A crazy busy week with zero Talia communication just confirmed the fact that I had nothing to tell. Halloween came and I found myself with a sexy nurse on my arm. Decked in fishnets and black patent thigh-high boots. Score. Her skirt was so short that if she coughed I saw her ass, just how I liked it. Alone, preferably near a bed. But unfortunately, I was standing in the middle of a grand foyer made to look like an insanely realistic graveyard. If he weren’t a six-figure client who paid for a good portion of my livelihood, I would not have been here. This was not my scene. I did parties; I did women. I didn’t do sleaze.
“Craig, what the hell are you supposed to be?” This guy was kidding me dressed as Fred Flintstone. Really. “Actually, forget it.” He directed his attention to my date. “Lovely, this old man is in need of a personal nurse. Please say you’ll consider the job.”
My date politely giggled, but I didn’t miss her grasp on my arm tighten. Smart girl.
“Think you’re in capable hands.” I gestured toward Marcus Powell’s pubescent escort. Wasn’t Pebbles the daughter? Sick.
Marcus got my message. “Excellent point, counselor.” He pinched Pebbles’ ass. Dirtball. “Make yourself at home.” He waved his hand in both directions without lifting his creepy gaze above my date’s cleavage. I could have sworn I felt goose bumps rise over her flesh.
“Let’s get a drink, Asher.” She tugged on my arm, leading me away from Mr. Flintstone. This was why business should be left in the boardroom. Another five minutes in his company and he was going to need a new lawyer to close his next deal. Eighteen mill or not.
Surrounded by dirty old men with questionably legal arm candy, we ponied ourselves up to the spider web-covered bar and ordered a quick drink. Shocker, she ordered a fruity cosmopolitan, and so began the mindless chatter. Eyeing the candy fishbowl, my mind wondered to what a certain classy blonde doctor was doing tonight. No doubt, not this.
Trick or treating in Manhattan when we were kids was dumb. You were only allowed in your own building, and the nicer buildings (where we were lucky enough to live) discouraged guests so you couldn’t even hang with your friends. Really dumb, actually. We were probably nine or so when the four of us boycotted and opted for double-header movies. Every year, same theatre, same time. Until we hit high school and the Coltons forced Chase and Kim to show face at their annual masquerade event. Charity, my ass. But Talia insisted the two of us continue the tradition. She picked one flick, usually an action movie, and I picked the other, always a horror. Like it mattered. For a few hours straight, my brain would bounce between horny and rational. My dilemma was sitting in the dark next to the hottest girl I knew but unable to do jack shit because she was my best friend. Four hour hard-ons seriously sucked.
My patience for this mandatory appearance dwindled, not to mention my internal trip down memory lane had me a little tense and way more interested in seeing how fishnets and thigh highs were going to look on my bedroom carpet. So I tossed a Benjamin in the tip jar and stood up. “Come on, sweetheart, what do you say we get out of here?”
“No argument here, counselor.”
All right, she was pretty damn cute too. I helped her off her stool, but not before I pocketed a box of candy. We skipped the goodbyes; no need to degrade ourselves any further, the welcoming was plenty. Then I took her back to my place, relieved my tension, and proved my theory. Yup, they looked way better on my carpet. Even if they belonged to the wrong woman.
By six AM I was a puddle of sweat. Always an early riser. Didn’t matter that I got to sleep around three, after I drove nurse Jackie home. Clips from last night fueled my workout. I was usually pretty regimented in my routine, but upper body training wasn’t cutting it today, so I killed the rope for a solid hour. Still couldn’t shake it. Shit. I sent the rope sailing across the hardwood floor of my penthouse apartment, the crash of the handles echoing through the mostly empty space. Grabbing my pants off my bedroom floor, I fished through the pockets to find what I was looking for. A two-hour sexcapade last night and this was all that was on my mind.
I toweled my wet face, plopped down on the leather sofa, and shook the small box. Screw it.
Trick-or-treat?
You’re a few hrs late.
Fine, no treat for you, I’ll eat them all.
Why r u awake?
