Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  “Lucky me.”

  We stare at each other. I remember what it felt like to kiss him for the first time, and I stare at his full, beautiful mouth. My lips part and twitch a little.

  “I wanted to help an old friend. I couldn’t let you suffer or fail, could I?”

  My gaze plummets to the floor, and my entire body sears with a different heat. Flames of humiliation. Rafael is helping the Times and me out of pity. If there’s anything I loathe, it’s pity.

  I have for years, since practically the entirety of St. Augustine pitied me when my mom and brother were killed in a car crash when I was in high school. Pity made me feel exposed and like a zoo animal, as if people were spectators of my grief.

  And now, as much as I want to thwack Rafael on the head with the rolled-up newspaper and tell him I don’t need his money, I have to remain calm.

  He’s the paper’s last hope.

  “I have an idea,” Rafael says in a bright voice.

  “Tell me.” I can’t look him in the eye, I’m so ashamed. He’d be the last person in the world I’d reveal my vulnerability to if I had a choice.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, I stare at his polished, black wingtips and wonder how much they cost.

  “I have a list of some of the documents I’d like to forward to my analysts in Miami. Maybe Diana can begin gathering those this afternoon. And while she’s doing that, you can take me on a tour of the paper and we can catch up. We’ve got a lot to talk about, right, Justi? How does that sound?”

  The fact I’m in the powerless position of needing Rafael hits me like a kick to the gut. I’d walked away from him years ago. Now, we’re sitting in the same room and I’m begging him to bail out my newspaper.

  Begging for other things might easily follow, if I’m not careful.

  6

  The Hum of Sex

  “How bad are things at the paper, really?”

  We’re at an early dinner following an exhausting, tension-filled tour of the paper and printing press. At every turn, Rafael has gazed at me with simmering eyes.

  “Can you please stop smirking at me?” I say in response.

  “I think you’re misreading my facial expressions, my dear.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I shift in the hard, wooden seat. Rafa has asked me about five different versions of that question, and I’m beginning to suspect he simply wants to watch me squirm. He stares at me dispassionately.

  Exhaling out of frustration, I answer his original question. “We’re about a month, maybe two, from bankruptcy.”

  I silently curse myself for choosing the dimly lit Spanish tapas restaurant. I should have taken him to my favorite beach bar, the Salty Pelican. We could have listened to some bad classic rock cover tunes, and the atmosphere would have been bright and fake. But we’re in a sensual, open-air Mediterranean courtyard decorated with white orchids, a fountain and tall, flickering candelabras. Soft flamenco plays in the background, and the clap-clap-clap of the music matches the cadence of my heartbeat.

  My body feels strung tight from the hum of sex in the restaurant’s lush ambience, and from Rafa’s hungry gaze. Does his voice have to be so low and hot? Does he have to ask the difficult, depressing business questions as we’re about to order? Does his mouth have to look so tempting?

  Rafa plucks the napkin from the table and unfurls it with a flourish, draping it on his lap with precision. “And what have you done to try to save money?”

  I tick the items off with my fingers. “I’ve cut pay ten percent, mandated a week of furloughs, and eliminated the editorial page on Saturdays.”

  “That’s all?” His eyes are icy, but the corners of his mouth quirk upward into a smile. Can’t he show any empathy or concern for my situation? He appears delighted to watch me writhe.

  Despite what he said earlier, I’m wondering if he actually wants to see me fail.

  “You know I’m not a businesswoman. I didn’t take finance classes in school. I’m a journalist. I never wanted this job. My brother was supposed to be publisher. You know that’s what my father had planned for him before…before the car crash.” The words creak out because my throat is parched. I never talk about the car crash that killed my mother and brother and ripped my family apart. My dad and I never discussed it, and I never opened up much to Jared about it. Diana, of course, knew everything, had lived through it with me.

  Other than her, the only person I’d ever talked about my past with was Rafa.

  “When’s the waiter coming to take our order?” I grumble. I want this night to be over. It’s as if his power and my past are conspiring to drain my energy, leaving me defenseless.

