“Pissers?” she asked.
“Ball busters, but in a good way,” I said. “It’s a compliment in Brooklyn.” I rinsed her hair and proceeded with the conditioner.
I kept talking. “But everything I owned, until I was fifteen, was a hand-me-down. My kicks were off-brand because there was no way I was going to ask for the real thing when they killed themselves to send me to private school until I got into Bronx Science.
“Then suddenly, I’m a Grangeworth, and his widow—God bless her because it couldn’t have been easy—finds out about me and takes it upon herself to show me how the other half lives. To give me what her man should’ve done. But if you don’t think I wasn’t shitting bricks every time I sat at a dinner with ten friggin’ forks in my face, you’re wrong. Or when my career first took off, I had clients who would hand me the wine list and ask me to pick what I thought would go best with the sturgeon or whatever . . . do you get what I’m saying?”
I helped her rinse out the conditioner and started soaping myself up. She wiped the water out of her eyes and gave me a sweet little smile, nodding.
“I do. I hear you. Just an FYI, I can be really hard on myself.”
We’re going to work on that, as soon as I figure out how to stop doing the same thing.
I smiled as I watched her working that soap—and me—into a lather as she washed her thighs, in between her legs, taking extra time on her breasts. By the time I met her eye, I saw that impish gleam.
“You’re enjoying fucking with me, Dixie?”
“Oh, I am soooo enjoying fucking with you, City,” she said. “And if I didn’t have to meet with my advisor in about an hour, I’d fuck with you some more.”
We finished up, drying off. “What’s the rest of your day?” I asked.
She did that wrapping-turban thing with the towel around her head. “After I meet with my advisor, I have another sesh with Professor Inappropriate. Caroline is in love with your nickname for him, by the way. Then I have a lot of reading to get through. You?”
“I’ve got a solo show opening around the holidays. I’ll be ass-deep in that today. Plus, I need to have a quick meeting with Ingrid.”
“Everything okay?” she asked, her eyes tentative.
“Yeah, it’s standard stuff,” I lied. “She runs the studio spaces and the gallery downstairs.” Well, that part was true.
She blew out her hair, did what she did to be even more gorgeous while I threw on my standard jeans and a T-shirt, followed by making her coffee to take with her. I texted my driver and sparring partner, Omar (he’s a former light weight boxer), to be ready to take her to the university.
When I looked up, Alice was ready to go, with her small duffle by her feet. And she looked nervous.
“I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I can’t stay here anymore.”
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder . . .
―Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Alice
I really need to work on my word choices and delivery.
“Say again?” he asked, his coffee cup stopping in mid-air.
“Oh my God, that’s not what I meant!” I said, walking fast over to him. “I didn’t phrase that right.”
He put the cup down, both brows raised.
“I love staying here, but it’s important that I have some time that’s just mine,” I said, my hands snaking around his muscled torso while I gazed up at him. I wondered if I’d ever be able to get over how masculine and stunning he was. “It would be easy—too easy—to meld my life into yours, without bothering to make something that was my own. I’ve only been here for a couple of months.”
His expression relaxed, one of his arms draping around me.
“That’s fine, but you do realize you already have your own life, right?”
I shrugged. “Well, the start of one,” I said.
His mouth quirked. “Alice, you’ve been here the equivalent of a half minute and already you’re settling into grad school, got a half decent place to live, and your own crew. Most people who come to the city? It takes them years to find what you already have.”
I grimaced. “Most of that is my sister’s doing. She did all the heavy lifting.”
“Dixie, this can be a place where everyone is out for themselves,” he said, cupping my face in his hands, which always made my belly flutter. “So, whether it’s from your sister or me or whoever, someone offers you help—assuming it’s not some fucker—you take it.”
His phone beeped from an incoming text. He eyed the screen. “Alright, Omar’s downstairs,” he said, grabbing both my bags and walking us to the elevator. “Do your thing, but I want you back here, in my bed, by the weekend at the latest.”
We got in the elevator and I noticed he was suppressing a grin.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Uh no, it’ll only piss you off.”
The elevator dinged and he gestured for me to exit first.
“C’mon, you can’t do that,” I said, bumping him with my shoulder as we walked to the waiting car. “I promise, I won’t get mad.”
He guffawed. “I’m not falling for that trap, honey,” he said as he opened the front door of the gallery, giving Omar a quick, half wave.
“Have a productive day, Dixie,” he winked.
I used my body to block him from the car door handle.
I crossed my arms and arched a brow.
He didn’t hesitate, getting right in my space, our bodies barely touching. My nipples pebbled under my shirt, just having him close.
But he didn’t have to know that. So, I craned my head up and squared my shoulders. He tried not to laugh. I narrowed my gaze.
His bit the corner of his bottom lip, as he bent down and let his lips brush against the shell of my ear. I shivered, his warm breath on my neck.
So much for tough-girl game.
