by Violet Duke
He settled between my thighs and captured my mouth, delicately tracing my plump lips before slipping inside and stroking my tongue with his. Breaking the kiss, his head lowered until I felt his lips and tongue surround my nipple and desire exploded between my legs. Clarkâs cell phone rang and he let out a groan.
âDonât answer it,â I moaned, and he didnât, until whoever it was kept calling back and the ringing in our ears wouldnât stop. I let out a frustrated sigh. âI guess you better answer it, babe, itâs obviously important.â
He reached for his cell phone on the side table without straying from my body. âHello?â
âClark, itâs…Su…si…e…â
âSusie, you sound like youâre wasted. Whatâs up? Iâm kind of busy.â He stuck his tongue out at me and I wanted to bite it.
âIâm at Naomiâs hou … se … and ⦠everyone is ⦠drun ⦠k ⦠I … need … a ride home …â
A huge puff of air left Clarkâs chest. âAlright, Iâll be there in a few minutes.â
âIs Susie okay, babe?â
âWell, my sisterâs completely drunk again, and so is everyone else, so I have to pick her up. Iâm sorry, Angel.â
I met his lips with mine. âDonât be, babe. Iâm not going anywhere. Iâll be right here when you get back, naked and ready.â
He kissed me again and reluctantly dragged his body off of mine. He sighed deeply. âI like the sound of that.â
Clark pulled on his stonewashed jeans and blue polo and grabbed his keys. He walked over to me and held on tight, moving his lips over mine tenderly. âGod, I love you, Angel. I canât wait for you to be my wife.â
âMe too. Now hurry back.â I swatted his ass.
He turned around and gave me one more peek into those fields of blue before he headed out.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
CHAPTER ONE
âIf there ever comes a day when we canât be together, keep me in your heart. Iâll stay there forever.â — A.A. Milne
THREE YEARS LATER
I STARTLE AWAKE out of a dream to the buzzing of my annoying alarm clock. Why I donât set it to the radio is beyond me. Maybe I like the shock value. Rubbing my crusty, sleep-filled eyes, I drag my legs over the side of the bed and try and get my bearings before stumbling into the bathroom. I pause for a second to look in the mirror. Yes, this is my life. Every day is the same. My hour and a half morning routine consists of getting dressed, a not-so-pleasant ride on the subway to 62nd and Broadway, a caffeine stopover at Starbucks, and finally, my arrival at Landon & Castell Interior Design by nine a.m. Thatâs the time Robby Mathers, my boss, likes me to be there, and he likes me prompt. Iâve been working there for almost three years since I received my Business Degree, and itâs a job for which I actually have my dad to thank. He used his connections, but not before emphasizing how many strings he had to pull and reading me the riot act about working hard and proving myself. I guess I owe him for this one. Yeah, maybe.
Stepping in the shower, Iâm quickly shocked awake by a blast of cold water. As I let the stream pour over my face, I canât help thinking to myself that all this monotony is getting to me and Iâm in desperate need of a spark. Maybe I should bungee jump off of the Empire State Building or run naked in Central Park. Nah, that would just be plain crazy, plus Iâd get arrested. That wouldnât end well. Unless there was a hot guy dressed in a uniform fingerprinting me. Then it might just be worth it. After all, thereâs really nothing like a man in uniform. I know it sounds like I have sex on the brain. I really donât.
Letâs be real. Iâve always liked guys. Even when they were boys. I remember chasing Michael Bagley around the kindergarten playground, trying to get him to kiss me. Then there was Jason Rasmussen in fourth grade. He played the Tin Man in the school production of The Wizard of Oz, while I played a short, chubby munchkin. God, he was cute. He had the sweetest dimple on his left cheek and a birthmark just above his perfectly shaped lips. Even now, thinking about him makes me smile. I never managed to get much of his attention, but it certainly wasnât from a lack of trying.
