by Lila Monroe
So maybe he lives in a concrete studio with a bare mattress in the corner of the room and stolen paper towels for TP. I can deal with that.
“You better be worth it,” I mutter, following him blindly up the stairs.
“What was that?” he asks, flipping on a light.
I stop. “Nothing . . .” I say.
I take it all back. We’re standing in a massive loft space with exposed brick and pipework running down the walls. It’s cool and industrial and definitely better than a dorm room. “Wait, what was all that talk about Todd being loaded? Because I’m sorry, but you’re hardly one to talk.”
“There’s a big difference between fifteen hundred square feet in Brooklyn Yard and over here,” he grins. “I’m praying they move a Starbucks in soon, and I didn’t just sink my life savings into a total loss.”
“You own this place?” My voice goes up an octave. “I’m crashing on my friend Della’s couch with my worldly possessions in a suitcase! What do you do?” I demand. “Are you like one of those awful hipster-prenuers they write about in the newspaper, the ones who start a local small-batch brewing company and become instant millionaires?”
“Hipster? You wound me.” He clutches his chest, and I smirk.
“Uh, take a look in the mirror.”
He sighs. “I need a new wardrobe. And no, I’m not. My grandmother helped me out with the deposit on this place, she left me some money when she passed. And right now, I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m working for this buddy of mine, running a concierge service, but I don’t know . . . I think he’s about to fold.”
“Concierge?” I move closer as Jacob goes to pour us some drinks. “You mean like getting concert tickets for tourists?”
“Pretty much. At least, that’s how it started. But I love it when we get weird requests, like last week, some guy wanted us to find a first-edition vinyl pressing of Fleetwood Mac for an anniversary gift. Do you know how hard those things are to find?”
I shake my head. Jacob is looking weirdly animated as he passes me my drink.
“I wound up tracking down the liner notes and calling everyone who worked on the record. In the end, I found the guy who ran the recording studio, back in ’78, and got him to check his attic. He had a whole box, mint condition, he’d forgotten he even had.” Jacob looks so proud, it’s like he brought in a fresh carcass for the pride. Then he deflates. “But my partner doesn’t know how to run a business. We’ve got about six months before the investors pull their funding.”
“So go solo,” I shrug. “People always want what they can’t have, right? You could be the guy who gets it for them.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He swishes whiskey in his glass. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I groan. “I want to be a curator, but there are five thousand of us chasing the same six jobs. So you’re looking at the deputy assistant manager, shoe department.” I do a little curtsy, and he grins.
“Does that mean you can hook me up with a pair of those heels?”
I laugh, and kick them off one by one. “Knock yourself out,” I say, and then sigh happily. “Oh my god, that’s better.”
I don’t want to dwell on my professional failures, so I take a sip of whiskey and wander around, barefoot, looking at his stuff.
“You’re a movie guy?” I ask, surprised. There are framed prints of The Maltese Falcon and In a Lonely Place, Cool Hand Luke, and more. Was it possible that this guy has an actual soul underneath all that cocky jadedness? He certainly has good taste, that’s for sure. Not that I’d ever tell him as much.
“Those guys knew a thing or two about being men,” Jacob replies. “They didn’t take anyone’s shit.”
“Oh, right, you mean in the good ol’ days, where men were men, and women knew their place. Real original.”
“Says the girl who probably has a picture of Audrey Hepburn on her wall.” Jacob shoots back, and I stop. Busted. Well, it was college!
“Yeah, that’s all well and good,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, “but what about romance? I mean, isn’t that what most of these films are? Romances?”
“Nope,” he says, refilling his glass. “It’s an illusion. A way to get women into bed. Nothing more.”
“Oh, so love’s an illusion, romance is an illusion . . .” I nod, remembering how cynical he was back at the bar. I’d almost forgotten, what with the petty revenge and smoldering good looks, but clearly, this bitterness ran deep. “I’m sensing a pattern here. You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, you know.”
