Call Me Saffron (Greenpoint Pleasures)

by Talia Quinn

  Dylan stood, accidentally knocking over two of the empty glasses with a sweep of his arm. He didn’t seem to notice. “Come on, then. Let’s get to it.” He headed toward the bedroom, pulling off his T-shirt as he went and tossing it toward the couch.

  When I didn’t follow, he paused. “What are you waiting for? It’s what you came back for, isn’t it?” His bare chest was side-lit by the light streaming from the kitchen, which picked out the strong curve of his pecs and the slope of his abdomen.

  “I don’t want to be your fuck buddy tonight.” The door was reassuringly solid beneath my tight grip.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “To be your friend.” I let go of the door. It swung back into place and latched with a resounding click.

  “I don’t have friends. Persephone took all our friends in the divorce. Along with the fish tank and the wedding silver.” He went back to the dining table and the row of shot glasses.

  “You have one now. A friend, I mean. Not a fish tank.”

  His mouth quirked. “Well, then, friend. Come help me get stinking drunk.” He picked up a glass and held it out. The liquid glistened.

  I came into the room, finally committing to being here. I took the shot glass from him, letting the cool curve rest against my palm.

  He grabbed another and gulped it down, not even wincing at the burn, then picked up another, the last one in the row. “Not drinking? You’re supposed to keep me company.”

  “I’m here. I’m keeping you company.”

  “Hmph.” He drank down the last glass and picked up the bottle, uncapping it.

  “Does it help? Does it make you numb?” I gazed at the slow swirl of liquid in my glass.

  “No.” He poured a measure of whiskey into a glass. “But it’ll allow me to sleep tonight. Since you won’t have sex with me, what else have I got?”

  “If I gave you a blowjob, would you stop drinking?”

  He set the bottle on the counter. “You offering?” His voice was thick, but not with desire. With alcohol and unshed tears.

  “Are you still in love with her?” I gulped down the contents of the glass. It burned a hole through my esophagus but cleared my head. I saw everything with startling clarity. I cared about this man. Despite myself, I did. And his pain hurt me. How had that happened?

  He got up, bringing the bottle with him as he went to the couch. Even now, so drunk he radiated ninety-proof vapor in a trail after him, he moved with grace and power.

  I set my glass down on the counter and followed.

  The doorbell rang. “That would be the sushi.” He went to the door to get the delivery, giving me a much-needed breather.

  I gazed around the large, beautiful but still somehow unfinished space. He’d decorated the living room in the time since my last visit six months ago. Instead of packing boxes on the side of the room, there was a glass-topped side table with elegantly carved pale wood legs nestled next to the armchair I remembered from last time.

  It was the most stunning original armchair I’d ever seen. It looked like it had organically grown from a single tree trunk, with a sense of the gnarls and beautiful imperfections of nature—and yet the curve of the seat was perfectly, ergonomically designed to mold to a human body for maximum comfort. The kind of chair you’d curl up in to reread your favorite novel or listen to your favorite torch singer.

  Dylan came back with a shopping bag. He set takeout containers on the coffee table, which was another curved, polished slab of wood, clearly from the same designer. Him?

  “You hungry? I got plenty.” He sat on the couch.

  “If it’s okay.” I selected a hand roll and nibbled cautiously. Raw fish made me squeamish. I usually ordered tempura. It was battered and fried and completely safe.

  He watched, amused. “It won’t bite. It’s no longer alive.”

  “It’s not cooked. It could still get lively.” I chewed slowly, evaluating the unfamiliar texture of seaweed, slightly sweet rice, and smooth fish.

  “So?”

  “Not bad.”

  “It’s not the place I told you about. Just a takeout joint around the corner.”

  I took another bite, this one more bold. “I might want to try that other place. Sometime.” I avoided looking at him.

  “I could take you.”

  “Or you could tell me the name.”

  “Friends take friends out to dinner all the time.”

  Now I looked at him. He gazed back, oversolemn.

  Right. He was drunk. I’d forgotten.