Nothing. I waited. Finally.
Couldn’t sleep- damn horror movies
And hot tamales can rot your teeth ;)
Fuck me. Two things. One, where was the douche whose job it was to make sure she was asleep? She always hated my horror movie choice but at least my shoulder was the perfect place for her to hide her eyes. And two, she remembered. Not a gig would go by that I didn’t feed that girl’s addiction. Addiction was putting it lightly—it was more like an obsessive-compulsive Hot Tamale disorder. If such a thing existed. To this day I held stock in Just Born. I kept that family-owned business afloat. This just reconfirmed why.
No shoulder to hide your eyes?
And only the HT expert would know that truth
Miss those little red spicy guys
That’s an easy fix.
ETA 2 weeks.
I hit send without thinking. Oh well, I guessed it was decided. I was going. Period.
My plane landed at San Diego International Airport. I was here for business. Well, that was what I told Talia. I hadn’t done business in San Diego in ten years, but no one said I couldn’t. A conference call from my hotel room counted. Right? I could easily make that happen, piece of cake. And a quick lunch with an old associate from my firm. Done. Definitely in San Diego for business. But there was only one real reason my ass sat on a six-hour flight. Her. And after battling some reluctance, I finally got her to agree to drinks tonight. I wasn’t sure how I would have responded to flat out refusal. Thrilled I didn’t have to find out.
With my bag tossed over my shoulder, I stood in line for a cab. There was no rush. I definitely didn’t need a car service. I had five hours to kill before we were meeting.
“Where to, sir?” The cab driver opened the trunk for my bag.
“The Grand del Mar.”
“Nice choice.”
I nodded and slid into the back seat.
Still on for tonight?
Would suck if she canceled. I still hadn’t found the balls to ask about the Wall Street Douche. He never came up in a text over the last month, so I decided to play the ignorance and denial cards. They beat the hell out of truth you were hoping wasn’t true any day of the week.
Yeah- might be a few minutes late
No problem.
I’ll pick you up.
I went for it. Two and a half seconds later my phone rang with an unidentified number, California area code.
“Hey, you. You know they have this thing called GPS? An address would have sufficed. You didn’t need an excuse like directions to call me.” Point: Ace. Two-Two.
“Oh, um-”
Huh. She sounded on edge.
“Look, it’s probably a better idea if I just meet you. I have a full schedule of patients, and my office is already downtown. This way you don’t have to drive, or we can just reschedule another time, and-”
The Talia I knew didn’t ramble. She was nervous. Hell, about meeting me?
“Hey, no problem. Whatever’s easier for you.” She was the one who picked today because she said she only had morning office hours. But she was obviously wigged out, so I passed on reminding her. “Look, take your time, see your patients. I have back-to-back meetings, so later works better for me, too.” That shit just flew out of my mouth. Could I be any more of a pussy? I glanced down; my dick was still there. Just checking.
The line was quiet until she ended the awkward silence. “Okay.”
Her okay was far from convincing. Okay, at least we were still meeting. Not okay was how tentative she sounded about it. Forget everything else, forget that my balls squeezed every time my phone chimed since we reconnected, forget the pervy fact that I got off more tha
n once fantasizing about her sick legs since she sent me that pool picture, and forget that she might have a serious boyfriend (douche or not)—we had almost thirty years of history behind us. You name a childhood memory and we shared it. The innocent, the embarrassing, the downright tragic. The confident free-spirited beauty who danced barefoot on stage wearing her favorite pair of my old jeans would have had no problem turning my ass down if she wasn’t interested, without it interfering with our friendship. Been there, done that. My Talia didn’t do awkward. But that was my Talia from twenty years ago. People change. Suddenly I was less concerned with relieving the throb in my pants and more concerned with finding that girl again.
“See you then.” I hung up before this Talia could say anything else.
