Boston

by Alexis Alvarez

  He points to the low counter with a Keurig, and I prance over, open the cupboard above it, and pull out a package of Oreos. I shove one into my mouth. “These are more addictive than cocaine,” I announce, wiping my hands together and grinning. “I heard it on NPR. Want one?”

  Erik shakes his head. “I keep those for the kids who come in with parents, Abby.” But his voice is fond. “Parker, feel free—if you want anything.”

  I close the cupboard more firmly than necessary. “I think Boston is allergic to these.”

  Boston snorts. “High fructose corn syrup, saturated fat, mono- and diglycerides—that shit is poison to the system, Abby.”

  I bite my lip and lick off more crumbs (God. How does one cookie make a million tiny shards of Loser on my face?), feeling like a disgusting slob. “Yeah. Um, you know, they’re good for a quick energy rush, though.” My voice is kind of mean. “For us mortals who aren’t built like Greek gods or who never had time to work out five or six hours a day because we had to attend graduate school and stuff.”

  “That’s not what I—” Boston begins, a frustrated look on his face.

  Erik steps in. “And if the kids are climbing the walls from a sugar high, then they’re allowing mom and dad to review the contract, so we all win. Wall-climbing is in these days, you know. Even my local gym has a rock-climbing wall.”

  Laughter, crisis averted, Erik is Super Mediator like always. I relax and Boston’s scowl dissipates. We make some small talk that includes great, thanks, awesome, appreciate, and opportunity. Blah, blah. Now it’s time to go.

  Erik hugs me again. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” he murmurs. I stiffen, even as the words warm me, darting a glance at Boston.

  “You too,” I say.

  Boston turns. “I need to get back to my studio. You comin’ by later, Abby?” His voice is harder than before.

  “Yes. See you soon.” I smile.

  He walks out without a backward glance, and I look after him, blinking.

  Erik notices. “Are you having a thing with him?” His voice is curious, but not jealous.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I said no, Counselor.” I snap it out, then amend with, “We just met, Erik. And we’re from different worlds. I don’t think...” But I don’t know what it is that I don’t think, so I stop there.

  He shrugs. “But maybe a different world is what we need this go-around.” He swallows, looks away. “You know?”

  I shrug back. “Who knows what any of us need. You—you’re great, you know that?”

  He smiles. “You, too. Oh, that reminds me, my mom asked if red is still your favorite color.”

  “It is.” I grin. Erik’s mom is awesome, and if I were in the market for a new mom, she’d be head and shoulders above Marr in the “Abby’s New Mom” competition. She’s warm, smart, savvy, and utterly fun. Sometimes I think that the worst part of the breakup with Erik was losing that ready-made family, but his mom is making it clear that I’m still welcome in the Nyland fold.

  “So who’s this… Annalise?” Erik turns back to his desk, arranging papers.

  “I don’t know. Parker’s ex. She’s a model. Gorgeous. She’ll be great in pictures.” I shrug, feeling that weird mix of gratitude and excitement at the opportunity to have her in the book along with a distinct I-don’t-want-to-meet-her vibe.

  Erik’s voice is casual. “I, um, Googled her, when you said she’d be part of the project. Looks like she’s done some pretty cool stuff.”

  “Uh, huh.” I’ve Googled her, too.

  Erik turns back to me, smiles. “Sounds like a win for you all. I hope this project works out well.”

  “Thanks. Me, too.” Understatement of the year. Of my life. I’ve never wanted something more. If those people who write the self-help books are right, then I’m pretty much going to make my success materialize out of thin air with the force of my convictions, with the strength of my passion. And my quick fingers, typing out my best novel to date.

  Erik adds, “Hey, if you want, I can come by the studio and drop off the contract when it’s done. I’m curious to see how it all looks there. And, you know, meet your new coworkers.” He twirls his silver pen and drops it, fumbles to grab it from his desk.

  “Not necessary,” I tell him. “Besides, it will be busy the next few days. He’s going to be doing a lot of shots with Annalise and stuff, and it’s just as easy for me to swing by here next week. I’ll call you.”