  We chewed in silence for a few minutes. Dylan seemed pensive and far away.

  It was too much. “You never answered my question. Are you still in love with Persephone?”

  He selected a tuna sushi log, the deep red fish a stark contrast to the whiteness of the rice, and popped it into his mouth whole. He took his time chewing.

  “Forget I asked. None of my business.” I took a piece of a sushi roll from the tray in front of me, wrapped it in a thin slice of ginger, and dipped it in a puddle of soy sauce.

  He picked up another piece of sushi and smoothed a slice of ginger over it with his thumb. “We were so young. I didn’t think so at the time, but we were babies. And she was so lovely. And her wild, random ideas, they seemed exotic and exciting. Even her neediness made me feel like I was important.” He put the sushi down untasted and leaned back against the couch. “By the time it got truly bad, I was in too deep to make sense of it. She’d wail and tell me I was a terrible husband. That I was the reason she’d turned to other men. I wasn’t loving enough, I was too caught up in my job, I was never there for her, I wasn’t proof against the monsters in the dark.” He trailed off briefly, lost in memories. “I bought into her version of our marriage. Even after I left her, on some level, I thought it was my fault.”

  I laced my fingers together, tight.

  His eyes were dark with wide-open emotion. “And then tonight…”

  “Tonight you realized it wasn’t you.”

  “It was never me.” He sat up, overbalanced, then self-corrected. “All that pain. All for nothing.”

  “She got into that motorcycle accident on purpose, didn’t she? So she could get Laurent to pay attention to her.”

  His mouth twisted. “Maybe not entirely on purpose, but somewhere inside, she knew it was stupidly reckless. She had to know.”

  I knew what Jeanine would diagnose. “She’s a classic borderline personality. She’s nothing without a human mirror reflecting herself back at her.”

  “I fell for it. Ten years of my life, sucked up by a human vacuum, hungry for emotion.” He held his head in his hands. “God, I need water.”

  I went to the kitchen. The faucet was old and rusted. It creaked as I turned it on, and water poured out in a rush. He’d furnished the place but hadn’t upgraded anything. My architect self muttered annoyance in my head. Dylan had the money. Why not hire someone?

  When I returned to the living room with a full glass of water, Dylan was stretched out on the couch, asleep.

  Now what? I took a sip of water and contemplated him. His dark lashes, the strong line of his jaw, his sculpture-perfect cheeks—they were surface. They were what I’d seen in his posed portrait on that website for Juniper Designs. But up close I saw the subtle vertical lines between his eyebrows that suggested troubled thoughts and foretold what he’d look like in fifteen years. I saw too the way the skin on his bottom lip was rough and uneven, as if he’d worried it with his teeth. And the way his hair curled around his ears, hinting of hidden wildness, barely suppressed passion.

  I smoothed his hair, which was soft and yielding under my touch. He didn’t stir.

  I ran my finger along his cheek, feeling the rough stubble against my sensitive fingertip, then the contrasting softness of his lips. He moaned, almost inaudible. His eyes flickered but didn’t open. Dreaming?

  Hesitant, wondering at myself, I knelt and gently kissed him, trying not to wake him. Breathing into him.

>   I startled as Dylan’s arms came around me, pulling me closer. My feather-light brush of lips turned into a genuine, two-way kiss. His eyes were still closed, and he murmured deep in his throat even as he sucked and nuzzled against my mouth. I was pretty sure he was half-asleep, but I felt the embrace in my chest, warm and alive, as my fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him closer.

  It wasn’t lust, not exactly. Sure, I could feel that too, a pulse in my groin, but this was something else. Something better. I could stay here forever like this. Held and holding. Comfort and contact and warmth.

  Was this what my mother had felt when she was with my father, this sense of rightness and belonging? Was this why she’d killed herself after he died? Because she felt empty without it, without him?

  I pulled away and scrambled up, away from Dylan’s seductive whiskey breath and those insanely sweet lips. Pulling myself together, I grabbed my jacket and shoved my arms into the sleeves.

