Shameless

by Clark, Rebecca J.

  He nodded, but didn’t quite look at her.

  She cleared her throat again. “Well. See ya.” She opened the door. “Oh. John?” He looked at her now. She forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  She stepped into the freezing night air and shut the door behind her. With a shaky sigh, she leaned back against the cold metal door and closed her eyes. “Wow,” she said under her breath. Then she ran for her car.

  The next two nights brought more of the same. They met in room 42. John brought wine and a rose, they had incredible sex, she propped her hips on that damned pillow, and she left. Sunday night, John didn’t bother with the wine or the rose. In fact, he decided he wasn’t even going to bother with trying to seduce and excite her. She was fulfilling her end of the “deal.” That was all their passion meant to her. So this time, he’d just do his “job,” then he’d leave.

  But the moment he stepped into the room and saw her lying in bed waiting for him, her luscious mane of hair spread out on the sheet, John knew he wouldn’t rush things. He couldn’t. As much as he disliked what happened afterwards, he couldn’t bear to change what happened during. He’d never had such a response from a woman — she was with him one hundred percent in their lovemaking, seeming to get as much delight out of giving pleasure as in receiving it.

  Stripping to his birthday suit, he joined her in bed. It wasn’t long before their passions got away from them and their limbs entwined and their bodies joined in a frantic dance.

  Afterward, as she stood fully dressed and running her fingers through her hair, he said, “You should have been a man.”

  She flipped her hair behind her shoulders. “What?”

  “You should have been a man,” he said again, folding his arms behind his head on the pillow. “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am — or, in this case, ‘man.’”

  She grabbed her purse from the chair. “I don’t remember hearing you complain.”

  “I have no complaints about the sex.”

  “Then what’s your point?”

  He sat up in bed, the sheet bunched around his hips. “My point is you’re so damned nonchalant about this whole thing. We meet, we have sex, you leave.”

  “And just how would you like me to behave?”

  “Well, it would be nice if you didn’t jump out of bed the minute your ten minutes are up. And if maybe you kissed me good-bye instead of just saying ‘thank you’ and leaving. It’s like you’re thanking me for services rendered or something.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leveled her gaze at him. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, John. You’re doing me a big favor and I appreciate it. We’re having sex to get me pregnant, not because we care about each other. The boundaries of our relationship go no farther than this room. You knew exactly what the arrangement was when you agreed to help me. If you can’t handle it—”

  “Dammit, Sam!” he shouted, jumping out of bed without a stitch of clothing on. He charged around the bed and planted himself in front of her. “I realize this relationship is based on sex, but you make it seem like we’re strangers.”

  “We are.”

  “Like hell we are.” He gripped her shoulders. “You can’t make love like that and not feel something. No, I’m not talking about that lovey-dovey stuff you’re so worried about, I’m talking simple human emotion. I don’t think it would kill you to admit you enjoy yourself with me.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I never said I didn’t enjoy myself. But let me clarify something here. We’re not making love. We’re having sex. There’s a difference.”

  He pushed her away from him. Disgusted. And for some reason, hurt. He watched her finish dressing. She adjusted the silver choker around her neck and smoothed unseen wrinkles from her jeans. Her expression was just as hard and professional as ever. Nothing he’d said phased her.

  He turned his back to her and gathered his discarded clothes. He heard the ker-chlick of the metal doorknob. The door slammed behind her as she left, bringing in a whoosh of frigid, cold air.

  Chapter 8

  The SCHS parking lot was nearly empty by the time John headed out to his car after the session with the kids early Wednesday evening. He’d stayed late to talk with LaMarcus, who’d been suspended from school today for bringing — and getting caught with — a knife.

  A cold February rain fell onto the pavement in slushy splats. The forecast said snow, and from the looks of the sky, it was right this time. Thunder rumbled in the darkening sky and menacing pewter clouds lay low on the horizon, promising a fierce storm by nightfall. He beeped off his alarm and was about to climb into the car when something caught his eye from the near the weight facility. A boy stood flattened against the building, his arms akimbo, reminding John of how he and his older brother used to play SWAT team as kids.

  The boy stared toward the street. Every once in a while, he slowly peeked his head around the corner then yanked it back. Something or someone on the other side of the building had this kid scared to leave his cover.

  When he glanced John’s way, he recognized Brian. He was about to call out to him when a maroon sedan with tinted windows drove by too slowly for John’s comfort. He knew what was going down. Not thinking twice, he jumped into his car and sped across the parking lot toward Brian just as the other car turned into the lot. He rolled down the passenger window and called out, keeping his voice light, “Hey, Brian. Want a ride home? Looks like it’s going to rain.” The other car cruised past without stopping.

  Brian stared at him dumbly a moment. He glanced toward the maroon sedan which now idled across the lot, pointed their direction. Finally, he shrugged as if to say he didn’t care either way, and headed toward John’s vehicle.

  He climbed into the passenger seat without making eye contact and slunk in the seat, his head barely above the dash level as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street.

  “Where to?” John asked, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if the maroon car would follow. It did.

