“Good morning,” she said.
Chris smiled and stood. “G’morning,” he said, his voice low.
“Why are you whispering?” Robyn asked, similarly lowering her voice.
“Don’t know whether you want your mother to know I’m here,” he said.
Robyn shrugged. “It’s not like I’m fifteen, Chris. It doesn’t matter if she knows you’re here.”
“Last night when we came up the stairs, you asked me to be quiet so . . .”
“Just so we wouldn’t wake her. She’ll be fine that you stayed. Probably offer to make you breakfast before you go.”
Robyn went to her dresser and opened her underwear drawer, peering in and purposely choosing some the prettiest ones. With Chris practically standing over her, there was no way she was going for a simple cotton pair today. Instead she chose black lace boy-shorts and the matching bra. She could feel his eyes on her as she stepped into the panties, and in the mirror spotted his reflection, a small smile playing about his lips. Showing him her back when she let the towel drop, Robyn shrugged on the bra, and when she reached back to fasten it, her fingers collided with his.
Chris fastened the clasps, his hands lingering at her back, falling to her waist and then tracing the edges of her panties. Robyn held her breath, waiting for him to slide them down over her hips, wanting him to. But then suddenly he released her.
“I better go,” he said. “I don’t want to disrespect . . .”
At that Robyn did turn to face him, and rolled her eyes. “If you want to be old school like that, sure.”
“You got an extra toothbrush?” he asked, ignoring her comment.
“Yup. Should be in the medicine cabinet.”
While he went to find it, Robyn chose her outfit for the day—a grey skirt and pale pink organza blouse with a ruffled front—and put it on. By the time Chris came back out, she was completely dressed, except for her shoes and make-up.
“That has to be a record for a woman choosing what to wear and getting dressed,” he said. “What was that, five minutes?”
“I’m not fussy,” Robyn shrugged.
“But you always look good,” he said. “Like you took a long time picking every little thing.”
Robyn flushed, pleased that he noticed. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.
“Or maybe you got dressed so fast today so I wouldn’t stare at you in your lacy underwear . . . and get some . . . ideas.”
“I wish you would, but you already made it clear you wouldn’t be entertaining any of those kinds of ideas when you got all prudish about disrespecting my mother,” Robyn teased. “And besides you’ve seen me in my underwear plenty by now.”
Chris grinned. “That’s true. Want to let me out?” he asked inclining his head toward the bedroom door.
“Sure.” Robyn turned to open it but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back so their chests collided.
“I only asked for the toothbrush because I wanted to kiss you,” he said. “And didn’t want to scare you off with my morning breath.”
“Nothing about you scares me,” she lied.
He lowered his face to hers and involuntarily, Robyn craned her neck, got on her toes and closed the distance between them. She loved kissing Chris. He had soft, full, masculine lips, and his shadow of a moustache tickled her face. And he liked to play when they kissed, dipping in and pulling back, biting her lips and sucking her tongue. His kisses, every single time, no matter how brief, made her instinctively relax her thighs, open them slightly and press against him. She did so now and Chris returned the pressure with some of his own, his hands rising to her head, threading through her hair as he grabbed her and pulled her close.
Oh hell . . . she was going to be late for work.
___________________
Brendan was leaning back, occupying what was far and away the most comfortable of the four chairs in Chris’ office, except for his own. He‘d stopped by to talk business but when that was done, the conversation had switched to other things. Catching up with his boys was more difficult these days, so Chris didn’t have any problem canceling two other meetings just to see what was up in Brendan’s world, managing his and Shawn’s record label, and settling in to family life.
“I’m not feelin’ this whole Thanksgiving in Atlanta thing Tracy’s talkin’ ‘bout,” Brendan was saying now. “Watching her with her mother is like watching somebody bash their head into a brick wall and every single time, surprised they get hurt.”
“So don’t go,” Chris said. “You got months to come up with a good excuse.”
“I wish it was that easy,” Brendan said. “That’s the funny thing. She knows how it’s going to end up, but she still wants to go. Like a compulsion to try to make her mother be somebody she just ain’t capable of being.”
“That’s something I never regretted not having,” Chris mumbled.
One eye on the clock, he remembered he had a conference call with Paris at eleven that he couldn’t miss. Having finally acceded to Robyn and Frank’s wishes that he go check out Pouvoir Noir for himself, they were getting on the phone with the team over there to plan the agenda for the trip. Not a fan of transatlantic travel, he was on the fence about it for a while but finally figured out from the light in Robyn’s eyes whenever she talked about it, that she really wanted to go for more than business reasons. So why not? Maybe they’d join the Mile High Club on their way over.
“What’s that?” Brendan asked.
“A mother-in-law,” Chris said.
“You practically have two of them,” Brendan laughed. “With your baby mommas’ mommas and what-not. That I don’t envy you.”
Chris shrugged. “At least I’m not hemmed up with the same chick for all eternity.”
Brendan looked at him with something like sympathy, nodding his head. “Uh huh.”
“Uh huh, what?”
Brendan shrugged. “I used to think the same thing.”
“And now?” Chris asked, despite himself.