So here I am. Twenty-five years old and living in New York; The City That Never Sleeps. Of course, itâs impossible to sleep when someoneâs banging tin cans outside your window. Nonetheless, New York is truly awesome. I mean, I loved California; the palm trees, the beaches, the hot guys on the boardwalk. Yeah, all of that was good. But New York City, thatâs a whole other ball game. You can find anything here, and I mean anything. A vendor selling hot dogs on the street, a guy playing guitar in the subway, or a naked cowboy in Times Square. Itâs all here. And the energy wow! It electrifies me. Sets me on fire. Makes me smile.
I make my way up the stairs of the subway platform until Iâm finally greeted by a patch of clear blue sky. My heels click against the pavement while I stare up to the heavens, thinking I might find the answer to what Iâm searching for. When thereâs no response, I decide on my usual. An iced vanilla latte from Starbucks. Iâve been drinking coffee since I was a kid, back in the day when no one was looking and Iâd put four teaspoonfuls of sugar in it. Now, Iâm onto the fancy stuff; the lattes, the espressos, the mochaccinosâ¦I canât get through the day without my caffeine fix. Itâs my only addiction. Well, that and candyâ¦and chocolate. Thatâs it, though.
Standing in front of the Starbucks sign, I hesitate. Iâm so freaking predictable and need a change. Iâve heard some friends of mine talk about this new gourmet coffee shop around the corner thatâs supposed to be mind-blowing. How can coffee be mind-blowing? That might be a bit extreme. Regardless, I need something different, so I keep walking until I reach The Brew House. It seems like a regular coffee shop; lots of people chatting away in cozy velvet booths and sitting on plush couches, drinking coffee. Although I do like the colors more than Starbucks; olive greens, splashes of burgundy, and desert creams, while local artwork aligns the walls. There are various pieces of mismatched furniture in a variety of fabrics. Itâs eclectic and definitely my style.
I see a couple with their tongues down each otherâs throats. Talk about a public display of affection. Holy cow. I try to walk in further and notice my heels are sticking to the floor. Yuck. I look down into the giant blue eyes of a little blonde boy whoâs blowing raspberries at me and crushing his sugary doughnut into the ground, and at the same time pouring his apple juice on my shoe. His mother, of course, doesnât notice. I smile and blow one back at him and he runs and hides behind his motherâs leg. I didnât realize I was that scary.
When I look up, I see the other not-so-lovely thing. A line thatâs almost out the door. The coffee must be really good here. As I wait, I glance up at the menu on the wall. There are a multitude of drinks to choose from. The line actually moves quickly and when I reach the counter, Iâm greeted by a guy who looks around my age standing about six feet tall with blue jeans, white fitted t-shirt, a lopsided grin and a dimple.
âHi, can I help you?â
I hesitate because I still donât know what I want, even though I had a whole ten minutes to decide. Making a decision isnât my strong suit; I excel at indecisiveness. I think I hear sighs and groans coming from behind me. Iâm holding up the line, a big faux pas in a coffee shop. As the line builds and the whines grow louder, the guy behind the counter speaks again.
âDo you know what do you want?â
âUmmm…I…â
He leans over the counter. His shaggy light brown hair falls over his face and covers his eyes. I canât make out what color they are. Maybe brown. âWhat do you like?â
Iâm on my tippy toes a bit distracted by the glass case of doughnuts. âI donât know,â I whisper, embarrassed that Iâm holdin
g up the line.
âDo you like chocolate?â
Ding, ding, ding. âYes!â
âGood, what else?â
âUmmâ¦I like caramel.â
A small smile tugs at his lips. âOkay, weâre getting somewhere. Do you like whipped cream?â
âLove it,â I say excitedly.
âExcellent.â
âIce cream?â he asks with hopeful eyes.
âEw. Not in my coffee.â
He laughs, then says, âokay, I think youâll like the Salted Caramel Mocha.â
âSounds good.â Anything to rid myself of the annoying whines behind me. Iâm tapping my fingers on the counter as he makes my drink. âSorry about the holdup. I usually just go to Starbucks.â
âStarbucks, huh? So, you decided it was time to cross over to the dark side?â he remarks with a raised eyebrow.