“Speaking of . . .” Jacob strolls over to a record player and picks out an old vinyl record. Frank Sinatra. Curiouser and curiouser.
“So . . . the music, the posters . . . are they like props?” I ask, trying to figure him out. “You lure women into your web with the promise of old-fashioned romance and then boot them out into the cold light of day empty-handed?”
“Well, not empty-handed exactly,” he grins, shooting me a devilish look and running one hand over the rough stubble on his face. Immediately, I blush, picturing how that sandpapery skin might feel against my thighs . . .
Jacob strolls closer, and my heart stops. Because I’m actually doing this. The no-strings NYE rebound I’ve been talking about. My mind goes blank, and I try to think of something witty and charming to say, but before I can do anything, he’s kissing me. His mouth is hot on mine, tasting of the sting of whiskey, and he kisses me hard and deep until I want to devour him.
Hot, cocky, drunk, and an excellent kisser . . .
Mmmm . . . I sink my teeth into his lower lip, biting softly until he groans, and I feel it all the way between my thighs. We stumble back onto the couch, making out like a couple of teenagers, and then he’s pulling my skirt off with practiced hands, laying me out right there on the leather.
Part of my brain is screaming WTF, this is going from zero to sixty in ten seconds flat, but then he nudges my thighs apart and strokes against my clit and I don’t give a shit.
This feels too good to hit the brakes.
I moan, pressing against his hand as he pushes my panties aside. He kisses my neck and bites down gently on my neck and damn, it’s been too long. Too long since I felt this hot, like every nerve in my body is wound tight and screaming for release. Jacob grinds against me, and god, I want him right now. Because Todd may have been many things, but sexy . . . ? Well, let’s just say he left a thing or two to be desired.
And by thing, I mean, my clit and how to find it.
“Uh, hello?”
I snap back and find Jacob looking at me.
“Sorry. I was just thinking about Todd.”
Jacob gives me a look. “Not exactly the words a man wants to hear right about now.” He strokes my clit again, sure circles, then delves deeper to dip his fingers in my already-soaking pussy. I moan. “Better.” He gives me a knowing look. “Let me guess, Asshole Todd didn’t know how to find your G-spot.”
He looks so smug right now, I almost lie. Then he pulses his finger up inside me, and fuck, that’s better than sodium thiopental for truth serum because I’ll say just about anything to make him do it again.
“The G-spot is a myth,” I gasp, clinging to my self-control. Sure, he’s driving me crazy right now, but that doesn’t mean he gets to be so smug about it. “It’s an illusion, like romance, right?”
“Wrong.” Jacob pulses inside me again, leaning in to nip my earlobe. “Count yourself lucky I’m here to enlighten you.”
“God, you’re insufferable,” I manage, just as he yanks my top up and closes his mouth around one of my breasts. He flicks my nipple with his tongue and I clench around his fingers. “Totally . . . utterly . . . annoying . . . ”
“Hush, woman.” Jacob rolls his eyes. “I’m working here.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then he slides another finger in, stretching me wider, and my complaint turns to a whimper.
“Better,” he says. “Now, keep quiet, and let me prove
you wrong.”
Ordinarily, that kind of arrogant instruction would send me running for the door, but it’s kind of hard to run with your legs spread wide and a hot guy kissing his way down your body, and with every inch of skin so sensitive that just a touch sets my whole body on fire.
Fuck you, I tell him silently, as Jacob pulls my panties off. Fuck you and your cynical bullshit, and your superiority complex, and the fact you called me “woman,” and—
Holy shit!
He licks up against my clit and I suddenly couldn’t care less about his attitude because OH. MY. GOD. What he’s doing with his tongue is probably illegal in five states, and I never want it to stop.
He licks faster, and slides his fingers back into my pussy, moving them back and forth in a way that I never knew I wanted, a way that feels completely necessary for my very fucking survival. I’m panting now, my breath coming hard, and I grab his head and push it harder against me.
