Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  Oh, God, here we go.

  He pulls out the dark red AmEx credit card and hands it to the incredulous vendor.

  “What the heck do I do with this?” the vendor says.

  “Swipe it.” Trenton whooshes his right hand in a downward motion past his hot dog, which substitutes as the pin pad in his demonstration. “I assume you accept other forms of payment than cash.”

  I look on in amusement. This is better than SNL in its good years.

  The vendor stands frozen in place, the card held out from his body like a soiled napkin he’s about to drop in the trash.

  “Cash only.”

  Trenton scowls and removes his wallet from his pants pocket. He opens the billfold.

  And well, well, look at that. It’s empty.

  “Why, Mr. Merrick, do you not have any cash on you?” With a wicked smile, I set down my hot dog, open my wallet, and make an extra dramatic retrieval of my twenty dollar bill—the only cash in my wallet, mind you—but it’s worth it to see Trenton squirm.

  The vendor smiles again. He accepts my bill while handing the card back to Trenton, and then returns my change. I pick up my hot dog.

  “That was entirely unnecessary,” Trenton says as we walk toward the fountain. “I could’ve had cash delivered here.”

  “Would a big, armored Merrick Industries truck have driven right into the park or would you have had the money parachuted in?” I say, laughing.

  I’m already halfway through my hot dog while Trenton hasn’t given his a second look, carrying it in his right hand like a rolled newspaper.

  “Try it.”

  Trenton looks at me like a four-year-old that’s not allowed to leave the table until he finishes all the vegetables on his plate.

  “Just take one bite.”

  He brings the hot dog up to his mouth and freezes.

  “One bite, Trenton.”

  He closes his eyes and brings the hot dog forward.

  I stand on my tiptoes and whisper against his jaw. “Just one bite. For me.”

  Trenton’s lips part and the foremost tip of the hot dog disappears into his mouth. His teeth clamp around it. He chews quickly, the muscles contracting in his throat.

  Tears glisten in his eyes when he looks at me. I can’t help but laugh.

  “Congratulations,” I say. “And thank you for putting yourself through such a traumatic experience for me.”

  Trenton clears his throat and glances at the rest of the hot dog. “Well . . . that’s that.”

  Seagulls screech and attack in a giant white cloud of flying feathers as he tosses the remnants across the lawn.

  Well, at least he tried.

  “How does that hot dog compare with the ones in San Francisco?” he asks as we approach Bethesda Fountain.

  “Bigger. Juicier, too,” I say, wiping my chin.

  Trenton grins. “That’s the Big Apple for ya.”

  I giggle, rewarding his attempt at humor as best as I can with my mouth still full.

  We settle onto the stone rim around the fountain. The water spilling over from the angel’s bowl into the larger pool is loud enough to offer a soothing reprieve from the endless noise of the city surrounding us. For a tourist attraction, there are plenty of people, but not the throngs a famous landmark like this usually draws on such a nice day.

  “So, of all places in the park, why did you want to meet here?” Trenton motions to the stone structure behind us.

  I shrug. “I’m from San Francisco. I guess I need to be near water.”

  Trenton smirks. “Manhattan is an island.”

  “Yes, but thanks to all the tall buildings, I can’t see the water from anywhere.” I guard my eyes from the sun and pretend I’m looking for the Hudson or East River.

  “You haven’t told me much about your home in San Francisco. Did you live on the ocean?”

  Trenton’s question surprises me. This is the first time he’s inquired into my upbringing.

  “Ha, I wish!” I say. “So do my parents. My dad has worked as a stevedore at the Port of San Francisco for years, though. So even though our house isn’t on the ocean, he’s still near water almost every day. He’s lucky. I used to visit him there a lot; maybe that’s where it comes from.”

  Trenton perks up at the mention of my parents. “Are you still close with your mother and father?”

  “We talk once a week, usually.” I survey the happy families around us. “I miss them a lot.”