“Later on, when you find yourself craving my mouth and my dick, and touching yourself isn’t giving you the relief that little body needs, I don’t want you to let pride get in the way of coming back to me sooner than you expected.”
“Wow, someone’s sure of himself,” I mumbled, moving out of the way. He opened my car door. I folded myself in. He placed my bags near my feet.
“I am sure. You want to know why?”
I gave him my best stink eye.
His eyes locked with mine. “Because I’m going to be feeling the exact same way. Nothing but you is going to relieve that ache.”
My lips parted, the blood in my veins turning into my favorite drug, making me high.
“You are?” I whispered.
He sucked in the air. “Oh yeah, I’m falling fast, right along with you.”
His office smelled like Vicks vapor rub and clove cigarettes.
I didn’t even know they still made clove cigarettes.
I was also guessing he was living under the assumption that the university’s no-smoking policy didn’t apply to him.
Must be nice to be a white, entitled and tenured male.
Whatever. I was in his world for now. At least he wasn’t smoking. I’d heard he liked to light up and blows smoke rings at students he found irritating.
He coughed, then pounded on the middle of his chest a couple of times as he sat across from me. Most of the baby boomers I knew didn’t look their age. The generation known for never trusting anyone over thirty had redefined aging, most looking like they were permanently in their forties or fifties.
Not so for Professor Bails. He looked ninety and sounded like a walking death rattle.
He had my case study journal, my paper outline, and the questionnaire I had to fill out to gain admittance into his seminar on his lap. He also had an ancient cassette recorder on the table between us, which he used instead of transcribing notes by hand. After hitting record and introducing me, he was finally ready.
�
��So, this is our second session, Ms. Leighton. I’ve had a chance to review your case study notes and then re-read your entrance questionnaire. Can you tell me why I would do that?”
“You’re doing an informal comparative analysis, trying to determine if there are any psychosexual patterns or proclivities surfacing,” I said, reminding myself to breathe. He actually was a lovely man, but I was still nervous.
He offered a warm smile with a nod. “Yes, exactly,” he said, then clearing his throat. “You know, one of the reasons why I accepted you, a first year, into my seminar was because I was fascinated by how few partners you’ve had and by the lack of experimentation.”
Silly me, I thought it was because I was one of the top students graduating from my master’s program.
“Oh, okay. I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I blurted out, sounding like someone who couldn’t find my ass with both hands in my back pockets.
“It’s not a criticism, Ms. Leighton.” He was quick to try and reassure me. “It’s atypical, but nothing I’m concerned about, per se. Do you have any insight you’d like to share?”
I’d like to share a slap upside your head, you old goat.
Why did I push so hard to be in his seminar again?
“Well, I’ve always thought iconic social theorist, Cher Horowitz, had the
right idea. When questioned about the same personal anomaly, she stated “I’m not a prude. I’m just highly selective. You see how picky I am about my shoes, and those only go on my feet.’”
The man’s mouth actually fell open, like an unhinged barn door.
Serves him right. Besides, Cher from Clueless rocks.
“I’m not familiar with her work,” he said. “Perhaps you can bring by some of her publications? I like to stay current, if I can.”
I almost felt bad for sassing him. Almost.
“Sure thing.”
“Go on, you were saying,” he said, scooting his chair forward.
I shrugged. “You’ve read my profile, so you and I both know my penchant for limited sexual partners and experiences derives from having a mother who has high thresholds for both. Add in some classic daddy abandonment issues, and I was destined to either be the way I am or working a pole.”
He had his elbow on the arm rest and cradled his head on his thumb and forefinger. “And you know I had no issue with either directive, as long as they’re conscious choices which serve your development and actualization. But I am taking note that yours is a more reactionary pattern. You also tend to gravitate towards men who are older and already established. Again, you like what you like, as one does.”
I smiled, not knowing what to say.
“It also seems you and your current partner are sexually compatible?”
Oh yeah, you could say that.
“Yes, we are. Very much so,” I said, my thighs clenching at the memory.
“Good. Wonderful!” he said. “Then, my directive for you, over the next couple of weeks, will be to discuss each other’s sexual histories and determine if there’s something you two want to explore together. Is this an open relationship or monogamous?”
“Monogamous,” I said.
“Fine. I also want you to delve into your sexual fantasies, at your speed and comfort level, to determine if there are any you want to explore individually or with your partner.”
I jotted down some notes: share sex histories, fantasies.
“Sure beats algebra homework,” I muttered to myself.
He laughed. “I’m sure,” he said, hitting the stop button. “I’ll see you in two weeks. And remember . . .”
I was already up, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. “Yes, professor?”
He handed me back my case study journal. “I don’t care what you do or with whom, but I want to see you outside your comfort zone. In fact, I’m going to insist on it.”
“Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I’ll come up: if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m somebody else”.”
―Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Dare
“If I admit right off that I was wrong, will that be enough to avoid a whole conversation?”
