by Lila Monroe
Mmmm. His arms. Does he work out, I wonder? He must, to get biceps like that. And rock-hard abs, and his ass—
Jake snaps his fingers. “Eyes up here,” he says, chuckling. Whoops! “I’ll call Skye,” he says. “Tell her you’ll be out at meetings for the afternoon.”
“It’s a plan, Stan.”
“Now let’s get you home.” He takes hold of me again, and for the sake of my libido, I shake him off.
“I can get an Uber.” I scrabble in my purse for my phone for two long minutes until Jake sighs.
“I can take you.”
“It’s fine!” I protest, searching. “It’s right here . . .” I kneel down and upend my purse on the sidewalk. Gum and keys and loose change and old lip glosses go spilling out in every direction. “Ahah!” I find my phone. “See?”
“Clearly.” Jake helps clean everything up. A rolled-up playbill for a show I went to in 2014 goes fluttering past. “Jesus, what don’t you have in there?”
“A woman’s purse is her secret kingdom,” I declare dramatically. “Know the purse, know the woman.”
“Oh yeah?” Jake holds up a condom. “Ribbed, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
I snatch it back, blushing furiously. “You know what? Keep it.” I change my mind and tuck it in his shirt pocket. “I won’t be needing it anytime soon.”
“The strike.” He smirks. “Good luck with that.”
“Thank you!”
I take off, sashaying away like I saw Harmony do earlier, but I’ve only made it a few steps when Jake grabs my elbow and gently turns me around. “This way, doll. C’mon, I’ll take you home.”
He hustles us across the street and stops in front of a car—and not just any car, either, but a silver Aston Martin parked in the loading zone. Because of course.
He walks around to the passenger side and unlocks the door, and meanwhile my jaw is on the sidewalk and I’m pretty sure I’ve begun sweating because this car is the very definition of perfection. I’m not even into cars that much and I have goosebumps, even though it’s seventy-five degrees and sunny.
“Are you going to get in? Or do you need a written invitation?”
I slide onto the butter-soft leather seat and moan. “How do you have this car? Fuck, I want to MARRY this car.”
Jake laughs, getting behind the wheel. “It was a gift.”
“From GOD?”
“Almost. A Saudi prince who wanted something very specific that I managed to find.”
“Hookers and blow?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He laughs again. “Actually, a limited-edition sneaker. Real gold thread in the laces, and diamonds in the tread. They only made three pairs.”
“Rich people are ridiculous.” I put the seat back and practically spread my legs right there. “But they have the best cars.”
“Agreed.”
He slides a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes and starts the engine, and I swear to god this car literally purrs. It’s unreal. He reaches across me and opens up the glove compartment and, I kid you not, he takes out a pair of brown suede gloves, pulling them over his long fingers.
“Driving gloves?” I moan. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he retorts, adjusting the rearview mirror before putting the car in drive.
No, unfortunately, he looks damn sexy right now. I’m a shallow, shallow person, but fuck, this car looks good on him.
“Where to?” he asks as we glide out into traffic.
“Williamsburg,” I answer, giving him my address. I roll down the window to let in the fresh spring air. “And step on it.”
The butter-smooth motion of the car, plus the pasta, plus the booze must have lulled me into a drunken stupor, because when I open my eyes again we’re parked in front of my building.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, rubbing my bleary eyes while struggling to open the door.
“More booze?” Jake looks at the entrance to the bar. “Lizzie, do you need to talk about it?”
“I live upstairs!”
He laughs. “Just checking.” He comes around and takes me by the arm, helping me upstairs. After what seems like a millisecond, and completely against my better judgment, Jake Weston is in my apartment. He looks around as I kick my shoes off and toss my coat onto the couch.
“Nice place,” he says, walking over to a framed print of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. “Cozy.”
“I think you mean small,” I yawn.
“That too,” he says, turning around and giving me that know-it-all smile that drives me fucking crazy. “But in a good way.”
Good, as in I’m only a couple of feet away from him, close enough to see that adorable little dimple in the cleft of his cheek when he grins like that . . .
