“Good night.” My voice wobbles, but I walk to my car with my head high. This time, no childhood memories come rushing back to soothe me back into control, and all the way home I alternate between surges of adrenaline and despair.
***
“Your artwork is very eclectic,” observes a middle-aged man in a dark suit and an uninspired haircut, glancing at the wall. “The number theme matches your job.” He swipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and stands up.
Liesl’s laugh is delighted, as if she’s never heard this before and finds it utterly charming. “It does, Larry, you’re so right. Thanks for noticing.” She touches the sleeve of his jacket and lowers her voice. “I like to remind people that numbers can be beautiful, you know? And that we’re not just about hard numbers here at Benson Accounting, we’re about making things better. Taking the ugly tax forms and making them pretty again, right?”
He laughs, but his face looks grateful, and I see that his hand is tight on his laptop case. “Well, I appreciate your help. My wife and I really needed the refund.”
Liesl nods and steers him to the door with a touch on his elbow. “Well, with the tax credits we found, and the things you were not deducting, you’re going to get double what you got last year. So tell Mary Patrice that the fancy matching cribs are a go. Twins! I’m so excited for you both.”
He nods and brushes his forehead again. “You’re a lifesaver. I’m glad I hired you to handle my extension.” He gets onto his phone as he walks out the door, and his face looks easy.
I sidle up. “Another satisfied customer here at Benson, am I right?”
“Abs!” Liesl sashays over on her heels and hugs me. Her hair is up in an elegant chignon and her suit is total Wall Street chic.
“How do you answer the same questions all the time?” I point at the wall, where a huge painted five echoes itself in yellow, smaller versions, against a background of red and brown boxy shapes.
Liesl shrugs. “It’s just the way to start or end conversations for me, kind of like, Did you find everything okay? from the grocery clerks, or Want a lap dance? for the girls at the clubs. Just part of the lingo to get everyone in the right frame of mind for the situation at hand.” She pours two cups of coffee from the pot and hands me one. “So how’s the working with Parker going?”
I shrug. “It’s—complicated. He kissed me.”
“I knew it!” Her face lights up. “When did this happen? Did he use tongue? Is he a good kisser?”
“Yesterday, yes, and yes. He’s awesome. It was a great kiss. And then he dismissed me.”
“He what?”
“We kissed, then he suddenly pulled back and was all, okay, goodnight, see you tomorrow.”
“So what did you say?”
“Nothing. I just said goodnight, too, and walked out.” I pick at the hem of my shirt and sigh. “It’s probably better. A one-night stand would mess things up.”
Liesl bobs her head. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause while neither of us speak, then I burst in. “But he has a lot of nerve. I don’t see why he gets to call the shots and be all, kiss me, kiss me, and then, okay, we’re done. Right? He probably thinks I’m so hot for him or so hard up for a guy that he can get a fast fuck, and then go back to work as normal. So he’ll just get what he wants now and get the rest, whenever. That’s not… Ugh. Or worse. Maybe he thinks I’m a terrible kisser and he didn’t want to tell me, so he just said goodbye.”
Liesl puts her cup down and looks right at me. “I doubt that he didn’t want you. I’m serious, he gave off a very powerful fucky vibe toward you at the club. The kiss just verifies that. Maybe he just didn’t want to push you, or something. Maybe he has a rash downstairs. There are other possibilities. Do you or do you not want a fling with him?”
“I do not. And I do. A rash? Seriously?”
Liesl takes my cup away, because I’m sort of clenching on it and endangering her brocade couch. “Kidding about the rash. But I agree it would be difficult since you’re working together and all. I mean, I like to joke around, but when it comes down to it, you have to make the decision that works for you and your work. Keeping it professional is honestly the safest thing to do here. Maybe wait until the project is done.”
“When the project is done,” I retort. “I won’t be around all day and he’ll forget about me.” I snap my fingers. “Out of sight, out of mind, and he’ll be back to his usual dimes. I’m just an old nickel.”
