If I Break

by Portia Moore

  “Cook me something,” he dares his eyes smiling.

  “You really want me to cook?” I ask in disbelief. He folds his arms with an amused grin on his face. In the entire time that I’ve known Cal, he’s never asked me to cook anything. I told him I was a terrible cook when we met, and so far, he’s taken my word for it; but I can plate a meal like nobody’s business.

  “Only if you promise you’ll eat whatever I cook,” I dare him, folding my arms.

  “Deal.”

  I assume the “thinking position,” with my chin in my hand, trying to come up with something that is at least edible. It’s morning; eggs are easy. I’ve seen them cooked before a thousand times.

  “Get ready for the best eggs of your life, Mr. Scott,” I brag as I start to unload the fridge, grabbing cheese and eggs.

  “Just promise me it won’t be my last meal,” he laughs. I shoot him a warning stare and prep my cooking area. He walks over to the counter and leans against it, the better to watch me I guess.

  “You want a cooking lesson?” I joke while washing my hands.

  “More like making sure you don’t burn Raven’s house down,” he says.

  I jokingly nudge his chest. “So, first you crack the eggs,” I begin to explain, demonstrating the process. The egg falls neatly into the bowl, but…oh crap.

  “I don’t think the shells are supposed to be in there,” he muffles his laugh with a hand over his mouth.

  “It adds to the texture,” I say sarcastically. He shakes his head and grabs a fork and attempts to get them out.

  “You’ll eat those shells and like it, remember?” I say referencing back to his earlier promise. He sighs. Not feeling so smart now, huh, buddy? I sprinkle the salt and pepper into the bowl, and then reach for the butter to add.

  He grabs my wrist. “Okay. I think the butter goes in the pan, and not the actual eggs,” he laughs.

  “Well, in my eggs they do,” I say, swatting him away. He suddenly puts his hands on both my shoulders and moves me out the way.

  “I think I’ll take it from here,” he snickers, and I pout.

  “But I thought you wanted me to cook,” I whine.

  “I thought I did too,” he mutters, and I playfully hit at him. Begrudgingly, I walk back to the table and watch him make his way around the kitchen. I have to admit he looks to be much more acquainted with it than I am.

  “Since when did you become master chef of the kitchen?” I question him as he whips the eggs like a pro.

  “You don’t have to be a five star chef to make eggs,” he winks.

  I’m really starting to regret not honing my cooking skills during all the times Cal has been gone. In what seems like no time at all, the eggs are cooked, and he sets before me a plate of the most mouthwatering eggs I’ve ever seen. He scoops a spoonful and lifts it to my mouth. Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s delicious.

  “Okay, you win. I’ll work on the cooking thing,” I say as we both dig in.

  After a few moments, I decide to take advantage of his good mood to tell him something. “So, I’ve been thinking of going back to school to get my Masters,” I tell him, in between bites.

  “Why would you want to do that?” he asks, unimpressed.

  “Well, I haven’t really done anything with my undergrad. It’s been something I’ve been thinking about.” He’s quiet. “Your thoughts, sir?”

  “You know how I feel about that sort of thing,” he says, finishing his food.

  “A Masters isn’t like a Bachelor’s, Cal. It holds more weight and prestige.”

  “It’s a crap piece of paper you have to drop thousands of dollars on and waste years of your life over, to work in a miserable job that you’re going to hate.” He gets up to take his plate to the sink.

  “It’s not only about that. It’s to prove to myself I can still do something on my own. I can achieve something outside of…” I trail off at his disapproving look.

  “Look, I think it’s good that you want to do something to challenge yourself. I think with me working like I have, something to occupy your time is good, but why a Master’s in English? Do you want to teach now? You despise the corporate world. What are you going do with it?”

  I push my plate away, annoyed. This really isn’t going like I wanted it to.

  “I think you should open a gallery,” he says, taking a seat back at the table.

  My eyes widen in surprise. “Really?” I say in disbelief.

  He smiles and folds his arm. “Yeah, why not? Your stuff is just as good as the shit Dex has on his walls,” he says.