No Lizzie. Bad Lizzie. Down, girl!
“Look,” I say, holding onto the chair for support. “Thanks for bringing me home and all, but I should really be going.”
Umm, what? His smile deepens, and he’s clearly amused with my drunk ass.
“I mean, you should really be going,” I correct myself. “Before I jump your cocky, arrogant bones.”
“What did you just say?” Jake snorts.
Shit, did I say that part out loud? I groan. “I’m drunk. You know what I mean.”
“You want me,” he teases, laughing.
“I don’t! Well, a little,” I admit, burning up with embarrassment. “But you want me too.” I glare.
“Says who?” Jake steps closer.
“Says me.” I meet his gaze with a challenge. “You bought me lunch.”
“A business expense.” Jake keeps grinning like the cat that got the fucking canary, igniting that itch in my blood made up of one part irritation and seventy million parts pure, inexplicable lust.
“You got me drunk.”
“You did that all on your own.”
“You brought me home.”
“To avoid any public safety hazards.”
Somehow, he’s right in front of me, so close I can smell his aftershave and feel the heat from his body. He smirks, so damn sure of himself. I need to wipe that look off his face so I do the only thing possible, the only reasonable thing in this situation, if you really think about it. Which I don’t.
I kiss him. Hard.
Jake stumbles back, surprised, but then he returns the favor, grabbing me closer and kissing me like, fuck, I don’t even know, all I know is that it’s good. Mmmm . . . He’s sliding his tongue into my mouth, his hands at my waist, moving down over my hips and squeezing my ass. I gasp against his lips, and when my eyes flutter open I see that he’s staring right at me, daring me to stop.
No fucking way.
I throw my arms around his neck, bringing his mouth back to mine. And just like that we’re moving across the room, crashing into the standing lamp on our way to the bed, his hands in my hair and that body hard against me. Point of order: he definitely works out.
Jakes slams me up against the wall, and fuck, it just makes me hotter. I haven’t been kissed like this in years. Decades, even. Centuries! I can feel how hard he is through his pants, and when I close my hand around him, he lets out this strangled groan that turns me on like crazy. I stroke him through his pants, and he bends his head to my breasts, pulling the neckline of my dress to the side, sucking my nipples through my black lace bra until I want to scream. I pull his head closer as his tongue moves expertly until the lace covering my nipples is wet through—just like my panties. His hands slide lower, and then, fuck, he’s slipping his fingers up inside my panties, pushing them aside to stroke my clit in slow, steady strokes. I moan, thrusting against his hand as I reach for his belt, unbuckling it with one hand. Fuck, I want him. I need this. It’s been so long since I came my brains out, and god only knows when I’ll have the chance again—
I freeze. Fuck. The strike.
“GODDAMIT!”
“Not the reaction I was looking for.” Jake comes up for air, his hair all mussed and his
breathing coming fast. He slides his hands around my waist, moving lower, and gives me a devilish grin. “But what the hell, let’s try that again.”
“Nope. No. No, no, no!” I push him away. “What are we doing? Oh my god, what am I doing? I’m supposed to be on strike! And you’re the guy who thinks romance is nothing more than a way to get some pussy, and here I am, just giving it to you!”
“I’m willing to work out our differences, if you are.” Jake grins and reaches for me again. I shake my head.
“You need to leave, Jake. Like now.”
Before I do something I regret. In five different positions.
Jake sighs and refastens his pants. “Sure you want me to go?” he asks with a wicked grin. “What happens in Williamsburg stays in Williamsburg.”
“Go!” I toss a throw pillow at him, and he ducks, laughing. I slide to the floor. That was close. Too close.
Or not nearly close enough.
I bury my head in my hands as Jake grabs his keys, but instead of the sound of the door closing, I hear footsteps, and the sound of the faucet in my kitchen.
“Here, take two now and save yourself the hangover.”
I look up. Jake crouches beside me, and hands me a glass of water and two aspirin. I blink, surprised by the gesture. “Thanks.”
“And don’t worry,” he adds with a gentle smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you won the breakup. After all, you got to make out with me.”
