by Kim Bailey
I can’t help myself, everything about her is enticing. The way she squirms in her seat. The way her chest pushes out with her exaggerated breath. The way her eyes seem to fill with heat. I reach down and take her small feet in my hands, grazing circles over her soles.
I’m not sure what kind of reaction I’m expecting, but when she closes her eyes on a satisfied sigh, I feel rewarded. So, I rub them a little harder. My hands travel a little farther too. Massaging from her toes to her ankles, my fingers brush over the smooth skin of her leg.
Stroking. Soothing. Indulging.
She sighs again, only this time, it’s something deeper than a sigh. This time, it sounds like a small but pleasured moan.
And fuck me, that sound skips my ears and travels straight to my cock.
Her eyes fly open, her breath catches in her lungs, and instantly she’s pulling away from me. Her adorable, tiny toes retract to her side of the couch.
“I should get home, I’ve got class in the morning and work tomorrow night,” she explains.
“Yeah, of course, you’re right,” I concede. “Let me walk you up to your apartment, it’s late.”
“That would be nice.”
Surprised by how readily she agrees, I don’t give her time to second-guess it. Quickly I’m up, slipping on my shoes, and heading out the door. Zadie follows, not far behind.
It’s only one flight of stairs, but we take the elevator, waiting for the ancient contraption to make its way from one floor to the next. For once, I’m thankful for its slow crawl—it gives us more time together.
When the doors finally open, I guide Zadie out with my hand on her back. She doesn’t protest my touch, but she doesn’t lean into it the way I’d hoped she might.
Stopping at her apartment, I expect to wait for her to unlock it, but instead she walks right in. I really need to say something to her and Chante about personal safety, but right now I can’t find it in me. I don’t want to ruin what could be an important moment.
Stepping over the open threshold, she turns to face me. “Thanks for the fun night, and for walking me up here.”
“Listen, Zadie, I know this wasn’t a date, but don’t you think it kind of felt...”
“No, Caleb.” She puts her hand on my chest, looking up at me with her big doe eyes pleading. “Just friends, remember?”
I’d believe her if it weren’t for the lingering of her hand over my heart and the rapidly ticking pulse in her neck. If she stepped away, if her body wasn’t contradicting her words, I might consider her serious.
She’d only need to look down to see how I’m feeling. Having her so close, touching me in a way that should be chaste, but isn’t... my body has decided if this is friendship, it doesn’t mind in the least—in fact, it likes it a lot.
Unfortunately, at this moment, I can feel a second set of eyes on me. Glancing to my right, I’m shocked by the sight of an older lady, staring me down. Quickly, I look back to Zadie, my body cooling from the vision of our unwanted audience.
“Well, friend,” I murmur. “Maybe now’s not the best time to mention it, but your neighbor two doors down is staring at us. And she’s wearing a bathrobe. Just a bathrobe.”
Zadie steps into me, poking her head out the doorway. I catch the vanilla scent of her shampoo, as she spots her not-so-subtle neighbor. The lady’s standing proudly with her fluffy green and purple zebra striped robe open wide. Her sagging assets are bared for all to see.
“Madame Gagne!” Zadie yells. “It seems you forgot your clothing again. Did you also forget which apartment is yours?”
With a humph of annoyance, the old woman narrows her gaze at Zadie before slowly sauntering back to her unit. But not before throwing a sly wink my way.
“Good Lord,” Zadie exclaims, turning back to me. “I’d worry about her, but I’m convinced she does it intentionally.”
I can’t help but laugh loudly. “Now, I really might have nightmares.”
Zadie’s smile seems forced. When she realizes how close we’re standing she takes a huge, unsteady step backward. “You should go, before another of my neighbors decides to visually molest you. Mr. Parker has a thing for young men, so you just never know.”
“Goodnight, Zadie,” I murmur. My smile’s incurable, despite her rejection.
“Goodnight, Cal,” she whispers.
