"It looks like Lydia's not coming," a man says. Since he's not talking Buddhism, I figure it's got to be Shane.
"What are you doing with that girl anyway?" It's a disapproving woman's voice. Oh, that's Natalie, no doubt.
"Yes, I was wondering that too." That's Leonard. Dull comes through the wall loud and clear.
"We're friends," Aidan says. I think he's chewing his food. "Neighbors."
"You know, she's an alcoholic."
I don't care who said it, I only care that it was said. Those bastards! They don't even know me, but they're over there chewing up my reputation over dinner. They've never seen me at the bar. It's not like I'm out in the hallway slamming shots. They don't know one thing about me. But they're over there judging me, just like Aidan said they wouldn't. The outrage bubbles like caustic chemicals inside me--I want to put my hand through the wall and drag each of them into my world, just so I can tell them what I think of them. Then Aidan replies with something that absolutely floors me.
"I know," he says.
He doesn't defend my honor or anything! He should be over there telling his table full of quitters that they're all crazy, but instead, he agrees with them. That son of a bitch!
"You know you can't have a relationship with her, so what are you going to do about it?" Natalie says. I can hear her thin little lips flapping and picture her weaselly little eyes narrowing for an answer.
"I'm not doing anything about it," Aidan says. At least there is a little tiny bit of back off in his tone now. A little chivalry would go a hell of a long way right now.
"It sucks...I was that party girl once too." It's a quieter woman's voice, but not Ila, not Natalie. Must be Marlisa. "When I was using, I wanted to be saved. There was a guy in Tulsa, he offered to lock me in a room with him, do everything I needed to get me clean and sober..."
Natalie groans. "Let's not sidetrack into another Marlisa story."
"She's just sharing her experience." I think it's Shane that defends her? Or maybe her husband--what was his name? Devon. That's right, even though it really doesn't matter. Marlisa jumps right back into her story.
"All I'm saying is that I wanted to be saved. When I had the needle hanging out of my arm and the cops busted in, I wanted..."
Natalie's voice crests over the top of Marlisa's tale. "What do you think of it, Leonard? In relation to what we are supposed to be doing to keep ourselves healthy, I mean. Don't you agree that Aidan should be careful since she's an alcoholic?"
"It's not my business what she is," he says. Huh. I'm liking Mr. Dull a little more. "However, as your sponsor, Aidan, I will say that I don't think it's wise to date a person that could endanger your sobriety in any way."
--And now I like Leonard a little less.
"She won't," Aidan says and someone laughs. Or snorts.
"You have a very strong spirit," Leonard says, "but sometimes remaining strong requires avoiding those temptations that could weaken your will."
"I understand," Aidan says.
"In your experience, Leonard," Natalie's needling tone prickles at me, "how many guys have you known that have thrown away their sobriety because they thought they could save a girlfriend?"
A deeper voice intercedes- it has to be Marlisa's husband, Devon. "It happened to us, Natalie," he says. "Marly only had five months when we met. A lot of couples don't make it, but some do. It might be against the odds, but if it means that much, sometimes it works."
"Rarely," Natalie says.
"It is against the odds," Ila chimes in, but it sounds hesitant.
"So why risk it?" Natalie says. God, I hate her. Then, as if to set the cement on my feelings for her, she adds, "And how many thought it wouldn't happen to them, Leonard?"
"Quite a few."
"Did I tell you two to quit your relationship when Nat started?" Aidan asks.
"It's a completely different situation," Shane argues. "We were already together. Established."
"All I'm trying to say is that you kept it together and I think we can too."
"But it's a new relationship--" That, of course, comes from Natalie.
Marlisa jumps in with, "Anyone want to help clear the dishes?"
"Me," Ila says.
The dishes clank and throats clear and I can feel the tension that's got to be a hundred times worse over in Aidan's apartment. A simple difference of opinion and it's like everyone's dividing up and jumping into their foxholes.
I'm sure there is pie and coffee, but I don't listen anymore. I take my party-wine into my bedroom, shut the door, and strip down to my panties and bra. I slip into a long-sleeve shirt that Des left behind over six months ago. The scent of his cologne is long gone, it's just a ratty old shirt now, but it's at least good for a night shirt.