He laughs against me, a rumble against my clit, and I don’t even care that he’s winning the argument because his fingers curl higher and his tongue swirls lightly over me and I’m quivering from the inside out as I climb higher and higher and then, holy fuck, I’m there, I’m almost there, and it’s too fucking good, and this guy was right, Todd had no idea, no ideas at all, and he’s . . . he’s . . .
Stopped?
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, trying to hold onto the high. “More. Fuck, I’ll beg if you want me to.”
There’s no reply.
In fact, there’s no movement of any kind at all.
I look down. He’s splayed across my legs, face down in my crotch. I lift his head to check. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and regular. Is he . . . asleep?
Jacob lets out a muffled snore.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
I sit up so that his cheek now drops gently down to rest on the couch instead of my bare thigh. How can this even be possible? What kind of guy passes out with his face buried in your pussy, no matter how drunk he is?
This guy, apparently.
My cheeks burning with embarrassment and disbelief, I swing my legs around, watching for any signs of life. I hold a hand in front of his nose to make sure he’s still breathing, which thank god he is, because the only thing worse than having a guy fall asleep in my crotch would be having him die there.
I untangle myself, stepping over his prostrate body, grab my panties and skirt from the floor where he dropped them, and quickly pull them over my hips, sure the rustling noise will wake him, but it doesn’t. He’s out cold. So cold apparently even my half-naked body couldn’t keep his attention.
Way to go, Lizzie. Sex with you is so boring, they pass out.
I grab my coat and walk over to the door, flipping the lock open, which seems horrifically loud in the stillness of the room. Not that it seems to bother him any. I look back at him, splayed out on the couch motionless, and muffle a sigh. Why does this kind of stuff only happen to me? I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a moment dejectedly. Okay, fine, maybe it didn’t only happen to me, but I also know for a fact that it would never happen to Ingrid Bergman, that’s for sure. Not in a million years.
Well, screw him. Screw him, and Todd, and every other person standing between me, my dreams, and the orgasms I deserve. This year is toast, and the next one is going to be better. I swear it: old pushover Lizzie is done. Watch out world, I’m coming. Or at least, I will be, once I’m back with my trusty vibrator and a locked door.
It’s time to move the fuck on, starting now. Todd is in the past, and this guy too. Because hey, at least I never have to see him again in my life.
Right?
5
Jake
I shake Lizzie’s hand, but for some reason, she doesn’t drop it. She’s staring at me like I’ve just run over her kitten without so much as an apology. “Nice to meet you,” I say, trying to take my hand back. “This is a nice, uh, office you have down here.”
“Are you serious?” she asks, shooting daggers from her blue eyes.
I blink. Okaaay, not the usual reaction I get from women, but then again, I was just lying through my teeth. It’s not so much an office as a weird den crammed floor-to-ceiling with movie memorabilia and art, buried in the depths of the museum so deep I took two wrong turns just getting here. “It’s interesting,” I correct myself. “Eclectic.” I drift over to a cabinet and pick up a weird statue. “This is a nice . . . ?”
“Reproduction Greek fertility goddess.”
I drop it so fast she snorts. “Don’t worry,” she says, “it’s not infectious.”
“You can never be too careful.” I flash her a smile, the kind that usually melts and drops panties in equal measure, but she’s still watching me with undiluted loathing. It’s a shame, because she’s got that whole hot librarian thing going on behind her red cat-eye glasses and those dark bangs. She’s wearing a pencil skirt that nips in at her waist, the fussy blouse hiding what look like ample curves below. Most of all, I’m staring at her lips, which are slightly parted and blood red, waiting for me to say something . . .
“Well, I just wanted to drop by and say hi in person,” I say, backing towards the door. She seemed nice enough over email, but maybe this is why they stashed her in the basement, so she doesn’t scare people away. “Nice to meet you, Lizzie.”
