She stiffens against me; then she draws back, eyes downcast. Her long lashes cast fluttering shadows on her pale cheeks. “I’m… I’m really tired. It just hit me. Maybe I should…” She glances down at the mattress beneath her and eyes the fluffy pillow—my pillow; I sold hers—with longing.
“Whatever. Sleep here,” I sigh, staggering to my feet and raking a hand back through my knotted hair. “I’ll take the air mattress tonight.”
“Are you sure?” Those eyes—so large and pretty and blue. Treacherously blue. The kind of blue that makes you forget who you are, what you really want, who you really want…
I tear my gaze away and stride over to the open door, resting my hand on the cool glass knob. “Yeah. It’s fine. Just for tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” My voice sounds tinny and emotionless to my ears—probably because I feel tinny and emotionless right now. Which is a good thing: Robot Molly is far better equipped to deal with this current predicament than Emotional Basket-case Molly, who would spend the night sobbing into her inflatable pillow. Robot Molly is simply going to feed the cat, reinflate the stupid air mattress, and go to sleep—blissful, dreamless, wretchedly uncomfortable sleep.
Or so I hope.
“Good night, Juliette,” I say as I begin to close the door.
“’Night, baby,” Juliette coos, lying on her back above the sheets with her legs splayed and her arms flung above her head: a deliberate pose. “Hey, if you dream of me tonight, remember that the real Juliette is only a staircase away…”
I don’t respond, only click the door closed and quietly descend the steps. Mona Lisa meets me on the bottom landing and nudges at my calves with her head, mewing while she flicks her thick black tail.
“C’mon, sweetie,” I tell her, still feeling delightfully numb as we walk to the kitchen, and as I fill the cat bowl with fish-shaped kibble. M.L. crouches over the bowl immediately and purrs as she nibbles. I watch her for a moment before bending down to scratch her soft head. She bends toward me appreciatively before returning to her feast.
Then I wander into the dark, mostly empty living room, where the air mattress has been set up upon the floorboards. The fitted sheet, I notice dimly, is still imprinted with Juliette’s shape.
I plug in the pump, insert the hose into the nozzle, and patiently wait for the mattress to rise and firm, testing it every so often with the heel of my hand. Finally, it feels firmish—as firm as I can hope for—and without undressing or even brushing my teeth, I throw myself onto the mattress, dragging the sheet and blankets off of the floor and arranging them over my body in a rumpled, messy mound.
I close my eyes and breathe in and out until the numbness gives way to an odd, fragile wonder of calm. I can’t imagine what’s causing it; realistically, I should feel anything but calm. Realistically, I should probably be breaking things, or drowning my sorrows in a bottomless bottle of wine. But I sold all of my breakable stuff, and the only alcohol in the house is of the rubbing variety.
Which is, given my mood, for the best.
Then I hear the music.
It’s rhythmic music, drum music, deep and sensual, wild and ecstatic. I feel every note as if the song is somehow originating from inside of me. As if it’s the song of my breath, my heart, my blood.
The thrill of it slowly, subtly wakens my dulled senses.
It makes me feel primal.
Powerful.
Alive.
And—I realize, as a rush of heat floods my limbs—it’s coming from the cottage.
I roll onto my stomach and look toward the window, though I can’t see the cottage from here, can’t see it from the house at all. But I still stare at the night beyond the glass and imagine Ash listening to the same beats: moving to it, painting to it, her hips and hands caught up in the bone-shaking rhythm.
I moan softly, flail onto my back, and pull the covers over my blushing face.
Before long, M.L.’s heavy paws depress the mattress. Still purring, she walks onto my stomach and begins to knead: a necessary, if painful, distraction. In gratitude, I snake one arm out of the blankets and begin to stroke her arching back.
“Sweet dreams, M.L.”
I close my eyes again, exhale a shaky breath, and force myself to think positively. And when that doesn’t work, I force myself to stop thinking altogether.
Things will seem a whole lot less complicated in the morning—I hope.