I flick on the flat screen, hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed, and bunch up the pillows behind my back. With my drink on the bedside table, any other night this would be cozy, but I can't get Aidan's dinner party out of my head.
Part of me wants to make a late entrance and fire off acidic responses to what I've heard.
Part of me wants to hide, just like I'm doing.
I drink my wine, hoping it will erase what I can't get off my mind, but after a few more sips, my mouth goes dry. I get restless, too hot under the covers, too cold once I throw them off. I retrieve my phone, and despite my better judgment, I call Des. He picks up on the second ring.
"Desmond Strong," he answers, all professional as if he doesn't have caller ID. Another dinner party murmurs in the background, silverware chiming against plates. Before I have a chance to speak, he says, "Well, thank you for letting me know about the back order on that ceiling fixture, Lydia. I appreciate you taking time out of your own holiday celebration to touch base. Yes...you too! And have a wonderful Thanksgiving with the family. Thanks again for calling, Claudia and I are delighted to have you on our team."
He hangs up and I never even said a word.
I toss the phone down on my bed and yank his shirt off my back.
<<<<>>>>
It's around ten o'clock when there is a knock on my door. I ignore it, but then there's a second knock, and a third, and then Aidan starts shouting and it sounds like he's going to kick down the door. I slip Des's shirt back on, carry out my wine glass and open up. Aidan's standing there with a hefty tower of foil-covered dishes.
He gives the shirt a once-over as he brushes past me. Mrs. Lowt pops into the hallway just as I close the door.
"I see you had a million plans and couldn't make it to dinner," he says, depositing his tower on my kitchen counter. "So I brought the dinner to you."
"I already..."
"You've got to try my turkey." He says, popping off the foil on a plate loaded with meat and clumpy cranberry jelly. "It's the first one I've ever made and I want an honest opinion. Ila made the sweet potatoes. It's her first too, but sweet potatoes are nothing compared to cooking a turkey, right?"
"Aidan..."
"You're lucky I like you. I also got you a piece of the pecan pie and a slice of pumpkin."
He drops the foil on the counter, pushing the plate toward me, a fork clattering off the edge. I lean on the wall beside the kitchen and bring my glass to my lips. I empty the contents into my mouth. He takes the glass from my hand, set it on the counter and turns back to me.
I think he's going to speak, preach or complain, but instead, he kisses me.
He flattens my back to the wall, crushing his body against mine. My body responds, spearing my fingers into his hair and twisting a leg around his. If he's going to kiss me like this--then he's not getting away from me.
The small moan that eases out of his throat makes me wonder if it is my kiss or the wine on my tongue that he is enjoying most. He deepens the kiss and when he pulls away, he takes my lower lip between his teeth with a soft tug that ignites me. I clutch him and drag him back for more.
He complies, opening his mouth and devouring mine; his palm at the back of my head, as if I'd w
ant to get away. All I want is more of him. I hitch my leg up around his thigh, opening to his clothed excitement. I want him so bad, I think I might choke him with my tongue, but he slows the rhythm, matching the motion of the kiss with a slow grind of his hips against me.
This is the part I live for, the sensual build up to the release. My heart is banging as hard as Big Ben approaching midnight and the beat sinks all the way down between my legs. The whole world seems like something I'm standing on, instead of muddling through. He steals my breath and gives it back to me. My body sings its siren song as my brain entertains every orgasmic daydream I've had about how good this sex is going to be with the man trapped between my thighs.
"I'm so bad for your sobriety," I murmur against his lips. I have to give him one last chance to run. "I don't want to wreck it for you."
"I wouldn't let that happen," he says with a slow smile. "But I'm going to wreck your taste for booze."
"Oh yeah? How are you going to do that?"
"I'm going to make it so all you'll want to be is sober...just so you can remember every damn thing I do to you."
