This Is Not the End

by Sidney Bell

  “One girl for all four years?”

  He shrugs. “She was the only one I wanted.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Very much. I thought we’d get married eventually. After college, maybe.” Cal clears his throat. “I suppose you find that predictable.”

  She considers. “Perhaps. But it’s also sweet.” She shouldn’t ask, but she can’t help being curious. “What happened there?”

  “I told her that instead of going to the University of Nebraska–Lincoln with her, I wanted to move to LA. I asked her to come with me, but she said no. I think... I think she thought my music was a phase that I would outgrow. A lot of guys back home would talk about leaving, following their dreams, and most of them never stepped foot outside the city limits. I guess she didn’t have a lot of reason to believe I’d be an exception. But I was, and she wasn’t particularly interested in a long-distance relationship. She got married a year or so after I left to a guy we’d gone to high school with.”

  “I’m sorry.” She winces. “Ouch.”

  “It was two decades ago,” he says dryly. “I’m fully recovered.”

  “Has there been anyone serious since then?” It’s not information that’ll help her decide whether he’d be amenable to having sex with his best friend’s wife, but she can’t stop the question from tumbling out.

  “Not really. You know how it goes. A lot of near-misses, so you get six months here, a year there before you realize each relationship’s not gonna work. Trying to find someone to make the long haul with can be a process. Especially in my sort of situation.”

  She knows what he’s alluding to—the fact that being rich and famous tends to bring the crazies out of the woodwork. But she doesn’t think that’s the actual problem. “You mean because you’re someone who struggles to open up.”

  His gaze flickers over her face. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

  She raises one eyebrow. “And those people who made it six months or a year? All women?”

  Even with the night only barely kept at bay by the small party lights hanging overhead, she can tell he’s flushing. “There might have been a couple of—nothing too serious. You know. Dates. With one guy there was...you know...not, like, sex...but... Jesus...” He trails off, looking panicked, and she laughs, taking his hand to give it a friendly squeeze. He’s adorable.

  “I understand. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “Yes. Exactly. That’s...that’s what I was going for. Not telling. Not that there was much to...ah, hell.”

  She laughs at him some more, charmed, warmed by how flustered he is. He grins back, rueful and embarrassed and so handsome that a rich little twist of pleasure sparks in her belly. “Well, I guess your credentials check out. So yes, please, Cal, I’d love to dance with you.”

  He hums a note of assent and tugs her martini glass out of her fingers. He sets both of their glasses on the wall, then crouches. She stares down at him, taken aback, but he’s picking up her red stilettos, extending one in the type of old-fashioned chivalric gesture she’s only ever seen in movies.

  She slides her foot into the first, then stands there with her heart pounding as he slides the leather through the tiny buckle for her. She shifts her weight to lift her bare foot as he picks up the other shoe, and then almost loses her balance as the first heel sinks deep into the soft, uneven earth. She catches herself on his shoulder, finds the muscle immovable beneath the thick fabric of his tuxedo jacket. Anya isn’t a small woman—she’s five foot eleven, for crying out loud—but her weight doesn’t rock him so much as a millimeter. His hand cups her other ankle, and his palm is big and warm on her skin, guiding her to lift her foot and helping her settle her heel in the shoe. He has the fingers of a musician, deft, strong, certain. She shivers.

  He stands again, calm, like he hasn’t knocked her knees out from under her. He takes her hand and leads her toward the dance floor and she follows dumbly. When they find a spot, he turns to face her, settling his hand on her lower back, stepping closer. For a heartbeat, she thinks he’ll tug their bodies together. But of course he doesn’t. Cal wouldn’t hold her like that, not his best friend’s wife.

  It’s just a dance. It’s something men do with their daughters, for fuck’s sake. It’s perfectly appropriate. Especially the way Cal does it. Cal does everything appropriately. His touch is impersonal, his gaze distant, his arms careful to keep space between them, even as they begin to move.

  And he was right. Cal can fucking dance.