Before I can yell, he laughs and saunters to the hall. The last I hear of Jake Weston is a click as the door gently closes behind him.
13
Jake
“Tell me you got her to break the strike,” Miles greets me, with desperation in his voice.
I laugh, grabbing my burger and chowing down. Man, there’s nothing better than eating a burger while you’re sitting outside in the warm air drinking a beer. Spring is the best time to be in New York, hands down. Hell, it’s the best time to be alive, really. And since Shake Shack is the apex of all these things, it’s one of my favorite places in the city.
“You need to get it together,” I say through a mouthful of perfectly seared beef. “It’s not Lizzie’s fault your wife is holding out on you. Wasn’t she turning you down way before this stupid strike?”
“She says she’s been inspired now.” Miles slumps, morose. “Apparently, I’m not giving her what she needs. But when I asked what she needed, she said I should already know!”
“Marriage.” I shrug. “Sucks to be you.”
“Thanks for the support.” Miles picks listlessly at his food. “I don’t suppose you’ve been starving for female attention, strike or no strike.”
I flash back to Lizzie, up against the wall. Fuck, that was hot. Like four-alarm fire hot. Which makes her strike even more ridiculous, because she’s clearly a red-blooded woman when it comes down to it. With a weirdly strong sense of self-control. I don’t think anyone’s ever taken my pants off and then demanded I leave, but I guess I’ll never understand women. At least she’s not making it awkward—it’s been a few days since our nooner, but she’s acting like nothing happened at all.
Which weirdly is kind of insulting. I mean, I’m pretty sure she was enjoying herself, if those gorgeous pert nipples and damp panties were anything to go by.
“Can’t you say something?” Miles pleads. “You’re working together now, right?”
When I can keep my hands off her.
“Tatiana’s complaining now that I’m not romantic enough. I mean, I brought home takeout the other night when she didn’t feel like cooking, and I always remember to take out the trash! Well, Simon does it, but I always remember to remind him. That counts, right?”
I stifle a smile, taking in Miles’ anguished expression. Simon is their houseman, and Tat and Miles own an entire brownstone in Park Slope. It’s not like Miles ever so much as folds his own laundry, much less takes out the garbage. They have a staff of ten to handle the day-to-day crap of their lives—including two full-time nannies and a driver.
“How long do you think it’s gonna last?”
“Who knows?” Miles throws up his hands in exasperation. “And she’s Brazilian! They’re some of the most stubborn women on the planet! I’m doomed, Jake, I’m telling you.”
“Look,” I tell him. “This strike thing isn’t going to last forever. In a week or so, women will get tired of it and move on. Plus, eventually they’ll get horny, and that’s where we come in.”
I think about coming in Lizzie, and immediately get hard. Fuck, tenting in the middle of Madison Square Park. What am I, fourteen?
“I said as much to Tat, but she just told me that’s why God invented vibrators. Then she went out to the Pink Pussycat—you know, that store on Grand? And she came home with a whole BAG of them! Big ones, little ones. The ones in the shape of a little butterfly? It’s a disaster.” He looks around the park, taking in the teeming crowd lined up in front of the restaurant. “I wonder who the lucky guy will be,” he muses.
“To fuck your wife?” I crack.
“No, asshole.” He smiles for the first time since we sat down. “To break Lizzie’s strike. I mean, I’d bet guys would be lining up to do the deed, just so they could say they’re the one that ended it, you know?”
My phone buzzes with the alarm I set, and realize I have to get a move on if I’m going to make visiting hours at my grandpa’s place.
“You out of here?” Miles asks, watching as I ball up my napkin and throw my trash on our tray. “Sure, just abandon me in my time of need,” he sighs.
“You’ll be fine, bro.” I slap him on the shoulder. “Just go home, jerk off, and stop thinking about shit you can’t control.”
“It’s alright for you to say. If a woman turns you down, you can just move on to the next one. But Tatiana’s my wife.”
Like I said, marriage.