Slowly, she closes the door. I’m left with the picture of her uncertain, disappointed gaze, and the sound of my name on her lips. A name no one else calls me. But from her, it sounds right.
***
Zadie
“IT’S BAD ENOUGH, YOU refusen’ to come back home where you belong, Zadiebug. I don’t understand why you can’t at least come for a visit. It’s Thanksgiving for goodness-sake.”
My hair is damp and hanging in a giant tangle. I have no energy to fix it, which is the worst because my hair needs tons of attention when it’s like this. Even just a spray of leave-in conditioner would help. Do you think I can find the bottle? Of course not. But instead of searching for it, I’m stuck in a one-way conversation with the woman who gave me life and an ever-growing migraine.
My mother, Jenni Tillman-Overly, is a whiner. It annoys the shit out of me, almost more than her stupid hyphenated name. Tillman I get, it’s her maiden name, but Overly? Overly is the name of a man she never married. She claims he was the love of her life—she cheated on my father with him, after all—but she also left him over a decade ago.
“You stayin’ away so long makes me think I did somethin’ wrong. Like you don’t wanna see me,” she continues. Her sickeningly sweet, over-the-top, fake country drawl pushes the limits of my patience.
Both her voice and her complaining anger me.
At least, that’s what I’m blaming my bad mood on. Subconsciously, I know the reason I’m so grumpy is because I barely slept. I tossed and turned, unable to keep my thoughts away from my disastrous evening with Caleb.
I can’t believe the shit that came out of my mouth. Long hair on a man is super sexy. What the hell was I thinking?
I’m starting to worry the pregnancy hormones are killing off my brain cells. Especially since I’m still thinking about him—even while my mother rambles in my ear.
Is it normal to fixate on a foot rub?
Of course, I’m obsessing over a lot more than just the perfect pressure of his hands on my feet. I keep replaying the way we said goodbye. The way I touched him. The feel of his chest. His heart beating strong and steady under my palm. God, he felt good. I can’t stop thinking of the way his muscles tensed at my touch. Or how much I wanted to let my fingers roam all over him, instead of pushing him away.
And the way he looked at me...
Even my elderly neighbor’s badly timed peep show couldn’t ruin that memory. He looked at me like I was important, like I was something to be cherished.
The memory’s implausible, I know. But, improbable or not, it’s a fantasy that has me impossibly aroused. I keep daydreaming about running my fingers through his silky looking hair as he kisses me. Everywhere.
“Are you even listening to me, Zadiebug?” Jenni’s shrill question interrupts my thoughts. “I swear, you’d think I was the wicked witch the way you avoid me.”
“I’m not avoiding you, Mom, don’t be silly. I’d love to see you but the drive is too long, and you know I can’t afford the flight,” I remind her. “Besides, I’d be lousy company, I’d probably spend the whole time in your bathroom, barfing.”
Not to mention, I don’t want to buy the groceries, cook the meal, or clean the dishes afterward. I know it would all be left up to me, since my mother’s version of cooking involves a drive-thru window.
Jenni’s not very motherly. She’s better with me now that I’m an adult and can fend for myself. But as a child, she never missed an opportunity to make me feel like a burden. I was her crux to bear for falling in love with a no-good loser like my father—who she also never bothered to marry.
“But Andy’s been looking forward t
o meeting you. We were hoping to finally meet your boyfriend, too.”
Pain courses bright and colorful through my head, heightening my wicked headache.
“Mom, I told you, Sean isn’t my boyfriend anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure if you give him a chance he’d be more than happy to make it up to you.” Like that’s an option, and if it was, like I’d ever be interested in taking it. “I bet he feels bad for running off. You can’t fault a man like that. He’s got all that talent, all that fame. His life is so much bigger than yours.”
Say fucking what?
“And yet, he’s still so small in so many ways.” A knock on my door saves me from getting into a verbal wrestling match with Jenni. “Listen, Mom, someone’s at the door, I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t be mad, Bug. You know I love you.”
