Raf freed his fingers from my grasp. “What bothers me is that he noticed and I didn’t. Obviously you two have years of history, whereas I’m just your newest fling.”
I raised myself on my elbow to see him better.
“No. Not newest. After him, I had no flings. You’re the first, the only one. Rafael, you yourself said retraining would take time, didn’t you?”
He stood up. “I better go take my shower and go to work.”
“Okay.” He left me alone with a tissue pressed against my nose, reclined on my queen-size bed, cursing my body and the way it had betrayed me.
FROM THAT point on, the days just sort of dragged on. Claire came by and brought little Michelle, along with a wheeled shopping bag full of groceries.
“I figured your boyfriend doesn’t have much time to shop and cook, Evie,” she said, using my high-school nickname. “Don’t worry, I’ve been taking classes. My food isn’t as adventurous as it used to be. What would you like for lunch?”
I thought for a bit. “A peanut butter sandwich.”
She smiled, her gray eyes warming. “Do you ever change?”
The question hit my heart. “I hope I do,” I said, my voice quiet.
“What’s wrong, Evie?”
I only shook my head. What was I supposed to say?
Your husband still turns me on.
My boyfriend is jealous of Rafael, even though he feels obliged to accept his help.
The man I’ve been pursuing isn’t interested in me anymore.
And that was, unfortunately, all true. Three days had passed since Rafael’s visit, and Raf had shown no indications of his former, passionate attraction. It had nothing to do with my injury – even right out of the hospital, there had been banter and flirting. Now, there was nothing.
Claire had left me with lasagna in the freezer and a pot roast in the oven, and fixings for a big salad in the refrigerator. I knew what to pull out and when. I thanked her and said good-bye.
Suddenly I felt useless. Hapless. Incompetent.
I had that funny feeling of “being fat”, even though I wasn’t.
There had to be something I could do for Rafael. Some way, any way, to make his life easier.
Time to call Vicki.
SHE CAME during her lunch break and brought two six-packs of Dogfish India Pale Ale. You can tell a true friend by what they know about you, and Vicki knew a lot about me. Especially when it came to relationships, climbing, and beer.
“So you still love Nick, then?” She asked over her take-out Vietnamese chicken sandwich, taking a swig from the long-necked bottle.
“No – not like that. He’ll always have a special place in my heart, but…no. Not romantically. But the idea of both of them, together, you know?”
“I never knew you were such a kink, Eve.” My cell phone made its orgasmic roar just as Vicki finished that statement, and she said, “Never mind, I actually did know that.”
I picked up. “Hi, Rafael. What’s up?”
“You have any plans for lunch, Evelyn?”
I felt my heart skip at the sound of his voice.
“Vicki’s here and she brought Vietnamese takeout and beer,” I said. “Will you join us?”
“No, go catch up with her. How about tomorrow? I could take you out to lunch and the management team can talk to you about your marketing plan. Would you feel up to that?”
Oh. The bloody marketing plan. I’d forgotten all about work – time just flew right by me.
“Yeah. Let’s hash out the details tonight.”
“Okay then. Later.” He hung up. No “have a nice day”, no “Goldilocks.”
I looked at Vicki. “See? All business.”
“I wish I could help you, sweetie.” She shrugged, looking helpless and confused. “Although, not everyone is affectionate during the workday. Honore can be a real bitch…”
A wide grin grew on my face.
“Oh pray tell, Vicki! How was the conference? Are you actually unable to sit on that hard chair, or is that just my imagination?”
I was rewarded with a blush that matched her vermillion ponytail.
“Shaddap,” she said, finishing her one beer. “He says to tell you to stop by when you’re able. He might have a small client for you.”
VICKI’S VISIT invigorated me. She had that happy, in-love glow and I thought back to my old, in-lust-with-Raf feeling, and smiled. My current condition, and our unresolved need to talk, wasn’t helping much. I just knew that I wanted to be with him. The only question was, what could I do so he’d understand that, and want to be with me?
What was the biggest irritant in Rafael’s life?
I was lying on my belly, my head propped by my hands in what I like to call my thinking position. A memory of the safe in the other room flashed before my eyes, and I thought back to one of the three death certificates.
Celia Rinaldi.
If I could make headway on figuring out what really happened to his sister, Raf would be happier. But how? Scenarios from television dramas flooded my mind; the occasional detective novel I’ve read flashed me an image of an intrepid sleuth, asking questions about the deceased.
None of that helped much. Maybe I shouldn’t spend time on Celia. I had work to do…clients to investigate, find out what they wanted for their companies.
Clients to investigate.
Well. Perhaps if I though of Celia as though she was one of my clients, I’d get to know who she was and what she cared about – yes! That was it.
ONLY HALF an hour later, I peered at my laptop screen, plugged into Rafael’s Wi-Fi. His sister had been, apparently, well known in the climbing community. Climbing websites ran obituaries after she died; so did local papers. She had been a young, promising climber who had based her training at the North Face Climbing Gym. She had written articles for zines and blogs; a few were actually published by national climbing and outdoor recreation magazines. She did win the occasional climbing competition and earned two minor corporate sponsorships. It wasn’t enough to live on – she had felt compelled to take a part-time accounting job at Provoid Brothers.