  He responds in a harsh tone. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we planned.”

  I flash him a withering glare, and a bright no shit sign flashes in my brain.

  In the soft, sunlit corners of my memory, my life would have turned out differently. As a younger woman, I’d assumed I’d have an award-filled career as a reporter. I’d be Rafael’s wife. The mother to his children.

  I’d expected to have it all.

  Those plans, like the business of journalism, had taken an express train to nowheresville.

  Population: me.

  “I’m painfully aware of life’s curveballs, thank you. I inherited a dying business in a dying industry. What more can I do? I’ve tried to align expenses with revenues.”

  My hands form little quote marks as I mutter the last few words. Rafa’s face remains blank, and I talk even faster.

  “I can’t lay anyone off because we don’t have anyone to lay off. I haven’t hired anyone since becoming publisher. I considered asking reporters and editors to deliver the paper on weekends, but that would be kind of humiliating for everyone involved, don’t you think?”

  “Desperation is a powerful motivator.”

  I take a quick gulp of water, stopping myself from spitting out a hundred sarcastic comebacks hovering in my mind.

  “I know you’re only thinking about profits, Rafa, but the paper has won awards. Big, investigative rewards. Even though we’re small, we’re scrappy. We’ve uncovered local corruption, been competitive on big, breaking news, written sharp feature stories. I’m not a failure as a leader.”

  “I’m not saying you’ve failed. I know you’re an excellent journalist. But all of the awards and articles are meaningless if the paper isn’t making money. And the Times is making nada.”

  An artery in my neck throbs. Does he need to look so serious? Thankfully a waiter appears tableside.

  “We’ll have the chorizo al vino, the gambas, the patatas bravas, and the manchego y jamon Serrano,” Rafa says, snapping the menu shut. “Oh, and she’ll have the olives and the salted almonds.”

  Almonds are one of my favorite foods. How does he remember that insignificant detail? I open my mouth to order, and Rafa takes the menu out of my hands and passes it to the waiter.

  “And more bread, please. That’s all for now, thank you. But I’m certain we’ll have dessert. Flan, if you have it.”

  I narrow my eyes, and the waiter walks away.

  “You didn’t ask what tapas dishes I wanted.”

  He shrugs. “Why would I ask? I know what you want. I know what you like.”

  “Perhaps my tastes could’ve changed?”

  His chuckle is low, throaty. “I highly doubt it.”

  “Typical. Bossy. You haven’t changed.”

  “Oh, I’ve changed. I’ve come a long way from being a poor balsero.”

  I sigh. He’d been peppering his speech with Spanish all day, which was fine because I’m fluent. It’s actually charming how he’s never gotten rid of his Miami accent, with its unusual Spanish idioms and all the syllables, as long as the distance between our two worlds.

  But the way he spits out the word balsero—the term Miami’s Cuban-Americans use for those who came to Florida from the island on rafts—makes me wonder about his emotional state. He practically says the word as if i
t’s dirty. Despite all his wealth, it shocks me that he might still harbor insecurity about his past. This realization, on top of my own dismal life, makes my shoulders slump.

  This wasn’t how we were supposed to be.

  I sit, sullen, and stare at my empty water glass.

  His eyes soften. “You’re hungry, Justi. I can tell. You have that unfocused look in your eyes. Have you been drinking enough water?” Rafa slides his full glass next to my empty one. “Drink.”

  He could always read my thoughts and my body. I am starving and thirsty. Instead of lunch, I’d consumed several cups of coffee instead of my usual iced tea, and my limbs feel jittery.

  Rafa intertwines his fingers and rests his hands on the table. Of course, it is a Rolex on his wrist. He’d always wanted one. I wonder how much it cost, then feel gross even thinking the question.

  “Why did the other private equity groups turn you down?”

  “They thought we were too big of a risk. Too much debt. Not enough revenue.” I keep my voice even, although I want to cry when I say the words.