“I love you too. Maybe I’ll be able to come home at Christmas, but I’ve really got to go now.”
“Okay, Bug, just remember what I said, take care of yourself. And don’t let your fancy French friend keep you away from me for too long.”
These are the moments I feel guilty for leaving her, for choosing to stay here. Despite our differences and my lingering bitterness, I know deep down she loves me. But I also know, if I were to go back home, I’d be stuck supporting her—both emotionally and financially. Not to mention, forced to give up everything I’ve started here, and made to face all the other mistakes I left behind.
Another knock rings out just as I manage to drag my sorry ass to the door. I don’t know if it’s dealing with my mother, the lack of sleep, or my crazy Caleb reveries—I feel robbed of all my energy. My skull feels pressurized.
With a loud huff, I open the door.
Standing on the other side is the man I’ve been obsessing over—the one I was recently imagining with his lips on me.
I’m suddenly, regrettably, aware of how I must look. My hair’s a wet pile of knots, my yoga pants area size too small, and my t-shirt does nothing to hide my bra-less nipples that tighten at the sight of him.
“Hi,” Caleb says, overly casual.
“Hi!” I squeak. Quickly, I cover my tender breasts with my hands. Which does nothing but make it look like I’m fondling myself.
He doesn’t laugh at me though. Sure, his eyes sparkle and his mouth quirks, but he does not laugh.
Embarrassment brings tears to my eyes—or maybe that’s the burning of the vomit crawling up my throat.
Shit. Why now?
Plastering a hand over my mouth, I race to the bathroom where I noisily lose the contents of my stomach. I retch, and I retch some more. Falling to my knees, vomit splashes the sides of the toilet as I try in vain to keep it in the bowl.
What a fucking disaster.
“Here,” his calm, concerned voice soothes as the toilet flushes and a cool cloth is pressed to my face. “Can you lean over this way?”
Feeling like a rag doll, Caleb helps prop me against the tub, where he’s placed a towel for me to lean on. With zero complaint and absolute proficiency, he manages to clean up my mess.
“Be right back, don’t move,” he instructs after washing his hands.
I don’t know where the hell I’d go, but I really wish it could be into a giant hole that magically opens in the floor.
My wish goes unfulfilled and he quickly returns with a glass of water.
“Thank you,” I manage, after regaining my composure. “I need to brush my teeth. Do you mind?” I point to my toothbrush.
Once again, he acts without hesitation. Loading my toothbrush with paste, he hands it to me. His smile, filled with compassionate concern. “Would you like to pull your hair up? Is there something I can get you for it?”
Ugh, my hair. It’s going to all fall out if I try anything with it. “No, it needs conditioner and a comb,” I tell him from around the toothbrush as I scrub the bile from my mouth.
“Okay.”
He digs through my bathroom cabinet. I don’t question what he’s doing. Instead, I take the opportunity to spit my mouthful of foam into the toilet while his back is to me.
“How’s this?” He turns, holding the very thing I’d been too lazy to get for myself.
“Perfect.” I admire his casual ease and the way his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, highlighting the gorgeous angles of his face.
Ignoring my outstretched hand, Caleb straddles the tub and goes to work on my tangles himself. He doesn’t bother with the comb, working the conditioner in with his hands. His fingers are magic. Soon, the soothing sweep of his hands through my hair turns to an erotic massage of my scalp.
At least, it feels erotic.
Even better than the foot massage.
I’m not sure how it’s possible, but the ache between my thighs has returned. The little toilet bowl incident—forgotten. It takes conscious effort to hold in any more embarrassing noises of appreciation.
“Feeling better?” he asks, his warm breath tickling my shoulder.
If I lie and tell him no, will he stay this close to me, forever?
“Yes. Much better, thank you.”
“Good. If you’re up for it, we should move you somewhere more comfortable than the bathroom floor.” He combs through my hair one last time.
“Thanks.” I accept his hand to help me off the floor and lean into him as he walks me to my living room. “I didn’t even ask why you’re here.”