<<<<>>>>
Mornings-after are always weird, but this one is beyond even that, because I actually know the name of the guy that's got his arm wrapped around my waist and his body glued to the length of my back. And he knows mine. Maybe that's what makes it so uncomfortable.
Or it could be that I don't want Aidan to leave.
That's a really bad turn of events, considering he's still my neighbor, I'm still married, and I'm like a wrecking ball, swinging straight at his sobriety. It's not like I didn't see this coming or did a damn thing to stop it, but now that my neighbor is sleeping with his face in my hair, the whole idea of being able to handle this delicately has gone right out the window. Especially now that I know Aidan is even better between the sheets than I'd ever imagined.
Last night was incredible. A feat of stamina and control. Maybe the best surprise was that Aidan blew George out of the water when it comes to sex talk. Most guys haven't got a clue. They're full of groans and oh babys, but have no idea how to say tits without it sounding like they just hit the whore jackpot. Or worse--they talk about my breasts and vagina and clitoris like they're conducting an anatomy lecture. I mean, damn. In bed, it's a clit; the things on my chest are not mammories or fun bags, they're either tits or just mmm; and anything below my waist should be slowly admired, piece by slippery piece, in silence--but never, ever, referred to as a gynecological whole. And there's absolutely no reason to ever mumble even the most amorous words about my clitoris while trying to get some. None. Bad sex talk can get a man gone from my bed faster than anything else.
But that's not Aidan's deal. He says things in a soft-gravel whisper. Just remembering it, goose bumps rise up where his words slid over my skin. His mumble of do you like this, was so erotic that it French-kissed my imagination until my hips writhed up, begging for more of him.
My eyes flutter shut as I re-live the way his hands had moved my limbs, guiding me into the positions he wanted; how his body made mine tingle like a warm mitten; how his eyes were on my lips as he spoke. My legs ache from how I tied them, like a Christmas bow, right above his hip bones, and they ache with how I held tight until we both came undone.
My arms are stiff too. Probably from the way I was holding myself up at the window sill--a new and unexpected position. But not even the most unexpected position that came out of our four, midnight-gymnastic sessions. I had just hoped he'd be fun, but Aidan Badeau has proven himself to be an amazingly skilled surprise.
It's more than a little odd that I can follow my memory breadcrumbs right from the moment I met Aidan at the door to now. Usually my recollections of evening escapades consist of whatever I can stitch together around tattered holes of memory. Most of the time, what I can put together is as wide and irreparable as ripped cobwebs. But, here I am, knowing the man's name and able to identify the particular scent of his cologne on my pillow. I remember everything what we did and how we did it (with details that I'm going to replay every chance I get) and I even know where this guy lives.
And this is exactly why this has to stop.
Now.
It's gone way too far.
I don't know if letting him down easy is even an option now. Why the hell did I bang my neighbor? Damn. I knew better. But damn. My skin is already craving another play date with his and he hasn't even left yet. I'm seriously mulling over an amendment to the three-date rule.
No.
I know better.
This will end in absolute disaster if I keep this going for even one more date. The only apartment left where I can escape and hide is Mrs. Lowt's, and she would be of no help at all. She'd just invite Aidan right in, to help herself to a little bit of ass-candy.
I've got to end this all, before it goes nuclear.
I've got to convince Aidan that I was so drunk, I didn't know what I was doing. Or that I didn't know it was him. I'll say I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry until he runs screaming from my apartment, repelled by how pitiful I am.
He shifts and I feel his morning salute rising up between my thighs. He snuggles closer, his thighs as strong and firm as a chair against the back of my legs. There's no way he could want to do it again. But I'm sure I'm wrong about that as his hips bump against me and then his erection nudges between my legs again, like a neighbor poking his head in my door.
Against every better judgment that exists in the world, I'm not kicking Aidan out. I should, but I can't. I'm nearly paralyzed with the vibration as he groans against my neck and I drop my head back, resting it on his collar bone.
"Oh, Lydia," he whispers. However, it's not the oh Lydia I am expecting. His voice dips into a melancholy valley; the sound is that of a worn and tortured man. I try to turn toward him, but Aidan holds me tight. His breath is in my hair and it freaks me out a little.
