Once Upon A Wild Fling

by Lauren Blakely

  Twenty minutes later, I walk into Fluffy & Fabulous as some sort of collie mix struts out, sporting a purple bow around his collar and the fluffiest fur I’ve seen.

  “Blowout?”

  “And a massage,” Roxy adds, with a quirk in her lips.

  “You weren’t joking?” I ask, incredulously.

  She points to the chalkboard behind the counter listing services, and sure enough, dog massage is one of the à la carte items. “It’s one of our most popular offerings.”

  “And dogs sit still for that?”

  She scoffs. “They lie back and soak up the pampering. If the massage is done right, the dog is going to be one happy pup.” She lifts a finger. “Don’t even think about making a happy ending joke.”

  “Even my one-track mind isn’t that dirty. But yours is,” I say, in mock disapproval.

  She laughs, bending below the counter to grab something, and when she stands up, she’s slung her purse on her arm. “I’m all done for the day. My girls are going to close, but I need to go to the store to pick up some cleaning supplies.” She holds out her hands as if to tell me to slow down. “Try to contain your excitement. I know it sounds fabulous. But we can grab coffee on the way?”

  “Hell no.”

  “You don’t like coffee?”

  “Love it like it’s my religion. But hell no to coffee over errands. If errands are what you have planned, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  She shrugs happily. “If you really want to buy cleaning spray with me, I’d hate to deny you that pleasure.”

  My pleasure right now is enjoying the sight of Roxy as she walks around the counter and I get a full glimpse of her fantastic figure. Roxy’s not one of those rail-thin women I’ve seen too often at concerts, who look like they might tip over under the weight of their fake breasts. They’re lollipop sticks with tits. By contrast, Roxy looks like her name. She’s womanly, with curvy hips, a heart-shaped ass, and just the right size tits.

  The right size for my hands.

  Fuck.

  Must stop thinking about my buddy’s sister like that.

  But with the way her jeans hug her figure, how the V-neck of her shirt hints at soft flesh underneath, and the way her red hair gently curls, it’s damn hard not to.

  It’s no wonder I’m tagging along as she buys household goods, of all things. She could have told me she was picking up trash in the park and I’d have gone there too. But I’m going because this is how I fit things in, make the most of little moments. Between the demands of my career and my kid, I don’t get a ton of free time, and I give it my all while I have it.

  “So I was researching class reunions online, just to get a sense of what to expect, and as far as I can tell, they consist of questions that Facebook can answer.”

  She laughs. “What do you do, are you married, and do you have kids?”

  I tap my nose as we near the crosswalk. “Bingo. But there are also the super-nosy questions about significant others, and that’s what made me think we should figure out what you’ll want to say when someone inevitably asks who you are and how we know each other.”

  She adopts a serious expression, furrowing her brow. “You don't want me to say I'm there to defend you from anyone who’s overly interested in the handsome, sexy, single dad rock star?”

  There’s that word again—sexy—only I don’t know if she means it the way I wish she did. I’ve no way of asking without sounding like an ass either. Hey, Rox, when you say “sexy,” does that mean you dirty-dreamed about me last night too? Because that’d be cool if you did.

  Only it wouldn’t be cool. Because of William. Because I’m not interested in commitment, and she’s not a one-night stand kind of woman.

  Instead, I flash a practiced grin, that lopsided one audiences seem to love, and play along with the bodyguard routine. “Maybe it’s best if we keep your true mission on the down-low.”

  “I’ll be so stealthy,” she says as we walk past a gaggle of moms pushing strollers. Her gaze lingers on the babies for a few seconds, and she even turns her head as they walk by. Does she have baby fever? But before I can ponder that, she jerks her attention back to me. “Where will Ben be that night? At your mom’s?”

  “She’s eager for as much grandson time as she can get, so he’ll spend the night at her house.”

  “I bet she’s counting the days,” Roxy says, then her eyes light up like she has an idea. “So, if someone asks who I am, do you want me to say I’m your new tae kwon do instructor, and I’m really hoping you’ll be committed this time?”