---
Terry hands me a list of sixty-seven names. Each name is accompanied with an Internet URL, email address, and phone number.
“Have fun, Mol,” he says, as he whirls to leave.
I gaze down at the printout blearily, my eyes scanning the words in slow, uncomprehending blinks. “What—”
“Local artists,” he explains, still aiming toward my open office door.
“Local artists,” I repeat, shaking my head. I watch him thoughtfully, letting the page flutter from my grasp to my desk. “Wait. Hey. You all right?”
Terry turns around and shrugs, but he looks more stressed out than usual; his wrinkled green shirt has a dangling buttonhole, and his crooked glasses are tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I’m kind of mystified by the fact that they haven’t fallen off of his face.
“I’m fine, just pressed for time. Are you all right, Molly?”
“Me? Oh… Sure. Never better.” I shape my mouth into something that feels like a smile, but Terry’s eyes pop, as if he’s just seen something terrifying. Like a spider.
Or a clown.
I really, really…really hate clowns.
So I let the smile fade out into a more natural, if somewhat grim, line. “Of course,” I amend, “that depends on how you define better.”
He tilts his head—which causes his glasses to balance even more precariously upon his nose. “Tough morning, hmm?”
I nod vaguely. Tough isn’t the word I would have chosen—try unbelievable or traumatic or what the hell?!—but it was close enough.
Juliette had made me breakfast in bed. Her specialty: undercooked eggs and burnt toast. A sweet gesture, I suppose, though I nearly choked on a hard-as-rock crust and still feel ill from the memory of those runny green yolks.
How Juliette turned the yolks green is a mystery I decided to leave unsolved. I didn’t even make any Sam-I-am jokes as I ate them. With the anxiety I’ve been experiencing lately, I can deal with a little indigestion.
What I could not stomach was the fact that Juliette served the food in her birthday suit and a dangerous-looking pair of hot pink high heels.
Okay, she was wearing an apron.
A see-through apron.
With expertly placed peek-a-boo holes.
When I asked her, “Where did you even find an apron like that?” she fluttered her lashes and answered demurely, “Paris, baby,” and then whirled around to give me a view of her bare backside, framed all around like a work of art with (hand-crocheted, she told me) black lace.
I gulped down my eggs and toast as quickly as possible, shielding my eyes from the French-maid-gone-wild show. Juliette produced a black feather duster from who-knows-where and proceeded to dust the floor, the walls, even the cat: anything that required her to bend over.
I carefully refrained from comment.
Then, after promising Juliette that we would have dinner together in the evening to iron out the terms of our separation, I threw on my work clothes and snuck out the front door.
Now I give Terry a wry look. “I guess things could be worse. I haven’t run over anybody with my car today. Yet.”
“See? That’s a huge positive. And I noticed that bike’s finally been removed from your front fender.”
“Yeah. Pauline’s boyfriend Brad took care of it for me. He’s great.”
With a sympathetic smile, Terry shoves his glasses back into position and points at the discarded list on my desk. “You asked me to gather names for you, possible gala participants. Remember?”
&
nbsp; “I remember, but…” I tap a finger on my temple in an attempt to jumpstart my sluggish brain. I skim the list and sigh: none of the names looks familiar. “Do you know these people? Have you been to their openings? Seen any of their work?”
“Nope, not a one.” He shrugs apologetically, slouching against the frame and jamming his hands into his pants pockets. “That there is the result of some frantic, overcaffeinated Googling. Sorry, Mol. I’ve got to drive out to Green Mills to check out the band that offered to play at the gala pro bono. Their music sounds great online, but I figured I should audit one of their live performances before we delve into scary contract talks.”
“What are they called again?”
“The Flaming Maggots. How could you forget a name like that?”
“Brain cloud, I guess.” I glare up at the fluorescent bulbs over my head and soak in their sallow, depressing light. Then I gaze into my empty coffee mug and sigh. “Three hundred more cups of coffee, and I’ll be the life of the party. Or…of the office. Museum. Did you say The Flaming Maggots?”