There was no way I could investigate the defunct brokerage, but I could go and have a peek at that climbing gym. My own training was based at Loose Rock, an ominously named gym populated by low-income climbing renegades. We made do with second-hand gear, we rebuilt old belay systems ourselves, we headed out for outings to the nearby Catskills and Adirondacks on the weekends.
My fingers began to itch. A sudden yearning for the texture and smell of rock and chalk washed over me. I could do it. My butt still hurt, but I could go – at least for a little bit.
I wouldn’t climb high.
I could just boulder, moving laterally without a harness. I could do upper-body exercises. I’d be careful.
There was no way I could walk all the way to the subway yet and there was no way I was bringing my crutches to a climbing gym. Twenty minutes later I was outside the building, my climbing bag over my shoulder, flagging a taxi.
I didn’t mind spending the money.
This project was worth it.
I WORE low-key clothing and a microfiber cap to keep my blonde hair out of my face. My old, broken-in climbing shoes were supple on my feet, their grippy, rubber soles eager to dig into the artificial rock face before me.
“So this is how you switch hands,” I let the tall, bald-headed man explain. “Don’t go above the painted line; you don’t wanna fall further than that. Once you feel comfortable with bouldering, let me know and I’ll get you equipped with a harness.”
I nodded. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He smiled wide, scrunching his eyes, his sun-wrinkles a testament to the amount of time spent outdoors.
I nodded and put my good foot on a foothold, grabbed a handhold, and pushed up. As long as I wasn’t using my left leg, I was okay. I let my left instep rest behind my right heel and reached to my right, grasping another beginner-level handhold.
And now the left
.
I let my body swing from left to right, reaching with my right toe, grabbing another rough protrusion.
It worked. I was breathing a bit and my core muscles strained to pick up the slack, but my shoulders feeling the pleasant, incipient burn of healthy exertion. Whatever discomfort I was feeling was outbalanced by the glee that suffused me.
I was climbing again.
“What’s wrong with your left side?” The guy, Frankie, asked from down below.
I eased myself down, using my one leg and three arms, breathing hard.
Don’t jump.
Just…don’t.
“I’m nursing an injury in my upper leg,” I said. “Shouldn’t put too much weight on it yet.”
He gave me an assessing look. “You must be a real hot dog to climb with just three. Dontcha fall, hear?” He flashed me a grin of encouragement, turned around, and left.
Frankie Madden was his name. I watched him instruct some mid-level climbers down in the pit. He looked like he knew what he was talking about. I’d have to talk to him later, find out if he knew Celia.
Only an hour had passed – and I was ready to pass out.
Seriously?
My body was giving up on me once again. I felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue and knew, with sudden urgency, that I had to catch a cab and get back to Rafael’s place and sleep off my sudden exertion.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a free pass for next time,” Frankie said. Climbing fees were high in the city and I’d bought a pass for four hours. “Talk to me next time. If you’re coming off an injury, you must be tired as hell.” He spoke like one who’d walked a mile in my shoes.
“Thanks,” I breathed. “Hey, did Celia climb in this gym?”
His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Why?”
“I’ve read about her online. What happened?”
His brown eyes darkened and his shoulder muscles tensed. “We don’t talk to newbies about that sort of a thing. See that glass case?” He pointed to a display on the wall. “That’s all you need to know about her.” I glanced over; a collection of news articles, photos, and trophies gleamed and beckoned. I’d have to check it out.
“Thanks.”
I was sitting on the bench, trying to keep my weight off my throbbing posterior while changing shoes when a hush fell over the gym.
I looked up.
An unusually tall man with lanky, black hair and the physique of a praying mantis was signing himself in at the desk.
Blaine Kirby.
He headed for the locker rooms; only then did activity in the gym resume.
“Hey, Frankie. Who’s that?” I asked.
He grimaced. “That? Haven’t you heard of the Demon of Santa Teresa?”
“That’s Him?” My eyes must have shown the shock at the legendary name.
“Yeah. He’s the only one to have done that climb solo and free. His height is a real asset.”
“Is he good otherwise?” I asked.
“You betcha. He doesn’t come often anymore…” Frankie stopped the flow of words and shook his head.
“You did okay. Lemme give you some recovery exercises for while you’re on the mend.”
I left the gym with a handful of photocopied handouts. I didn’t bother looking at them, keeping an eye on the taxi meter instead. My adventure might have set me back sixty bucks so far, but it was worth every penny.
Blaine Kirby was no beginner.
He was a pro.
Somehow, when Celia had offered to teach him climbing, she hadn’t known that.
I DIDN’T have keys to Rafael’s apartment. The reality of my situation struck me as ironic. I had to break into a place where I was now expected to live. Now, I didn’t have my burglar picks with me, but there were some tools in my climbing bag, including a thin spring from a self-belay system I had been repairing some time back, and a general tool kit full of thin screw drivers. Suddenly, the challenge of letting myself in felt rather pleasant. I had to work hard and it took bloody forever, but with Raf still at work, I had no intention of calling him and revealing that I’d been up and about.