  It’s like floating. It’s no work at all to follow him in the steps. With barely more than the pressure of his fingers and the angle of his body, he has them twirling in slow revolutions across the dance floor, smooth as silk. She doesn’t have to do anything but go where he guides her. She stares at him in dumbfounded shock, but he doesn’t seem insulted. If anything, he seems amused.

  They’ve barely been dancing for a minute when the music ends. Cal brings them to a halt and raises his eyebrows, clearly wondering if half a dance is enough, and without thinking, she tightens her hand on his, holding him in place. He nods, and then the next song starts.

  It’s “Kissing You” by Des’ree, and she has no idea if that’s a gift from God or Satan. She isn’t sure she could’ve planned this on purpose if she tried. Her gaze flashes to Cal’s face, checking to see if he’s familiar with the song, wondering whether he’ll bull his way through it or try to excuse himself.

  She can see the second of consternation in Cal’s eyes when he recognizes the melody. She can also see the exact moment he decides there’s no graceful way out of it. He takes a deep breath. She does too. He steps toward her again, and she helplessly follows as the music swells. The singer has a good voice for the song. The air throbs, heavy with longing.

  Anya’s legs feel wobbly beneath her. She’s fully aroused, wet enough that she could fuck him right now, and it’s been such a slow, gradual slide into desire that she didn’t even notice. She’s thrown enough by the realization that she stumbles. In classic Cal style, he rescues her instantly, adjusting to her misstep, his arms strong enough to steady her as she catches up. His hand on the small of her back tightens, bringing them closer together. He lets her lean on him, uses his body to provide her with a foundation. She exhales, shaky, and she can’t make herself pull back. Can’t keep herself from taking the ground he’s given her and then some. Her breasts brush his chest, and his jaw tightens.

  Sorry, she wants to say, and maybe she would, if her mouth weren’t so dry. He smells good. Her fingers are in his hair somehow, right at the nape of his neck. She doesn’t know how they got there. His hips bump hers as they move; his cock is an unmistakable hard thickness against her. It’s a faraway detail at the moment, though, second to the blank pleasure in her mind, the somber intensity of his hands on her. It’s the only thing about any of this that isn’t a shock. Of course he’s hard. No one could feel what they’re feeling and not be aroused. Their steps slow further. As she takes a steadying breath, she leans her temple against his cheek. He stiffens for a split second, then relaxes, returning the pressure. They’re doing little more than swaying now. She’s shaking. She wonders if he can feel it. She wonders if he’ll tell himself that it’s only because she’s cold. She’s not cold, though. She can’t even remember what it feels like to be cold.

  The music drifts to a close, and when everything stops, Anya’s pressed full-length against Cal, her curves soft against his straight lines, her muscles heavy and warm, wanting to cling, and oh, oh, she’s in trouble here. His thumb strokes once, twice, three times against her spine, red-hot through the thin satin of her dress, and then he sucks in a breath and pulls away. Now she remembers cold, her limbs going chilled and unsteady in his absence, and only his hand in hers feels real as he leads her off the dance floor.

  She thought for sure other people would’ve noticed the way the distance between them close
d, the way Cal’s arm came to circle her more completely, the way her fingers traveled up into his hair. But they were surrounded by a crush of couples who were lost in their own worlds, and Cal and Anya seem to have gotten away with their minor indiscretion without attracting notice.

  She glances around, finds Zac on the fringes of the party, talking animatedly with someone else. He senses her eyes on him and breaks off, turning to find her. He’s grinning, and when he raises his chin in question, checking to see if she needs him, she forces a smile back, waving to say she’s fine. He wouldn’t be angry or hurt that she was dancing with Cal so closely. He would like it. He’d find it hot. She might even be sad that he missed it, except that she wants to keep the dance close, for her only.

  On some level, that’s terrifying. She decides not to think about it. Not yet, anyway.

  Cal leads her back to the spot where they stood before. Their empty glasses have vanished. They stand there in tense quiet for a moment, broken only when a black-suited waiter stops by with another tray. She accepts a flute of champagne, mostly to have something to fiddle with. Cal shakes his head.

