by Julie Olivia
Though I do wonder if we’re on the same page. Am I just floating through this alone, hoping he’s even in the same library?
Owen McMan-Candy: Call me after?
Fran: What else would I do at two in the morning?
I place my phone in my lap, half-dressed in tonight’s getup: a skirt and bralette. The t-shirt is pending.
We must be on the same page. I just know it. Who else do you call after two a.m.? Well, I guess a lot of people—booty calls for one. Maybe I am just falling for yet another douchebag. Or maybe I’m not.
Leia meows at me from across the apartment, lolling over the edge of the windowsill like she’s bored by me. I must have been talking out loud.
“Yes, yes, I know,” I say, putting my phone to the side and going to unload the groceries. “T-shirt on.”
“I think I might be in love with you,” Natalie croons from across the counter. The phone is propped on the fruit bowl I replaced after last night’s sexcapades. I don’t share this fact with Natalie, but it doesn’t matter—she’s too taken by my neighbor to worry about the state of my love life and whether her overseas video call is supported by a deconsecrated countertop.
“Most people are,” Lara says.
Lara is, in fact, very interesting. Thus far tonight, we’ve learned that she’s a widow, having lived most of her life as an activist with her late husband. This fact fits like a perfectly formed brick in the house of knowledge that she knows more than just aquatic creatures: it’s all kinds of animals. She’s caring and beautifully tragic, and she downs more wine than either Natalie or I can manage, so she’s got that whole gumption thing going on. Sure, Natalie probably shouldn’t be drinking at five in the morning, but as a go-go dancer, her schedule is reversed from most people. Drink during the day; work at night. Sometimes.
“Nat, it’s a bit early for drinks, isn’t it?”
“Oh, pish posh, Frannie,” she says. “I can sober up by nightfall.”
“I worked at night too, you know,” Lara says.
“Yes, please tell me more of your ultra-interesting life,” Natalie says. Her thick, beautiful curls bounce around her ears as she plops her chin into her palm once more. It seems to be her default pose for speaking with Lara. It’s like that for the both of us.
“I thought you were an activist?” I ask Lara.
She shakes her head. “Well, yes, but my husband was a detective.”
Natalie lets out a giggle that quickly transforms into a sloppy chortle. I would question her mimosa intake, but Nat’s just one of those silly gigglers. “Are you allowed to tell us that?”
“He’s retired.” She pauses. “Well, and passed, so I don’t see why not.”
“You were real-life vigilantes?” I ask.
“Why, yes, we figured out problems during the day then fixed them at night.” Lara says it as if this were the only natural solution to any typical day job. Find the issues in societies then take the law into your own hands at night. Duh.
I don’t particularly buy it, but who am I to call out the sassy old woman who is currently my only friend in New York besides the man I’m shagging?
“Batman and Robin,” Natalie murmurs through the phone in a hushed tone, as if the spectacle of the crime-fighting duo flashes through her mind in epic technicolor.
“Batman and Catwoman,” Lara corrects with a tilt of her head and a small wink. “I was a looker back in the day, honey.”
“You’re a looker now, ya old coot,” Natalie says, giving a small shimmy into the camera.
I cover the screen for a second in mock secondhand embarrassment before continuing, “Any big cases we would have heard about?”
“No,” Lara says, swinging her half-empty wine glass here and there. “No, we kept a low profile. We were very good at that.”
“And how can we trust that you’re retired?” I ask, mirroring my cousin’s goofy faux skepticism with a turn of my cheek and arched eyebrow.
Lara waves her hand out, the only ring adorning it being the massive rock given to her by her late husband. “Oh, my bones can’t do any of the sleuth-like stuff we did back in the day.”
“Scaling rooftops?” I ask.
“Throwing that sexy Catwoman whip?” Natalie follows up.
We laugh until Lara answers with her own look of sly curiosity.