He’s so sweet when he’s overprotective.
Huh. The thought flashed through my mind as I worked on the last deadbolt. He was sweet. He was overprotective. That didn’t mean I wanted to face his rant and rampage in regards to my personal health and safety. Sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
The last tumbler lined up and the door swung open. I let myself in, locking the deadbolts after myself. My rear was so sore and throbbing,, I could feel every heartbeat in the swollen, irritated flesh. Before I could lie down and rest, I had to wash off the chalk dust, rinse off my hard-earned sweat, and put my climbing bag away. I limped out of the foyer and into the living room, only to encounter one highly agitated Rafael Rinaldi.
His back was turned to me, the shoulders tense under his elegant, charcoal pinstripe suit. He was dialing a number.
“Grrraawwwhrrr!”
My cell phone had an orgasm in my pocket.
I froze in place in mid-step like the burglar I was.
He wheeled around, wild eyes staring at me in disbelief.
“Grrraawwwhrrr!”
I fished the offending telephone out of the pocket and answered it.
“Yes, Loverboy?” I met his eyes, trying to keep my voice playful.
He shut his phone off. I did the same and hid it in my pocket, trying to gauge his irritation level. His hair was mussed up as though he had been running his hands through it a lot and his red tie was askew. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his sweet, lush lips were drawn into a tense line.
“Where have you been, Evelyn?”
“Out,” I said, turning around to hang my climbing bag in the foyer. The need to hide it had passed.
“What do you mean, out?” His voice was low and commanding as he neared me. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
I shrugged. “I know. Just… it’s lonely here, and I felt restless. I had to look into something, is all.”
His eyes ran up and down my body, inspecting it for damage. “No crutches?”
“Don’t worry, I took the cab.”
He lifted my hand to his face and smelled it. His clean, soft hands ran over my dry fingertips, over my warm palms.
“Chalk?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you go climbing?” His voice was incredulous.
“Yeah. I’m so tired…”
I felt hands propel me to the sofa. “You’re not supposed to do that. You can’t even wear a harness yet. You can’t put any weight on that leg, Evelyn. Wait till I tell Nick.”
I settled on my side, my head pillowed on Rafael’s powerful thigh.
“I only bouldered.”
“Hnn.”
“Have you ever heard of a guy called ‘The Demon of Santa Teresa?’” I asked.
Raf rested his palm on my shoulder, searching his thoughts.
“Yeah, actually. There was a write-up about him in some magazine, wasn’t it? Some crazy solo climber?”
“Yeah… I saw him at the North Face. That’s where your sister used to train. His real name is Blaine Kirby.”
RAF WAS PACING the blue carpet, back and forth.
Back and forth.
I was observing him from my leather sofa perch, lying on my stomach with one arm and one leg draped down to the floor.
“So you’re saying Kirby must have been an expert climber before he and Celia hooked up?”
“Yeah,” I yawned. “There’s no way he could have gone from a rank newbie to a nickname-only legend in just a year or two.”
“I need to be sure.” His voice was grim with determination.
“I’ll find out for you. No problem.” I yawned again and my stomach growled loud enough for Raf to hear.
He looked at me, melting into the sofa with my braid coming apart and hair sticking out in all directions, and his eyes softened to a heated gaze full of want.
“You
won’t tell on me to Nick?” I asked, dropping the irritating name just to gauge Rafael’s reaction. His eyebrow twitched. “Would you care if I did?”
“I don’t care what Nick knows or doesn’t know. As long as you don’t double-team on me.”
“Okay, Goldilocks. You go take your shower and I’ll heat up some leftovers.”
Goldilocks.
I smiled. Things were looking up.
BY THE TIME I was rinsed off and changed into Rafael’s black, silk boxers and a bathrobe, he was out of his suit, looking comfortable in sweat pants and nothing else. I let my eyes run down his unruly hair, the strong neck, the well-muscled shoulders and back.
He was beautiful.
“Ready?” He asked. Dinner was buttered noodles and defrosted green peas and beef braised with onions, dried apricots, and the slightest hint of anchovy.
“Mmm, nice umami underneath all that fruitiness,” I commented. “It was pretty inspired to add cardamom, don’t you think?”
Raf poked at it some. “It tastes weird.”
I chewed some more. “I know what. It needs a tart counterpoint. Had this been Indian food, there would have been the yogurt sauce, right? So… hmm… do you have any balsamic vinegar?”
“Sure, I have a little bottle.” He brought it from the kitchen. It was covered with layers of caked-on dust.
“How long have you had this?” I asked, slightly amused.
“Tch. Rick Blanchard from the office, that idiot joker, gave me a bottle of vinegar for Christmas last year.”
“Really? Then it better be good, right?”
”I don’t know,” Raf frowned. “I haven’t even opened it.”
Now I do know what balsamic vinegar tastes like, but I’ve never seen it come in a small, square, bottle like that. “You better taste it, make sure it’s okay,” I said, pulling out the cork and sniffing the contents.
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 25