  Trenton shifts forward. “So why the move across the country?”

  “I liked the idea because I desired a change. But it was originally my dad who brought it up.”

  “So your parents were supportive?”

  I smile and decide I like this inquisitive side of Trenton very much. “My mom wasn’t in the beginning, but my dad really liked the idea, which surprised me. He said he thought it would be a great experience for me.”

  Trenton nods. “My dad is like that. Very practical.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I think there’s more to it than that.”

  He tosses me a sideways glance. “How do you mean?”

  “Firstly, my dad hated that my boyfriend was trying to get back together with me. He never liked him.”

  Trenton’s demeanor hardens. “Boyfriend?”

  “Relax. It was just puppy love that lasted all of seven months when I was a senior in high school. We broke up before I started nursing school and sort of kept in touch—mostly texts and stuff. He started coming around a lot when I finished my nursing degree.”

  “Did you sleep with him?” The question is asked through clenched teeth.

  Annoyance flashes through me. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Mr. Merrick.”

  “It’s a yes or no answer, Miss Peters.”

  “It still doesn’t make it any of your business.”

  His nostrils flare. “How many times?”

  I take it back. Inquisitive Trenton can go jump in the lake . . . fountain . . . whatever.

  “You’re incredible, you know that?” My face glows brightly. “What kind of question is that?”

  “How many times?”

  “Ugh, if you have to know, four times, okay? Four!” My outburst catches the attention of more than a few tourists. I lower my voice. “And each time took all of, like, two seconds. They were so unremarkable, in fact, I haven’t had sex since.”

  Darkness cloaks Trenton’s face and the muscles tighten in his jaw. “Typical frat boy.”

  “Pa—” I clamp my mouth shut before I use my ex-boyfriend’s name. Knowing Trenton, he’d have the poor guy jailed or something.

  “My ex,” I say, “was not in a fraternity. This was high school, not college.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s that selfish college boy mentality. I bet he got off all four times and you didn’t orgasm once.”

  “We are not having this conversation,” I say, but I know my flaming cheeks give away the truth.

  Damn him and his spot-on intuition.

  “Were you a virgin before you met him?

  “We’re moving on from this topic, Mr. Merrick.” I finish the last bite of my hot dog and roll up the wrapper, catching the sea of condiments sloshing around in the bottom before they spill out and stain my jeans.

  Suddenly, Trenton’s lips are on mine, practically inhaling my entire face while little kids, the hot dog vendor, and God knows who else, watch. His hand finds its way into my hair and his tongue thrusts into my mouth. I slide along the rim of the fountain under his spell as one of his hands massages my hip and the other trails from my hair down my spine.

  Suddenly, I’m in his lap, whimpering and swallowing back the moans that drift from his mouth into mine. Pleasure rides the vibrations that accompany the sounds he makes. It flows out to my fingers, my toes, electrifying me from the inside out.

  Trenton pulls away. I gasp for breath, struggling to reestablish my bearings.

  “I will always put you first, Sara.” His expression matc
hes his tone, soft and yielding.

  It’s the same line he used in his Connecticut home, but in light of my recent revelations, the words now mean so much more. It’s an erotic promise, driven by a fierce, possessive desire to show me how a real man treats a woman in his bed. To wipe my ex from my mind so that Trenton is the only man who has ever kissed me . . . touched me.

  The thoughts of my future that follow are no longer Leave it to Beaver-esque. I’m living it up on late night HBO now.

  I slide out of Trenton’s lap and reclaim my seat on the rim of the fountain, catching a few disapproving glares from nearby parents. Now I blush for a whole different reason. I can only hope with Trenton’s celebrity, pictures of us making out—or worse, video—don’t end up on the Internet and go viral. Terrorists would be the least of my problems if that happened. My parents would kill me.

  Trenton’s firm stare clings to the side of my face, but I continue my story as if we didn’t just put on a smut show in front of a bunch of strangers.

