by Q. T. Ruby
I arch up to kiss him again. Quickly, we’ve got our hands wrapped around necks and waists again, kissing just as passionately as we were while lying down.
He breaks off the kiss. “You’re giving me very mixed signals here.” He’s a little breathless.
“I’m sorry. I guess I just want to make sure you want to come back.”
Dan shakes his head. “That’s not even a question. Believe it or not, I am actually an honest person.”
Even though I have my doubts, I nod and open my bedroom door. I peer out. “Bridget and Camille must be asleep.” We tiptoe to the apartment door, holding hands.
He kisses me again. “I’m very much enjoying spending time with you, Claire. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
With that, I watch Mr. Beautiful walk down the hallway until he’s out of sight.
* * *
I lay in bed wondering if I made a mistake by stopping things. My body’s pissed off, that’s for sure, but my mind, well, it’s relieved. It’s wrong, but I giggle anyway, pretty sure his poor hand is about to get a workout.
I think back to our dinner, our flirtatious round of pool, the revelations of my past, and of course the hands . . . lots and lots of hands. As much as I hate to admit it, I like him—too much, in fact. I can’t help but worry that I’ll be let down, that he’ll turn out to be a liar, or I’ll get my healing heart handed back to me bleeding once again.
With so many invading thoughts, it takes me a long time to drift off to sleep, but when I finally do, dreams of disheveled hair, magic hands, and soft lips soothe my worried heart.
Chapter Seven
I wake up the next morning smiling and stretching and smiling and twisting around and smiling and giggling and smiling.
It’s appalling.
Dan’s too good to be true, and I know it. So why am I smiling?
After smothering my giggles with the pillow, I get ready for the gym as I do every Saturday morning. I stop in the kitchen to grab a snack before heading out and find Camille hovering like Death over the coffeemaker.
“Hey, Camille!” I say, hip-checking her.
“Ugh. Hey. You’re awfully peppy this morning,” Camille says with a raspy voice as she regains her balance.
Tone it down, Claire. “You’re just too cute when you’re hungover.” I laugh. “How was your night?”
“It was good.” She blinks slowly, still trying to wake up. “We went to that new dance club. It was so much fun. We’re going again and you’re coming—no excuses,” she says, pointing her finger at me. “How was dinner?”
“It was very nice,” I say, grabbing a granola bar.
“So—spill. How many guys did you meet? Bridget and I made bets.”
“You sound like my mother, and none.” I grin and roll my eyes.
She pauses, scrutinizing me. “How can that be? No one came up to you? You were completely naked in the back.”
“No, seriously, are you in cahoots with Rita?” I ask, smiling wider, trying to wiggle myself out of this conversation without being caught.
“Not one, huh?” Camille repeats, awfully confused.
“No, Camille, none. It was just dinner. Maybe if I’d been dancing . . .” I tease, shimmying my shoulders at her. “How about you? Meet anyone?”
Camille glances at the coffee’s progress. “Meh. I talked to a few guys . . . Oh! But the best part was watching Bridget. I swear she danced with the whole bar. She kept turning around and there’d be a new guy she’d move a little with.” Camille laughs, modeling Bridget’s slinky moves.
As if summoned, Bridget shuffles in.
“What did I do last night? My back is killing me.” Bridget grips her lower back, wincing. Camille and I look at each another and crack up.
“What’s so funny?” Bridget asks.
Camille and I quickly surround Bridget, demonstrating the bump-and-grind routine that likely caused her aches.
“Very funny, girls,” Bridget says, hung over and not amused, moving out from in-between us. “How was your night, Claire?”
“It was nice. No bumping and grinding for me, though.” I’m such a liar.
“You need to get laid, Claire. You know what they say—use it or lose it,” Bridget says as she grabs a bowl and spoon.
“Classy, Bridge,” Camille says, smirking.
I nod playfully. “Hmm, I’ll give that some thought. All right, I’m off to the gym.”
* * *
That afternoon Camille, Bridget, and I lounge, watching TV.
“You’re coming out with us tonight, right, Claire?” Camille asks with an eyebrow that dares me to give it a hard time.
“Where are you going?” I already know my answer, but want to toy with them a bit.
“I think we’re going dancing again somewhere. Right, Bridget?”
Bridget nods excitedly with a mouthful of Cheetos.
“Hmm . . . maybe,” I say as I hear my cell phone ringing in my bedroom. “Be right back.” I jump up to answer it.
“You’d better say yes!” Camille yells after me.
“Hello?” I ask on what must be the last ring.
“Hi, Claire. How are you?”
My heart recognizes the English and tries to escape by way of my throat to get closer to the hotness.
“I’m good. How are you?” With liquid legs, I manage to close my bedroom door before melting into a pile of grinning goo on my bed.
“I’m fine. Did you have a nice day?”
“I did, thanks. How did your meetings go? Are you still a star?” I tease.
He chuckles. “My meetings went well, thanks. What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m going out with my friends actually.” And I’m looking forward to it, which hasn’t been the case in years.