  Brian mumbled the directions. His left knee trembled ever so slightly under his baggy jeans. John’s heart squeezed. How many times had he been afraid to walk home as a kid, afraid of what waited for him around the next corner? But in his day, getting the shit beat out of him by way of some rich asshole’s fists was about as bad as it got. Poor Brian had it a lot tougher.

  For two blocks the other car followed. John knew a rich white guy driving a Beemer would normally be an easy target in this neighborhood, but since starting the SCHS program, his name had become almost synonymous with Alex’s, who, being a former gang member, was revered by the hood. And because John was Alex’s friend… he felt relatively safe. Relatively. Still, he gave a silent sigh of relief when the other car did a U-turn and disappeared.

  A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a dilapidated gray house that would be well-improved by a wrecking ball. Beer cans littered the grass-bare lawn and a well-fed pit bull lunged toward them from a chain wrapped around a tree, barking its square head off.

  “This it?” John asked.

  “Home sweet home,” the boy mumbled, reaching for the doorknob.

  “That car turned around a few blocks back,” John said quietly.

  Brian’s head cocked. “Whatever. Thanks for the ride.”

  John’s mouth thinned as he saw the name on his phone screen. It had been two weeks since he’d seen her. He held up a finger to Margo, who sat across his desk. “Sam,” he said curtly into his phone.

  “I just called to tell you—” She cleared her throat. “I wanted to give you a heads-up—” She cleared her throat again. “My period started this morning, so we’ll need to schedule some time together in about two weeks. I hope you won’t be out of town.”

  His first reaction was, ridiculously, pleasure that she wasn’t pregnant. Not to be cruel, but because he knew they’d have at least one more time together. Why he cared, he had absolutely no clue.

  “John? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah. Just le
t me know when.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll t-talk to you later.” Her voice sounded a little shaky.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, wondering why he gave a damn.

  The pause was slight. “I’m fine. See ya.”

  John stared at his phone. After a few moments, Margo cleared her throat. He looked across the desk at her.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “She just wanted to tell me she’s not pregnant.” He’d filled Margo in on his relationship with Sam, knowing she’d understand as she and her partner had a donor father for their baby, who’d been born last year.

  “Was she upset?”

  He rubbed his chin, skimming over a small patch of whiskers he’d missed shaving this morning. “Said she wasn’t.”

  “But you don’t believe her.”

  “No.”

  Margo’s clear blue eyes studied him. “At the risk of being told it’s none of my business, don’t you think you should call her back?”

  He let out a loud exhale. “You don’t understand the relationship, Margo. She wouldn’t want me to call her.”

  “Right. That’s why she called you instead of texting you.”

  “But I don’t really care.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  He rubbed his chin again and grabbed the phone. “I’m only doing this because you’ll make me feel like a shit if I don’t. I’m normally not this nice a guy.”

  Margo smiled and stood. “Of course you’re not.” She nodded toward the doorway. “I’ll be back in a few so we can finish going over that paperwork.”

  After the fourth ring, Sam’s voicemail answered. “Hi, leave a message,” came the short directive.

  John redialed her number. He expected her voicemail again, but she answered.

  “Why’d you call back?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “You’ve been crying.”

  Her hesitation spoke volumes. “I’m fine. I just don’t feel good. I’m working at home today.”

  For some asinine reason he wouldn’t try to decipher, his heart went out to her and his anger melted. She was obviously distraught over not being pregnant. And that was the sole purpose of their relationship. “Hey. You sound like you could use some cheering up. How about going out for dinner with me tonight?” The invitation popped out of his mouth before he could censure it. When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “That still gives you plenty of time to mope around in your pajamas and watch soap operas.”

  She giggled a little. “I don’t wear pajamas and I only watch soaps when there’s nothing good on Maury.”

  He chuckled, enjoying the rare light moment with her. “What time should I pick you up?”

  “Oh. I don’t know, John. I’m ugly and bloated and I feel too gross to make myself look otherwise.”

  He couldn’t imagine her anything less than drop-dead, in your face gorgeous. “How about dinner at my place, then we can hang out and watch a movie or something.”

  “Or something?”

  He laughed. “Don’t get your panties in a bundle. I didn’t mean that. It’ll be a nice, quiet, hands to ourselves kind of evening. Okay?”

  Sam hadn’t planned on spending time with him outside her fertile cycle, and she didn’t really know why she’d agreed to hang out with John tonight, other than she’d been miserable and he’d made her laugh. It was awfully sweet of him to pick her up so she didn’t have to drive. She also appreciated he wasn’t trying to engage her in small talk in the car.

  She wasn’t too sure a cozy little dinner at his place was the smartest thing to do, but it sounded better than eating out or alone in her little condo.

  They turned into a neighborhood in Bellevue, a city across Lake Washington from Seattle. The houses were nice, but nothing flashy. Real estate prices were sky-high in this area, so she was sure these houses weren’t cheap, but she’d expected John to live on waterfront property on Mercer Island or a high-priced penthouse in downtown Seattle. This was a pleasant surprise.