“No, sitting in cars for hours, staking people out…not for me anymore.” She lets out a deep exhalation, staring into her glass. It’s wistful, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she believes her own fairytale. Who knows, maybe it’s real. Maybe she misses it. “I like my couch, and I like my midnight breakfasts.”
I smile, my chest warming. I’ve never been one for female friends. Heck, I’ve never been one for friends at all outside of Natalie. I kept close to my one family member, who was better suited as a sister than a cousin, and that was that. Not a lot of people outside of her or old relationships to keep me warm at night. Having a number of friends that doesn’t result in itself when divided by any other number is nice.
“I’m surprised Fran is up this late,” Natalie says. “She could never visit me at work with that schedule of hers.”
“Oh, I don’t think Francesca is having much of a problem with late-night visits,” Lara drawls, and then she takes a long, drawn-out, no-good, I-know-what-you-did-last-night kind of sip of her wine. Natalie doesn’t miss it.
My eyes grow wide of their own accord, and my chest sinks. And to think my tender heart was just floating up to the sky like a helium balloon, so enamored by our friendship and POP! there it goes shooting down out of the sky, a fallen star never to be wished upon.
“Shut up,” Natalie says over the silence, her mouth gaping wide. “Shut up,” she repeats, eyes bulging out of her head. “Fran, I thought you were joking about last night.”
“Why would I joke about getting shagged?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air.
I stare at Lara, eyebrow raised in defiance of her immediate judgment. I’ve recovered from surprise and am now just insulted. At least, that’s what I’ve decided.
“Rude, Lara,” I say with folded arms.
She blows out a drunken raspberry. “My god, my poor old ears.”
Natalie’s gasp is almost as exaggerated as Lara’s prior sip.
“Get a show, did ya, Lara?” she asks, her own mimosa sucked dry from its chute. Once she attempts another sip only to be alerted by sucking at dry glass, Natalie shakes the empty drink and starts to make another. “Well, tell me about him, Fran.”
“He’s a man,” I state as Natalie refills her glass with ten percent orange juice and ninety percent champagne. “And I fancy him, I suppose.”
The words come out easier than I thought they would. I do quite fancy that Owen fellow. His hair. His arms. The way he can penetrate both my heart and my fanny. Why wouldn’t I fancy him?
“She likes him a lot,” Lara says. “And declares it loudly.”
“You’re a very naughty old woman,” I shoot at Lara with a playful laugh. It’s difficult to be too angry when her cute little old woman lips curl into an innocently restrained smile. I have no doubts she uses that to her advantage.
“Fran, tell me more!” Natalie whines. I almost forgot she was there, though how could I with her pounding her fists on her knees, which are bent in to fold her in half. “You met him at that nerdy meet-up, didn’t you, you nasty bitch?”
“Nat!” I practically yell-gasp, slamming my own palm on the countertop.
“Nerds in love,” Natalie says on a sigh. “I bet he dirty-talks well with all those books he reads.”
I hadn’t really thought about it. I tilt my head to the side in consideration.
“Oh, you’re remembering, aren’t you?” Natalie says with squinted eyes and a slow nod of her head. “Just give us three of his best features and we’ll hush.”
“No, you won’t,” I say.
“Just three,” she counters. I don’t overlook the fact that she didn’t correct me and wi
ll likely continue to ask about Owen, but I concede anyway because how can I not think about Owen and all he is?
Three features? Only three? How impossible. How silly to narrow it down to such a small number while simply stating ‘the whole of him’ could be an answer in itself.
“Fun hair,” I say. “Nice hands. Intelligent.”
Just the words leaving my mouth form a perfect image of him in my head. I couldn’t possibly portray the perfection of him from last night, but my mind does the job for me: his broad shoulders, the curve of those muscles looming over as he thrusted into me, the tilt of his mouth and slight hint of canines as he gasped out in tandem with the beat of every thrust, the sound of our bodies meeting together in an unholy pornographic symphony…
“Just don’t fall for a bad man again.”