  I press my palms together, pleading. “Then we’ll do a tae kwon do demo?”

  She mimes kicking me, presumably tae kwon do–style. “Weirdo.”

  “But I’m a good weirdo.”

  She points her finger at my chest, then turns it in circles. “Yes, Miles. The Weird Factor in you is operating at good levels.”

  I pump a fist then return to the topic as we cross the street, passing in front of an idling cab. “Honestly, I was kind of thinking maybe you could just say we’re dating.”

  She smiles softly. “Dating. That’s funny.”

  I crease my brow. “What’s so funny about that?”

  “Dating is just . . . my Achilles’ heel.”

  “Why do you say that?” I half want to know what she thinks about dating, and I half want to pretend she’s never dated.

  “I was a wiz in school, but I pretty much failed at every test dating threw my way. I can’t promise I’ll be any better as your pretend date, but I’ll do my best.”

  “How did you fail?” I like that she’s failed. That makes me a terrible guy, but so be it.

  “Let’s just say modern dating and I don’t agree.”

  I nudge her shoulder. “Same here.”

  “So dating threw you up, spat you out, and tossed you to the wolves too?”

  A wolf is a considerate metaphor for Ben’s mom, so I simply nod.

  “Wait.” She snaps her fingers, her hazel eyes sparkling. “We could say something that’s nearly the truth.”

  “The truth? How quaint.”

  “Right? Much easier to remember. But we’ll add some embellishments.”

  “Such as?” I ask, eager to hear how she’d plump up the simple story of how we were introduced.

  “Why don’t we say that from the time we first met, we just had that connection?”

  The cylinders in me start firing. I felt that connection.

  “And we hit it off,” I add, remembering the night her brother had invited clients over when we met for the first time. She didn’t ask me about music, or performing, or where my inspiration came from. None of the typical stuff. She had asked about my son. She wanted to know what he was like. She’d listened and smiled when I said he loved to draw, to build Lego sets with my middle brother, and to bake with his cousin, Samantha. I told her, too, that he had an endless appetite for the children’s exhibits at science museums around the world, and I made sure to take him to one in every city I toured.

  “You take him everywhere, don’t you?” she’d asked.

  “For the most part. Does that make him my shadow?”

  “Maybe he’s more like your sidekick?”

  “How about we call him a partner in crime?”

  “As long as you’re not getting into any legal scuffles.”

  “We endeavor to avoid trouble with the law.”

  “Can I see his picture?”

  Sucker that I was for that kind of opportunity, I’d flicked through the pics on my phone. I’d shown her shots of Ben pretending to sing into a mic on an empty stage, an image of him climbing onto a park bench and spreading his arms wide like he was about to fly, and a picture of him eating an ice cream cone.

  As I return to the present, this story she’s weaving feels dangerously true for me and remarkably easy to tell. “Got it. We hit it off at that party, and after that, I heard about you from time to time from your brother,” I say as I pick up the thread. “I
n fact, whenever I talked to him or met with him, I always asked how you were doing.”

  She tilts her head, meeting my eyes straight on. “You did?”

  “Yeah, I did,” I say confidently, owning my curiosity about her.

  “But it wasn’t till my best friend fell for Campbell that I saw you more and more at his house and other get-togethers,” she says, adding the next line in the fill-in-the-blanks tale.

  “And then I asked you out to the reunion.”

  “And I was glad you did,” she answers.

  The funny thing is there’s nothing fake in that at all. We crafted a backstory that’s entirely true. Except for the part about the reunion—it’s not a real date. It’s protection, a protection she’s willing to give. Which is yet another reason to like a woman I have no right liking.

  “And then I’ll say I think Miles is simply fabulous,” she adds when we reach the store and head inside.

  “Wow, you said that so convincingly,” I tease.

  “But you are fabulous. Well, the little bit I know of you,” she says as we cruise down the aisles.