  “That was lovely, thank you,” she says finally.

  “You’re welcome.” He sounds taut. He’s standing several feet away, hands in his pockets. She doesn’t look to see if he’s still hard. She doesn’t know how he possibly couldn’t be. She can feel the slickness between her own legs, the dampness of her panties.

  She wishes she was more proactive before this, wishes they became lovers days ago, even weeks ago. Then she could catch Zac’s eye and take Cal’s hand and lead them both to a private room. She could do something about this heat inside her. But she doesn’t dare try it now. This isn’t a moment for a first time. But it may be a moment for movement, all the same.

  He wants her. She knows that for sure now.

  And she wants him. Even independent of Zac’s desires, Zac’s interest, she wants Cal for herself. She wants to feel him inside her, wants to see him with his head thrown back, wants to ride him and touch him and make him cry out.

  This isn’t the best time for this conversation. He’s on edge, perhaps feeling guilty, probably thinking he’s doing something unconscionable by wanting his best friend’s wife. But she can’t help it. She wants him. She doesn’t know how to stand here and let a good thing slip through her fingers. “You’re a well-behaved boy, aren’t you, Calvin?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounds rueful. He still isn’t looking at her. “I get that one a lot, anyway.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. There’s no shame in it.” She takes a sip, but she’s paying more attention to his expression than her drink. She tips the glass too far and has to wipe her lower lip, lick a few drops from her fingers. She catches him watching her mouth, but he’s so damn polite; almost as soon as he looks, he’s looking away, strain in the furrow between his brows. Definitely guilt.

  Trying to put him at ease, she adds, “Zac isn’t well-behaved at all. I tell him constantly that he was born in a zoo.”

  The mention of Zac only increases his tension. “You’re not wrong.”

  “He’s the most fun,” she agrees, and he manages a smile that’s at least half real. “Do you ever wish it were different?”

  “How so?”

  “Do you ever want to break out? Be naughty?” She leans forward, curious, and between her stilettos in the grass and her still-weak knees, she wobbles. It’s only a tiny bit manufactured—high heels truly are the devil. Proper gentleman that he is, Cal catches her elbow. It’s somehow an impersonal and protective touch at the same time. She rests her hand on his biceps—he’s wonderfully solid, thick like a tank, not rangy like her Zac—and leans into him, both because she wants to know how he’ll take it and because she likes how strong he is. He smells good, she thinks again. Not like the spicy exotic cologne that Zac favors that feels like a punch to the gut. No, Cal’s scent is crisp. Clean. Unadorned. She likes it. She wants to tilt her face into the bend of his throat.

  “Not really,” he says, his tone brisk. He’s giving off signals now, trying to rebuild the space between them, and she has no interest in letting him.

  “A shame. I think you’d be quite fascinating if you let it all go, Cal.” She leans in closer, her nose brushing his jaw as she exhales, and he shivers. But before she can take pleasure in seeing her effect on him, his arm goes whipcord under her hand, iron tense.

  “You’d be less than fascinated with what I’m thinking right now,” he says, and gently—even now, he’s gentle with her—shifts her away from him. She takes the rejection and turns it into a helping hand, using it to hitch herself up onto the stone garden wall. The rough surface catches on the thin material of her dress, digs into the backs of her thighs, but she doesn’t care. She plucks at the fabric, using the excuse of straightening the skirt to tug the hem up a bit so that her bare legs are exposed all the way to mid-thigh. She has excellent legs. Any man who fucks women would have a hard time resisting the urge to look.

  And Cal’s looking. Oh, yes, he’s looking. She lets her knees fall open slightly, and his breathing falters. His mouth tightens, goes almost angry.

  “You’re thinking mean thoughts about me, aren’t you?” She extends her foot, nudges his hip with her toe, surprised and pleased when he glares at her but doesn’t move away. “I can imagine how this must seem to you.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve put much thought into it.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot of things about you. Lately, it seems to focus on what it might be like to fuck you.”