The words grab me by the collar like the hook of a cane and drag me off stage. I no longer look into the spotlight shining from the rafters, but into the dank backstage where Natalie, ruiner of everything, stands to bring me back from my fantasy.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“I mean, yes, sleep with him,” she says quickly. “But by god, please but don’t fall for tricks.”
“Tricks?” I ask, feeling almost like a child for even having to argue it. “There are no tricks. If anything, he comes to me for his problems. We’ve got trust, Nat.”
The words sound trite leaving my mouth, but I understand them. They mean something to me. I’m not some man’s lackey. Sure, it’s a trap I’ve fallen into before, hence the few female friends and tragic life post-breakup that is capable of being uprooted and moved to another country because there were no roots to begin with.
So, okay, Natalie has a point. But, it’s a different thing this time. Owen is the X factor.
“What does he do again?” Lara asks in the silence that followed my last statement.
I pick up a tiny pancake left on the plate in the center of the table and rip an edge with my teeth. There may be no maple syrup to compliment it, but the softness and stale warmth does the trick of comforting me just fine.
“My job,” I reply, trying to come to once more.
“Oh, he tests penetrations!” Natalie says, bouncing in her chair.
“Nat!”
“A hacker?” Lara asks, trying to clarify. Her wispy white eyebrows furrow.
“Yes, but more ethical,” I say.
“How funny,” Lara says. “My husband did a lot of research on hackers.”
“I thought you guys did animal work?” I ask.
“Sometimes seedy animal work will lead you back to the seedy people who exploit it,” she says. Her eyebrows twitch, as do her nose and lips. I imagine the thought of her late husband incites sad emotions, to be sure.
“Owen is not seedy,” I mumble, but when I think back to our conversation from last night, it dawns on me how he couldn’t have been more obvious about the fact that, yes, he might actually be one seedy bloke.
“What if I’m not the good guy?”
“I’m sure he’s lovely, dear,” Lara says, her hand placing over mine. It’s cool, but soft. I never met my grandparents, on either side, but I imagine if I had, they’d be just like her. “And he at least knows how to please you.”
I take that back.
“Bloody hell, Lara,” I groan.
We descend into more conversations about literally anything that will sway them away from my sex life until I promptly hang up on Natalie and kick Lara out a little after two in the morning. The door isn’t even completely settled in the lock before I scramble over to my phone—nearly dead on the table—to call Owen.
“You’re late,” he answers after the second ring. And god, if his voice is not a relief to hear after a long day. It’s intoxicating, the weight of it with its deep tone and almost purr-like rumble with a chuckle. He sounds tired, and I guess I should be too. Instead I feel like I’ve just had three shots of espresso.
“I’m not one for late-night dates, normally,” I say, trying to mask my enthusiasm for the call, fighting back the smile that crosses my face but remembering that I can do whatever I like. Who cares if he knows I find him funny now? Or, I guess the bigger issue would be: why do I care when he can’t see me over the phone anyway?
“Me neither, but I’ll stay up late for you,” he answers.
My heart flutters as I pace the apartment, digging my toes under my loose rug as I pass by the kitchen, running a palm along the countertop, smoothing the tassels of the tea towel with my fingers. It all seems so reminiscent of being a teenager again, trying to distract your mind from the voice on the other end of the line. At least now I don’t have to pray my mum doesn’t jump on the landline and attempt to eavesdrop.
“But you’re not staying up any later than usual, are you?” I ask.
“No, this is pretty normal for me, I guess.”
“What do you normally do at this hour?”
He’s silent for a moment and I wonder if he fell asleep, but then he sighs and answers, “Work.” I can practically hear him smiling over the phone, disappointed with himself.
I stroll over to the window, looking out at the big city with its bright, tall buildings. I have a few lamps lit throughout my apartment, but the open windows provide enough of a silhouetted light to do their jobs for them.
“Wow, you really are a workaholic,” I jeer.
“It’s a curse.”
“And a blessing?”
He laughs. “Let’s just say there are other things I’d much rather be doing.” The growl in his tone sends shivers down my spine, and the implication leaves my mouth dry.
