Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

  From surprise visits, to life advice, to naughty requests, how the hell do I wrap my head around any of that?

  I’m hot and bothered, and it’s not because I’ve been in the sun too long.

  I try not to watch him run back to the water and trace my eyes over the lines of his ass in his swim trunks, even though the sight could be worshipped. I’d go to church every damn day if that were what was waiting for me on the pews.

  Oh, God, I need to get a grip. My Catholic mother’s cross is probably burning.

  Regardless, one question can’t help but flash like bright neon in my mind:

  How come Nate’s allowed to break all the rules, but I can’t?

  I’m meticulously going through my emails this morning, standing, leaning too close to my screen, scrolling with my right hand, and clutching a coffee in the left.

  I tossed and turned all weekend and barely slept. Garrett is not speaking to me, which makes our apartment a battle zone. The front lines usually involve me trying to avoid him in the briefest moments he passes through, or fighting my thoughts while trying to fall asleep, toying between apologizing or slapping him.

  If it wasn’t Garrett stressing me out of slumber, then it was the idea of wishing Nate were around to tease the tension out of my back.

  I roll out my shoulders at the thought, knowing that I need work to distract me.

  “Morningggg,” comes crooning from the hallway. My boss finishes the last note while standing in the doorway of my office.

  “Since when did you become Snow White at 8 a.m.?”

  She laughs. Rebecca’s trademark red lipstick finds a way to match a purple ruffle ensemble with sharp suit pants. A look I’d never manage to pull off.

  Her chipper disposition makes her prettier, and I can’t stand it when I haven’t made it through my first cup of coffee yet.

  “Whoa, rough weekend?” she asks, careening the conversation.

  She strolls inside and closes the door behind her. I wonder if it’s for serious reasons, but when she turns around to flash me a pearly white smile, I know she’s also in need of a distraction from her morning.

  I’ll take gossiping with my boss over reading through emails any day.

  “You have no idea,” I grunt, looking up to the ceiling to scold the big man upstairs for making men so stupid. “Garrett and I got into a huge fight, and I can’t figure out why he’s not talking to me. Maybe being angry is easier than being embarrassed.”

  “You’re gonna need to slow down. I can’t keep up.”

  I shake my head, not knowing where to start, or if I should start at all. “Forget it.”

  This displeases her. She buckles under my want to hide the truth. “I know I’m your boss, but we can still talk. Sometimes, you need to let it out. We were friends first, remember?” She plops down in the seat in from of my desk. It’s a pathetic maneuver, and she’s practically begging with the sullen transition.

  I give in. I’m a sucker. “It’s Garrett. He’s confused how he feels about me, and I called him out on it. He got pissed when I pushed too hard.”

  Her brows pull together, but a smile wiggles onto her lips. “Are you saying you finally stood up for yourself? To Garrett, of all people, who’s been walking all over you since college?”

  My instinctual reaction is to be annoyed. “Garrett walking all over me is different from him toying with my feelings, but either way, they’re both wrong.” I needed to vent that. It helps calm me enough to be mature about a friend’s honesty. “You’re also right. I did finally stand up for myself.” Even though it’s the truth, I can’t stop the regretful sigh that follows it.

  She nods, appraising me while she sits in the chair in front of my desk, and me standing behind it. Oddly enough, I still feel like the one below her.

  “I like this,” she chirps.

  “Like what?” I ask, not understanding our topic transition.

  “You. This. You,” she mutters, waving freshly painted fuchsia nails at me. “It’s about time you took control of your life, and it’s what you need. Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it. Trust me; it’ll only help you and your future.”

  There it is. Even though Rebecca pleads that we’re friends first, she still finds a way to slip in something work related. Sometimes, I call it a curse, but right now, I’ll call it a gift.

  I always considered myself a confident person. I’ve always had no problem at work barking orders and edits, but if I really think about it, I’ve never been good at being commanding in my relationships. Garrett’s feelings for me are as mercurial as the wind, and he’s always swayed the situation to his benefit. Brian, my last boyfriend, argued I had trust issues, and all I did was try to calm myself for the sake of our relationship because I wanted to salvage it, only to find out that he was cheating on me. My friends told me to leave him long before I found out, telling me my gut was right all along.

  Now, it seems things have changed.

  My face gets hot thinking of a few reasons why.

  I shake it off with a shrug, knowing that I can and will drop this topic, needing answers on another. “Becca, do you think it’s wrong what I’m doing for the story?”

  I fall back into my seat, needing us to be eye-level for this conversation.

  She sits back, too, placing each long arm on an armrest. “What do you mean?”

  “Garrett said something stupid; something about compromising my journalistic integrity, or some shit like that.” I wince, knowing that repeating Garrett verbatim is not necessary, and I hate hearing the words out loud again.

  Unfortunately, those words made it hard to sleep. I don’t like how they make me feel.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I get it now. He’s jealous. First off, Lo, you need to know one thing.” She pauses, turning around, double-checking that the door is closed. “You don’t have to sleep with this guy for the story. I never asked you to do that, and I would expect you to say no if that wasn’t something you wanted. I’d never ask that—”

  I raise my hand, stopping her. “Of course, I know that. I just— Is it okay I want to sleep with this guy and still want to do the story?”