Humor laces my lips. âYes, the force was very strong.â
He cracks a smile and sets my drink down. âIâm Brad Dixon, by the way.â
âGabby Indecisive Willis, and thanks for the help.â
âDonât mention it,â he says, airing me another quirky grin.
I go to pay him; my purse is a mess and itâs like playing hide and seek to find my money. While digging, I inadvertently knock the entire fancy whatever mocha all over the counter and watch as the warm liquid seeps under the cash register. Fabulous. My cheeks heat and I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could click my heels three times and be anywhere but here.
When my eyes finally open, Brad appears to be counting to ten, and I canât blame him. Grabbing napkins from a nearby table, I try to help with this wonderful mess that is my creation. By the time I return, Brad has it completely under control.
âIâm really sorry,â leaves my mouth before I can stop it, and I stand there like an idiot trying to escape the red tint engulfing my face.
His sincere, caring brown eyes peek out from under his hair and meet mine. âDonât worry about it. It happens all the time.â He smirks. âIâm gonna make you another one. On the house.â
âThanks, Brad, but you donât have to do that.â
âI canât very well let one of our new customers leave unhappy her very first visit.â
My hand dives into my purse. âLet me pay you for it. Itâs the least I can do.â
âNah. Take it. Just bring an extra roll of Bounty next time you come in.â I hear a rich, throaty laugh as he walks away.
Salted Caramel Mocha in hand, I make my way out to the street and head towards work. Itâs a beautiful day in Manhattan. The sun is shining brilliantly and thereâs not a cloud in the powder blue sky. The skyline looks just like a postcard today, and the energy, as always, is infectious. The constant hustle and bustle is one of the reasons I love the city so much. The intensity of the city manages to take my rather monotonous routine and breathe life into it. Itâs nice knowing that my daily commute will always have something different to offer, whether itâs a guy singing acapella in the subway or someone playing bongo drums. It always manages to elicit a smile.
Since Iâm early today, I sip my mocha and casually make my way to work. I hear the taxi cabs honking, feel the smell of rotting food invading my nose, and notice the chatter of strangers. A guy spits on the ground and I almost step in it. Why do people spit? Itâs the most disgusting habit, and should probably be illegal. Oh God, not to mention the woman trying to shove an entire egg sandwich in her mouth. I see an elderly woman with a cane stumble over a crack in the sidewalk and several people run over at once to help her, including myself. When I reach her, I lift her cane off the ground and hand it to her. She looks up at me with worldly eyes and a fragile voice. âGod bless you, dear.â My returning smile says youâre welcome. As crazy as the city gets, people here really do care.
My walk takes me past Bloomingdaleâs, and I stop to admire a dress in the window. They must have changed out the dresses this week because I havenât noticed it before. Itâs royal blue satin with cap sleeves and a high boat neck. We have a formal company party next week and this dress looks perfect. Too bad itâs only 8:45; Bloomies doesnât open until ten. I make a mental note to stop by after work to try it on. Iâll definitely bring Fran with me. Sheâll tell me if itâs too conservative, too slutty, or doesnât show enough cleavage…because she always thinks I need to show more.
A couple of relaxing, mocha-sipping blocks later Iâm suddenly frozen to the spot, my coffee almost spilling on my blouse. I check my pulse. Iâm still alive. Good. Whoa. This guy is hot. Smooth jet black hair, beautiful emerald green eyes, broad shoulders, and a body built for sin strolls toward me, one sculptured arm dangling a suit jacket over his shoulder, his body donned by a finely tailored black suit. I think I just had an orgasm. Heâs freaking beautiful. I close my eyes and Iâm immediately locked on a visual. Yup, Iâve got it. My fingernails digging into his back while he hovers over me, screaming my name, sweat dripping from his chest and landing on my breasts. Okay, close your mouth, Gabby. The drool is pooling at your feet. Shit. He must have noticed me staring. When I pass by him, I see the corner of his lips curl into an alluring smile.