  “For years, my dad kept an eye on me after school. I was never really allowed to stay out late. I had really strict curfews even when I lived at home while I went to nursing school.”

  “And then he wanted you to move here?”

  “Yes,” I say, matching his steady tone. Though, how he sounds so calm after what we just shared is beyond me. “He even helped me find job listings for nurses and places close to each hospital for rent. It was such a sudden change in him. He and my mom are both happy for me. I think I surprised them by staying out here. They probably expected me to turn around and come back home after the first week.”

  “It’s not an easy city to call home.”

  A smile drifts across my lips. “Says the man with a penthouse overlooking it all.”

  Trenton looks to the ground and nudges a pebble with his shoe. “What was the second reason?”

  “What?”

  “You began your explanation by saying ‘Firstly,’ so I assumed there was more than just the issue of your ex-boyfriend, whom we haven’t finished discussing either.”

  I roll my eyes. “The second thing is my dad lost his best friend last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  The phrase is often cliché and meaningless, but with Trenton, I don’t doubt his sincerity.

  “My dad found him in an empty shipping container at the port. At first, he laughed because he thought he’d caught him sleeping on the job. It turns out he died of a heart attack.”

  Trenton regards me curiously. “They did an autopsy?”

  “I guess . . . I don’t know.” I let out a sigh. “Since then, my dad has been a new person. That’s when he first brought up the idea of me moving. He talked about purchasing additional life insurance, finalizing his will, selling the house. He even wanted to take my mom on a vacation. Twenty-four years of marriage and they haven’t been anywhere alone together since their honeymoon in Puget Sound.”

  “It sounds like he got a new outlook on his life.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess.”

  Trenton stands. I take it the discussion is over. My hand slips into his and he assists me to my feet.

  “So, what’s next, Sara?”

  A chime that began in the distance and grew louder through the last few minutes of our conversation arrives on Bethesda Terrace in the form of a teenage boy pedaling an ice cream wagon.

  My face lights up. “Dessert!”

  Trenton grins. “I wonder if he takes AmEx.”

  * * *

  The rest of our afternoon in the park disappears as fast as our popsicles. Trenton actually finishes his Fudgsicle much to the disappointment of some nearby seagulls and I’m shocked when I check my watch and see that it’s after six o’clock.

  “This will have to be my stop,” I say as we approach the 72nd Street West exit. “My shift starts at seven thirty, but I need to get there early to change and take report.”

  “I told you yesterday I’d drive you on my way to the office.”

  “No, it’s okay, I’ll just take the—”

  Trenton stops me with a stern look.

  I eye him warily. “When you say you’ll drive me, do you mean you’ll dump me with one of your employees?”

  “No, I’ll drive you myself.”

  I must admit that the image of Trenton handling a sports car is all sorts of yummy.

  “Fine. You may drive me.”

  “We just need to go to my place for a few minutes before I call the valet. I have to pick up some things.”

  I wonder if that’s CEO code for, Let’s get in a quick fuck before you go to work. But then I remember Trenton’s anger over my ex’s inability to take his time pleasing me in bed, so I figure I’m safe. Then again, Trenton ditching me at his Connecticut home wasn’t exactly putting me first.

  Sigh.

  “Okay,” I say, and I silently promise I won’t find myself backed against any walls, just in case. Though, alone with Trenton, walls or no walls, I might be in a lot of trouble.

  Trenton’s strides are long and purposeful as he leads me out of the park, his hand placed in its usual spot against my lower back. I quicken my pace to keep in step with him.

  “You should know I’m leaving tomorrow morning on a business trip. I’ll be back early Saturday,” Trenton says.

  “Oh, okay. Where are you going?”

  “Out of the country.”

  “And into which other country?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, nor will he look me.

  Those muscles in his jaw tighten again.

  “Russia,” he says, finally. “Moscow, since you’re so interested in the specifics.”