  “I suppose I could say the same for you.”

  “It’s kind of like we know each other, but we also don't, right?”

  There’s so much I don't yet know about her, but she fascinates me, and I want to understand her more. I toss out a question as she peruses the non-toxic, cruelty-free cleaning supplies. “Let’s rectify that with a little modified Q and A.”

  “Hit me,” she says.

  “If you could travel anyplace in the world right now, where would it be?”

  She hums, stopping at the cleaning spray. “Madagascar.”

  “You had that at the ready,” I say, impressed.

  “I’ve always wanted to go. The wildlife sounds amazing. Lemurs and rainforests, botanic gardens and the Indian Ocean . . . I’d go there and take a different tour every day to learn all I could about the island.”

  There’s that top student in her, the one who aced school, who’s eager to learn. But who wants to apply it to things that truly interest her.

  She rubs her palms together, volleying a question my way. “What’s your favorite way to relax at the end of a hard day?”

  I laugh. “I’d feel like a complete asshole if I said I had hard days.”

  She chides me, “Everyone has hard days.”

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of a first-world problem if I do. Mostly I read sci-fi novels till I fall asleep.”

  “Okay, but I want your bad-day cure. What if a guitar string broke, you were booed at a concert, and Ben fell at the playground and skinned his knee?”

  I recoil. “You’re a cruel woman.”

  “How would you unwind? Let’s say Ben is finally in bed, and it’s just you.”

  I try to picture that kind of shitty day, as well as the shitty days I had when he was an infant and I learned how little sleep I could survive on, and how caffeine became my best friend, and how Sam Cooke’s songs were the lullabies I sang to coax my baby boy into slumber.

  “Sam Cooke. When I’ve had rough days, I listen to his songs and sing along to them.”

  “I love Sam Cooke. I love all those groovy, jazzy guys and gals—Sam Cooke, Etta James, Otis Redding . . . They’re the best,” she says, clutching the spray like it’s a mic, and then she sings a few lines from Cooke’s “Cupid.” The part about letting your arrow go right into a lover’s heart gets me in the chest, especially since she can’t hit a single note, which makes the tune more adorable in her off-key voice.

  My eyebrows rise. “You know that song?”

  “I love that song. It’s so happy and boppy.”

  It is, just like her. “What about you? How do you unwind?”

  She doesn’t even have to think about the answer, it seems. “Trivia. Mackenzie got me into it. It’s always been her thing, but it was never mine until I was so stressed out on Wall Street and she dragged me along to a quiz night. Completely took my mind off work. I started working on trivia facts, and it was the break I needed from the hell of my job.”

  “Which explains why you left.”

  “Exactly,” she says as we head toward the checkout.

  “Last question: If you could make one rule that everyone had to follow, what would it be?”

  “Besides the golden rule? Do unto others . . .?”

  “The golden rule is a damn good one.”

  When we reach the cashier, she answers. “Smile more, and listen to the people you love, and maybe even listen to the people you don’t love.”

  “That’s three rules.”

  She bumps her hip against me. “You’re a hard-ass.”

  “C’mon. Pick one.”

  She flashes a smile at the young cashier with her hair tied back in a ponytail and acne scars on her neck and asks how her day is.

  “Good. Thanks for asking. It’s been busy, which I like.”

  “Excellent,” Roxy says, as the woman swipes the cleaner over the scanner.

  The cashier flicks her eyes to me and does a double take. “Oh, hi.”

  I wave, give a “Hey,” then smile.

  When the cashier gives the price, I beat Roxy, grabbing a five from my wallet before she can pay. “Thanks, Meli,” I say, using the name on the woman’s tag.

  Roxy thanks me for paying, and we leave, heading back to the New York street on a late spring evening.

  “What would your rule be?” she asks.

  “Say one nice thing to a stranger every day.”

  She squeezes my arm. “I’d consider today’s mission complete.”