“Yep.”
I smile—for real this time. “That’s perfect.”
“Isn’t it? I can see the billboard advertisement now…” His eyes grow misty and point up toward the ceiling, as if he’s conjuring his dream billboard in the stale office air. “The old ladies of Normal are going to flip their wigs. No, wait. That’s sexist. If we do our job right, I expect the old men to engage in mass wig-flipping, too.”
The ridiculous visual makes me laugh. “Put one of Ash’s paintings on your billboard, and there will be so much wig-flipping, it’ll cause a small weather disturbance.”
“You think she’s that hot, huh?”
I angle Terry a suspicious look. “Are we still talking about artwork here?”
He starts to nod but then shakes his head, mouth slanting wickedly. “You know what they say: the human body is nature’s finest masterpiece.”
“True,” I agree. I feel my cheeks burn as my mouth slides into a sideways grin. “And, yeah, she’s hot. Both artistically and…otherwise.”
“That’s awesome, Molly.” Terry gives me a winning smile, his best smile, the one that always makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay—even if he doesn’t believe things will be okay at all. Today, though, the smile only halfway convinces me, and I think he can tell: his mouth droops into a sudden frown. He looks like a boy who just let go of his helium balloon. He can’t catch it; all he can do is watch it drift higher and higher into the sky.
“So…” He breathes out and ruffles his messy black hair with his palm. “Is Ash on board for the gala, then?”
“As of last night,” I say, brightening. “Actually, I may have…suggested—or outright promised—that she would be the gala’s featured artist, and I know I need your approval for that, and you can totally veto it if you want, but I think, once you see her paintings, you’ll just…” I search for the proper words and, failing to find them, gesture helplessly, waving my hands around in the air. “Terry, she’s incredible.”
“Obviously. You’re blushing like a lovesick cartoon character.”
“I kind of am, aren’t I?”
“Feet fluttering above the ground. Big pulsating hearts in your eyes.”
I duck my head and begin to fold and unfold the list of artists, subconsciously attempting to make an origami heart. I used to make paper hearts in elementary school whenever I was bored—and to disguise notes passed to my friends—but I guess I haven’t been bored enough lately, because my folding produces something that looks less like a heart and more like a wide, hungry mouth. A crocodile mouth. I unfold the page and smooth it over my desk, biting my bottom lip.
“Blushing suits you, Molly. Much better than that I’d-rather-be-crying-in-the-janitor’s-closet look you’ve been wearing around here the past couple of months.” Terry’s expression softens as he gazes at me. “I’ve missed seeing you happy.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as happy…”
He inclines his head, mouth downturned. “There’s potential for happy, though?”
I sink into my chair, thinking of my “date” with Ash tonight, and remembering her drum music from the night before: its rhythms filled my dreams for hours. She filled my dreams. Her mouth trailing along every aching inch of my body; her long, lean length pressed against me, hip to hip; her tattooed arms holding me so close, impossibly close, as her lips claimed mine again and again…
It was transcendent.
It was…wow.
I owe Mr. Sandman some massive favors. My dream life is immeasurably sexier than my waking life, but I can’t help hoping that these dreams are prophetic. Steamy portents of steamy things to come.
I lick my lips. “There’s potential.”
“Well, when I catch you zip-a-dee-doo-dahing down the boulevard, I’ll know your happiness has reached its…climax.” Terry raises one black brow suggestively.
“Men are so gross,” I faux sigh, dramatically rolling my eyes and tossing a paper clip in his direction. “Sex on the brain.”
“Hey, I have it on good authority—my wife’s, in fact—that women think about sex pretty often, too. And judging by your Quinacridone Red cheeks, Miss Mason—”
“I’m just…overheated. That’s all. Hey, it’s August. People get, you know, flushed.” But my grin gives me away, and I cover my face with my hair sheepishly. “All right, all right! I think about sex—a lot. Tons. All the time. Are you satisfied now?”
