I splash cold water on my cheeks and observe my damp face with hard eyes. I’m not so sure how well I’ll survive this new “liberated me” thing I’m trying. Though the first taste, I must admit, was way too good.
As I finally sink my slightly throbbing head onto the plump pillow, my ears are still ringing. A teasing dimple packs my mind, decorated by handsome roughness – or the other way around, who cares, really.
It feels like someone is pounding my head when I jolt at the sound of my phone hollering from the pile of clothes I deserted on the bedside bench. It’s rather late, very late, for anyone to be calling. I answer and my lips curve into a warm smile to Kai’s low voice.
“It’s late, Kai. Really late.”
“You want me to call some other time?” he asks, his voice softening. I purr something that sounds close to “nuh.”
“Where are you these days, anyway?” He’s been traveling around South America; it’s hard to keep track.
“In this small city bordering Chile and Peru. Miss me?”
“You should rent the house next to mine as your new hub. That’s how much I miss you.” I close my eyes, burrowing deeper under the covers.
He snorts. “What have ya been up to?”
“Are you sitting?”
“More like lying, in the dirt.”
“That’ll do. Wait, you’re doing what?”
“Waiting for this fucking turtle to move.”
A short laugh erupts from my lips. “Since when do you take photos of reptiles?”
“I’m doing this as a favor for this guy; his wife should be in labor any day now. So, yeah, I’m lying on the fucking ground waiting for the damn turtle to move his ass.”
“Thrilling. So, I’ve started a cooking class.”
“Did you release a public service announcement to the good people of Spain with the new hazard?”
We chuckle in tandem. The combination of preparing food and me usually ends up in catastrophe, to put it mildly. My last attempt led to a representative from the fire department visiting Kai’s apartment. Needless to say, I might never hear the end of that one. To my defense, I do sublime ordering in.
“Honestly, there’s not much learning going on. We just sit around, talk, and taste amazing dishes cooked by a not less amazing person.”
He hums a brief confirmation.
“They are a pretty great bunch. We’ve connected quite quickly. Well, most of them.”
“So there’s someone you don’t like. Already?” he asks, and I hear clicking sounds coming from his end. Must be the damn reptile finally moving his ass.
“Well, there’s this Frenchie, Dominique. I don’t know her story yet, and I know I shouldn’t be so judgmental, but she has malice written all over her face. I got the vibe she might not be all that crazy about me, either.”
“Then, tell her to fuck off,” he murmurs through additional clicks in the background.
“Oh, you’d definitely want to tell her that yourself. She’s so your type.”
“Starting to sound interesting.”
I hear him light a cigarette. One thing about Kai that I could really live without.
“Older and beautiful in a cold kind of way,” I continue.
“Intriguing.”
There’s a soft whistle like sound of a puff.
“Okay, my dear, it’s late and I’m tired. Here’s the deal; you should quit playing with turtles and come visit me. You’d love this place.”
He chuckles. “I’ll see about that. Go to sleep.”
Chapter 5
“Seduce Me Tonight”
Cycle V.
Ten hours of deep sleep and a hangover-ish later, I’m trying to get up and take control of the mess that’s me. Thank you alcohol, once again. You never fail to abuse me. I’m not the most skilled alcohol consumer – never have been and possibly never will be. A single glass is enough to get me buzzed in a “looking at the world in brighter, comical colors” kind of way. Pathetic, really.
I almost hug the inanimate machine that works hard to brew my coffee. Sacred device. Running a short checklist in my head, I remind myself that in a few days I’ll have my first cyber Dr. Smartass session. For a brief moment, I dread what I’ll tell him when he asks what I have been up to so far. It would probably be something along the lines of, “So, doc, I’m here, been doing next to nothing of importance, and haven’t written much. But hey, I got myself a bit obsessed over a sex phantom who keeps appearing out of thin air and disappearing just the same way.” I can't seem to get young Sir Phantom out of my mind or what's commonly known as “I’m pretty horny and he’s undoubtedly got the goods.” Apparently, he opened up an appetite in me last night. Maybe he is not exactly all that. Maybe it’s just my dry spell attacking my mind, turning him into something I'd have a great time fantasizing about. Though, to his defense, I must admit he does seem to possess the potential.