  “Why didn’t you call me directly and ask for my help? You knew I had enough money to help you. It would have taken one phone call and a few kind words.”

  “You think that I’d call you out of the blue after all these years and beg for money? I have some pride. Or did.”

  He shrugs. “Who else do you know who could afford to help you?”

  “No one, of course,” I mutter. I sip my wine and sneak glances at his face. I wonder where the young, gentle man I’d fallen in love with had gone. Over the years, his movements had hardened, become more precise.

  “What are you thinking about, Justi?” His eyes sweep over my face.

  I shrug. “Work. Some emails. How the news industry has gone to hell.” His intense stare leads to misplaced words—entire sentences, even—inside my mind.

  He snorts a little laugh. “Right. You were thinking about us.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He trails an index finger down the curve of his wine glass, and I imagine him tracing my nipple with his finger, skimming down the skin of my stomach and ending somewhere wet and deep inside me. Like he used to. I shift my gaze to a potted palm tree, because memories of the pleasure his fingers gave me so many times floods me.

  Relief comes when the waiter brings bread and the warm, salted almonds. I’m about to heave a sigh when I catch Rafael’s eye. Something about the intensity of his gaze inspires me to tease him. It’s too tempting to see if I still drive him crazy. I pluck an almond out of the bowl.

  I smile demurely and keep my eyes locked on his as I open my mouth and place the nut on my tongue with my thumb and forefinger. I chew slowly and swallow.

  He fiddles with the edge of his shirt collar. “Have you thought about selling the Times building? You seem to have a lot of unused space.”

  “I’d rather not. I’m sentimental. It’s where I grew up, it’s my spiritual home.” I pretend to study the almonds, as if I need to select one that is perfectly shaped.

  “Too bad. It would make a beautiful condo building.”

  I simultaneously wrinkle my nose, narrow my eyes, and curl my lip in disgust. “Figures you would say that.”

  His hand reaches toward the almonds, and I lean back in my chair. Our table is entirely too small. And because I’m against a wall, I can’t get away from his oversized, sensual presence.

  Instead of eating the almond, he leans forward and offers it to me. We used to feed each other. Before. When we were together.

  “Open,” he says.

  I shake my head and shut my eyes. “Open, por favor,” he repeats, this time in softer voice.

  My mouth, as if it obeys his command and not my own common sense, opens as well. He sets the nut on my tongue, his thumb lingering on my bottom lip and folding it down toward my chin. A soft touch. I can’t control the flash of liquid heat between my legs and lower my gaze to the table.

  “You’re still gorgeous. I like your longer hair and the dark brown color. It goes well with your blue eyes.” Rafa removes his hand from my mouth. He sounds pissed about this. He leans back in his seat, cocking his head and staring at me. I immediately want more of his touch and hate myself for it.

  “Don’t flatter me. Save your breath.”

  Rafa’s phone buzzes, and he flips it over so the screen isn’t visible. Surely it’s one of his many women. Or a celebrity friend. I’ve followed both his meteoric career and exploits in Miami’s social scene in the tabloids. He’s turned into the kind of guy who is photographed at clubs with basketball players and rappers and models. Which surprises me, since Rafa was a loner back in school.

  “I have no desire to flatter you. A desire for other things, yes, but flattery isn’t why I’m here.”

  7

  A Kiss in the Rain

  I arch an eyebrow. Is he flirting with me? Why would he want me when he has a city of beautiful women at his disposal? Why would he want me when he didn’t before?

  “I’m sure you have plenty to desire in Miami.”

  Rafa grimaces and runs a hand through his hair twice. His knee jiggles nonstop, making the tablecloth near my leg move ever so slightly. He’s nervous. Has been all day. I smile softly, thinking of how he lost his footing when he touched my arm while walking into the paper.

  “What’s so funny?” he snaps.

  “You,” I toss back.

  Is his hair still soft? It’s much shorter now, close cropped. There are a few gray hairs near his temples. He’s thirty-five, a year older than me. Although the gray surprises me, probably because it means so much time has passed. And yet it makes him somehow hotter. More masculine.