“Really? Venturing out, Miss Daisy?”
“Ha-ha. Yes.” And now I’m beaming.
“Where are you going?”
“Dancing.”
“You like to dance?” he sounds surprised.
“I do, but I haven’t been in a long time.”
“I bet you’re a good dancer,” he says so seductively that the momentary thought of phone sex pops into mind. I mentally slap myself.
My mind, still writhing in pleasure from the Mr. Beautiful-induced euphoria, flashes back to his hands reading my body like Braille. I silently inhale-exhale to calm myself. “Well, let’s just hope I don’t hurt myself after they force me into ankle-snapping heels.”
He laughs. “What? Force you into heels?”
Oh my God! Shut up, Claire! “They just like to torture me, that’s all,” I say, attempting to smooth over the fact that I have Fairy Slutmothers who’ve been unwittingly pimping him my body.
“Is that why you don’t want them to know we’ve been out?” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, cringing with embarrassment.
I hear garbled voices through the phone.
“Sorry,” Dan says, “they’re boarding us now. I, um, wanted to know if you’re available next Saturday night? I checked my schedule, and I have Saturday and Sunday off and thought I could fly back.”
My heart stops. Dead. He called just like he said he would. He wants to fly out just like he suggested. My head whirls with an onslaught of thoughts and excitement. I may just faint. Thank God I’m already sitting.
“Um . . . I mean, I don’t have to if you—”
“No, no, I’m just . . . Yes, I’d love that—as long as you don’t mind flying back here for only two days.” He really must be running out of women on the West Coast.
“I don’t mind at all. I fly a lot,” Dan replies simply. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Me, too.” I sound like such a girl. Of c
ourse, I begin calculating how much time it is between now and then. I hear the voices through the phone again.
“I’m sorry, I have to go, but can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When guys come up to you tonight, tell them to leave you alone, all right?” he asks with a quiet chuckle.
What? “Maybe,” I tease, my heart soaring. “Only if you tell the packs of women who hurl themselves at you to leave you alone.”
“Not a problem,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ll see you next weekend, but I’ll phone you later in the week to work out the details.”
“Yeah, okay. That sounds great. I’ll talk to you then. Have a safe flight, Dan.”
“Thanks. Bye, Claire.”
I float off my bed and wander around my room, shaking the nervous energy from hands.
He’s flying across the country to see me—ME! Does he do this often? I shake my head. What was with his request?
I can’t spend too much time in my room without drawing suspicion from Camille and Bridget, so I take a quick minute to wipe the Texas-sized smile off my face. I casually make my way back into the living room as if Mr. Beautiful didn’t just call me and plant myself in front of Camille’s line of vision to the TV. She looks to the right of my legs. I shift right. She switches to the left, and so do I.
“What are you doing? Get out of my way!” she says, smacking my thigh and laughing.
“I’m trying to tell you I want to go dancing with you guys tonight.”
Camille gapes at me while from behind, I’m knocked over by the force of Bridget jumping on my back and hugging me. I fall forward onto Camille, who is laughing but also signaling that we’re crushing her. With Bridget still hooked on my back like a monkey, I flip over next to Camille and sit on Bridget’s lap.
“You know what this means, right?” Bridget squeezes me hard.
“What?” I gasp for air.
“Time for some bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!”
Camille and Bridget frighten me with their laughter. “Simmer down, Fairy Slutmothers. I’ll be your Cinderella, but on one condition.”
“What?” Bridget asks like it’s a challenge.
“I want to be comfortable.”
They burst out again in evil cackles.
“Hey, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, all right, Claire. How about I get out the Bedazzler and we dress up those sweatpants,” Bridget says, cracking Camille up again.
“Leave my sweatpants out of this!”
* * *
A few hours later, I’ve been forced into a tight pair of pants and a tube top. A tube top! “I am not wearing a tube top. No way!” I say, looking at my God-awful outfit in the mirror.
“Why not? It’s comfortable,” Bridget says with an obnoxious smile.
I glare at her. “I am not wearing a tube top that will no doubt find its way to my waist in the middle of the club.”
“Good,” Bridget says, like this was her plan all along. “This is what you’re wearing. This or the tube top.” She shoves what I think must be a scarf into my hands.
“What is this?”
“It’s a dress, Claire,” Bridget says as if I should have known.
“A dress?”
She rolls her eyes. “Just try it on.”
“Fine.” I try it on and check it out in the mirror. The tight jersey halter dress is comfortable and the plunge showcases my twins. The hem comes to just above my knee. “Okay, this isn’t as bad as I thought. I didn’t realize it stretched so much.”
Bridget huffs from behind me. “Who are you? Miss Daisy?” she asks, and I burn red. Very red. Do they know? I can barely breathe, waiting for the questions to start.
“It’s not supposed to stretch that far down,” Bridget says, scooting the dress up to slightly higher than mid-thigh.