He makes his way past me and I turn back for one last look. Jesus. I see his head whip around for a split second and glance in my direction. I canât believe heâs actually looking at me. Then I notice that the lovely breeze has blown my skirt up to declare my ass available for public viewing. Great. Not only that, but I just tripped over a little brown and black rat dog and am getting dirty looks from its disgruntled owner as she pulls his leash and yanks him away from my clumsy left foot.
I try to regain my weakened composure and head into work. I literally have to shake myself to erase the erotic images from my mind. Two thoughts occur to me as I enter the double doors of Landon & Castell. First, I need to find out who the hell those green eyes belong to; and second, I need a cold shower.
I see the red light on my phone blinking from what seems like a mile away. I plunk down on my chair, throw my purse in my desk drawer, and take the deep breath that I need to run through all my messages and the overwhelming amount of post-it notes Robby always leaves for me. Theyâre everywhere. On my computer, my desk, the wall of my cubicle, and he even stuck one on the picture of Fran and me at Fishermanâs Wharf. I think he just likes the idea of sticking them to something. Iâve got thirty messages. Shit. As I scroll through them, I find that half of them are garbage and just leave my finger on the delete button.
My electronic schedule says Robby and I have to visit three clients, and the fifteen âurgentâ messages indicate that there are various issues with furniture orders to sort out. Iâm really not complaining. This is a very cool job. It gets me closer to my dream of being an interior designer, which is something Iâve wanted to do since I was a kid. Memories flood my mind of buying stacks and stacks of Architectural Digest and Better Homes & Gardens magazines, wanting to absorb the color palettes and furniture choices while I played out the fantasy in my head. Iâd sit there for hours, tearing out pictures I liked and making collages, only to end up annoying my mother by leaving paper scraps all over the floor. Iâd smile though, when Iâd look up at the fairy pink walls covered with my childhood dreams filling up every open space of my room. It was something my parents couldnât touch or crush within me.
The day drags at a snailâs pace. Iâm getting ready to leave when my cell phone vibrates. I let it go because, admittedly, I like the sensation. When the buzzing continues, I finally check and see that itâs Fran. I pick up the phone with excitement for the first time all day. âHey!â
âHey,â she replies. Her voice lacks her usual burst of enthusiasm.
âWhatâs wrong?â Did you ha
ve a bad day?â Itâs unusual for Fran to let things get to her, so I know it canât be good.
She groans. âYeah. It was shitty. I had a client want me to redesign a brochure six times before they were happy, my boss got on my ass about being late because I missed an important client meeting, and my heel broke while I was out getting lunch. All in all it was a banner day. Yours?â
âIt was long, and very busy.â Knowing my day is coming to an end puts a smile on my face for the first time, and I relax. âSo, Iâm assuming you want to go out? How about a movie with a giant tub of buttered popcorn and a jumbo pack of Twizzlers? We can get lost for a little while.â
âYes, I want to go out, but not to a movie. I need a drink, or a few drinks. Thereâs a new bar that opened up on Amsterdam Avenue and I want to check it out.â
âOh.â I hesitate before answering her. My first thought is sheâs going to try and set me up like she usually does, and Iâm not in the mood.
âSo, are you in?â she asks, her voice raising an octave.
âOn one condition,â I add reluctantly. I have to be honest, right?
She chuckles. âAnd that would beâ¦â
âItâs just been a long day, Fran. I donât want you trying to work your love magic on me tonight. Also, before I forget, I need to stop by Bloomingdaleâs first.â
âAlright, deal,â she asserts a little too quickly. âWhy do we need to stop at Bloomies?â
âThereâs a dress I want to try on for our company party. I want to see what you think.â
âGreat. Oh, and by the way, someone is coming by the apartment tomorrow to exterminate. I found a lovely little cockroach behind the fridge this morning.â
âEw!â I canât stand those pesky little things. Fran and I have lived for almost three years in an extremely small two bedroom apartment in Washington Heights. Itâs actually a pre-war walk up, tastefully decorated with very special discount and consignment store items and a couple sale items from IKEA. The only thing not-so-charming about it is the little roach problem, which has taken some getting used to. âGee, thanks for that.â
