.”
“Shit,” she’d blurted out, shocked to feel tears burning her eyes as she stared at that wholly amazing set of words.
“So I’ve been sort of, I don’t know, acting to type you might say ever since. I’m pretty sure you know what I mean. I haven’t exactly discouraged my reputation but for the first time in my life, I wish that I had.”
When she picked up her wine glass to take a sip, her hand shook so much she had to set it back down. She swiped her lips. Ran a hand through her hair. Pressed her other hand to her chest where her heart was flailing around as if it might burst. She forced herself to finish the email and told herself she’d not respond until the next day. Give them both a chance to absorb what he’d put into writing to her.
“I’m sorry about the Heather texts, babe. Honestly. I went out with her. We, you know, did our thing a few times. And she’s turned out to be a Class-A clinger. Can’t get the message to back off. That I’m not interested.
Because I have something much better right in front of my face and if I don’t get my act together, I might lose it. When you saw the texts and flipped out—with good reason—I figured that was it. I’d Jack Gordon-ed myself out of something potentially amazing. That hurt and scared me, Sara. And I don’t like either of those feelings at all. Hence, this, what I hope you’ll accept as a heartfelt request to do a reset. To give me a Mulligan. To hit a rewind button.”
“Holy…shit!” Her voice sounded strangled and squeaky in the empty apartment. She got up and paced some more. There were only a few lines left but she stood on the other side of the room, keeping a buffer between her and them, between her and Jack’s words that, if they kept on their current trajectory were about to blow her life right off its organized, well-planned out tracks.
The sheer reality of what she’d done with Jack, not once, or twice, but three damn times only to spend hours, days, and weeks after full of self-loathing as she yearned for him to communicate with her hit her square between the eyes. She dropped onto her couch, keeping her eyes on the laptop screen that glowed, innocent, merely relaying a message from across the room.
Because she wasn’t sure she wanted this. It would be messy. They would clash, butt heads, the works.
But then again, she knew for sure she wanted him so maybe it would be worth the drama.
She rose on wobbly legs and crept toward the desk, feeling as if she were sneaking up on something scary, and yet amazing at the same time. She sat, took a drag from her wine glass, and refocused on the words in front of her.
“We can go slow if you want. We can go out on dates. We can kiss goodnight at your front door. Something tells me you’re no more interested in that kind of an ending to a date than I am BUT I will make the sacrifice if that’s what you want. We’ll go forward however you want. As long as we can go forward. Just know this: I’m a total rookie to anything beyond a few hookups and a “catch ya later, babe.” I’m a product of shitty, unloving parents and one truly horrible relationship. I’m gun shy. I’m lame. But I…well, I want to spend more time with you. If you’ll let me. Because God help me for saying so I tried to “catch ya later babe” you. But you…you will not let me do it. And I don’t really want to. Not anymore.”
Yours,
Jack
Sara had stared at that last rush of words for a solid hour, re-reading them so many times she could have recited the thing back to him. Shoving aside her resolve to wait make him wait for an answer to his electronic equivalent of a love letter, she hit reply and started typing.
Jack,
I have to admit, I’m shocked by this. Not in a bad way but still.
Yes, your reputation preceded you. Yes, I was intrigued. No, I haven’t had a decent relationship myself in years, if ever. And yes, I’m pretty sure I had forgotten how much fun sex could be.
She paused, her fingers curled over the keyboard, then dove in again
, determined to keep it short and to the point.
You said you were scared. If we’re doing a true confessions thing here then I’ll admit I feel the same way. You mentioned shitty, unloving parents. My father was a serial cheater which pretty much set me up to never trust men no matter what came out of their mouths. I swore I’d never put myself in that position. I’d never love someone so much that they could break marriage vows repeatedly and I would take them back.
Anyway, not to throw the “M” word at you, I’m only using it to make you understand that I’m not wired to trust you, Jack. And since you’re so used to playing to type, I’m not sure I ever can.
But that said, I want to.
She paused and sucked in a breath. Should she admit this? Now? Was it too soon?
She drained her wine glass and let it ride, finishing the rest in a rush, and praying she had the guts to send it.
I’ll take you up on the go-slow thing and suggest taking it even one more step back, to perhaps keep us from thinking that great sex is a substitute for something more—something you seem to want from me. Let’s keep talking, shall we? Maybe this way, via email or text for a while. I need some physical space from you to sort out how I feel.
Thanks for the email, though. It kind of made my might.
Yours,
Sara
She closed her eyes, opened them, and hit the send icon.
His reply dinged into her inbox inside of two minutes. It had made her burst out laughing before she closed the laptop, resolved to leave it at that for that night, for both of their sakes. They’d laid out as much as two Type-A+ control freak competitors could do for now.
Sara,
Yeah but the sex… it really was great, wasn’t it?
Rawr….
Jack.
As she soaked in a steaming hot bath later, she realized and accepted they were, as Rob had said, either a perfect fit, or the absolute worst together. She was willing to see where it went now, after reading what seemed so heart felt, so honest and open in that email. Something in her psyche needed him—required him, his words, his laughter, his presence. Plus she wanted to prove to herself and to him that she could meet him half way. She sensed he was easing into his own acceptance of his feelings for her, too. So they’d just…talk. And see where it went from there.