I paused at the entrance of the dimly lit bar. I was happy with the vibe. Good music. Modern. Loungy. I liked it. After a quick scan because I was early, I strolled up to the edge of the bar and lifted my chin to get the bartender’s attention. I couldn’t help but smile, she wasn’t late. That drink could wait. She was here and looking sexy as shit. Sitting at the far end of the bar, I freely gawked. If anyone was watching me I would have looked bizarrely stalkerish. A few loose tendrils hung loosely around her model face. Her long lashes brushed gently against her cheeks as she sipped her bubbly and tapped away on her phone. She wore another one of her tailored suits that clung to every curve perfectly with hot as hell black heels. And her flawless skin still had a sun-kissed glow resembling an early summer day. The truth was I needed a minute to swallow down the small lump that had formed in my throat and regain my composure. I would have questioned my gender again if I hadn’t felt the swell. This woman seemed to unleash emotions I never knew existed. Bottom line, I was relieved—not that I didn’t think she was going to show up, but because she did. Her hesitancy and rambling earlier was, well—not her. My stomach tightened and filled with butterflies. The good kind. The kind that felt right. The kind I had only ever felt when she unleashed her killer pipes reaching those notes only she could, exposing that area inside, down deep. That vulnerable spot. I didn’t do vulnerable. And I definitely didn’t do emotional. I crushed hard as a teenager, but in nineteen years things change—I changed. This reaction wasn’t me. But I wasn’t sure how to stop it or even if I wanted to.
I stepped out of the bar lights and into the shadows, avoiding her eyes. Selfishly I was enjoying the quietness and simplicity of the moment. With her sculpted bare legs crossed, she rested against the back of the leather stool. She unconsciously clicked her loose heel to the rhythm of the music. I smiled, reminiscing about how she always used to do that. I guess in a sea of change there were some things that didn’t. But what held my attention was a thin line of faded black that curved along the arch of her foot. It almost looked like a design, but there was definitely writing immersed. This classy, sophisticated Talia and a tat almost seemed like an oxymoron.
“Hey, you, when’d you ink yourself?” I grinned when her head snapped up at the sound of my voice. Guess grins were catchy.
“No filter, typical.” She touched her glass to her lips and sipped while struggling to tame her smile. I grabbed her heel and brought her foot up into the light.
I did a double-take then traced the ink with the pad of my thumb. “You really etched our high school band name permanently into your skin? Oh Dr. Pryce, I bet you’re regretting that impulsive teenage decision.” Of course my mouth was jealous of my thumb, so I dipped down and kissed her cheek.
She jerked her foot from my grasp. “Leave it, Ace,” she muttered, not making eye contact. Not the reaction I was expecting. I knew she loved our band, we all did, but to permanently mark yourself with the name, after the fact, seemed a bit extreme. Just saying.
“Come on, TACK? No regret?”
“I regret plenty, this…” Her face morphed to serious, her softness tightened, and she re-crossed her legs. “This is not one of them.”
Ouch. Definitely touched a nerve. She was obviously very passionate about it. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but I didn’t.
“Okay.” There was that stupid word again. This time from my lips. Not exactly how I envisioned the start of our first real conversation after almost twenty years. And I definitely didn’t want it to deteriorate any further. Maybe I needed that drink. I signaled the bartender.
We sat silent while he fetched my bottle.
“So what about you?” She sounded a tad more relaxed, more like … TP.
“What about me?”
Her iPhone whistled with a new text. She tapped the power button, quickly blackening the screen, before she even had a chance to read the message. Clearly, I was not invited to eavesdrop. Thoughts of someone else’s sexting was a definite mood killer anyway. She dropped the phone in her bag and nailed me with her big cinnamon eyes.
“Sorry. Work.” Yeah right.
“No hidden ink? You all tatted up under this muscley situation you have going on?” She waved her hands up and down the length of my body.
Somehow the tension from moments ago vanished and now the conversation was about me. Shit. How a woman could so effortlessly and brilliantly avoid a topic and complete a one-eighty boggled my mind. But I didn’t mind her acknowledging my body. That had to be a good sign, right?
“I pegged you for some completely over-the-top ink to get your chicks all hot and bothered.”
I shook my head for more than one reason. “I don’t need any help from a tat for that.” I loved that she blushed and tried to play it off hiding behind her clear glass.