  ***

  I’m at Boston’s studio, sitting in that window seat I admired, laptop open. Behind me, Boston is talking with two female models; he’s doing some girl/girl pictures for a lesbian romance cover by an author I know on Facebook. Small world. I wonder if she’d be excited or irritated if I messaged her something about how I’m seeing her cover live in progress even before she sees it, and decide not to, because we’re not that close.

  We did a quick introduction but now I’m back at work, distracted. They totally don’t mind that I’m here; Boston asked them ahead of time. They said they can concentrate just fine and won’t feel violated. Ha!

  Me, though? I’m not so sure I can focus. I’m intrigued by this, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get a single sentence written. It’s not as loud, decibel-wise, as the workmen at Marr’s house, but their words and movements reverberate in my brain, sending out ripples and echoes into remote parts of my psyche, locking me into an endless loop of rumination and reflection and desire.

  “So we’ll start with you and Kelsey standing together, looking into each other’s eyes, okay?” Boston’s voice is low and smooth as he adjusts something on a camera. I peek over. “Ashley, rest your hand on Kelsey’s hip, splay out your fingahs, but gentle. Don’t dig in, just relax them.”

  The women get into position in front of the backdrop, and one of them adjusts her thong. They’re both topless, and their tits are magnificent. I swivel my chair to watch, spellbound now.

  “Like this?” The one named Ashley frowns, adjusts her hand.

  “Yes, just a little lower,” Boston instructs. “Yes! Like that. Stay there. Now Kels, you step in just a few inches so your hip brushes hers, and twist your body. I want this to look provocative, like you’re just about to kiss. Both of you lick your lips, get them wet for the shot.”

  Both women moisten as directed, and then look into each other’s eyes. Ashley giggles. “Oh, my God. You look so serious.”

  Kelsey giggles, too. “Pretend I’m David Beckham. Right?”

  “Eh, he doesn’t do it for me. How about Joe Manganiello?”

  They titter together until Boston reprimands, “Ladies, please. Let’s focus.”

  “Okay, boss,” says Kelsey in mock-complaining voice, and adjusts her thong again. “This keeps riding up my ass. So annoyin’.” She wiggles. “Got it. I’m ready.”

  The two women get into character and Boston shoots. I rise from my chair and stretch, then walk behind Boston so I can watch from his vantage point. I want to see what he sees.

  “Ash, now wrap your hand around her waist a little more, pull just a bit, pull her hips to you. I want to capture that action, so do it a few times, ‘kay?”

  I think this move can work for my new story in progress, the one I’m working on right now. I imagine my hero, his hand on my heroine’s small waist, his hard, blunt-edged fingertips pulling her in to his hips. I think about them looking into each other’s eyes, her lips wet, about to kiss him.

  “It’s writing itself,” I announce, and Boston gives me a quick glance.

  “Abby?”

  “Inspiration.” I smile at him and swing back into my chair, my fingers dancing over the keys as I write the new scene. I needed a sex scene, and now one is growing in my mind, taking shape. It’s like mental cotton candy, spinning from thin air into something fluffy and ethereal and utterly delicious, like magic in motion. The voices soften into a blend of comfortable background as I write, immersed in my screen, my focus intent. Nothin
g else exists outside my personal space, and I know it’s good, what I’m writing right now.

  I jerk in surprise at a touch on my shoulder, some time and about two thousand words later. “Abs? Kels and Ash are leavin’ now.”

  I nod, stand up, and my knee cracks. I didn’t move the whole time I was writing.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I say. Should we shake hands? Hug? Air kiss? How about nothing?

  Nothing seems to work for them, too. “Nice! Late-ah,” combines in the air with perfume and large purses swinging and heels. When they’re out the door, the silence is louder than the chatter. Boston stretches his fingers and sticks his hands into his pockets. “You get a lot done, Abs?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “What did you think of the shoot? It didn’t distract you?”

  “No, I actually—I got some inspiration for a sexy part.”

  “Do tell.” His voice is lower now. “You writin’ a girl/girl scene?”