I head over to the Upper West Side, where the streets are still tree-lined and quiet, and haven’t been overrun with hipster coffee shops serving six-dollar almond-milk lattes. Silver Harbor is one of the nicest assisted living facilities in the city, with spacious suites, round-the-clock medical staff, and more activities than a cruise liner. I moved my grandpa Hank in here after his first heart attack a couple of years ago. It’s pricy as hell, but the old man deserves it. He practically raised me, so the least I can do is make sure he spends his twilight years some place with pizza delivery and Monday-morning yoga.
The nurse on duty looks up from her computer and smiles at me.
“Hi, Jake. Right on time. Hank’s in his room, I think. Tell him we missed him during morning workout.”
“Thanks, Nina.” I sign in. “You should tell him yourself. I think he’s got a crush.” I wink, and she laughs.
“He’s a rascal,” she says. “You just tell him I’m on strike.”
“On strike?” I echo, with a sinking feeling inside.
“For romance.” Nina beams. “I saw a story about it on Good Morning America last week. So I’m not having sex until men shape up.”
Jesus. This thing really does have a life of its own.
“Well, good luck with that,” I say and walk away.
I walk through the common room on the way to Hank’s suite. There are seniors all around, playing cards at small tables, reading in front of the fire that seems to be constantly crackling in the early evenings here, winter through spring.
Hank is sitting up in bed when I come in, playing a game of backgammon with a busty blond nurse, her cleavage all but falling into his lap as she leans over the board. He’s wearing his favorite navy-blue smoking jacket, his white hair carefully combed back from his face. His blue eyes sparkle merrily as he grabs the dice and rolls them theatrically before he turns to greet me.
“Jake, my boy!” he says in his big, booming voice as I reach over to shake his hand, knowing better than to lean in for a hug with a dame in the room—his term, not mine.
“Hey Hank,” I say, as the blond gets up.
“I’ll see you later, I hope?” she asks, smiling.
“You bet!” Hank turns to give her a wink before she sidles out the door. I chuckle under my breath as I watch her go. Once a player, always a player. Or should I say playboy?
“How are you?” Hank exclaims. “Sit down, sit down!” He gestures to the newly vacated chair and I sink into it and look around. We moved in all his favorite furniture and effects, so Hank’s suite is like stepping into a gentleman’s club, circa 1962. He’s got a bar cart set up with crystal tumblers, autographed prints of Sinatra and Brando on the wall, and even a vintage record player that I just know he uses to tempt all the hot seniors back to his room.
“I’m good,” I say, relaxing. Hank’s suite is the only place I feel entirely like myself, where I can really let my guard down. “Busy. I’m working on acquisitions for a new show opening at the Met in a few months.”
“The Met again?” Hank raises an eyebrow. “Well, well, they must’ve been quite impressed with your work the last time around to ask you back again. Well done!”
“It’s a job,” I say with a shrug, not wanting to talk about work, or the stupid strike, or Lizzie and the make-out session in her apartment, which I can’t seem to stop thinking about. “So what’s going on with you and the blond?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Just a flirtation, my dear boy, nothing more. I’m far too old to be domesticated,” he says with a smile. He’s been a bachelor for almost thirty years now, since Grandma passed, and he always says that marriage is unnatural—good for the man, terrible for the woman.
“Anything in that pocket for me?” he asks, his smile turning devilish as he rubs his hands together.
“But of course,” I say, and with a flourish I pull my flask from my pocket, and hand it over. Hank gave it to me on my college graduation, and I try to always keep it stocked with his favorite whiskey, Macallan 25.
“I love this piece,” he says, turning the flask over in his hands. It shines under the Tiffany lamp at his bedside, and I watch as he runs his fingers over my initials, engraved on the side. “I found it in a little shop in Paris on the left bank, sometime in the fifties. Back then, Paris was a playground—women everywhere! They wore silk stockings with seams that drove me half out of my mind, and little hats with veils. Every chance meeting was a flirtation, my boy. Every sigh leading to a kiss . . .” His voice drifts off, lost in memory. And even though I’ve heard these stories a thousand times, I love all of it.