They’re not saying anything. “Oh, okay,” I say, not wanting to raise suspicions . . . and none are raised.
We head out to the dance club, and it’s the first time in a very long time that I’m content. Normally, the girls yell at me after I check my watch for the tenth time in an hour. There were so many nights I thought my watch had broken.
We get drinks and head over to a table. Everything looks a bit different, yet oddly the same as I remember—groups of women in glorified underwear and every guy flexing his muscles, deciding on his prey.
We sit for a while, drinking and chatting amongst ourselves, when I notice Bridget’s leg begin to bounce.
“You ready to shake it, ladies?” Bridget’s raring to go. She hops up, and Camille and I follow her to the dance floor.
Boy, am I rusty. Whereas Camille and Bridget find their grooves quickly enough, it takes me a while to get my hips into a rhythm. Once I relax and feel the beat, however, the three of us are swaying and throwing our arms-in-the-air-like-we-just-don’t-care. Hip-checking one another and pretending to grind up on each other, we laugh and laugh. My cheeks hurt from all the fun. It’s like old times.
Naturally, three girls dancing together is like ringing a dinner bell. Come and get it, boys! Bridget, being the flirty thing she is, basks in the attention of the hungry men while Camille remains a little more reserved, as usual, and I have only one secret guy on my mind.
A couple of men approach me throughout the night. I’m polite but decline all offers, something I’d do regardless of Dan’s “request,” which still boggles my mind.
* * *
The following night we’re sitting around watching TV, snacking, and doing paperwork together in our living room. Casually chatting about the workweek ahead, I hear the announcer on “Tinsel Town Tonight” mention the story “What Your Favorite Stars Did This Weekend,” along with the name Daniel Chase.
Oh no.
Without breaking conversation, I glance as inconspicuously as possible from my papers to the TV, then to Bridget, Camille, and back at the papers.
On my second lap, I notice Bridget watching the show. Oh crap! That’s when the footage rolls. Dan leaves a bar in New York alone. No, wait! There’s a girl there, too, but she’s blurry; only the back of her head is seen as she hunches over in the front seat of a car. I barely recognize myself—will Bridget?
I glance at Bridget, who’s looking at me. My face flames.
“That girl is so fucking lucky. He’s so hot. God! And he’s even hotter in person! How is that possible?”
“No idea,” I say as casually as I can manage. I pretend to study my papers, hoping to hide the incriminating evidence of my freaked-out face.
I’m certain Bridget doesn’t know because if she did, she’d sit on me until I gave her the whole kit and caboodle. I contemplate telling her and Camille, but the thought of rapid-fire, prying questions makes me more nervous about the whole situation.
Luckily, work rescues me once again, keeping me so busy I barely have time to think about Dan calling or not calling. Except at night. At night my mind dwells on his spectacular face and the way his sensuous mouth traveled along my lips and chin and neck. Then I start torturing myself. Will he even call? Will he even remember? He’s probably so wrapped up in his movie that he’ll forget all about the things he told me. I can’t blame him; he lives an exciting life—a life most people dream of.
By the time Thursday night comes and I’ve yet to speak to him, I know I’m right. Why is he going to remember some random female all the way across the country?
I lie in bed reading, distracting my mind before clicking off my lamp for the night, when my cell rings and startles the crap out of me. I fumble for the phone on the nightstand.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Claire,” Dan says brightly.
My body immediately reacts—heart twitters, face flushes, stomach flips.
“Hi?” It comes out like a
question because I’m so startled.
“It’s Dan,” he says, sounding confused.
“Of course it’s you. Hi. Sorry.”
“Not sure which guy it is?”
“Yeah, it’s hard to keep them all straight,” I joke. “How’s the movie making going?”
“Quite well, thanks. They’re setting up the next scene now, so I thought it’d be a good time to call. I figured you’d be home at this hour.”
“You figured right.”
“Did you have a good time dancing with your friends?”
“Yeah, I did. I forgot how much fun dancing is.”
“Did you behave yourself?” he teases.
I chuckle. “You’re funny.” As if it’s even a question. Behave is the story of my life.
He clears his throat. “So, um, are we still on for this weekend?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Would you like to have dinner again?”
Why does he sound nervous? “I’d love to. Where would you like to go?”
“I’ll take care of it. Would eight o’clock be all right to come by?”
“Yeah, eight is perfect.”
“May I come to your door this time, or shall I be rude again and ring you when I’m out front?” He chuckles.
I laugh. “Actually, you can come up. I think my roommates will be out.” I’m not giving away the full story that Camille and Bridget will be away in Boston for the weekend.
“All right then, I’ll see you Saturday at eight. Looking forward to it.”
“I am, too. See you then. I’m happy you called, Dan.”
“Yeah. It’s my pleasure, Claire.”
Holy crap! In less than forty-eight hours he’ll be here again . . .
I flop back onto my pillows, elated yet scared silly. I’m not just playing with fire—I’m diving into the middle of the inferno and hoping not to get burned.