Liesl laughs and then her faces goes somber. “You have this weird way of making me laugh and then get sad at the same time. Stop being such a pity-party. There’s nothing nickel about you. Okay? You’re as dime as they come.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re obligated by Girl Code to say that, and even believe it, because we’re BFFs. Your brainwaves have already been corrupted by our friendship. It’s like when they made what’s his name actually believe that two plus two equals five in that one book.”
“Sometimes two plus two does equal five. Trust me, I can make the numbers says what I want.” She pokes me. “And you mean Winston Smith, from Big Brother by George Orwell.”
“But I don’t look like his usual models.”
Liesl looks me dead on. “No, you don’t. You’re shorter and sturdier. Your nose doesn’t scream, ‘I just got done by the best plastic surgeon in L.A.’ You don’t have enhanced boobs, and you’re not a size two. But you have the prettiest eyes and hair. Your shape is fine. You have a great smile and the kind of laugh that makes everyone want to join in the joke. You’re fun and interesting. You don’t need to be like those model girls to get a guy. It doesn’t matter that you’re not like them.”
I bite my lip. “But maybe to him it does matter. I don’t want to be his foray into the fascinating new world of regular non-model girls, something he tries out for fun one weekend like me trying, say, sushi or sumo wrestling on Pay Per View. Just for kicks.”
“I think you’re reading too much into this,” Liesl informs me. “Attraction isn’t for kicks. Love happens. And you’re not regular, whatever that means. You’re unique and wonderful.”
I shrug and look away, and I can tell this pisses Liesl off because her voice gets that tone. “Sometimes people come together and stick. And sometimes they come together and drift apart after one or two moments, and it’s not because one of them isn’t Swimsuit Model Of The Year. I mean, think about all those women. If they’re so frickin’ perfect, why are so many of them single? Why do they have men trouble just like us? Why do they drift around hopping from guy to guy, marriage to marriage sometimes, with ugly breakups and stuff? If they were that amazing, wouldn’t they just lock right in to Mr. Perfect Forever?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. All I know is that I wish I was—”
“See, that’s the problem.” Liesl sounds irritated. “You wish, you wish. Either just accept that you are the way you are and learn to love it. Or else, try to change. I mean, if it’s that big a deal to you, then join a gym and go on a crazy diet and sign up for plastic surgery. Which you know is freakin’ unnecessary. Or else, figure out that you’re good the way you are and find a guy who appreciates that.”
“Well, it’s easy to say that. Harder to make your mind believe it.”
“It’s impossible if you don’t try at all.” Liesl give me the coffee back. “So do I have to stop teasing you about him, now? What are you going to do tomorrow when you see him? Are you going to talk about the kissmissal?”
I snort. “You’re so funny. And I have no idea. I’ll see when I get there. I—well, I sort of… flirt with him a lot, too. So maybe it’s not so weird that he kissed me and then backed off. Like a tease.” Except that it felt nothing like a tease. It felt like something deep and powerful, something so special I can’t even describe it to myself.
“What did you do to tease him?”
I frown, then giggle a little at the memory. “Well, I sort of got down on my knees in front of him and asked him if he likes blow jobs. Maybe I sai
d a few other things to get him really worked up. But then I didn’t give him, you know, one.” My voice is apologetic. “So.”
“Jesus, Abby!” Liesl’s eyes bug out. “You did what? You little slut!” But her voice is fond. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”
I laugh. “He was acting all big shot hot stuff, like he could get me to combust with just one wink, so I wanted to tease him right back and give him a taste of his own medicine. I guess maybe he upped the ante with the kiss.”
Liesl rolls her eyes. “You do realize you’re playing with fire. Right? I mean, you keep that shit up, you’ll be having sex with him in about an hour regardless of whether it’s a good idea or not. And I will have zero sympathy when you come crying to me. Jealousy, maybe. The man is hot.”
“He is hot,” I agree.
Liesl narrows her eyes. “And here’s another theory. Maybe he thinks he’s not good enough for you, Abby. Did you ever consider that? You have a degree from Harvard. You have a nice house and car. You’re a bestselling author. You’re pretty and smart and fun. Maybe he’s the one who thinks he doesn’t bring enough to the table.” She raises her eyebrows. “Give it some thought, Abby. ‘Kay?”