I settle on the porch swing, my bent legs serving as a docking surface for my notebook. I take a long appreciative sigh, observing my surroundings before bringing the steaming cup to my lips. The whitewash railing that surrounds the porch blends seamlessly with the house. It’s a perfect relaxing den in a form of a beautiful beach terrace. I sink deeper into the large, white crochet pillow seat and watch the blue sea in front of me. Perfection.
A failed attempt at writing and a teacup later, I head back inside. I pull on a pair of ankle crop jeans, loose fit, ivory draped top, and electric blue flip-flops with the thought of visiting my new friend, the lovely café owner, and running some getting settled errands while I’m at it.
First stop is a too-long-due-to-excessive-bureaucracy stop at the post office to get whatever it is that Kai sent me. Twenty-friggin’-five minutes that I would never get back later, a brown package tied up with string in hand, I make my way to Vivian’s. Curious, I shake the content in my hands, which doesn’t give any clue to what it might be. Feels like some solid, heavy object. Kai mentioned something about helping my future. I shrug and push open the shabby, turquoise door of the café, sending the door’s bell to announce my arrival.
Vivian’s face above the register brightens as she spots me. I acknowledge her with a thin smile as I make my way toward the counter. Vivian, in a floral embroidery pattern dress, hands a skeletal, pale lady a takeout bag and her change. With a gentle glee, she sends the lady on her way while I wait, watching their exchange.
“You.” She turns to me as soon as her customer leaves. “I have a huge favor to ask.” No preface, no hello. A favor. Okay . . .
“Good morning.” I grin at her. She casually gives the clock above the main door a short, pointed peek.
“Noon to some of us,” she deadpans, turning her back to me and places a white ceramic mug under the coffee machine’s spout.
“Shoot, ma’am.”
“Are you busy tonight?” she asks with her back to me, still fussing with the coffee machine.
“Nooo . . .” I answer tentatively, stretching the one-syllable word.
“Good, ‘cause I’d like to ask you to . . .” Her words are swallowed by the evaporating noise the steam nozzle produces. Finally, she turns back to me with a cup of coffee. She sprinkles cinnamon on top and slides the warm beverage my way. One that I didn’t ask for, yet is so welcomed.
“Well?”
It takes me a moment or two to gather that she expects me to answer a question. My eyes narrow at her as I take the cup of telepathically ordered coffee into my possession.
“I didn’t hear your question with all the noise,” I clarify the part she’d apparently missed.
As we make our way to sit in what has become my regular spot, if two and a half times can be considered habitual, she says, “Any chance you’d be willing to cover for me for a couple of hours at closing time?” She gazes at me for a brief beat and goes on. “Everyone I know and trust will be at the engagement party, and I understood from Alma that you are not coming.”
I nod, appreciative that Alma unders
tands that I wouldn’t feel comfortable coming to such a big event where everyone has known each other for forever, and the few people I know are going with a date.
“Sure, I don’t see any reason why not,” I say over the rim of my delicious cup. “Is there anything special I should know or do?”
“Not really. I don’t expect many people to come in since all the locals will be at the event. I’ll teach you the basics of the coffee machine and register. Anyway, really, it should be a quiet evening.”
I nod.
She takes a deep breath, biting her lips, her eyebrows furrow and she freezes for a long, contemplative moment. “Oh, I’m waiting for a couple of wine bottles to be dropped off. I guess you’ll just have to wait till the guy comes in and then close up. Pity you’re not coming to the party, though.”
I shrug.
“What’s that?” She points her chin at the brown-paper wrapped box next to me. I’d almost forgotten about the package.