  “I’m surprised you’ve taken me to such a romantic restaurant. Maybe you’re trying to flatter me. Or seduce me.” Rafa pours more wine into my glass.

  “Don’t get your hopes up for seduction. I chose it because I know you love Spanish food, because of your grandparents and all.”

  He opens his eyes in mock-surprise. “So thoughtful of my needs, Justine. Such a change from our final few weeks together all those years ago.”

  I open my mouth, ready to come back with a barb, something about how if he hadn’t rejected me years ago, none of this would be happening now. But I remain silent. I ignore his remark and lightly touch the glass with my fingers so he’ll stop pouring. The last thing I need is to be tipsy and in close proximity to Rafa. One glance, one touch, will send me crumbling into his arms. And his bed.

  “I’m surprised you don’t have paparazzi following you around.” I immediately regret saying this. Now he’ll know I’ve read about him in the tabloids. Two months ago, while at the checkout at the grocery store, I’d flipped through a magazine and come upon a photo of Rafa with a Spanish TV star at a charity fundraiser. My stomach had churned at his image, and I’d abandoned my grocery cart and fled to the privacy of my car. I’d sat and bawled for what I’d lost. And at the thought I might never see him again.

  And now, here he is, sitting across from me.

  “So you’ve been keeping up with my life in the society pages?”

  Extending my legs, I bump into his foot. Rafa presses his ankles next to mine, hard, sending shocks of electricity through my body. I slip a foot out of my shoe and trail my big toe down his calf, over the expensive, soft fabric of his trousers.

  “Pfft. No. I happened to see you in some magazine somewhere.”

  It’s as if my body wants to seduce him, and my brain wants to battle. I have to remind myself that he was the one who hurt me first. Not the other way around.

  He laughs. “Ocean Life Magazine, perhaps? Or People in Español? I’m surprised, Justi. You always liked more serious reportage.”

  His eyebrows arch suggestively, which both turns me on and annoys me more. It’s as if he’s short-circuited my brain and body, leaving me in an emotional chaos.

  “I did see the Ocean Life article, the one where you posed for a photo in the gazillion-dollar pent
house,” I blurt. I have no self-control tonight, and I’m having a hard time getting a handle on my feelings. Part of me wants him. Part of me wants him to leave.

  Another part of me wants to keep watching him stroke the sides of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger as he gazes into my eyes.

  “Oh? The one where I wore the Tom Ford suit? And yes, that is my home. I’ve come a long way from that shitty apartment we shared together.”

  I swallow and try not to think about that dismal apartment with the window air-conditioner, the one where we’d spent night after night on our futon bed, consuming each other until we were sweaty pools of flesh. I wonder if he ever thinks about that futon or how we’d reach for each other in the middle of the night, desperate and yet somehow innocent.

  It’s a cliché to look back on your youth and think of it as the best days of your life, but in my case, it’s true. I was happiest in that one-bedroom apartment with Rafa, with our Ikea kitchen starter box and the iron floor lamp we’d dragged in from the curb on trash day, the one I’d painted white during my short-lived, shabby-chic décor phase.

  “Yeah. That article. And details about your philanthropic work. You and that actress looked great together. Maybe you should bring her to St. Augustine? I’m sure she’ll be charmed by the romance here.”

  He guffaws and swirls his wine. “I’m not dating her. She has a boyfriend, and we attended the event as friends. I started a charity because of my childhood. And in case you didn’t read the latest tabloid story, I’m single. Have always been single, since you left.”

  The waiter appears with the bread and a plate of olive oil, momentarily diffusing the emotional strain hanging in the air. Rafa grabs a slice and rips it apart with his hands. He sets half on my plate.

  “Eat,” he commands.

  I shift in my seat and tear off a small hunk of bread. I dip it into the olive oil. As I raise it to my mouth, a drop of golden liquid lands on the tip of my middle finger. I put the morsel of bread on my plate and watch him stare as I massage the oil into my bottom lip.