Brendan stroked his chin and stared off into the middle distance. “Now? Now I wake up on a Saturday morning and my wife’s next to me in bed, and she’s holding our daughter like this . . .” He made a cradling motion, “. . . and breastfeeding her, and Layla’s making these little noises and both of them, they just look . . . complete, y’know? And then I think that I don’t what the hell life is about if not that.”
Chris looked at his friend for a moment and nodded. “So what you’re saying is that marriage done turned you into a Hallmark greeting card.”
Brendan laughed, in a way only he could, uproariously and throwing his head back; and when he stopped he was still grinning. “Call it what you want, man. But when you get there, where I am right now? You’re going to wonder what the hell you were doing with your damn life before.”
“Yeah,” Chris said. “I seriously doubt I’ll be thinking anything like that. Because that marriage stuff? It just ain’t for me.”
“I don’t know if marriage was the thing that made the difference,” Brendan said shaking his head. “I mean, I would’ve been with Tracy for the rest of my life regardless. But it was something she needed so . . .” he shrugged, “I had to do what I had to do.”
“Uh huh,” Chris said still skeptical.
“Yeah, man. And besides, the truth about getting married is this. Shawn—crazy as his ass was with Riley—had it right. As men, we don’t give a shit about marriage, not really. But we need it to flip that switch . . .”
“What switch is that?”
“The one where we put the rest of the world on notice that the last dick she will ever see is ours.”
This time it was Chris who laughed. “I never cared about that,” he said. “With Sheryl, she could see as many dicks as she wanted so long as she didn’t bring anything home with her. And Karen, I just never . . . I didn’t see it happening.”
“With Sheryl you didn’t care because—no offense—you knew from jump she wasn’t never gon’ be a
one-man type of chick . . .”
“No offense taken,” Chris said. “Believe me.”
“And with Karen, you had her so damn trained, you didn’t have to worry about that. She’s the type of woman you could put on a shelf and come back and she would still be on the damn shelf where you left her, no matter how long. I bet even today, you could go back there.”
There was no arguing with that assessment, bad as it sounded.
“But you mark my words, one of these days . . .” Brendan shook his head. “I just hope I’m around to see it.”
“Dream on, bruh. I plan to be the last man standing.”
“Yeah?” Brendan said. “Good luck with that.”
“Chris?”
Both he and Brendan looked up. Robyn was sticking her head into his office. For a fraction of a second, her eyes locked with his, and something passed between them, a remembered intimacy that so far they had managed to conceal while in the office.
“We’re about to get on the . . .”
She noticed Brendan for the first time and broke out into a smile, crossing the threshold into the office and opening her arms to him. Brendan stood and hugged her, then held her at arms’ length.
“So he’s not working you to death, is he?”
Robyn looked at Chris and a secret smile tugged one corner of her lips. “No. He hasn’t killed me yet.”
Chris felt an answering tug in the front of his pants.
“But I am here to take him away from you for a meeting though.”
“That’s okay. I’m just about done, anyway. He just got through telling me the meaning of life, so I’m straight.”
Robyn raised her eyebrows. “I won’t ask what that means. Chris? We’ll see you in the conference room in a minute? It’s a videoconference.”
“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.
“Good. And good to see you, Brendan.” She squeezed his arm and left them alone once again.
Brendan watched her leave, and Chris watched him taking in Robyn’s shapely backside in her tastefully snug charcoal skirt and sheer, pale blue blouse.
“See?” Brendan said. “That’s the kind of woman I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Who? Robyn?” Chris said as though he didn’t already know.
“Yeah. I don’t know what kinda damn fool her husband was but you just look at her and you know she could bring a man to his knees.”
16
Robyn stopped in the powder room just off the main entrance to the house, removing several stalks of grass from her shirt, and rubbing at the grass stains, erasing as much as she could from the front of her jeans. Checking her elbows and knees for telltale rips and tears, and satisfied that there was no evidence of her latest misadventure, she rinsed her face with cold water, patted it dry, and headed for Chris’ office.
She was already moving differently though, so it was going to be hard to act casual. This one had been a little scary, even she had to admit. Jon had told her a million times to ease up on the accelerator when she was turning, but she kept forgetting and this time it had cost her. The rear tire skidded out from under her, and the bike went into something like a tailspin, throwing her off into a spectacular somersault which concluded with a hard fall, directly onto her tailbone.
Jon’s yelling had been obscured only by the radiating, white-hot pain and it had taken her a few minutes to even be able to sit up, and several more before she could stand. In a couple days, even that might be impossible to do, which was crappy timing since she was due to fly out of JFK tomorrow with Chris and Frank, hopefully to close the Pouvoir Noir deal, or at the very least lay the foundation for its closing. Eight hours on a plane was going to be uncomfortable at best and— if she didn’t take something—agonizing at worst.
Straightening her back as she reached the doorway to Chris’ office, Robyn let out a quiet breath, steeling herself against the sensation that was like a fist, rhythmically pounding against her coccyx. As soon as she darkened the doorway, Chris looked up.
“How was your lesson?” he asked.