  I bite my tongue, deciding to take the compliment for what it’s worth. Then I dare to give the idea a serious thought. “Well, it wouldn’t just be my work. I’d need to get more prestigious artists. It would be a lot of work, and the money…”

  “I guess you’d have to sacrifice some of those shoes, and I can do without a few Rolexes,” he quips, throwing my earlier words back at me.

  I jump up and go over to him settling myself in his lap. “You really think I can do it?” I ask looking him in the eye.

  “Well, I sure as hell didn’t marry you for your cooking skills,” he retorts playfully, and I laugh.

  It’s these moments when I know the reason I’m here, and why I fight so hard against the wall that’s he puts up.

  “There’s so much to do. I—oh my God, I’m so excited, Babe! I don’t even know what to do first,” I say excitedly.

  “I can think of one thing I want to do right now, in multiple ways.” His eyes are mischievous, and they’re locked onto mine, his hands creep under my shirt. I hop off his lap and start to back away from him, a smile playing on my lips.

  He stands up to follow me, walking slowly until I’ve stopped, trapped between him and the kitchen counter. He places his hands on both side of me.

  “No,” I say half-heartedly before he lifts me up onto the counter, squeezing himself between my thighs, and begins kissing my neck.

  “No, Cal, not here,” I plead before his lips take mine. It takes all my strength to pull away.

  “What if Raven wakes up?”

  He groans, and before I know it, his hands are on the bare skin of my bottom, and I’m being lifted off the counter and carried into the pantry. He closes the door behind him.

  “But—Raven!” I protest as he lifts the loose, silk shirt I have on up to my belly button, his fingers caressing it.

  “You’d better be quiet then,” he whispers in my ear before his tongue makes its way there. A moment later he’s inside of me, and I’m helpless; I hold on tightly to his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist and trying muffle my moans by burying my head into his shoulder. He pins me against the back wall, taking my arms from around his neck and capturing my wrists over my head. As my body opens up for him, he exploits it, pushing deeper into me. I bite my lip trying to prevent a moan from slipping from my mouth. His mouth sucks the skin above my collar bone and I give in unable to keep quiet any longer. I’m lost in the moment. My body is in heaven as he moves rhythmically inside of me, and I feel the climax building, but in the distance, I hear footsteps. That’s not good!

  “Cal...dooo...y-you h-h-hear that?” My sentence sounds incoherent, even to me.

  “Shut up,” he says, his grip on my wrists tighter than before. I wrap my legs around him tighter and start to move with him. This needs to happen faster.

  Oh God, please don’t let Raven be in the kitchen.

  “Oh fuck, Lauren,” he groans and releases my wrists, and I’m thankful I can bury my head back into his shoulder.

  “Right th—” and I’m cut off when the door opens, the light from the kitchen illuminating what I can only assume is the last—and most traumatic—thing Raven’s ever expected to see in her pantry.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry honey!” Raven’s voice screeches. I don’t see her face, but Cal’s looks as if he’s seen a ghost. The door quickly shuts and Cal sets me down. Seconds later he bursts into laughter. I punch him multiple tim
es.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have been in here!” I scold him angrily as he pulls his boxers up.

  “I’m sorry babe, but you shouldn’t have been wearing that around me!” he defends himself, gesturing at his shirt that I claimed as my own.

  “And, it’s morning,” he adds, trying to maintain a straight face. I don’t find this funny at all! How am I ever going to look at Raven again, I’m only thankful I couldn’t see her face when she caught us.

  “I’ll tell her it’s my fault!” he says swallowing a laugh.

  “Of course, it’s your fault! God no, you don’t talk to her. That’ll make this even more weird.” I fold my arms, upset at this entire situation.

  He pulls me into a forced hug. “Don’t worry, Babe. I’m sure Raven has had a little pantry action before,” he chuckles, and I push him away.

  “Ewww,” I shudder and hit him again.

  “What? Raven’s hot!”