I don’t even know how to process this. “Really?” I cock my head. It’s a strange, enticing idea. Me!—as the unattainable goal. I let my mind drift, imagining myself on a stage, glowing golden, maybe flying around, because I’m a super hero and all the hot guys want me.
Liesl pats my hand, breaking into my reverie. “Look. Part of the reason I think you’re beautiful is because we’re BFFs. That’s the whole point. You see the beauty in the people you love and care about. If he’s getting to know you, the real you, maybe he sees you inside and out and likes you—and he understands how fucking amazing you really are. Is that so hard to believe?”
Chapter Five
I like the quiet afternoons with Boston. After our work is done, before we clean up, the sun comes in through the window in thick, golden beams that accentuate each swirling dust mote in the air. It’s like the very atmosphere is alive, where little sparks twist and whirl in a random pattern, millions of sparkling gems in the air between us. It’s a snowstorm of particles, a rain shower. The sun reveals things that were hidden, makes visible the countless little motes that are all around us, unseen, unmentioned.
It’s in these moments that I feel my desire for him so strongly that I almost can’t stand it. I imagine just going up to him like it’s expected and slinging a leg over his lap, straddling him, taking his face between my hands and burying my tongue in his mouth. I imagine standing in front of him, rubbing my palms up his chest, taking the time I want to feel each ripple and indentation of each muscle. I dream of kissing the side of his jaw where his neck just starts, licking his pulse. I envision myself licking along his upper lip with a flick of my tongue, taking his hands and placing one on each breast. I want to rub his cock through his jeans until he gets so hard that he groans his need to me, moans it into my neck with a sharp bite, hard enough to leave marks.
These thoughts make me quiver with desire and make my panties wet. And then the words come, too, they pour from my fingers and I write almost like I’m being chased, I write frantically, desperately, urgently. I write until the thoughts get too complex and the pattern too hard to follow and only then do I come up for air.
Today he’s watching me when I reemerge. He’s sitting in a backwards chair, his arms folded over the top of it, his eyes on me, and as I flicker into the present I also feel a flicker of arousal at his gaze, which is low-lidded and direct.
“Good writing today?” he asks, his voice a murmur.
“Yes.” I stand and stretch, feeling my shirt rise up to reveal my stomach, but I feel sexy because of what I just wrote, so I take my time, feeling his eyes land on the bare skin. “I’m happy with it.”
He smiles so briefly I think I imagined it, maybe. “You get so intense. It’s like nothing else exists.”
I nod. “It comes alive for me, like I’m watching a movie and hearing a song, but I’m directing real time. It’s like living in another dimension.”
Now he smiles for real. “You talk like a book of poetry sometimes. Not that I evah read much poetry. Your ex does, I guess, though.” His smile fades.
I blink. “How did you know that?”
His gaze meets mine. “I read his profile on the university website. Saw that he’s published a dozen books on the theory of law, and a book of poetry, too.”
I shrug. “Yeah, he writes a lot. Reads, too. Erik reads everything that exists. He’s a walking Wikipedia, without any user error.”
Boston looks away. “Pretty smart guy. Understatement, right?”
“He’s just a guy. And sometimes it got overwhelming.” I pull my hem back down. “Sometimes I want to be the expert on something, you know? Did you get a lot done today, too?”
He nods and stands. “I edited the motorcycle pictures, especially the one you wanted for the cover. Want to see?”
I do, and I come over to his laptop. I like standing so close to him; like last time, I bend my head down to look, wondering how close I can come to his jaw without being obvious. The warmth from his body is magnetic and I want to keep leaning in. That’s a lie: I want to push in, to leap in, to grab him.
I’m supposed to be looking at the screen but he’s just opening up files so I dart my eyes to his profile; his chiseled jaw, his sharp nose. His nose isn’t exactly perfect, but I like it, and I like the stubble on his chin. I want to stroke those tiny sharps under my index finger. I want to stick my tongue in his ear.