I had just gotten back to the studio, two mammoth coffees in hand, and that’s the first thing Ingrid said as I walked in the door. I handed her the cup with her standard order.
“I haven’t seen you in three days and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
“Thanks, and good morning,” she said, barely meeting my eye.
I had been prepared to tear her a new one, purposefully waiting until she returned from her extended weekend away. She didn’t come back until now because she was afraid to face me—and I was letting her get away with it because I knew she didn’t mean to come off like an ass.
“I appreciate the apology, but we’re still going to talk,” I said, putting my coffee down on the desk I was leaning against. Meanwhile, she was staring down at her shoes.
“Jesus, ‘grid, look at me.”
She did.
“Just talk to me,” I said. “What the hell were you thinking?”
She crossed her arms. “You know what I was thinking,” she said. “I took one look at her and saw another pint-sized brunette staring up at you with those big eyes and I immediately thought, ‘oh shit, here we go again.’ And I realize it’s been over a year, but I’m sorry Dare, I can’t go through that again. I can’t see you go through that again.”
I ran my hand up and down my face, letting what she said sink in.
“They really are nothing alike.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know that now,” she said. “Chloe would’ve never stood up for herself the way Alice did last week. It was quite impressive, actually.”
“Glad you think so,” I scoffed.
“And not for nothing, but she’s got a rack I’d want to dive into the deep end of and never come up for air.”
I snorted-laughed. “Yeah, I bet.”
She sighed. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s not me you need to be apologizing to.”
She grimaced. “You can’t just talk to her?”
“What are you, twelve? You’ve handled way worse,” I said. “Besides, Alice is probably one of the most mature people I’ve ever known. She’s not going to rake you over the coals.”
“She wouldn’t if she knew the whole story,” Ingrid said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Have you had a chance to talk to her about what happened?”
I was avoiding and we both knew it.
“Right, that’s what I thought,” she said, shaking her head.
“I’ll get to it,” I said, staring off into nothing. “It’s just . . . I wanted to have something that wasn’t tainted, just for a little while longer. I mean, Jesus Christ, she’s got to be the only person in New York City who doesn’t know what happened. It’s been like a gift, you know?”
She gave a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, of course. All the more reason why she needs to learn it from you, sooner versus later.”
I blew out my exasperation.
“I’m debating on whether or not to include the work from that whole time, for my solo exhibit,” I said. “What do you think?”
She shrugged. “You’ve never shown any of them to me, so it’s kind of hard to give an opinion.”
I had about a half dozen paintings and a bunch of photographs from my time with Chloe. “I haven’t looked at any of it since then,” I said.
“If you can’t even look at them, probably not ready to show them.”
I felt the muscle in my jaw tick.
“So, you’ll apologize to Alice?”
“Yes, fine,” she said. “The next time I see her.”
I nodded, glancing at all the shit on her desk. I noticed a pile of invites for her group show, all addressed and stamped, ready to go. I fanned them out and spotted one with an Arkansas address.
She was sending one to her parents. That was a surprise. I sifted it
out of the pile and eyed her.
She looked embarrassed.
“Look, I already know it’s pathetic, my wanting them there. And I know they won’t have the first clue what a big deal it is for me to have work showing at Sean Kelly Gallery, even if it is a group show. So go ahead and yell at me or—
I didn’t even think. I stalked over and surrounded her in a big bear hug. “You don’t have to explain one thing to me or anyone else, you hear?”
And just like that, she broke down and cried, something I think I may have seen her do maybe twice in the ten years I’d known her. I held her tight, feeling her rail thin frame wrench with sobs.
“I hate them,” I said, my voice low and scary. “I’ve never even met them, but I absolutely despise them for what they’ve done to you.”
“I know they suck, but I still love them, even after everything.”
I kissed the top of her head, smoothing her hair down.
“Underneath all that hard shell there’s a gooey center, isn’t there?”
“Shut up,” she said into my chest.
“A big softie,” I went on.
“I am totally poisoning your lunch today.”
Then she hugged me back, hard.
My chin was propped on the top of her electric blue head.
“You are talented and fierce,” I whispered. “You’ve got an amazing work ethic, a big heart and you’re rabidly loyal in a world full of sell-outs.” I stopped and made sure she met my eye. “But if you’re waiting for Barbara and Jim Peterson to validate you, you’ll be lost for a long, long time. I’m not saying miracles can’t happen, but I wouldn’t keep a placeholder in my heart. You understand me?”
“I do,” she said, catching her breath.
“They don’t deserve you.”
She shook her head. “It’s not about what they deserve. It’s about what I believe. And I will always, until the day I die, believe in love and redemption.”
I stilled.
“Did you just sort of quote Wonder Woman to me?”
“Yeah, it was a really good movie, she said, wiping her tears and runny
nose on my tee.
“That’s okay. I didn’t like this one anyway.”
The Wonder of You Page 11