“Yep.” He winks, laughing. But then his eyes flick to the clock above my desk, and his mouth twitches into a penitent frown. “Sorry, Molly. I’ve really got to run. I’m not sure how long the band’s stage set is, and if I miss it, I won’t have another chance to hear the Maggots live before the gala.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll…” With a sigh, I glance down at the wrinkled list of names and numbers. “I’ll start calling up some temperamental artists and bribing them with, um… What do we have to offer? Free food?”
“Hey, it’s all about prestige. You show your work in a museum—no matter how tiny and insignificant that museum is—and you’ve got resume gold.” Terry pauses, then smirks. “But, yeah, mention the free food.”
I salute. “Drive safe.”
“Thanks,” he says. And then he calls back over his shoulder, loud enough for any patron—if we actually had any patrons at the moment, which we don’t—to hear, “And you practice safe sex!”
An involuntary smile spreads over my face.
I don’t know what’s going to happen with Ash tonight. Maybe we’ll just hang out, talk, have another shut-eyed art lesson, then say good night and part ways.
Still…I shaved my legs, just in case.
Before anything happens with Ash, though, I have to endure an awkward dinner with Juliette in my house. At the thought, the grin dies on my lips and kind of rots there, like a creepy, zombified smile.
I intend to spend my lunch break scouring the Internet for theater auditions and cheap apartments, because the sooner Juliette and I bid one another adieu, the better chance I have for surviving this live-in ex-girlfriend ordeal sans straitjacket.
For now, though, I have to concentrate on work and the gala. Terry and I are operating in fast-forward motion. Yesterday we put our heads together, added up some numbers, hyperventilated, and then crossed our fingers and decided to steamroll ahead with our plans as quickly as is humanly possible.
Once we make some financial progress, we’ll both be able to breathe again—as far as the museum is concerned, at least.
I pick up my phone receiver and dial the first number on Terry’s list.
“Gina Rivera? Hi, my name is Molly Mason. No, no, you don’t know me. But I have a proposition for you…”
---
Juliette lifts the tea towel from my plate with all the flourish of a chef revealing her signature dish. “Dinner, mademoiselle, is served.” She smiles at me expectantly, waving her hand over the food Vanna White-style and
watching my face for a reaction.
“Um…” I lift my brows and bite my bottom lip—a delaying tactic. Because I’m so shocked by the sight before me that my brain has forgotten how to form words.
“What do you think, baby?”
“I…think…you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just a little recipe I brought back from Paris. This is my first time attempting escargot—can you believe it? It looks just like the stuff in the restaurants, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t really know,” I answer quietly, closing my eyes halfway and willing my stomach to stop gurgling—to no avail. “Juliette, you know I don’t eat meat—”
“But snails aren’t meat! They’re just…snails. Hey, imagine they’re made of tofu. They’re squishy like tofu. And I had to beg a delivery boy from that posh grocery store across town to deliver them on credit. It was a major headache. Anyway, don’t you want to expand your horizons, mature your taste palate? Baby, all you’ve got in the cupboard is oatmeal, for God’s sake. Live a little!”
I regard the four coiled shells on my plate for a moment, ignoring their gushy insides, and swallow the urge to vomit my lunch—which consisted of an apple from the break room fruit basket, half of Georgie’s egg salad sandwich, and some stale, tepid coffee.
I offer Juliette a pained smile. “I appreciate the effort. You went above and beyond my expectations. And, I think, my kitchen utensils’ capabilities. But I just can’t…” I swallow again, wincing. “I just can’t, okay?”
“Okay. Whatever, Molly,” she says, her tone as cold as ice. “But this stuff is expensive; I won’t let it go to waste.” Then, staring hard into my eyes, Juliette begins to pick up the snails from my plate one by one and suck out their goopy insides.
With exaggerated slurpiness.
I cover my mouth with one hand and grip my stomach with the other, but my eyes, full moon-wide, are fixed; they simply refuse to look away.
Drawn to You Page 12