“Something Kai, the photographer friend I told you about, sent me,” I say, unwrapping the object in subject. Vivian observes me while blabbering about her outfit for tonight and about how her husband refuses to wear a tux. Oh, good God, KAI!
I wouldn’t be surprised if Vivian’s laughing outburst is heard all the way to Peru or wherever this “gift” came from. My own laughter shortly tops hers as I read the note it came with.
My one and only,
For best results, rub three times a day. Perhaps HE will bring dear mommy the craved grandchild. K.
P.S. It’s an ancient fertility god, in case you didn’t know.
As our hoots subside, I explain to Vivian my mom’s obsession with me getting a ring on my finger, the accompanied family thing that usually comes with it, and Kai’s love of ridiculing that same desire. I shake my head at the wooden sculpture of an ancient creature holding his massive, erect pride and joy. At the same breath, I try to wrap the salacious, glorious art piece back up with the brown paper it came in.
“Ooh, I like him,” Vivian says through a wide grin.
“Each to his own, not judging.” I twist my mouth with mischief.
“Your friend . . . the wooden trinket with the wood doesn’t do it for me, sorry.” She laughs, nudging my arm.
“He’s the best. I adore him,” I say smiling, yet missing Kai deeply.
Though Vivian made operating the café’s appliances and register sound easy, she had understated what was involved. We spend the next hour going over the highlights of running the place. Being the nitpicky, anal creature that I am, I bombard her with questions as I take notes, which she dismisses with a hand wave and something about, “Once you try it, you’ll see how easy it is.” When she finally acknowledges the concern I radiate, she just pats my arm, covertly rolling her eyes, which is not subtle enough, as I do notice it and respond with a frown.
“Don’t sweat it, Liv. Honestly. If I can operate this thing, anyone can. Anyhow, like I told you, it’ll be quiet.” Her eyes take a devilish glee. “Just like me during my first time.”
I raise an eyebrow, and she winks at me.
“Silent and bored.”
. . .
I take a last look at myself in the mirror, making a mental note to buy new clothes. Most of the current clothes I own are composed of conservative black, white, and some “daring” gray corporate attire. I’m in desperate need of casual, vacation-esque appropriate apparel. I add a thin, braided black belt to the soft granite maxi dress I went with. Slipping into my leopard flats, I grab the set of keys Vivian gave me earlier and start toward the café.
Vivian apparently knew what she was talking about. Besides a smiling, charmingly wrinkled grandma with a purple bob who took her time drinking a glass of Cognac while watching the quiet streets, no patrons came in.
I polish every available surface to an almost blinding shine. I refill every paired set of condiments and end with an ardent sweeping of the floors. Bored to soon plucking my eyelashes out one by one just for fun, I decide to play kitchen and make the one (and only) dish I’m capable of cooking. A cake I baked in the past that actually got a few compliments, and better yet, no one rushed to the hospital after tasting it. In my book, that’s a winner. I head to the kitchen, trusting that the doorbell would warn me of any customers or the delivery guy I’m waiting for.
Quickly, I mount the two squeaking stairs to the back kitchen and start with the cupboards, assembling all ingredients needed for my job at hand. I pour some flour into a measuring cup and slowly stir it in with the ingredients already swimming in a large silver bowl. Done, I turn to put the flour back onto a high shelf, only for the bag to slip from my hands and land with a thud while puffing a white cloud that ends up on the counter, my face, and my neck. Shit.
A light layer of white dust covers everything in my near radius from the fallout. Cussing seven ways to Sunday, cleaning the little mess I’ve just produced, I flinch at the sound of the front doorbell. I grab a towel and quickly work to clean my hands. To the sound of heavy steps nearing me, I call out, “I’m in the back kitchen, be there in a sec.” I try to clear the last flour remnants from my fingers and throw the cloth to the counter. To the sound coming from the crackling stairs, I turn my stare to the swinging half-door and my next breath is sucked right out of me. Our words collide as they meet in a stuttered staccato.
“Oh . . . it’s . . . you.” Him.
“It’s . . . um . . . you.” Me.