  Moscow . . . Kedrov . . . Damn it, why did it have to be friggin’ Russia?

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No! Absolutely not. Have a good time.” I hope my quick nod and forced smile are enough to convince him there’s nothing wrong with visiting Moscow . . . or meeting terrorists . . . or selling illegal weapons.

  Fuck.

  We reach Central Park West and cross the street at the lights, despite my insistence that jaywalking is fine, which doesn’t go over well with Mr. Overprotective at all.

  Any trace of litter or bubblegum disappears from the sidewalk, which almost looks as if it’s been shined and buffed. Uniformed doormen stand at the main entrance to the buildings under large awnings.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrick,” the doorman says as we approach 115 Central Park West. The Majestic.

  “Good afternoon, Clifford,” Trenton says.

  Clifford opens the giant brass door and smiles and nods at me. “Good afternoon to you, too, miss.”

  I return the smile as I’m swept into the front lobby. A row of chandeliers stretches back to a bank of elevators; massive wood doors framed by stone pillars rise stories above our heads. Our footsteps clack across the marble floors, muffled every few paces by thick Oriental carpets.

  Trenton nods to the concierge as we pass his oak desk and approach an elevator door. He sticks a card into a slot above the elevator buttons and presses the up arrow. A ding follows instantly and the doors part. Trenton motions for me to enter first.

  An automated voice sounds over the elevator speaker. “Going up, Mr. Merrick.”

  I jump back, startled. “How did it know it was you in here?”

  “I own the penthouse suite in the south tower,” Trenton says. “This is my private elevator.”

  We start our ascent. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, so even though Trenton has snuck up on me before, I’ll have no trouble seeing him coming this time if he tries something. Speaking of mirrors, they give me a delicious 360-degree view of Mr. Merrick and the billionaire poise he has down pat. The guy even makes Brooks Brothers casual look incredibly hot.

  Despite the closed quarters, privacy, and my pheromones—which I’m certain are so strong that my downtown colleagues can smell them—Trenton remains a perfect gentleman. Come to think of it, our entir
e date has been relatively tame in the seduction department. It’s a little unsettling. Sure, we spent the afternoon in a public place, but given his track record, I don’t think that’s enough to dissuade him from going after what he wants when he wants it.

  My need for Trenton escalates with every floor we pass until I’m about to scream and beg for him to kiss me—

  The elevator dings again and the doors roll open.

  “Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Merrick,” the elevator speaker says.

  “I am so far.” Trenton flashes a dazzling smile that melts me.

  I wasn’t wrong when I teased him about having an apartment that overlooks all of New York City. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Central Park and much of the city beyond. Recessed lights cast harsh white light across dark hardwood floors, ash gray couches, a grand piano, stainless steel coffee tables, and black floor lamps. Aside from the daylight beaming in through the windows, the white walls are the only other bright spots.

  I slip off my shoes so I don’t trek Central Park through the spotless penthouse and set my purse down on a nearby couch. Oddly, I don’t see any household staff around. I wonder if we truly are alone.

  Trenton crosses the room. “I have to make a quick phone call. Don’t be a disobedient girl and go wandering off again.”

  I give him a naughty smile. “Why? Is there another room here full of weapons you don’t want me to find?”

  Trenton doesn’t react to my remark. “I’ll be a few minutes. If you’d like something to occupy you while waiting, there’s a study here. It doesn’t house an extensive book collection like the one that got you so excited in Connecticut, but I’m sure there are some items that will interest you.”

  “Sounds good.” I bound off to the nearest closed door and notice there are no keypads guarding the rooms here.

  “That’s a bathroom,” Trenton says.

  My socked feet skid across the shiny hardwood floors as I try to stop. I leap toward another door to the right.

  “That’s the laundry room.”

  I slide toward the next door and reach for the handle.

  “That’s one of the guest rooms.”

  One of the guest rooms?

  “Jeez, where is it?”

  Trenton points to two sliding doors with glass insets.