by J. Saman
My eyes may, in fact, have just bugged out of my head.
“I know,” she laughs, clearly reading my expression, “and it’s not even like they were good. The videos were terrible. Cheesy as shit. I wasn’t impressed.” She shakes her head, scrunching her nose up, like the quality of the film is the only thing she objects to.
“So, you found out he was a cheating, shitty filmmaker. Then what happened?”
“Well,” she leans forward, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I was a round-eyed, baby-faced eighteen-year-old, so naturally, I was heartbroken. I ended it with him, and about a year or so later, I met Mike and started dating him.”
“What does all of this have to do with Ryan?”
“So, I was with Mike, and then my senior year, Alexander started posting his crap porn online. Turns out I was in one of them.”
“Holy fuck,” I hiss. “Did you know about it?”
She shakes her head. “Nope,” she pops the p sound. “And I didn’t want Mike to know about it because things were really good with us at that point, before the shit hit the fan for me, and I had to end it.”
Huh?
“I was working for Ryan, who took it upon himself to hack Alexander’s computer and delete all the videos of me—there was more than one—as well as wipe his entire system and any history of them on the internet.” She shrugs. “That may or may not have included deleting his senior thesis as well.”
“Damn. My brother did that?”
“He did.” She smiles widely. “That’s when I knew I loved that bastard. Ryan, not Alexander. I really didn’t like Alexander much after I found out he was sticking his dick into every hole Philadelphia had to offer him.”
“Makes sense. And you had to break up with this Mike guy?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs casually, but her eyes look down at the table in front of us as she absentmindedly plays with the white cloth. “That’s really all there is to it.”
“Okay.”
I really can’t think of anything else to say to that, because Claire is hiding something. I know it the same way I know when a client is lying to me. The way I know a witness is holding something back. I just know. I also know she’ll never tell me no matter how hard I work for it.
But I’m not in a place to judge her either.
I’m not exactly swimming in relationship commitment town or honesty. I mean, I haven’t told her about all my leukemia stuff, and the only woman I ever loved was my high school girlfriend. I wouldn’t even say I’ve had a serious relationship since. For a while, I was afraid of getting attached again. And by the time I was over that, I was too busy with school and then work to properly give a woman the attention and time she required.
So, I’ve sort of been a cross between a serial monogamist and hopeless dater ever since.
To be honest, it’s really suited me and my lifestyle well.
Our food comes, and as we eat, we morph back into friendly ground. Our intense moment of conversation forgotten. It’s easy with Claire. She doesn’t expect a lot from me.
And maybe that sounds wrong of me to say, but it’s true.
We get each other, and just the simple act of being around her is enough. It’s addictive, and it makes me happy. That is until she says, “Tell me something, Kyle.”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin before setting it down next to my plate and leaning forward to look at her better against the paltry lighting. “Tell you what, doll?”
She shrugs, her finger playing with the rim of her wine glass. “Something about work. Something new and exciting in your world. Something I don’t know about you.”
Why does it feel like she’s baiting me? Her tone and posture are casual, but her question feels loaded. Like she’s after a particular answer. Something specific, but doesn’t want to come right out and ask me. Sort of the way she was earlier this evening at the bar.
What the hell do I want to say?
Or more importantly, what the hell do I want to tell her? I’ve never been particularly witty, and I absolutely hate talking about myself, much the way she does. I have no idea what she knows and what she doesn’t. I don’t know the depths of what Ryan or Kate tell her. Our frequent phone and text conversations are pretty superficial. We don’t do deep dives into our inner thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
But she might already know everything about me after working with Ryan so closely for so long.
She may know that I was a sick kid, though I don’t recall ever mentioning it. She may also know that I had another scare recently. That, I certainly did not tell her, because I don’t exactly want her to know. Everything came out negative, which was a huge relief. But Dr. Winters told me very specifically that I needed to reduce stress in my life. Clearly, that hasn’t happened yet.
People look at you and speak to you differently when they think you’re sick or something is wrong with you. The idea of Claire doing that with me was more than I could handle. So, I kept my mouth shut. Because like I said, we do superficial. She could just be after a general story, like the time I threw up on the rollercoaster at Six Flags and it splashed back, hitting everyone sitting behind me.
Or she may know absolutely nothing about me.
So, I go with something neutral. Something safe. Something not so intimate, but still personal all the same. Mostly because it’s been eating at me. And even though I refused to tell her about this before, while it was going on, I feel the need to talk about it now.
“Do you watch the news at all?” I ask, taking her hand and moving her across the L-shaped booth until she’s tucked into my side, my chin resting on top of her head.
She lets out an indignant snort. “Of course, I do.”
“I was just asking, princess. No need to get your panties in a twist.” She jabs her elbow into my flank, eliciting a chuckle from me. “So, I just defended this guy. I told you about it a little. This total piece of shit, murdering, blackmailing asshole. And I got him off,” I reluctantly admit, waiting for her to pounce all over me the way most people do when you represent the most deplorable, inhuman people. But she already knows I won that case, so I don’t know why telling her that makes me uncomfortable.
“How does that make you feel? Knowing that you did your job the way you’re supposed to, but at the same time, feeling like you did the world a disservice?”