The corner of his mouth slightly inches, and like the times we met before, he shamelessly drinks me head to leopard flats. His semblance of a smile stretches enough for his dimple to make an appearance as he takes time passing over my healthy chest. I fidget, not able to take my eyes off him. The thought of how it felt to press against his chest at the club jumps to my head, adding to my unexpected discomfort and light warmness, everywhere.
We both freeze for a lengthy beat, with our stares quickly morphing from a collision into an active blast furnace. To an involuntary fierce heatwave, I break the connection, but as if enchanted, my eyes go back at their own volition. His return the stare and run across my face, becoming alight.
He side smiles at me and says, “I'll just put these away,” gesturing at the bottles of wine in his hands. I nod and follow him with my gaze. Fitted gray tee, loose, low-riding jeans, and black boots all perfectly wrap his impeccable tall and lean body. This guy. This guy I had not so long ago grinding against me is beyond sizzling, and young! I take a deep get-your-act-together-now breath and resume whisking the batter. I better focus on whisking rather than on grinding.
Hearing the patter of his footsteps return from the pantry, I make a production that would pass even Spielberg’s deft eye of concentrating on the concoction before me. Mr. Scorching Dimple halts at the counter a few steps from where I labor over the bowl. He takes the deserted kitchen towel and steps closer. My heart jumps in double pace as he gets even nearer. Just like the times before, creamy dark eyes leisurely trail over me. For a stolen moment, I glance at his lush lips as he moistens them by running his tongue slowly over them. Oh, the slow, sensual motion. Self-composure, Liv. I inwardly scold myself to focus on the gooey mix instead.
Reaching my personal space again, close enough to send my body into a frenzy, he says, “You have some . . .” and his hand that’s holding the cloth stretches to remove something from my cheek.
Oh, shit, the flour!
It slowly, very slowly, as if he's in the process of seducing that part of me, descends down to where my cleavage starts and sweeps ever so lightly, there. His eyes stream from the hem of my dress to my lips as he says, “There.” His lips tug at the edge. “You’re clean.” I need to swallow over the drought that is my mouth. Yep, but first I need to close my parted lips. Reflexively, I bring my hand to my now burning collarbone to the spot he’d just so adeptly cleaned. A true talent.
I don't make a sound, nor an additional move for that matter, as he observes me, seeming undecided.
“Now I’ll need
to clean you again. Did it deliberately, didn’t you?” His dimple appears in tandem to a low, brief chuckle.
It takes me more than it should take a relatively intelligent person to realize what he means. When my sensually overloaded mind finally acknowledges that I littered my chest again with flour with my semi-clean hand, I mumble way too quickly, “Oh . . . no, no. Thank you . . . no! I will do that. Thank you.”
The dimple deepens, and his eyes amusedly read my ridiculous agitation. We stay still: him boring into me, as if calculating a pounce. Me: bothered, and flustered, and well, let’s face it, feeling dumb.
“I’ll leave you to get back to your . . .” He motions with a tilt of his chin at the bowl. He adds something under his breath that’s too low for me to catch. He gives me one last thorough gaze, shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, shrugs, and makes his way to the door. I gape at his toned, ridged, and exquisitely tanned forearms. He sends me a stare over his shoulder, that contemplating air still decorating his eyes.
“Adios.”
“Good-bye,” I say, stunned, troubled, and mostly disappointed that he just left.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out where this disappointment is coming from, but it’s here and it’s annoying to a degree that overwhelms me. Irritated, I take a pause and prop my hands, holding each side of the bowl, and let my head fall. I inhale deeply, attempting to push out whatever it is that’s seizing my head…and body. I take another lengthy breath and a spark of realization makes me straighten with a start. The doorbell didn’t go off. Instinctively, my eyes fly to the kitchen’s swinging door and crash into his, watching me. Words are beyond me. I tilt my head in question, a question mixed with much surprise and a dash of excitement.
Leaving Me Behind Page 5
