by Sidney Bell
She’s certain that that was not what he’d been about to say. But she feels oxygen deprived already. She doesn’t have it in her to push for the truth. Instead, she gratefully accepts his segue. “If you haven’t noticed by now that he likes men as well as women, you’ve been oblivious. He doesn’t try to hide it.”
“I figured it out.” He still isn’t looking at her, but his tone is bland as ever. His profile doesn’t have that sharp edge anymore either. “Well. I suspected. He’s never been particularly subtle, but then, we didn’t really—we have different ways of—you know. Relaxing. After shows.”
The air eases further. She grins at his phrasing. “You don’t have to cover for him. I know he’s had a disgusting amount of sex over the years.”
He gives her a sheepish shrug. “Only before you came along, of course.”
For a moment, she’s confused that he’s stating such an obvious fact. And then it clicks. He’s afraid that she’ll worry Zac has cheated on her. She snorts inwardly. It will never happen. For one thing, Zac would be terrified to piss her off that way; Anya freely admits to being vindictive as hell. For another, if he wanted to fuck someone else, all he’d have to do is ask and he knows it. They don’t lie to each other because they don’t need to.
That’s not the part of this conversation that she’s intrigued by, though. “Why didn’t you ever mention that you knew? Since you have that in common, I mean.”
Another very long pause. “I thought if he wanted me to know, he would tell me. I wasn’t going to push. I assumed he had his reasons not to bring it up.”
“I don’t think there are any. Zac’s not really a reasons kind of guy.”
“Not usually. But he’s careful. With some people.”
People he loves, she knows he means. It makes her happy that Cal knows he counts among them. Still, she’s not sure why Cal would think Zac wouldn’t want him to know, then.
“I think he thought you knew,” she explains. “I think...he’s always assumed that you knew. I know for a fact he didn’t know about you. That you’re bi.”
He stiffens. Half of a conversation with Cal takes place with his shoulders. It’s nice to know that he’s smart enough to put together the subtext of her comment. Yes, she’s tempted to tell him. We were talking about it. We were talking about you. About who you sleep with. We were curious. We still are.
She tries to sound nonchalant. She isn’t sure she manages it. “So I guess the question becomes...what do you like?”
“What do I like?”
“I can’t get an idea for what you want in a partner if you don’t tell me,” she says lightly. “Smart girls? Tough guys? Wholesome schoolteachers? Leather pants and eyeliner?” She finds her throat strangely tight when she murmurs, “What intrigues you?”
He turns to watch her, expression careful, maybe trying to deconstruct why she’s really asking him this, maybe just curious. Despite his efforts to appear unaffected, there’s a hint of that earlier intensity in his gaze again. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t rattling her a little. When she thought of how this talk would go, she didn’t picture him letting her see so much of him, and it’s getting under her skin. He’s getting under her skin, all with barely any words at all.
She can’t remember how long it’s been since one of them opened a box. He’s not even holding the tape anymore. They’re standing here looking at each other, talking about the people Cal likes to fuck.
Because that’s what she’s asking. They both know it. What kind of people do you say yes to? What kind of people do you want in your bed? What gets you hard?
Another unexpected thing: she’s holding her breath waiting to hear the answer. She suspects she’s not the only one feeling the weight in the air. He doesn’t move or break eye contact either.
Finally, Cal opens his mouth, and at that very moment, Zac’s voice warbles down the stairwell from upstairs. “Where the hell are you guys? I need ice creeeeeeeeam.”
They both jump. Cal smiles, awkward and visibly relieved. “If you need dessert that bad, come down here and help us look for the ice cream maker.”
Later, Anya promises herself, clenching her teeth into a fake smile as her stupid husband tromps down the stairs and cheerfully steals Cal’s scissors. Later, you can kill Zac and you’ll have plenty of time to hide the body because he’s awful and no one will come looking for ages.
* * *
She shuts the door behind Cal an hour later and leans against it.
She might be going about this the wrong way.
For one thing, while she’d anticipated that Cal would be difficult to talk to about this, she’d underestimated how difficult. Who couldn’t talk about a preference for blondes or brunettes or men with big dicks? And if he was that uncomfortable, all he’d had to do was say no. It’s not like she wouldn’t listen. It’s not like she’d judge him for his taste. Even if he asked for a wholesome kindergarten teacher. One who’s a virgin and never swears or drinks.
Not that Anya knows anyone like that, male or female.
Except Cal, for crying out loud. How the hell did a man like that even become a rock star?
The point is that she doesn’t understand why he makes it so hard. How hard is it to just say things? She does it all the time.
“I like men with big dicks,” she says to prove the ease of it.
Zac, walking down the hallway toward the living room after saying good-bye to Cal, does an about-face. “You rang?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
He takes an obvious glance around the otherwise empty hall. Then he tugs his waistband out several inches, peering down into his underwear with an appraising eye. Then he looks at her. “I’m pretty sure you were.”
She cannot laugh, or they’ll never be able to fight about this. “No, go away, I don’t like you, you’ve ruined everything.”