“I don’t know, honestly,” I breathe out, thinking on that question as I hold her in my arms. A disservice. It’s an interesting way to phrase it. “My job never bothered me before. My clients never bothered me before. I always hid snugly behind the rationale that everyone in this country is entitled to a defense, and that if it wasn’t me representing them, it would be someone else.”
“But not anymore?”
“I don’t know, cupcake. I honestly don’t know.”
“I think life is all about balance. It’s about finding a way to look at yourself in the mirror every day and not cringe at the sight. I went to an Ivy League college and graduated summa cum laude.”
I can’t help breathing in her comforting scent. Jasmine, I think. Then I kiss her silky hair.
“I double-majored in mechanical engineering and business,” she continues. “And I work as Ryan Grant’s executive assistant. Sure, I’m really a jack-of-all-trades there and I’ve been with them since the inception, so I know that business inside and out. It’s why I’m here in New York. It’s why Ryan trusted me to be here,” she sighs and pauses for a brief moment like she wants to add to that, but doesn’t.
I hug her tighter against my chest. I can’t seem to stop myself. What is it about this woman that pulls at me on the deepest levels? “Go on,” I urge, needing her to finish her thought that seems to have stalled.
“But the reality is, my job to an outsider would not be considered glamorous or befitting a woman of my education.” She angles her head up to meet my eyes head on, blue sapphires with hints of cerulean and deep indigo. “But I don’t give a shit, because I love what I do and who I work fo
r, and I’m young. I’m only twenty-four going on twenty-five. My life is my own. I stopped living for other people a long time ago. So, fuck all the naysayers. Fuck all those judgmental assholes who don’t know me, or my situation. The only person that matters at the end of the day is me, and I’m happy with what I’ve got. Can you say the same for yourself?”
“Damn, Claire,” I laugh humorlessly, shaking my head ever so slightly. “You make it all sound so simple.”
“It is simple, Kyle.” She smiles up at me, cupping my cheek with her small warm hand. “People make way too big of a deal out of life. Out of their jobs and their overall happiness, when in reality, what’s lacking is the confidence to be happy or change their situation. Our lives might not be gifted to us in perfect packages. Sometimes we have to do what we can with the lot we’re given and not lament the rest. And if you can’t do that, then you need to make a change.”
She spins around on the bench seat until her back presses against the table, her knees bent on the cushion of the seat. Her bare thighs press against mine as her skirt slides up just enough, and her chest and face are mere inches away from mine. My breath hitches at the intimacy of our position, and she gives me the smallest of perceptual grins, enjoying catching me off guard like this.
“People constantly judge the shit out of me. I have bright red hair, and I dress in equally bright colors. I wear shirts with ridiculous expressions on them, and I tend to say whatever is on my mind. My mouth has no filter. But I’m okay with all of that. I don’t need validation from the outside world to be content and accept who I am. But most people do. And I’m not judging that. I get it to some extent. It’s a tough nut of a world out there, and it can be lonely and cruel. So, I guess what I’m asking is, where do you fit into that?”
I drop my head back against the wall of the restaurant because if I don’t, I’ll kiss her. My eyes flicker across the high ceiling and the round, red paper lanterns overhead without seeing any of it. I’m doing this to think. But mostly, I’m doing it to create some separation from the woman near my lap that I’m starting to want on a different level than what we normally have going on.
And this sort of pisses me off. It kind of makes me angry with her. With myself too.
But anyway . . .
“I don’t know,” I admit before I drop my chin and meet her steady gaze. “I just don’t know.”
She smiles at me, and I feel that warmth spreading like a drug through my veins. “I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us!” She winks at me. “Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”
I laugh. In the midst of my heavy emotional revelation about my life and my job, Claire busts out with Emily Fucking Dickinson. I think I might be in love. I hug her, and we end it at that. She’s tired, and we both have busy days tomorrow. I pay the bill, and we leave the restaurant shortly after.
This night turned on me. Everything that came out of my mouth tonight felt wrong. It took me down the rabbit hole of overly emotional bullshit. I can’t even explain why. Maybe I just needed someone to see a bit deeper into me. Claire certainly did that. And then she made me laugh when I needed it most.
We approach the glass doors of her hotel and the valet politely opens them for us. I could leave her here. There would be nothing wrong with that. In fact, it would be the smart thing to do after I nearly kissed my friend tonight. Twice.
But I don’t seem to be doing anything smart tonight, so why start now?
“I’ll walk you up,” I tell her when she pauses just outside the door, no doubt waiting for me to say goodnight and goodbye.
“Oh,” Claire says, clearly taken off guard at my offer. “Okay.”
We’re silent as we walk through the busy lobby, and when we step into the elevator, we’re alone. Claire swipes her card along the pad and then hits the button for the eighteenth floor and off we go.
“What time is your meeting tomorrow?” I ask softly, tingling with the intimacy that only an elevator can provide.
“Two,” she says back equally as quiet, as she bounces on her toes a little. She’s feeling this. This damn stupid tension I’ve created.
“Are you around tomorrow night?”