  She shrugs. “Technically, it’s investigative journalism. You’re kind of undercover—” She snorts. “—or is it, under the covers?”

  I roll my eyes. “Please be serious.”

  She releases a few more giggles, some teetering on snorts as they escape her before pulling in a deep breath, regaining that serious, authoritative cool. “You read the magazine, Lo. We get lots of journalists doing crazy things, and writing about their experiences. Jenny Mills didn’t want to write about how she cheated on her ex-boyfriend. She wanted to write a story about how easy it was to keep making compromises, and how she didn’t realize one could accidentally stumble into another relationship while still in one. I admit, we sometimes get caddy reporting, but on occasion, we also tell women stories so they don’t feel so alone, even if they might be wrong to tell. Sure, the assignment might’ve started as a cultural exposé, but now with your new experience, it could be so much more. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  For once, I do. Now, I have to figure out what my angle is, which never seemed like a problem until now.

  She rises from her seat, tapping the side of her nose. “Also, remember, the job isn’t yours yet. Whatever you choose to expose, as long as it has a little heat, and little L.A. sex-club culture, I’m game.”

  Her eyes waver, trying to keep hold of the supportive friend vibe as she says, “I’d like to see where your heads at. The deadline is coming fast. How about you show me some of your notes this week?”

  Nerves swell inside me, because I can’t tell how serious she is, and how we went from “write from experience” to “you have to work for that promotion with a deadline.”

  I swallow the doubt that’s riding the wave of nerves coming up my throat. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  The corners of her mouth lift in a tight, accompl
ished smile. “Awesome,” she exhales, letting her eyes swipe across the room before landing on me. “For what it’s worth, Garrett is an idiot. He had his chance. Just a personal opinion.”

  She departs, not wanting or needing my response. She turns on the point of her heels, and leaves with click-clacking authority down the magazine’s halls.

  I allow my shoulders to slump, but it does nothing to alleviate the pressure building inside me. It stuns me. It’s a feeling I never expected once I found my way into Fahrenheit. Suddenly, things feel different.

  This article should be a piece of cake. Operative word being should.

  I’m in a daze as I walk up the stairs to my apartment.

  After my conversation with Rebecca, I went back to my fresh Word document, thinking the blank page would speak to me anew, but instead, it only seemed to embody how my brain was feeling—empty, stark, and void of any real substance when I think of this assignment. It isn’t because I don’t have the words. It’s more like figuring out the direction the words want to take. I want to be informative, but witty, though I can’t seem to find a hook. Usually, it’s that first line of the article that not only pulls in the reader, but also ignites the creative wick in which I write. Currently, for my opener, I got nothing.

  I reach the top step, huffing as I stare at my front door. I grab for my phone, knowing my options are limited.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I type out a text, not knowing what else to do when the buffoon I call my best friend and roommate is still having a hissy fit and not talking to me.

  I’m having some trouble.

  I press send. My guts coil tightly. I remind myself that the article is the only reason Nate and I are friends. Wait, we are friends, right? I like to think we are, even if we’re fucking around, and that was part of the deal.

  I shake my head, unwilling to rationalize the arrangement.

  Instead, I approach my front door, which seems to be glaring back at me, humming with the sounds of the TV inside.

  Pushing through the front door, I’m not surprised to see Garrett sitting on the couch watching TV, but for the first time since the weekend, he turns to acknowledge me. On reflex when his blue eyes lock with mine, a gasp escapes me in the form of a “Hi.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and my gut tells me that he’s fighting off a smile.

  He nods, and I nod back.

  “Hey,” he responds before turning back to the TV.

  I exhale, thinking this interaction is a mini-win, although absurd. I’ll take what I can get.

  I grit my teeth, realizing that’s been our problem since the beginning and what has been swirling around in my mind since my discussion with Rebecca about Garrett. It puts me over the edge, and I open my mouth to set this situation straight once and for all, but my buzzing phone in my hand distracts me.

  Nate is calling me.

  Actually calling me.

  A verbal pummeling will have to wait. As I rush off to my room, I wonder where that need to explode came from.

  When I enter my room, closing the door behind me, and answer the phone, I get an inkling of where.

  “Nate,” I exhale like a prepubescent teen, pressing my eyes shut, praying it sounds sexier than that.

  “Lauren.”

  “You called me. You’ve never called me before.”

  He laughs, and the sound is so thrilling I collapse back onto my bed, tossing my purse onto the floor.

  “I figured a call might be better. You said you were—”

  “Having some trouble,” I say, finishing his sentence.

  “Yeah. With what, pray tell?”

  “The article.”

  “Hm,” he tuts, “what’s the issue?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t seem to pick a direction to take it. My boss is giving me more leeway than I first thought, and with such a wide open playing field, I’m feeling a little, uh, hmm—”

  “Overwhelmed,” he says.

  Of course, Nate would say that. He’s kind of the king of overwhelmed.