He puts a hand to his chest and affects a fragile, hurt expression. “Moi?”
“Toi.” She knows far more French than he does, and he should be reminded frequently that she’s better than him.
He grins, visibly enjoying her sharp edges. That acceptance never fails to make her weaken inside. That he delights in her innate meanness, her imperfect humanity, so much more imperfect than a woman is generally allowed to be—it’s part of why she loves him too. God, she loves him so fucking much.
“Okay,” she says. “You can put your dick in me. But then we’re going to fight about how stupid you are.”
“Hey, baby, as long as you open up those pretty thighs for me, you can call me stupid as much as you like,” he says, agreeable and charming and she would smack him except she’s too busy kissing him. He takes it deep fast, his tongue in her mouth, his hands cupping her hips, her ass, her pussy, taking her down to the floor right there, and then just taking her.
Later, after they’ve both come and she’s told him everything that happened in the basement and explained about how she’s never going to be able to get his best friend into bed with them if he continues to interrupt at the worst possible moments like a fucking idiot, he apologizes profoundly by going down on her again.
She decides he isn’t stupid anymore.
She takes a shower. As she soaps up, she remembers that moment of sheer gut-punching chemistry she’d shared with Cal in the basement. At least, she thinks it was shared. She hopes so. It’s discomfiting to realize that you kind of want to fuck the holy hell out of a person that you’ve already decided you don’t particularly like. Although she’s starting to suspect she does, in fact, like Cal after all. She might actually like him quite a lot.
So it’s not only for Zac that she’s doing this, she has to admit. She’ll have to tell him that, even though he’ll tease her about it.
Still, the question remains as to how to pull this off. It’s obvious by this point that Cal’s not going to act on the subtle signal
s that most men would. But she has to admit that the men who wait for clear words tend to be better men. They want to know, for a fact, that a woman wants them before they move. She likes that in Cal. It’s just not very conducive to a subtle seduction.
Perhaps that’s the problem. Seduction is the slow erosion of walls, helping someone see you differently so that they’ll begin to want you. Anya’s not a woman who was made for subterfuge of that sort.
She should’ve simply said, “I’d like to fuck you for Zac’s birthday. Would you like that?”
No manipulation. No games. No seduction. Just honesty. Just her and everything she is. He’ll respond to that, she thinks. He’ll respect her for not confusing him.
He’ll either want her or he won’t.
* * *
Anya doesn’t like strangers in her home, so there’s never a question that they’d find another location for Zac’s birthday party. She thinks at first to arrange for a trip to Vegas so they can go the clubbing route: hiring a limo to take them around town at their whim, rolling the dice at various casinos, grinding on each other in clubs until the sun comes up, surrounded by a blur of drunk friends along for the ride. But Zac’s done that a time or ten already. She thinks he’ll appreciate something more restrained for thirty-nine.
She opts for a 1940s-themed bash. She books the botanical gardens and arranges for a full orchestra. The invitations are delivered on creamy card stock and demand formal dress, causing a general air of merriment and surprise among their usual friends and colleagues, half of whom will likely pair their black-tie with black nail polish. Zac’s never worn a tuxedo before, as far as she knows—at their beach wedding she wore a red bikini and he was in board shorts. She knows he won’t complain about the penguin suit, though; Zac’s favorite drug is novelty.
Okay, maybe restraint is relative.
When the night arrives, there’s a blowsy singer with Victory Rolls in her hair wearing bloodred lipstick and breathing into a microphone on the bandstand. At the heart of the massive gardens is a courtyard with a resplendent stone fountain and enough space around it for dancing. White fairy lights twinkle from anything that’ll sit still, and fireflies tiptoe on lilacs in the distance, making the atmosphere heady, mystical. Waiters in waistcoats carrying trays laden with flutes of champagne weave between the open bar and tables draped in white tablecloths.
After dinner and the requisite toasts to Zac’s existence, the orchestra launches into a mixture of big band classics and modern covers. People start crowding the dance floor and everyone’s talking and drinking and it’s loud as hell.
Anya leans against the hip-high wall that encircles the courtyard, heels off, the grass cool and damp under the aching soles of her feet, taking a breather. She has a slight headache from the stress of managing all the details—she asked for no less than perfection, and she got it, but it wasn’t easy. Keeping the paparazzi out has required more than a few stern words to the security team she hired. But despite the messy underbelly of planning a party of this size and spectacle, it’s come together well.
Zac’s working the room, half-lit and laughing loudly, enjoying the admiration and happiness of friends around him. He’s in his element, the little attention-whore. She smiles, watching him, warmed by the sight of his dear, sharp face and wide, expansive gestures. He’s happy, and that’s what matters.
Her gaze slides away to survey the guests, judging how much food and drink they have, if people are having fun, if the tables need clearing, if some of the more family-oriented types are starting to get that harried look that means it’s time to go home to the kids now that it’s after eleven. She loses track of her calculations when she sees Cal hovering at the bar, a tall glass of something clear in his hand, wearing a black tux that makes his shoulders look like porn, watching Zac work the room much as she had been. He’s even wearing a similar smile, indulgent and a bit amused at the nonsense.