I should've sent him home last night. I knew better.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I shouldn't be..." he begins sorrowfully, but he is cut off by whoever is pounding at my front door.
<<<<>>>>
It's always a bit of a wild card, answering a pounding fist at my door.
It could be the landlord--he loves to complain about rent and usually asks to inspect my pipes, the pervert; it could be Desmond, although he's already made his statement to Aidan and I think that he thinks it stuck. Mrs. Lowt doesn't pound. It wouldn't be Jan--he never shows up at my door without calling. It could be any one of the third-dates I've had in the past--ultimately, they never leave here satisfied.
Since Aidan is in the apartment and, more precisely, in my bed at the moment, some of these wild cards could give me a losing hand. I cinch my robe around my waist and go to the door, since whoever it is isn't letting up.
I swing the door open to a leggy brunette. The tips of her hair hang at her waist and she's got thick, pouty lips, swabbed with the reddest, glossiest lipstick I've ever seen. Those lips are the most prominent thing on her whole face and she puts them to work right away.
"Hi, I'm looking for Devon..." she pauses, nipping her own lip with a frustrated sigh. "I mean, Aidan Badeau. Is this his apartment? The lady across the hall said he lives here."
"No, he doesn't live here," I say. I'm not telling this chick anything. She might know Aidan's name, and even his friend's name, but I don't know who she is. In fact, this is exactly why I try to avoid ever revealing mine. People show up.
"Can you tell me where he lives?" she asks.
"Not here," I say.
"But that lady knew him. She said he's here."
"I don't know what to tell you. He doesn't live here." Her hips adjust like rocks sliding into a catapult. She screws up her bright, red lipstick and puts a hand on her waist, signaling me that she's about to get down to it. Her eyes sweep over my dreads, my robe, the tattoos peeking out of my sleeve. I return the fuck you smile she's giving me.
"Well, do you know if he lives in any of these?"
Her eyes narrow a little. "I don't think that's any of your business."
"Well, I'm not the one in the hallway," I say. I try to swing the door shut, but she slaps her palm against it.
"Wait," she says and I see the first glint of vulnerability that stops me from out and out busting off her wrist. "He called me."
"How come?"
"I don't know if you're his wife or girlfriend or his sister..." She pauses; I don't fill in her blanks. "I hardly know him, but he left a message on my phone saying he needed to talk to me. He has something of mine, so can you just tell me where the guy lives?"
"Oh hey," Aidan's voice startles me from behind. He's tucking in his shirt, but stops to holds out his hand to shake the girl's, as if this is a business meeting or something. Oh shit. Maybe it is. I still don't like the twinge in my stomach, twisting like rope burn, as Aidan smiles at her. "Marta?"
Her smile seems a little wiry and it throws hot, angry sparks as she takes in his face and his body--which just burns me up a little more. Still, the looks shooting between them confuse me. It's as if they are strangers, but not. Conspirators. Enemies? Something. I can't put my finger on it.
"How's it going?" Her tone is suddenly flat. "I got your message."
"Good," he says and finally glances back to me. Nice of him to notice. "Lydia, I need to go. I have some business to discuss with Marta, but I'll catch up with you later, alright?"
"Sure," I say. Marta? It helps only a little that he gives me a peck my cheek, but still. Business? You've got to be kidding me.
He steps into the hall with Lips and motions to his apartment. "That one's mine. Do you have a few minutes to talk in private?"
"That's why I'm here. Do you have my money?"
He leads her back to his place, fumbling his key in his door. The last thing I hear is him telling her, "Yes. I'm glad you came."
I shut my door and lean up against it. What the fuck? Her money?
What was all that about? Is she a drug dealer? He's remorseful in bed, about to tell me something and then business shows up at my door. Well, shit. Is it drug business? Or the kind of business Des and I have--a fucked up, riding-crops-and-chains kind of business. But that's not what this sounded like. This sounded more like mafia business. Hush hush, private stuff that gives no explanations and requires a closed door. The kind of business that I need to keep my nose out of.
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