She nods her head. That’s it. Her eyes are locked on the numbers as they illuminate with each floor we pass, and she’s still fucking bouncing.
“Well, if you want, I’ll be around, but it won’t be until late. Maybe eight or nine at the earliest.”
The elevator chimes indicating that we’ve reached her floor and the doors open, and I feel like I can finally take a deep breath as I step off into the hallway.
“Maybe,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize just what the hell she’s answering to. My mind is locked on too many other things. Like her.
“Let’s see what shape I’m in. I have an early flight out Tuesday.”
“Right. Makes sense.” Shit. I sound like a total idiot.
“This is me.” Claire stops in front of a door, unlocks it with the key that never left her hand, but instead of opening it all the way, she hovers in the entryway. “I had fun tonight. If we don’t catch up again tomorrow, I’ll call you when I get back to Seattle.”
“Sounds good, cupcake. I had fun too.” I smile.
She smiles back, and now we’re stuck in that moment again in between normal interactions and awkward as ass.
“Well… goodnight.” I tug her into my arms and hug her small body against mine. She feels good there. Wrapped up in my arms. Like this is where she’s actually meant to be.
I pull back, and just as our faces pass, I get a flash of wanting to kiss her again. And I think she feels it too. She’s looking at my mouth, and her eyes are darker, and she licks those bow-shaped, red-tinted lips of hers. Heat mixed with a sudden onslaught of insatiable lust slams into me. My cock thickens instantly, and my hands squeeze her arms just a bit tighter.
I should stop this.
I should pull away now.
But that’s the last thing in the world I want to do.
Then she blinks and shakes her head subtly.
“Goodnight, Kyle,” she whispers, her voice full of regret. And longing. It’s there too. Or maybe that’s just me because Claire steps back into her room and shuts the door.
“Best friend,” I mutter to myself. “Nothing more.” Only, I’m having a hell of a time convincing myself.
7
Claire
* * *
“Mr. Masters will see you now,” the blonde with the obnoxiously perfect bun says with a smile.
I stand, straightening the skirt of my business suit that Ryan made me promise to wear. It’s uncomfortable as sin, but Ryan insisted it was necessary.
“It’s New York, not Seattle, Claire,” he said.
Fine. Whatever. I’ll dress like a grownup if it means that much to him.
But this suit is like five years old, and perhaps its purpose is to make me look smart, but all it does is make me feel dumb.
“Thank you.” I subtly adjust my skirt that hugs my knees and thighs in a vise, making walking an awkward challenge. Whoever designed this, thinking that removing a woman’s ability to walk would be sexy and clever, was a fucking asshole. I nearly trip over my damn feet twice.
I follow her through the lavish office on the top freaking floor of some tall-ass skyscraper in the financial district. It’s like a maze up here, so I’m really hoping they don’t expect me to find my way back out on my own. We pass by cubicles and offices and open atrium-like spaces until we’re at the very last corner office.
Blondie knocks softly on the hardwood door. “Come in,” a disembodied voice with a sexy-as-sin English accent says.
She opens the door with a flourish like she’s presenting me to the King. “Mr. Masters? I have Claire Sullivan for you.”
“Thank you, Judy,” he says.
Judy steps back, allowing me to enter, and just as I do, my mouth practically hits the floor. Damn, this man is super ho
t. Blond hair of his own and bright blue eyes. He’s wearing a crisp charcoal suit that clearly costs more than my monthly rent, and a light-blue tie that closely matches his eyes.
I feel like I’ve walked into the town of Stepford. Is everyone here blond and perfect?
“Miss Sullivan.” He smiles grandly, standing up nice and tall as I enter, his posh English accent making me want to sigh. He kind of sounds like Ivy, but not really, since she’s Australian and he’s not.
“I’m Tom Masters.” He shakes my hand firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His smile only grows as he tactfully takes in my appearance and gestures for me to enter his ginormous office. This is New York and real estate is a precious commodity, right? His office is about the size of my apartment, and I have a two-bedroom in Seattle. Get where I’m going with that?
“Mr. Masters.” I smile back. “Please, call me Claire.”
“Claire. Lovely name. Please come in, and do call me Tom. May I offer you coffee, tea, or water?”
“Coffee would be great, thanks.”
Tom nods his head in Judy’s direction. “How do you take it, Miss Sullivan?”
“Black, please.”
“Of course,” she says before scurrying off. She’s way better at her job than I am. I totally suck in comparison. I don’t know if I’ve ever gotten someone coffee, or even offered to, now that I’m thinking about it. Then again, we have Keurigs in the conference rooms and interns to make it when needed.
But Seattle is a very different corporate environment than New York.
“Please, have a seat.”
I do, but I nearly fall on my ass in the process. I have to sit on the edge of the chair and slide myself back.
Note to self: when you get home, you’re buying a new goddamn suit.
I finally manage to sit in the plush black leather chair, crossing my legs at the ankles because I can’t cross them at the knee, and sit up straight. I place my black leather laptop bag on the floor, leaning it up against the leg of the table. I feel like an impersonator. I feel like any second, he’s going to look at me in my clown outfit and laugh his gorgeous ass off. Or, at least comment on my not-so-graceful entrance.