At least, until Cal yawns.
She pulls her phone out of her clutch and texts him: Across, slightly to your left.
When he feels the buzz, he pulls his phone out from the inside pocket in his jacket. His brow creases as he reads her words. Then he looks up and finds her, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he circles around the dance floor to meet her.
“Hello,” she says when he arrives, pleased to find that she’s legitimately happy to see him. He, on the other hand, seems tired. “How miserable are you, on a scale of 1 to shrieking in agony?”
He smiles. “It’s fine. It’s a gorgeous party, Anya. You’ve done a great job. It’s a little past my bedtime, that’s all.”
“Are you a morning person?” She narrows her eyes into a glare.
“Guilty.”
“Ugh. Disgusting. What kind of rock star prefers to be in bed by midnight?”
“The kind that’s over the age of thirty-five and gets up at six to go running.” His expression is wry but also pleased at the gentle teasing. He tips his head in Zac’s general direction. “Unlike some people, I don’t miss being in my twenties.”
“You don’t have to stay the whole time. All we have left is presents, and he can show them to you tomorrow.”
“But just think of the betrayal if I leave early on this particular day of blessing, the day of his birth,” Cal says, utterly deadpan.
She laughs, enjoying him. “Oh, you do know him well indeed. I should thank you for sparing me the histrionics.”
“You’re welcome.”
She has a martini glass resting on the top of the concrete wall and takes a sip now, sighing in pleasure. Perfect amount of vermouth. She plays with the plastic sword holding her olives and thinks of his discomfort in the basement the other day as she fumbled her way through complicated, intrusive questions. “I think I owe you an apology.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Not that I can remember.”
“I do.”
“All right.” He turns more toward her, his back going to the rest of the guests. He’s broad enough that the move gives her the illusion of privacy. It could very well only be the two of them now. When she doesn’t say anything, he prompts, “For what?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you. But you should know that I’m sorry all the same. I’ll do better in the future.”
His face does several complicated things, eventually settling on intrigued. “All right. Should I guess?”
She can’t think of anything less tempting than hearing him piece through a list of her potential faults. “No. But whatever I’ve done lately that you’ve been irritated or hurt by, know that I’m sorry.”
“There’s not a thing, Anya,” he murmurs. “Not a single thing.”
She licks her lips. “In the basement the other night—”
“That was my fault.” He takes a sip from his glass, and she gets the distinct impression it’s because he’s looking for a way to buy time, not because he’s thirsty. She wonders which part of the night he’s referring to—the conversation that revolved around his orientation and taste in partners or the moment where they stared at each other like they were both tempted to make a move. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so concerned about my bachelorhood. I should’ve said right off—I’m not particularly interested in dating anyone at the moment.”
Ah. He’s taking the easy way out. She lets the wave of disappointment pass, although she’s not shocked that he’s not going to address their brief minute of potent chemistry. He probably even means it when he says he’s not interested in dating, as far as her friends go. But she’s not sure he’d mean it if he knew what she’s really offering.
“I promise not to try to hook you up with any of my friends.” She words it carefully, knowing he won’t hear what she hasn’t said.
“Deal.”
They subside into an easy silence, and he turns away again, the shift of his shoulders giving the rest of the world back to her,
watching the partygoers with her. Watching Zac entertain his thronging masses of friends. Or acquaintances. Zac’s only truly loved and trusted two people in his whole life, and they’re both as far away at the moment as the courtyard makes it possible to get.
The band strikes up a new song, a cover of “Skinny Love,” and she sighs. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
His attention snaps right to her. “Of course.”
“I wish Zac knew how to dance.”
“You mean in a way that doesn’t involve sex with invisible ghosts on stage?”
She chuckles. “Exactly so.” She taps the plastic sword against the lip of her glass. “My grandfather taught ballroom dancing for a while when I was young. I remember him dancing with me—well, if standing on a grown man’s feet counts.”
“It counts.”
“I liked to watch all the lovely people dancing nearby. It was always so beautiful. The way they moved together. Zac can dance, but it’s—well, like you said. Fucking invisible people. It’s not the same.”
He’s studying her now, his skin ruddy from the cool night air. He tips his head to one side, listening to the music, gauging it. “I can dance.”
She frowns at him. “I don’t want to boogie, Cal. I want a Cinderella dance. Do you know how to Cinderella dance?”
“If you mean can I waltz, the answer is yes.”
“Truly? There aren’t many men these days who can say that. How did you learn?”
“I took lessons as a teenager.”
She smirks. “Trying to get a girl?”
Sheepishness rises off him in waves. “Trying to keep a girl.”
The thought of it makes her soften. She can imagine it so well—a gawky, adolescent Cal, earnestly biting his lip and studying an older woman’s sensible shoes as he practices the box step. “Ah. High school sweetheart?”
“Yep. Sharon Mills. We danced together for the first time at the freshman breakfast and I stepped on her toes. A lot, actually. I figured by the time senior prom rolled around I owed her better.”