  The road curved and climbed the hillside. The Seattle skyline twinkled in the distance. The garage door of a handsome white rambler swung open as they turned into a driveway.

  A door at the back of the garage opened into John’s utility room. A pile of laundry sat atop the washer and he looked a little embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “Hey. Everyone needs clean underwear,” she said, following him inside.

  He flipped on the lights in the hall and led her into the kitchen, where he deposited the groceries onto the granite countertops.

  “You have a beautiful house, John,” she said, moving through the kitchen to peek into his family room.

  “Thanks, I like it. Give yourself a tour while I unload these bags.”

  The family room was two steps down from the kitchen, and unlike the rooms she’d been in so far, it wasn’t hardwood floors underfoot but a thick, speckled Berber. A massive stone fireplace dominated the room, with built-in bookshelves on the opposite wall. The room was tastefully decorated and tidy, but still had a lived in, cozy feel. A comfortable-looking navy leather sectional sat in an L facing the big-screen TV. Flanking the TV on both sides were narrow shelves packed with movies. A closer glance told her that he, like her, was a fan of classic black and whites. She saw some of her favorites in his collection.

  She stepped into the hardwood entry hall, glad she’d left her stilettos at home, because heels would surely mar the smooth surface of the floor. White painted columns defined the dining room to the left of the front door and the living room to the right, which was empty except for a spectacular black grand piano in front of the windows.

  She’d always been a sucker for pianos, particularly grands, even though ‘Chopsticks’ was her only forte. She grazed the tips of her fingers along the glossy black surface, then sat on the cushioned bench and raised the cover from the keyboard. Pressing her index finger on middle C, she played a tentative C scale.

  “Do you play?” John’s voice made her jump. He stepped into the room.

  “Oh. No. Well, not really. I just couldn’t resist. Sorry.” She started to slide off the bench.

  “No, go ahead.” He rested an elbow on the piano top.

  “John, I haven’t played in years. I took lessons when I was seven, but hated every minute of practice.”

  He smiled. “Little Samantha Rossi, plinking out her scales on the piano. Quite the picture.”

  She did a quick rendition of Chopsticks. “That’s the extent of my talent these days. What about you? Do you play or do you just like to look like you do?”

  His throaty chuckle sent a funny shiver up her spine. “A little of both, I guess.”

  She rose. “Here. Play something for me.”

  He looked like he was about to refuse, but then he shrugged and said, “Okay. What kind of music do you like?” He sat and adjusted the bench.

  She leaned a hip against the piano. “This will probably sound hokey to you, but I love ragtime — you know, Scott Joplin kind of stuff. My parents had a cassette tape — remember those? — of Joplin, and they used to listen to it for hours. I hated it as a kid, but now I can’t get enough of it.”

  He grinned and stretched his fingers, wiggling them in the air over the ebony and ivory. He plinked out the first strains of “The Entertainer.”

  “Oh, I love this song,” she said, almost to herself.

  Except for a couple of places where he stumbled a bit, muttering, “I guess I haven’t played this in a while,” he was quite good. By the time he played another piece, a song she recognized but couldn’t name, she was resting her chin in her hands, her elbows perched on top of the grand. John finished with a flourish, and she clapped her hands.

  “He cooks and he plays the piano,” she said, smiling.

  “Yes. Quite the catch, aren’t I?”

  Her smile faltered and she straightened. What did I say? he wondered, confused. He never quite knew where he stood with her, which was unsettling.

 
He covered the keyboard and followed her to the kitchen. His gaze swept over her from head to toe. For someone who was supposedly feeling ugly and bloated — her words, not his — she certainly did justice to those black leggings. It was his experience most women wouldn’t dream of wearing those kind of show-all pants without a long shirt to cover their butts. But not Sam. She wore a snug, candy apple red sweater, nipped at the waist and flared at the hips. The whole outfit was a perfect showcase for her lush curves.

  The way the pants encased her rounded rear end had John remembering how her bottom felt cupped in his hands as he’d thrust into her in that dingy motel room. His body tightened in response. Get a grip, Everest. It ain’t gonna happen.

  Back in the kitchen, the ingredients for dinner were spread out on the counter. He pulled a knife from a drawer and reached for a green pepper.

  “Can I help?” she asked, stepping beside him. She didn’t touch him, but the hairs on his arms stood as if she rubbed her body against his like a cat in heat.

  “Nope. Got it covered. All you have to do is keep me company.”

  She slid onto one of the barstools at the center island. “What are you making?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “It’s my specialty — chicken jambalaya with shrimp and kielbasa. Very hot, very spicy, and very good, if I do say so myself.” He turned away to chop the peppers. When he turned back around, her head was in her hands.

  He put down the knife and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Sam?” She lifted her head. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. “Do you want to lie down while I finish here?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, no. I’m fine. I go through this every month. I told you I’d be lousy company.”

  A little later, when he was cutting the onion, a rattling sound behind him turned his attention back to her. Sam shaking some Motrin into her palm. He figured she was downplaying how crappy she felt. He frowned.