“Nice to meet you too, Jacob,” she says, a little sarcastically, and I get the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
I know her from somewhere, but where . . . ?
I look at her again. A bar, maybe? The coffee shop . . . ?
Then Lizzie reaches to tuck her hair behind her ears, and suddenly, it all comes rushing back to me.
She’s the girl from New Year’s Eve. The one who went on a petty revenge spree, with me along for the ride. Her hair is different—it was longer then—and she wasn’t wearing those glasses either, but it’s definitely her.
Shit.
“Lizzie. Elizabeth. Now I remember.” I try another charming smile. “How have you been? You look great, by the way. The hair really suits you.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me!”
“I do!”
“After like ten minutes!” she exclaims. “Jesus, how many women have you been with if we’re all just a blur to you?”
I’m ready to argue, but even I can admit she’s got a point. After Isabel . . . well, let’s just say I spent some time working out my issues. In every possible position. “I’m sorry,” I admit. “That night wasn’t exactly my finest moment, not by a long shot.”
“You’re telling me,” she smirks, and something about her expression makes me stop.
“Wait, do you remember what happened?” I ask. “The last thing I remember is bringing you up to my apartment and having some stupid argument about movies. And drinking whiskey. Lots of whiskey.”
“Uh huh.” She taps at her computer, a smile playing on the edge of her lips. Damn, she’s going to make me work for it.
“Then . . . it’s all a blur.” I think hard, but for some reason, I can’t picture it. “But based on your frosty reaction right now, I’m guessing we hooked up?”
“Warm.” She still doesn’t look up.
“Made out?” I try again, frowning. No way would she be this mad if we just kissed a little.
“Warmer.”
Now I remember: she drove me crazy with that smart mouth of hers. “You’re going to have to help me out here.” I try not to snap. “Look, clearly I offended you by not remembering, but I’m sure we can be mature adults here and not play games.”
“You can be as mature as you want.” Lizzie shoots me a sunny smile. “I kind of like games. And I’ll be right here waiting for my apology when you finally remember what went down.” She smirks again, and I feel a surge of frustration. Dammit, I’m the one who usually has the upper hand with women, and it’s already getting under my skin that this girl knows something
I don’t.
“Fine,” I drawl, acting like I don’t give a fuck.
Her phone chirps with a text, and she grabs it. A smile spreads across her face.
“Good news?” I ask.
She looks up, blank-faced, as if she’s forgotten I’m still here.
“Just some guy I had a date with the other night.” She shrugs as though it means nothing, but I can tell she’s excited, the color high in her cheeks. “Says he wants to treat me to a night of romance.”
“Romance,” I sigh. “We’re back to that again?”
“Oh, that’s right,” she says, snapping her fingers triumphantly. “I almost forgot. You’re the cynic. Romance is an illusion, blah blah blah?”
“Basically, yes.” I glare, remembering our fight. “Don’t tell me that you still believe in that stuff. After all that shit your ex pulled with you?
“Oh no,” she says with a tone tinged with disbelief, pointing at the cluttered walls. “People just keep leaving this stuff in my office for some reason! Who knows why?”
Her face looks so innocent and guileless that I have to laugh out loud.
“So whatever happened with Douchebro Todd, anyway?” I ask, trying to disguise my laugh with a cough and changing the subject, since for some reason I can’t stand letting her have the upper hand. “Did he show back up and apologize? Bring flowers? Get down on one knee like this poor sap over here?” I nod to the painting behind her on the wall.
Okay, so I know I’m being a dick, but I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s her eyes flashing at me behind her glasses, or the fact that I can practically see sparks fly when she crosses and uncrosses her legs.
“Nope,” she snaps, taking off her glasses and rubbing them on her sweater. “From what I hear he’s still very happy with Harmony. I’ve moved on. I met this guy on Tinder, and I think it could really be something.”