I force myself to focus, put my eyes back into the screen just in time: The picture is up and it’s magnificent. The first time I saw it, I loved it, but now it snaps with power. The whites and blacks feed off of each other and blend into a cohesive image. The light is sun painted over his body. I know for sure that this is perfect.
“Boston. It’s—how did you do that?” My voice is hushed. “This is like a visual poem.”
He smiles and I think he’s proud. “Thanks, Abby. It’s what I love. I practice a lot, you know?”
He turns to look at me and our faces are close—so close! He blinks and swallows, then pushes back his chair.
“I would guess I am about halfway done with your pictures, Abby.”
I nod. “Great.”
Neither of us speak, then we both do at once. I say, “So I guess I should—”
And he’s saying, “You want to have a beer or somethin’?”
I flush. “Really? You actually drink something made from grain?”
He laughs. “Yeah. I cheat once in a while. You in?” He raises one eyebrow.
“I’m in.”
I don’t follow him to the kitchen; instead, I walk to the window to admire the sunset. It’s bright, so bright, the oranges and yellow licking into the room and over my keyboard like flames attacking dry branches.
Boston comes back and touches my shoulder, his fingers lingering one extra second, and that’s all it takes to make my heartbeat accelerate. Does he? Doesn’t he? Are we? But he just hands me a cold beer and raises it. “To your book, Abby. Your amazing brain.”
I reply, “And your pictures. Your amazing body—I mean, well, yeah, of course it is amazing. But I didn’t mean it like, I mean…”
He smiles and shakes his head at me, takes a long swig of beer. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gestures to the couch. “Sit with me.”
So we sit together and my heart is in my mouth. Everything I ever said to Liesl was a lie, all those things about not wanting a one-night stand, not wanting him if he just wants a quickie because no one else is around. The truth is that when I’m with him like this, our bodies close, the attraction is so powerful that nothing of that matters. All I can think about is the need in my body, the urge to devour him rising in me with such ferocity that I almost wail with frustration at each missed touch, each lost opportunity. So help me God, if he kissed me right now, I’
d lie down and do whatever he asked. Over and over again.
But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he asks me, “So you do this full time, Abby? The writing?”
“Yes.” My voice is soft. “I used to be an accountant, shared an office with my friend. Well, I still am one, but I don’t work at that anymore. I wrote part time, but then my books really took off, and I decided to try doing it for real, you know? I figure I have the other skills and I can always go back if I need to. But I hope I don’t need to. I love this. How about you?”
He puts his beer onto the coffee table and then his hand is next to me on the couch, and I can’t breathe because it’s so close to my thigh. One inch closer, just one inch. Touch me. Please.
“I had a rough start, Abby. I’m not like you and your—Erik, all with your advanced degrees and happy families and shit. I barely graduated high school. My family—well, I was pretty much on my own. Workin’ out was the only thing I was good at, so I did it all the time. And then I decided, what the hell, why not try to make a livin’ at it, you know? So I got into bodybuilding and fitness. Started modeling. Did well. But that shit gets old. And it’s pretty much a young man’s game, so I figure I gotta come up with another way to pay the bills.”
“You’re still young!” The words burst out, but he is, really—what is he, early thirties?
He gives a short laugh, then grabs his beer for another swig. “You hit thirty, you’re on the way out as a model. I like teaching, but I wanted something more profitable than being a trainer full time. So one day I used the last of my savings and bought a fancy camera. Didn’t know jack about how to use it or anything, Abby. I was freakin’ out, but I made myself read that damn manual cover to cover. Seven times. Seven fuckin’ times until I figured out how to work the thing. Then I started practicing. And I got good.”
His voice evens out and gains strength, fluency. “Then I started takin’ pictures of other models, and reaching out to authors for cover pictures. It’s going well so far. It turns out I like being behind the camera. A lot. I still model too, but I think in the future, you know? This is going to be my thing. Like, my real thing. My job. My life.”
Boston Page 6