  I shake my head. “It’s all hetero loving in my book, Boston.” I smile. “But sexy poses are sexy poses, regardless of gender.”

  He tilts his head. “Maybe I should read your book.”

  “Maybe you should.” My voice is low, too. “It might give you some ideas.”

  “I got plenty of my own ideas.” His voice is taut, a challenge. He barely lifts one eyebrow at me and lets his lips curl into the smallest smile. God. Those lips, full and sexy. I want to feel them on my neck.

  I lick my lip. “You know my book has bondage in it, Boston. Some spanky good times. You an expert on that, too?”

  He hesitates. “Not to date, no. I don’t need to tie my women down, or threaten them with punishment, Abs. They come willingly. Over and over again.” I feel my stomach liquefy at his confident grin.

  I shrug. “Oh, I just bet they do. But you never know. Sometimes it’s good to expand your horizons.”

  He comes closer and I feel his warmth next to me, smell his scent. I control my breathing because I sort of feel like panting, and I control my head, because it wants to drift closer to his, closer to his sensual lips.

  “Oh, Abs, you want to expand your horizons?” His voice is a gentle croon, a promise, and a dare. “I bet you’d like doing what I tell you to, without being tied up at all.” I gasp out at his intense gaze. He continues. “You can tell yourself it’s research for yah book, if you like.” He smiles and touches my cheek, lets his finger stroke down my jaw and down my neck.

  My pulse flutters under his touch. “So you’re offering me some generous public assistance, just to make my writing better?”

  “Better for both of us, babe.” He continues with the finger, lower now, along my clavicle. “The better the book, the better the profits. I wouldn’t be a very good partner if I didn’t pull my fair share, now would I? If I can… motivate you… shouldn’t I do it to help our bottom line?”

  Oh, God. He’s good at this game.

  I put my hand over his exploring touch, push his fingers into a fist, enclose his hard fist in mine. “Of course you should. I appreciate such a generous offer. You’re so selfless.”

  “You want a study hour, Abby? Smart girl want to get herself a tutor?” He’s ready to strike. I can see it in his eyes. He’s so… sure of me. So confident that if he want this, he can hit this. And underneath my desire for him, that is irritating, and I don’t like it. Why should he get to be so cocky about himself?

  I let go of his hand, feeling inspired. “Okay. Here’s how you can help.” I step back. “I do need some advice.” I point. “Lean against the wall for me.”

  His gaze is quizzical. “Sure thing, Abs.” He saunters over and poses. Such a playboy. I shake my head with a smile. He gestures to me just like he did at the club, like “come here, baby,” and it’s all I can do to resist the urge to jump on him and grind, like that groupie girl.

  “Can I ask you something?” I make my voice low and soft.

  “Anything.” He’s all easy confidence.

  I walk closer and ask in a whisper, “Do you like blow jobs?”

  If he had a drink, he’d spit it out. His whole body reacts. “Do I—? Yeah. I fucking love them. I mean—Abby?” His eyes are popping out of his head, and I can tell he’s wondering, hoping, because his body shows me an immediate interest—more than a passing interest—in my question.

  Good. I step in, close. “I figured you did, but I needed to hear it. How do you like them best?” I run one finger up his chest.

  “Best?” I can almost see his mind racing, trying to figure this out, and I smile. “You know. Your ideal, perfect BJ. Are you lying on your back, and she’s kneeling over you, naked, ready to please you? Or do you prefer her on her knees and you’re sitting on the bed, or leaning against a wall—like this.”

  I widen my eyes and tilt my head, and he groans. I kneel down in front of him, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve had one while standing, right?”

  “Abby?”

  “Yes or no.”

  “Yes, I have. Uh, what was the other question?”

  “Forget the other question. All I need from you right now, Professor, is a few measurements. I just need to see if someone my height,” and I inch in a little closer on my knees, “could service someone your height,” and I run my hands up his hard thighs, “while she’s kneeling.”