  He raised himself up on his elbows. “You’re going again?” He looked sleep smeared and well kissed. And far too lovable, dammit.

  “Go back to sleep. Take two aspirin when you wake up. You’re going to have a killer headache. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  He lay back down, his eyes closing. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As I headed for the door, I heard his voice behind me, soft and sleepy. “Thank you for coming, Samantha.”

  Just before I clicked the door shut behind me, he added, “Friend.”

  ~*~

  Friend.

  Lover.

  Words like rapid heartbeats as I strode down the lonely Greenpoint sidewalk on my way home.

  Entangled.

  Vulnerable.

  Scary words. Dangerous words.

  Maybe I should have gotten drunk after all.

  When I stepped into my apartment, I found the remnants of the poker party. They’d eaten all the pizza and left the paper plates stacked on the coffee table. Annie was gone. Jeanine had gone off to bed. Georgette was stretched out on the sofa under my grandmother’s afghan, lightly snoring.

  Only Alanna was awake. She was sketching something on the back of a pizza box. “The game is over, as you can see. Your roommate cleaned us out. I should go.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I set my stuff down.

  “It’s just—my apartment is too quiet. My brother’s up in Boston for an overnight, meeting with a prospective client. And I’m…” She shook her head. “I’m not good being alone with my thoughts right now. Everything echoes inside my head, and it makes it all worse. But I’ll go.” She looked as bleak as I felt.

  When had I become the repository for everyone’s pain? Me, the one who corralled my heart off with barbed-wire fence posts.

  But I picked up the pizza box. Alanna had sketched Georgette, asleep on the couch. She’d captured the crease the edge of the throw pillow was making against Georgette’s cheek, her friend’s wide cheekbones, a stray curl falling across her forehead. “You’re an artist.”

  “Yeah. I’ve worked at a few ad agencies. You’ve probably seen my stuff on TV. The toothpaste commercial, the one where you see the important moments in a girl’s life?”

  “Where she loses her first tooth and then the kiss with braces where they get stuck, and the hilarious wedding cake…?”

  “That’s the one.” She sounded wistful.

  I sensed a story, but it was late and I was tired. I gave her back the pizza box and went to the kitchen, where I grabbed a bottle of coconut water and uncapped it.

  Alanna went back to sketching her friend’s sleeping visage on the pizza box. “Your roommate told us about the fake call girl thing.”

  I spilled liquid on my top and quickly blotted it with a kitchen towel. “Did she also tell you it was her idea? That he was supposed to be her client?”

  “So she actually is a call girl? For real?”

  I screwed up my mouth, annoyed for no good reason. “For real. But it’s not like you think.”

  “Whatever. We all have secret lives, right?” Her blond head bent over her work, but her foot came up to rub against her other calf. “It’s none of my business, so tell me to shut up if you want—but don’t let him think you’re something you’re not. It’ll bite you in the ass.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I chugged the rest of the drink and tossed the bottle toward the bright blue recycling bucket. “He knows, though. He didn’t, that first night. But he found out.” And that was when things got complicated. I faked a yawn. “I’m off to bed. Stay as long as you want.”

  I went to my room and closed the door softly, stripped out of my clothes, and slipped under the chilly sheets. But I could hear Alanna’s pen softly scratching on the cardboard out in the living room, Jeanine’s sleep snorts from her bedroom across the hall, and the sounds of a city night out the window: a dog bark, a distant siren, a foghorn on the river. Light played on the ceiling, and my memories played in my head. Me with Dylan, my parents together. My mother alone. Persephone, looking mournfully at Dylan, knowing what she’d lost, and then so painfully false with her French lover. I didn’t fall asleep until long after Alanna left the apartment, the door latch clicking quietly into place behind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday morning, I was standing by the coffeemaker at work waiting for it to finish brewing when Fernando came by, dressed in a bright blue blazer and fiery red-orange tie. He looked like a Playmobil version of a corporate executive.

  “Morning, Samantha. Glad you’re here. I need you on Juniper.”