I fall into the closest seat before my wobbly, nervous knees give out. It’s the one open at my desk, propped to face my laptop. I unlock the screen out of desperation for something to do that isn’t imagining his hands on me once more, his tongue dancing across my stomach, his twisting torso pulling me into precarious positions that would make even Lara blush.
Absentmindedly, I scroll through my email, seeing new alerts of more break-ins. I open the company’s program and check the logs, only to heave a sigh at what I find. Stuart the rat.
“Was that too much?” Owen’s laugh brings me back, and I realize I never responded to his previous comment. My invisibly flushed face did it for me, but I forgot he can’t see me.
“No,” I say instantly. “No, no, that was…” What do I possibly say to that? Wasn’t I better at these responses just one week ago? One day ago? Stuart distracted me, the silly rat, and now I’m unable to give the hot man on the other end of the line my full attention.
I groan at my own lack of words, double-check that the hacking attempt wasn’t successful, and close the laptop for the night. I can deal with Stuart later.
“Everything okay?” Owen asks slowly.
“Yeah, I just… Work has been busy lately.”
“What’s happened?” The concern is unmistakable. I want to melt into it. I drag my feet over to the kitchen to grab a cup of water.
“Depends. Can I trust my HA partner?” I ask, smiling to myself, imagining his own look of satisfaction when we joke together.
“That seems like a personal question.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. It seems like my trusty hacker is back.”
“Stuart?” he asks. “That bastard.”
I laugh. “He’s quite persistent too.”
“You know, if you’re scared or something…”
“This isn’t a horror movie,” I interject, but I know where he’s heading with this. The sly nature of it, the way the words float out of his mouth, and I know without a shadow of a doubt how that sentence is going to end.
“…I could come over,” Owen finishes.
There’s a pregnant pause, just the stale tones of my fridge running in the background and the sounds of his room—rustling of sheets, maybe? Feet hitting the floor? Was he in bed? Is he already getting up to come over before I even answer?
The thought of it is more suspenseful than any h
orror movie I’ve ever seen.
“Try a bit harder,” I say, biting my lip to keep from saying anything else and ruining the challenge.
“I’ll bite a bit harder,” he says. “Would that help?”
“I’ll see you in twenty.”
19 Owen
I arguably spend too many days at Fran’s house in the following weeks, but when every night—and sometimes every day—is punctuated by our magnetizing sex drives and inability to say no to each other, it’s hard not to allow myself to drown in her.
The weekend was perfect: Saturday morning I woke up in her apartment again, rolling over to see the sunlight beaming down on her face. She was covering her cheeks with her arm in an attempt to block the blinding morning light, but I made sure she was awake within moments. We took a blissful walk to our usual café, where we ordered scones and jumped from there back to the apartment for a quick session on the floor, against the window, on top of, and almost under the couch for the remainder of the day. Sunday held much of the same, except we made the new discovery that if I hold my hand over Fran’s mouth, she doesn’t make wild sex noises that upset her neighbors.
Every day for two wonderful weeks, I’m pulled away to work, where I count down the minutes until five o’clock, at which time Fran requests a naked picture and I’m much too eager about serving her requests in person.
Each time we see one another is more tantalizing than the last, filled with more discoveries, more laughter, and more confirmations that Fran is much more enticing than any other woman I’ve ever dated.
For one, she laughs—genuinely laughs. And not at my bad jokes, either; in fact, she is unafraid to tell me when those are horrible and stale. No, she laughs at the real, good, funny things. She makes me earn her laughter, and her laugh is like a whistle of wind chimes, sparing but, at the right moment, so beautiful.
For another, Fran has names for everything. Frederick the fork. Trelawney, her trusty eight-ball, which said TRY AGAIN LATER when I shook it. (“Did you ask if you’re getting laid tonight after making fun of Frederick?” she asked.) There was also her first bicycle, Bill, her pet rock, Dwayne, and, most notably, Stuart the hacker.