  His muscles clench under my fingers. “Yeah, Abby, yeah, you could. She could.” He shifts against the wall, restless, and I see how hard he is through his jeans. Damn, but I want to stroke him, to feel him. I want to unbuckle his jeans and touch him, lick him, then have him put his face between my legs and return the favor.

  “Does it work against the wall?” I have to be careful not to get caught up in my own game. “I mean, if you get excited, you won’t throw your head back and concuss yourself, right?”

  He laughs, a hard bark, and I see his hands clench and unclench. “I can control myself, yeah.”

  “Good.”

  I stay there for a second, just touching him, watching him fight his body for control, then I lean in so my mouth is really close to his groin. “Yeah, it does look like I could reach. You’d have to thrust down and I’d have to adjust, but we could make it work, don’t you think?”

  I squeeze into his quads with my palms, then get to my feet, standing so close that I can smell the scent of his shirt. It’s a different detergent than Erik’s, and I like it, I like the difference.

  He pushes off the wall and takes my shoulders in his hands. “What exactly are we doin’ here, Abby?” His breathing is rough, his eyes glittering. There’s a tone in his voice that makes me weak.

  I smile innocently. “Research. You just helped me, like you offered. And I so appreciate it. Thanks a bunch, partner!” I touch his arm, then pull away and sashay back to my computer. “Now that I have the logistics down, I need to get it into the computer. You’re the best.”

  I start typing. I try to ignore the spark of pleasure between my legs, the way my breathing jerks in my chest. The way I want to lean into him and beg him to take me. The way I want to do exactly what I just teased him about. But I keep my eyes directly on my screen. The funny thing is that although I want nothing more than to feel his mouth on mine, I also feel the muse in my brain, and the ideas are filling me; beautiful, wicked words that need to be captured.

  “Oh, fuck me.” His voice is full of rueful humor, but also something else. “Abby?” I can feel the tension, the question. If I said yes, he’d be on me in a heartbeat, and I think it would be the best sex of my life. I know it would be.

  But I don’t say yes. “Not now, Boston, sorry.” I wave my hand behind me without turning from the screen. “I’m working on our bottom line.”

  Yeah, I want him, but something also makes me want to win at this—I don’t know why it feels like a competition, but I’m terrified of giving in to this surge of passion. I don’t know what it will do to me, to us, to this arrangement, so I just can’t allow myself to indulge.

  I’m already
a little crazy for him, and I can’t risk a one-night stand, because I know myself, and I know I’d fall deep and hard and crash right down on the rocks when it turned out he wasn’t available, wasn’t going to offer anything else.

  He makes a loud growl and slams his fist into the wall, but then he laughs. “Jesus. I’m gonna go for a jog.” He disappears into his room, and a few minutes later, the front door bangs shut.

  When he comes back, he greets me casually, although his eyes wander over me more boldly than the day before. Whatever we did or didn’t do, there’s something between us, and it’s growing stronger, little by little. I can’t help but think I see a new respect there, too. He’s no longer sure of what I am, what I offer, and I think he likes that as much as I do.

  Chapter Four

  The next day I stop at the Dunkin’ drive-through for a bag of sugary perfection. I was up writing until two a.m., and I can’t start my day without something to get my blood going, and something to save for that narcoleptic afternoon slump that hits around three p.m. I have a huge Frappuccino too, with whipped cream and caramel, and it’s delicious and it does what it’s supposed to. I suck half of it down in the car, feeling the instant hit in my veins. Ever since I started writing full time last year I’ve become more reliant on fast food and treats, but writing is such a rush that I never seem to want to take the time to prepare a meal from scratch. The computer is a siren, a lure. I’m addicted to my work and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the words coming, to allow my fingers to find their natural home on the keyboard.

  Honestly, I need the sugar as a distraction, too. I eat when I’m nervous sometimes, and after my little tease-o-rama yesterday, I’m not sure what’s going to happen today. I don’t like the way my pants have been a little tighter these past months, but I swear, I’m going to get back into running just as soon as this project is finished.

  Boston frowns when he sees my plastic cup and colorful bag. “I told you I’d make coffee and something healthy.”