  She isn’t sure what she expects him to do at this point, but it certainly isn’t what she gets. He steps closer instead of walking away, until there’s barely an inch between them. He leans in, and everything about him has gone hard and fierce and mean. It steals her breath. This is the version of Cal that wrote all of Hyde’s best songs, songs about loss and pain and rage, the version of Cal that only Zac has ever seen until she caught a bare glimpse of it in the basement the other day, the version that made Zac say Cal’s not boring, and she’s not ashamed to admit that it sends a devastating wave of heat down her spine.

  “Do you really think I’d fuck my best friend’s wife?” he bites out.

  She smiles, perhaps toying with him a bit now, but how else is she to respond? She refuses to be proud of him for trying to reject her, for his loyalty to Zac, especially when he has managed to be both wrong and insulting. She’s not sure if it speaks to his opinion of her or his beliefs about sex that his mind went to cheating before it went to threesome.

  She lets her heel swing out, to catch behind the bend of his knee, digging into the muscle there with the sharp point of her stiletto. To take even one more step forward, he’ll have to push his way between her thighs. She wishes he would. She hopes Zac’s watching. This would turn him on, to see his favorite nice, polite Midwesterner so close to losing what remains of his manners. She glances over Cal’s shoulder and yes, Zac is watching. Some woman is talking to him, but he’s oblivious to her, staring across the courtyard at them, occasionally shifting his weight to see past some partygoer in the way.

  She returns her attention to Cal. She likes his mouth, even when it’s flat and angry like this. “You’re telling me you don’t want to?”

  “I do want to.” He glances over her from tip to toe in a long drag, the desire in his eyes clear, a brutal honesty that makes her bones want to dissolve. “But I want a lot of things I don’t let myself have. And fuck you for thinking I would. Fuck you for thinking I’d ever do that to him.”

  “Do you really think he doesn’t know?” She lifts her eyebrows and glances pointedly behind him across the courtyard until Cal turns to follow her gaze. Zac’s ignoring someone else now, his eyes dark and intent even from so far.

  “He...” Cal whips around again to look at her. “He knows that you’re...”

  She lets her lips curl up, felin
e. “Of course. I don’t cheat on my husband, Cal.”

  “He...he knew you were going to...”

  She shrugs one shoulder, letting the thin strap of fabric slide over her skin and spill down her arm. The cup covering her breast slips lower, not quite low enough to catch on her nipple, but almost, almost. Many women would probably be embarrassed to be so obviously en déshabillé, particularly in public, but it’s dark, and he’s mostly blocking her from view, and besides, she’s been half-naked in front of the camera before with a dozen people milling around her doing their jobs. She has no shame left. “He likes to watch.”

  “Jesus.” Cal’s gaze shifts to one side, going distant, and then snaps back to hers, drifts down her body again, lingering on her cleavage and her dropped shoulder strap and then her legs, before lifting, his eyes going wide. “Jesus.” He starts to turn, as if to look at Zac again, but catches himself. “You mean...me and...”

  She makes a small sound of acquiescence. “Me and you.”

  “But you’re married.”

  She pauses, uncertain how to take that. “Yes, we are.”

  “How can you be intimate with other people when you’re married?”

  “The same way people are intimate when they’re not married.”

  He shakes his head. “I couldn’t do that. Share my wife.”

  “He’s not sharing me. I’m not sharing him. We’re sharing an experience that happens to include someone else that we’re mutually attracted to. It’s something we do together, that I do for him because he finds it enjoyable, and that I do for me because I find it enjoyable. But no matter what else happens, we go home together, him and me. Only him and me. We go home together to our son, because that is our family, no matter who we might be intimate with.”

  He nods, but it’s a halfhearted, doubtful sort of thing. It pisses her off, his doubt. His judgment.

  One big hand goes to the stone wall she’s sitting on, roughly six inches away from her thigh. He picks at the mortar, his fingers digging in until the knuckles turn white. “So you get bored, I guess.”