  “You could say that.”

  “Do you need to do more research?” His tone is downright wicked, and sparks my mischievous smile.

  “Maybe.”

  “In what way?”

  “Good question.” I pause, thinking it over, wondering what sexual act I could convince Nate to perform, but unfortunately, the logical journalist in me wins over my rampant hormones when I hear Rebecca’s voice in my head, echoing about deadlines.

  “We should probably talk. Maybe, I could ask you a series of questions.”

  He releases a breath, and I hear a bit of rustling. I wonder if he’s winding down from his day, too, falling back onto his bed, talking to me. It’s a wonderful thing to picture, though I realize I don’t know any details about Nate, like what his place might look like, or what his favorite color might be. So, my fantastical imaginings of him are a bit blurry, rather than crisp and vivid, in comparison to his eyes, smile and stubbly jaw. Those are crystal clear. Desire simmers in my veins.

  “You never seem to have many questions when we’re together,” he replies.

  I roll my eyes, giggling. “Um, well … usually, I’m distracted.”

  “Oh? What could you possibly be distracted by?”

  What a rascal.

  “You know, sometimes bright, purple neon, sex slaves, scandalous clientele, anonymous fetish rooms, and a guy who kinda has me losing my train of thought when he’s shirtless.”

  More laughter, and holy shit, it’s another lottery win. My odds of winning again and again get better the longer we know each other. Which reminds me that there’s a timer hanging above us.

  “Okay, well, maybe we could go someplace that isn’t so distracting, and I’m forced to be clothed so you can ask away. I’ll even let you take notes.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Like with food, conversation, and maybe some wine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Almost sounds like a date,” I quip, and although I’m proud of my playfulness, I wish I could take it back. I’m not sure it’s in my best interest to throw in a word like date with someone like Nate.

  “It’ll be educational, trust me,” he replies in a tone that melts my panties. I glance at my door, making sure it’s shut all the way.

  Why does everything Nate says drip with innuendo, steering the conversation, no matter how hard I try to stay center?

  “Educational, how?”

  “Why would I give up the fun of the reveal? That’s not my style. You should know that by now.”

  I chuff, knowing that Nate isn’t necessarily a fan of revealing much of anything.

  “I meant to ask you something by the way.”

  “Something that can’t wait until dinner tomorrow?”

  “It probably can, but I want to know now. What do these lessons you teach me have anything to do with my assignment? It’s more for your sexual satisfaction.”

  I hear him shuffling again. “It’s definitely for my sexual satisfaction, but I think it’s fair to say it’s not only me that’s satisfied.”

  I’m so thankful he’s not here to see me turn puce.

  He continues, “Now, I understand why you’re having trouble with your article if you’re not understanding what each lesson teaches, other than the obvious.”

  I twirl a wavy strand of hair around my finger, not hiding my sass as I bob my head while speaking into the phone, only because I know he can’t see me do it. “I figured it was what you wanted out of our arrangement.”

  “Of course it is,” he says, and I don’t know why that response stings, but it does. I wince. “But with my satisfaction comes experience for your research. See, Fahrenheit is about a lot of things, Lauren. Sure, it’s about sex. Lots of it, but have you ever considered the complicated layers that build that basic ideal? Each lesson teaches you a little bit about yourself, while still opening your eyes about what the club is about. It’
s about letting ago, or sometimes it’s about self-control. Regardless, it’s all calculated to the finest detail when it comes to someone’s sexual fantasy. This experience should help you understand why people like it at Fahrenheit, and have you realizing that finding out what you like sexually can change people’s perspective on themselves. Sexual exploration contains as much soul searching as a backpacking trip to Europe might have.”

  Although my breaths have transitioned into a choppy windstorm, I reply, “You lost me.”

  “Let’s use you as an example. How have you felt at work lately? Focused? More in control? Determined? Have you ever considered that some of these changes have occurred from me putting my hands on you?”

  “Maybe,” I squeak, dragging my hand over my chest, feeling myself overheating with each embarrassing heave of my chest that confirms that he’s right.

  “That’s what Fahrenheit is about. Can you imagine what harnessed control, or submission, or feeding into one’s desires on a constant basis might do to someone? It can make them powerful. It can even calm and satiate. It can soothe anxiety, or it can help define your personality. It all depends on what a person might need. A place like Fahrenheit is like a prescription to self-awareness.”

  I lean over to my nightstand and scribble on a notepad. The pause on the other end tells me he knows what I’m doing.

  “Do you have more questions?” he asks after our twenty-second lull.

  I toss my pen back onto my nightstand. It misses, landing on the floor. I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure. The answer should probably be ‘yes, I do,’ but I’ll just create a list for tomorrow.”

  I hear more shuffling. “I’ve got a great idea.”

  “Is this anything like your requests?” I goad, and when it slips from my sassy lips, I wish I could take it back. Nate has a way of turning my sarcasm against me. A skill I have never encountered until him.

  He chuckles. “You don’t like my requests?”

  “Trick question.”

  More laughter, and I hate how my chest swells at the sound.