  May 10th 2008

  “So, you’re telling me this painting doesn’t awaken the inner creativity of your soul?” I say sarcastically, nudging his arm. This will be the fifth painting that he hasn’t liked. He smiles at me and sighs a little.

  “Not really,” he says with a small smile.

  “Seriously? How can this not captivate you?” I ask, looking back at him. A whimsical expression is on his face. He walks beside me and puts his hand on his chin, mimicking deep thought.

  “It’s a train running through a wall; genius!” he says sarcastically. If that damn smile of his wasn’t so hypnotizing I’’m quite intrigued with it.

  “Okay, maybe modern isn’t exactly your thing,” I relent. I look around the museum. It has been awhile since I’ve been here and they’ve added so much for the opening. I get an idea and break out in a smile. Taking his hand, I pull him behind me walking quickly until I finally spot the painting I’m looking for. Triumph! I glance back at him to see his eyes aren’t on the back of my head but on a lower region. I’ll just pretend I didn’t notice that.

  I stop in front of it, and he looks at me expectantly.

  “Okay, what about this one?” I ask him curiously. I watch him as he steps closer and examines the painting.

  “A Sunday at La Grande Jatte,” he reads.--

  “So do you like this one?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says dryly.

  “Okay?” I laugh in disbelief. “Georges Seurat was mastering the form of pointillism before it was even thought of, really. These all just started out as dots and look….” I trail off, feeling his body heat behind me. I stop mid-sentence. I feel his warm breath against my neck as he brushes my hair aside with one hand. His other hand finds my waist and his fingers start to slowly slide down it reaching my hip.

  “Like I said before,” his fingers trail down my neck as his lips glaze my ear. “I think there are much more interesting things to look at,” he whispers.

  Lauren get a grip; just calm down. I can’t help how my body just reacted to that and he barely touched me, but it was in all the right places. STOP! I fold my arms across my chest, just to make sure he doesn’t see exactly how obviously my body reacted.

  “Don’t you think?” He retorts playfully, walking away backwards with a smile. God help me. We’ve only been here an hour and I’m having thoughts about him that really should be more like fourth or fifth date thoughts. I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure before joining him in front of a huge black-and-white photograph of the ocean.

  “This, I like,” he says, gazing into it. I look at it; I’ve never really been into photography, but I have to agree, this is beautiful.

  “I can see why,” I state becoming mesmerized by it.

  “It’s real. No embellishments or sensors. It’s just what it is,” he says quietly.

  “So, what type of drawings do you do?” He breaks the spell and turns his attention back to me.

  I smile. “What type of work do you do?”

  “A lot.” He smirks at me.

  “So do I,” I grin. If he doesn’t want to tell me anything, I won’t tell him anything either.

  “I’ll show you my favorite painting,” I smile at him and lead him to the last place I remembered it was. Luckily, it’s still there, so I don’t look like an idiot.

  “Degas is my absolute favorite painter; the way he captures light and color is just amazing.”

  “The Dance Lessons,” he reads off the information card below. “I saw this in Washington last year.”

  “I think they made a trade for another painting. Wait, you were in a museum?” I smirk at him.

  “Something like that,” he hints. He loves to talk in codes.

  “Hmmm, a hint... Do you work in a museum? You’re an art collector? Or you’re a notorious thief, and you’re scoping out your next grab,” I guess, joking with him.

  “You really want to know what I do?” he says with a sly grin. Suddenly, he gets serious, stepping closer and holding my gaze. I stop my eyes from drifting to his lips. He leans down slowly and whispers. “I work for the mob.”

  I sigh and gently push him away, seeing the wide smile on his face. “Fine, fine I’ll stop asking,” I assure him. “It is legal, right?” I ask unsurely.

  He casually shrugs with a slight smile. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says, even more cryptically. I roll my eyes at him. Suddenly, his jacket pocket begins to buzz and he pulls out his phone.

  “This will only be a minute,” he promises and I nod excusing him. I hear him say, “Hello?” as he walks a little ways down the hall.

  A voice at my side interrupts my enjoyment of the view that is walking away from me.