“Same as always,” she lied, lowering herself carefully into the armchair near the door. “Highlight of my week.”
“Even the part where you fell and almost broke your neck?”
Robyn looked directly at him for the first time, seeing the controlled tightness at his jaw, the way he narrowed his eyes. So, this was Chris angry.
“That’s an exaggeration,” she mumbled. “Although I did bruise my ass a little. Did you see . . ?”
“No, Jon called a minute ago.”
That was fast. She’d barely left Jon a minute ago. What a snitch!
“So that’s it then,” Chris said, looking at his monitor once again.
Robyn sat up, alerted by the finality in his tone. “Wait. What do you . . ?”
“He says you don’t listen to him. That you think you’re better than you actually are. So I’m cutting this off.”
“Chris, c’mon. I’m this-close to getting my license!”
“I should let you kill yourself?” he demanded, his voice rising. But only slightly.
For some reason, Robyn knew that Chris was unlikely actually shout at her.
“You’ve never even come to watch me ride. If you did, you’d see that I’m good. I’m getting really, really . . .”
“I don’t need to see it, Robyn. Jon says you’re like a female Evel Knievel wannabe. And that’s from a guy who does Evel Knievel stuff for a living.”
In spite of herself, and the pain she was in, Robyn smiled. “Now that’s a definite exaggeration.”
Chris didn’t smile back. “Stand up,” he ordered.
Robyn did as he asked without question and waited as he came from behind the desk, stopping when he was in front of her. Chris reached for the waistband of her jeans, unbuttoning and peeling them down and over her hips. Her underwear slid south with them. She was practically naked from the waist down, standing right there at the open door of his office, the late Saturday morning sun streaming in on them both.
Somewhere in the house, Mrs. Lawson was working and could happen upon them at any moment, wanting to know whether they wanted to eat, and if so what. Or maybe Jon was still on the premises and would walk in to give Chris an in-person report of Robyn’s reckless disregard for his instructions. But the possibility that she might be seen was not enough to make her move. She was riveted, stuck in the spot where she stood, staring up at him, indifferent to her own likely humiliation should someone come walking in. When Chris touched her, her body complied, even when her mind told her that a modicum of resistance might be called for, at least for the sake of keeping up appearances.
Turning her around, he placed a hand on her hip to help her keep her balance because with her jeans pushed down to her knees, she had limited mobility. Even though sore, her excitement grew. Robyn envisioned him bending her over, unzipping his pants and entering her from behind. It was still early days between them, mere weeks, and so their sex was still frequent and sometimes frenzied. She thought about it almost constantly, wondering when and how they might make time to be alone together again, wondering whether she excited him as much.
But at the moment, Chris had other motives. He touched the base of her spine with gentle fingers, massaging her on precisely the spot where Robyn felt the nucleus of the soreness.
“You’re bruising already,” he said.
“Sorry,” she said, though she was the one who was hurt. As though her body was his property which she had damaged.
Chris pulled her underwear up and then the jeans, which caused her to grimace. Robyn was beginning to doubt she would be able to sit down again once his inspection was done.
“I don’t see how you can get on a plane,” he said, and there was that note of finality in his voice once again.
Robyn spun to face him, this time groaning audibly when the sudden motion caused a sharp pain to ricochet down her tailbone. “Chris, no. I told you I’ve never been
to Paris.”
He slid his hand down the back of her jeans, his open palm warm against the spot that was sore and at the same time pulling her against him. “So what’re we going to do about this?”
We. Like she was his responsibility to care for.
Chris’ hand moved slowly up and down, lightly stroking her. Robyn closed her eyes.
“Feels better already,” she said.
“Robyn.”
“Okay, fine,” she sighed, and opened her eyes once again. “I’ll take a few painkillers and be knocked out for the whole flight. Sit on one of those donut thingies. But please, don’t say I can’t go.”
“I should probably call Dr. Allen, have her check you out.”
He turned away and in doing so, removed his hand from the back of her jeans. Chris reached for the phone on his desk, but Robyn grabbed ahold of his shirt-tail, pulling him toward her once again.
She pressed her cheek against his chest.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice low. “And please don’t cancel the lessons. I don’t want to give up. I want to learn how to do it.”
___________________
When she slept over, Robyn always brought pajamas, like a teenage girl preparing for a slumber party. Cotton pajama pants with wide billowy legs in soft pastel shades of pink and grey, or peach and buttercup. She wore them with silky tanks with spaghetti-straps through which Chris could see the tips of her breast, the shadow of her areolae. Invariably, in the middle of the night, she lost patience with her pretty pajama pants and stripped them off so that her legs were bare. Chris decided that the truth was that while she liked the look of the pajamas, Robyn didn’t actually want to sleep in them. While sleeping, she stripped down to what felt natural and comfortable.
He wondered whether it was like that with her in everything else as well. Whether Robyn’s marriage had been that way—a covering she wore to mask the fact that underneath it all, what she was, was a woman who was competitive, argumentative, liked speed and secretly got tattoos that she put on the most private parts of her so the world would not see the wild side she so carefully hid from view.
Afterwards Page 15