“Whatever.”
“Don’t blush, TP. All you have to do is ask and you are more than welcome to check out,” I copied her hand motion down my front, “my situation.” I smirked and took a pull from my beer. Her attempt at a repulsed expression was hilarious. Hey, she started it.
“Hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“True.” She smiled. It was just like old times. My dick twitched. “So no tats then?”
“Nope. Virgin skin. Me and needles don’t mix. Never have. Never will.”
“Whatever. The Ace I knew was always such a tough guy. Scared of needles, my ass.”
If she only knew why I was so anti-needle. If I never saw another needle for the rest of my life it would be too soon.
“So something you never knew about me, and here I thought you knew everything, including my favorite color underwear and our favorite ice cream.” That was my futile attempt to lighten the mood and save us both from the conversation degrading to a depressive topic. “Need a refill?”
She nodded. “Prosecco, please. And god—what’s up with you bringing up all my favorite blasts from the past? Hot Tamales, now Grasshopper? Really? What are we, ten?”
“What? My boxers’ color doesn’t interest you anymore?” She eye rolled me. “And for the record, I’m not the one with the high school craving—but I do remember making you a promise.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a mini box of Hot Tamales.
“HTs,” she moaned, peeling open my palm, claiming her prize and unconsciously popping one in her mouth. I chuckled. Totally addicted. “So please tell me what’s up with all the nostalgia?”
“Hey, I’m not the one who inked myself with our band name, I just brought the candy.” Her light expression hardened ever so slightly, looking more like classy Talia than TP. Shit. Why did I go there again? Curiosity always kills the cat. I kept talking. “So you’re a Dr. Pryce. Would’ve never guessed that.”
“Really? And what would the high-powered attorney have guessed?” She emptied the rest of the box of candy into her perfectly manicured hand.
“Honestly, I pictured you slaying the music world, creating your lyrical masterpieces.”
“Pffft. No, no.” She backhanded the air and shook her head. Her silky hair slid from her shoulder.
“Too bad, music industry’s loss.” I was dead serious. Damn, she wrote some sick shit.
The bartender set her fresh drink down and
she took a sip. “Very sweet, Ace, but that was the teenage years and in the very distant past. Besides, the music world’s loss, as you say, was the medical world’s gain.”
I fingered a Hot Tamale from her palm and smiled. “Let’s be honest, TP. You’re a dermatologist. That’s not a real doctor.” I tossed the spicy guy in my mouth and washed it down with a swig. Her expression was priceless.
“You’re such an ass.”
And there it was, that smile. I missed that huge grin. The only thing better was the genuine giggle that erupted from her soft mouth after. We sat at the bar in our own little world for a good two hours straight, drinking and making fun of each other. I could lie and say it was like old times. But this seriously trumped old times.
“One more round?” Unsure of when we would have this chance again, I wasn’t ready to end the night.
“I better not. It’s late. Besides, don’t you have meetings all day tomorrow?”
Nope. I was a shmuck and made that shit up. “No, all good. I got a lot more accomplished today than I expected.” Erasing nineteen years between us being the greatest accomplishment. “Come on, one more. For old times’ sake.” I tried out the puppy dog eyes. No shame in begging. This was the first time in a long time I was enjoying a woman’s conversation. Lili didn’t count.
She tied her hair back into one of those ponytail/messy bun things. Add to the fact that she shed the suit jacket after the last drink and my dick, which was under explicit instructions to behave and not ruin this reunion, ignored my brain and twitched. Twice. I blamed it on the black silk and lace camisole that did little to hide her hardened nipples every time the air conditioning kicked on. Talia always had small tits. They fit her lean physique perfectly. Even as a teenager, when all the girls were wearing those Victoria Secret super push-up bras to showcase their assets, Talia refused to wear a padded bra, if she wore a bra at all. What’s the point of false advertising, you get what you get and don’t get upset. Damn, I loved her motto. Especially in the summer, when her perfectly round rose-colored nips strained against her tanks.
Beautifully Done Page 4