  “Hi, I’m Darrell Comings, a photographer from The Journal. Do you mind if I take a picture of you looking at this painting?” he asks already prepping his camera. I don’t even know where this guy came from.

  “Um… sure,” I say, but when I look back down the hall. Cal is nowhere to be seen. I could have sworn he was just there.

  The cameraman ushers me in front of a painting. “Just look up at the painting naturally,” he orders. I look up at the painting, seeing it for the first time.

  “Is that good?” I ask, feeling small butterflies in my stomach.

  “Perfect, stay still,” I hear the quiet click of the camera, followed by, “You’re done.”

  “Thank you,” he smiles, and he and his companion walk away.

  I look through the crowd, trying to spot Cal. Walking out to the main hall of the museum, I observe the crowd of people, all impeccably dressed, and servers carrying trays of expensive champagne, navigating between them all; the comforting quiet of the other section being replaced with a low hum of chattering, clicking heels, and soft piano music playing overhead.

  I make my way through the crowd trying to spot my handsome, six-foot something companion and I feel someone lightly grab my arm; I let out a sigh of relief until I see that’s its Jason.

  “Lauren, I thought it was you,” he says happily.

  “Hi,” I say trying to match his enthusiasm. God, I don’t want to get stuck talking to him all night. I continue to glance around, hoping to spot Cal somewhere.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, oblivious to my anxiousness.

  “I… I was invited,”

  “Really?” he asks stepping forward, a little too close for my liking. I step back, trying to reclaim my comfort zone that he’s invading, but he continues to move in on me.

  “I’m really sorry about dinner. My boss called,” he explains. Too busy to call and see if I made it home safely, hmm?

  “It’s fine; I understand.” God, why am I so nice all the time?

  “Yeah, well. I know this was the second time. I really just want to apologize; it won’t happen again,” he assures me. I know it won’t happen again because we’ll never be on a date again. We both stand around awkwardly, and I start to scan the crowd for Cal.

  “Would you like some champagne or something?” he asks.

/>   “No, I’m fine,” I smile weakly. “Your eye looks better,” I tell him. It’s still a bit swollen but the makeup over it is doing its best job to hide it.

  “Oh yeah. It feels a little better,” he says, running his hand across it. He smiles at me. “Y-You look beautiful,” he says as his eyes drift from my legs upward. I wrap my arms around myself out of irritation; I feel like he can see through my clothes, and it’s creepy.

  “Thank you. I like your suit,” I reply mechanically.

  “Thanks, I just bought it.” He says tracing the rim of it proudly. “Umm, are you doing anything after this?” he asks moving closer to me again..

  “Actually…” I say, starting to excuse myself from another date of boring torture, when I feel a strong arm wrap around my waist, and Cal is back at my side, looking down at me with an arched brow and a sexy smile.

  “I lost you for a minute,” he says.

  “It was more like I lost you,” I retort, thankful for his return. For a moment I forget Jason is even standing here. I glance over to see him looking annoyed, but more confused.

  “Jason, this is Cal; Cal, Jason,” I introduce them. I should feel awkward about this, but I’m more amused than anything.

  Jason sticks out his hand, and Cal takes it; for a moment a look of anger is across Jason’s face.

  “The infamous Cal,” he laughs tightly and runs his hand across the bruise over his eye. I then remember that Cal is the reason that he has the bruise. I glance at Cal, and see his expression still calm and a smug if I’m reading it right.

  “Lauren, I thought you would keep our midnight escapades a secret,” he says pulling me closer. I look over at Jason, who is turning red from either anger or embarrassment; I’m not sure which. I feel a little sorry for him, but I’m unwilling to pull away from my comfortable position in Cal’s arms.

  “Well, I better get going. I have a lot to write for the paper,” he bumbles, already starting to walk away.

  “It was nice seeing you,” I give him a slight wave. “Oh, Jason you may want to get that looked at,” Cal says, gesturing to the cut above his eye. Jason presses his lips together tightly and walks away in a huff. I let out a much needed sigh of relief.