“You left your backpack at our place.” He guides me to my couch, and I sink into it in embarrassment, trying not to show how much his touch affected me. “Chante asked me to bring it up to you. She thought you’d need it for school tomorrow.”
“I don’t have school tomorrow.”
“Huh. Maybe she thought you’d be studying.” He rakes a hand through his own hair, emphasizing its lusciousness, and the hard bulge of his biceps.
No, I decide, Chante isn’t concerned about my education—her only dedication is pushing Caleb in my face. Why is she trying so hard to tempt me?
Why is it working?
“Want to stay and watch another movie?” I ask.
“Are you feeling up for more horror flicks? After all that?” He points toward the bathroom, where the most recent massacre took place.
“I feel fine, but maybe we could watch a rom-com, instead?”
“Seems like a strange choice for a woman who doesn’t believe in love.” He smiles. It’s a sexy little smirk that does nothing to relieve the tension in my thighs. But it does remind me of the tightrope I’m walking. Another mistake trying to pull me down, instead of gravity.
“Just because I don’t believe in love doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good love story. They still make good movies,” I explain.
“You can pick whatever you like, but if I stay, I doubt I’ll pay attention to it.”
“What will you be paying attention to?”
“I think you already know the answer to that.” He takes a step toward me, his expression intent, his presence intense.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. My shirt brushes over my breasts, reminding me I’m still not wearing a bra—and I’m still really fucking turned on.
“Zadie, if I stay, I’m just going to be fantasizing about your mouth—about kissing you. And wondering if you’re thinking about it too.”
Bending down, he braces an arm on either side of me, one on the armrest and one on the back of the couch. He’s hovering over me, slowly gaining proximity as he searches my eyes.
“If I stay, we’re calling it a date,” he murmurs.
“Caleb...”
“I like it when you call me Cal.”
“Cal...”
The words on my tongue get lost as his lips meet mine. His mouth is gentle, just a brush against my own—so whisper soft, I wonder if I’m imagining it. I want to reach up and grab him, pull him into me. I want to touch his face and his hair. I want to find out if the rest of him feels as heavenly as his chest did last night.
But I hold back, r
iveted, as his lips linger, skating delicately over my own. My senses overload. His woodsy scent fills my nostrils. His lean body encompasses mine. And his mouth—his tantalizing fucking mouth—captures me in a caress so sweet, I’m swooning.
Can a touch this innocent even be called a kiss?
When he pulls his mouth away I want to protest. I want to demand that he get back here and give me more. But he’s still braced above me, looking at me like I’m a treasure he just found. I can’t bring myself to demand a thing.
“So, what’s it going to be?” he asks.
My stomach tosses again, but this time it’s not the morning sickness making me want to vomit—it’s guilt.
Shaking my head at him, I let my regret take over. I need to find my footing. I need to stop walking this fine line toward self-destruction. More importantly, I need to stop leading Caleb into my fray of devastation.
“Friends don’t date. They don’t kiss.” My mouth twists from the sour taste of my words. “And if they’re really good friends, they can pretend they don’t want those things—even when they do.”
“Okay,” he sighs, kissing the top of my head. “I think I’ll pass on the movie this time, friend.” He straightens, removing himself as my cocoon. “But call me if you’re ever in the mood for a superhero flick—they’re my favorite.”
“Of course they are. All that action, the fighting, stuff blowing up—aren’t they every guy’s favorite?” My words are light and teasing but my mood is bleak and bitter. The acid turning in my stomach threatens to make an appearance.
“What are you talking about?” He smiles playfully, seemingly unaffected by my rejection. “It’s not all conflict and warfare. There’s intricate storytelling involved. Superheroes have tragic backstories, identities that can never be revealed, and love interests they deny themselves. All for the sake of the greater good. They do it to save those who can’t save themselves. And they do it with flair.”
“It sounds heartbreaking when you put it that way.”