  “But I told you I didn’t—”

  He waved at me. “That was preferential treatment. That would have been wrong. This is me. I need your skill set. And it doesn’t hurt that you know Krause, since you’ll be reporting to him.”

  “But that would be—” I hesitated, then dove in. No secrets. “What if he and I—what if we’d had something?”

  “Romantic, you mean?” He looked amused.

  I could feel the heat in my cheeks like a bonfire. “Yeah.”

  “Are you currently seeing him?”

  Friday night, sex in the hotel. Friday night later: “Thank you for coming, Samantha. Friend.”

  Maybe. “Not exactly.”

  “Did you end things amicably?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then I don’t see a conflict. But tell me if things get strange.”

  “And you’ll take me off the project?”

  “No, I need your analytical eye. You can report to someone else at Juniper, if need be. I’ll talk to him about it today, make sure things are squared away. Just in case.”

  The coffee finished brewing with a burble and a pout. Fernando snagged the mug I’d chosen and poured himself a cup. I pictured the conversation between Fernando and Dylan: “Are you sleeping with her? What are your intentions?”

  “You know what? It’ll be fine.” I gave him as sincere a smile as I could manage and took another mug down from the cabinet.

  After I’d doctored my coffee with a big dollop of milk and two teaspoons of sugar, I emailed Dylan. It looks like I’ll be working under you. What do you need done?

  He emailed back right away. I winced at the sexual innuendo I’d left myself open to, but his email was equally straightforward. We’re considering a potential storefront property. Go to the location. Take photos of every angle, and measurements too. Email them to me ASAP so we can nail this down. He included the address.

  He hadn’t signed it in any personal way. Just his .sig.

  I stared at the email for a long moment. Really? Nothing personal at all? Never mind that mine was strictly professional. I was the underling. I had to be excruciatingly correct. But Dylan could have said thanks for Friday night. Or I had a bad hangover. Anything.

  Was he having second thoughts about how vulnerable he’d been Friday night? Was that it?

  My stomach felt sour. I got up to check on the expiration date of the milk I’d used in my coffee. In retrospect, it hadn’t tasted right.

/>   The milk was good through the end of the week. It smelled sweet and creamy. I tilted my head back and let a drop fall onto my tongue. It tasted like butterfat childhood.

  “Samantha! What are you doing?” Rudy was staring at me as I put the carton down.

  “I didn’t touch it to my lips. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course not.” He still stared at me.

  “Do I have a milk mustache?”

  “You seem different.” His gaze swept over my outfit, then back up to my face. “Unbuttoned.”

  I felt my blouse reflexively, realizing I’d left the top two buttons undone this morning. I was showing a hint of cleavage for a change. I almost fastened them but dropped my hand. After all, why not? Fernando hadn’t objected. I was still work safe.

  “No, you look great. Kinda hot.” He raised one eyebrow. “Is that okay to say? Will you report me for sexual harassment?”

  I smiled wider than I’d intended. “I can handle it.”

  He grinned back. “You’re changing. I like it. If you want to reconsider hanging out with me outside of work, let me know. Offer’s still open.”

  I could, at that. Test Rudy’s kiss against Dylan’s, see if my body responded to his light, playful touch. “I’ll think about it.”

  His mouth twisted. “Never mind.”

  “No. Really. I will.”

  He nodded. “Good, then.” He rummaged in the office fridge and pulled out a tray of cut-up cantaloupe, then went off to his desk to eat.

  My flirtation with Rudy made it easier to go to the job site and not think about Dylan the entire time I was there. Just half the time. Maybe three quarters. But in my defense, it was on Seventy-Second Street between Amsterdam and Columbus, close to his apartment. I’d strutted past here in my high heels that first night, back in May. This storefront had been an indie bookstore. Empty shelves still lined the walls and empty magazine carousels adorned the center space, as if waiting for a new shipment.

  All quiet now. Not unlike my life. My circumscribed, self-limited life.

  What had Alanna said? That silence made her thoughts echo unbearably?