  When she drops her hand from my arm, I find myself wishing she’d squeeze it again, bump my hip, and nudge my shoulder.

  What the hell? Am I fifteen?

  Considering I just shopped with a woman on her errands, maybe I am.

  As we walk more, Roxy doesn’t say she has to go—she simply sticks with me as we head to art class. The conversation takes a winding path, and along the way I learn that her mother didn’t let her have pets growing up, and that only fueled her interest in them, so she volunteered at an animal shelter in high school, then in college too. She tells me she constantly felt like an impostor on Wall Street, despite having an economics degree, but she doesn’t feel that way at all in the pet business, even when she meets people who have done it for ages.

  When we pass a woman who’s been doused in perfume, Roxy coughs, covers her mouth, and turns away.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, setting a hand gently on her back.

  “I’m fine. I just can’t stand strong perfume lately.”

  “Maybe that should be a rule. No perfume warfare.”

  She makes an approving sound. “You have my vote.”

  As we resume our pace, she snaps her fingers. “I forgot one thing in the planning for next weekend. What do I do if someone is really trying to sink her claws into you? Like, has her hand on you or says something inappropriate?”

  I stop outside the building where Ben’s classes are held, and fire off the first answer that comes to mind. “That's when you’d maul me, plant a big fat kiss on me, and absolutely stake your claim.”

  Her eyes pop wide, and she gives me a curious look that’s a little bit hot and a little bit surprised. “Seriously?”

  And the thing is, I am serious. “I would be fine with that.”

  But before I can tell whether she is, Ben rushes out and hugs me. When he sees Roxy, he beams. “Want to see what I made?”

  As we turn and walk the other way, she chats with him the whole time, asking questions about what he created in class.

  My heart ticks a little faster, and a smile spreads of its own accord, so I focus my brain on William before I wind up liking this moment too much for my own good.

  William.

  Her brother.

  The man who can manage my finances like no other.

  I can’t risk investing in his sister, because the profit-loss ratio is way too high.

  10

 
Roxy

  Tearing myself away from pregnancy websites has become a real challenge.

  There are things I need to know. Like, is it normal at fifteen weeks for my boobs to turn into bazongas?

  Because holy knockers. Look at these melons.

  As I google breast-size changes, my eyes pop at the slew of information. It’s common to go up a cup size or two, especially if it’s your first pregnancy.

  I thought the breast ballooning would come later, but hallelujah. These are some ta-tas to sing about. As I get ready for the reunion, I turn to my side in the mirror, admiring my larger assets. I smooth a hand down the soft green fabric of my dress, hunting for the first signs of a baby bump now that I’m fifteen weeks along.

  I stop below my belly button. Is that it? That soft little pillow that my belly’s becoming?

  To be fair, it’s a little hard to tell. It’s not as if the bump has to fight its way past a shredded six pack to be seen. I’m naturally soft in the middle. Yes, I exercise, and Krav Maga is a good friend of mine. But I also don’t believe in deprivation, so my belly regularly savors good food and tasty desserts.

  I grab some earrings from my bureau, fasten on a slim silver necklace with a tiny dog-bone charm that Mackenzie gave me when I opened Fluffy & Fabulous, and slide into black leather pumps.

  I return to my laptop to shut down the browser tabs. I’m a big believer in hiding the evidence. You never know, right? My mother drilled into me to take morning showers, look your best when leaving the house, and always wear clean underwear. Maybe this compulsion comes from the same place.

  If the cops come for Lord knows what reason, I don’t need them to see my Saturday afternoon habits include a fiesta of standard pregnancy sites, crazier pregnancy sites, pages of lingerie for C-cups, trivia questions on pop culture and sports facts, photos of lemurs, and, oh yeah, the website for Joy Delivered. I might have ordered a new five-speed, dual-action vibrator on account of being a teeny bit . . . frisky.

  Time to shut down all these little windows to my soul.

  But as I click on the last tab for my email, I spot a new message from Genevieve. My nerves spike as I open it.