Survival of the Fiercest

by Chloe Blaque

  “You took advantage of me,” he says. “You knew what you were doing when you put on those glasses.”

  “Excuse me?” I frown. “You are insinuating that my very functional reading glasses were a ploy for your attention?”

  “Those glasses scream hot for teacher. It’s a fantasy for most, if not all, men.”

  “As in that ’80s song?” Taking my glasses from my purse, I slip them on and fluff my hair. Then I turn to him with a coquettish look. “Like when the teacher comes out in a bikini and strips on top of her desk? This is one of your fantasies?”

  “Yeah,” he says, causing his dimple to appear.

  I shake out my hair. “Is this making you feel hot? Should I dance on the bench?”

  “Please do.”

  “Have you had sex with a teacher?”

  “Is this off the record?”

  “No,” I joke.

  “I plead the fifth,” he says with a light in his eyes.

  “You have,” I accuse. “You’ve probably screwed all your teachers.”

  “What?” He feigns offense.

  “Off the record. Be honest. Are you a man-ho?”

  “No.” He says it like I’m crazy.

  “Who was the Spanish girl that called you a pendejo?”

  He lets out a sigh and hangs his head. “My date for the night. A friend set us up.” He shrugs. “But I was also working, and she got angry that I wasn’t paying more attention to her. She stormed out. But she came back”—he leans in—“or so I thought.”

  “Very interesting,” I say in my professor voice. We are distracted by kids playing a few feet away, and I put my glasses in my purse.

  “Done?” he asks, his chin jerking toward the coffee cup cradled in my lap.

  Evan walks our cups to the trashcan a few feet away, and I feel free to eyeball him. He has a smooth, powerful gait that accentuates what could only be described as swag. A few scantily clad joggers notice too, their heads turning on their way past. I roll my eyes. He has swag—in spades.

  I feign a sudden interest in the birds nearby when he turns toward me. The bench dips momentarily when he sits a little closer to me. My pulse jumps.

  “Now what?” he asks.

  “Well, I am going to jump on a cable car and just see where it takes me.”

  “How about an air-conditioned Mercedes?”

  I mask my excitement with a cool frown. “Don’t you have plans today?”

  He leans forward, his eyes clear blue and his hair slightly mussed from the breeze. “My plans are later, and I’d like to enjoy a sun-filled afternoon before I start adopting vampire hours.”

  It’s a sweet gesture but out of place as we are virtual strangers. I wonder if he is just doing this so I don’t write the article. Before I know it, he is on his feet, holding his hand out to help me up. He puts his hand gently on my back as we walk, and my mind races to the 10 Signs He’s Interested post that I’d seen on a competing website. Number six was: He leads you by the arm or with his hand at the small of your back. Apparently it’s a way to mark your territory to other men. The idea of being marked as his territory gives me a secret thrill.

  We walk through Japantown, where Evan’s hand finds my back several more times, drive to Fisherman’s Wharf for a walk along the bay, and continue on to see the architectural beauty of the civic center.

  But my mind is blown when he shows me the graffiti art and colorful murals that adorn the streets of the Mission District. Hispanic music wafts into the streets from restaurants, and I bask in the creative warmth of my surroundings. Evan does too, I notice. He leads us down alleyways that are a little scary but eventually open into courtyards that hold larger-than-life artistry.

  “How do you know about this?” I ask as we slip through another dark alley.

  “Josie Vasquez grew up here. She, Jared, and I would run these streets as teenagers. We were all friends back in the day.” He grins fondly. “She and I dated for a year or so in high school, but it wasn’t serious. Then college came for Jared, and I and Josie went to LA. Enter Josie Pink.”

  “Did you three always keep in touch?”

  “Yeah. Josie likes to surface when there is trouble. And there is always trouble.” He says the latter under his breath, inspecting our surroundings.

  “It must be different to come here now,” I say, stopping myself from going any further about Josie. I promised.

  “I still come here often. It changes over and over again. The architecture is alive.”

  Alive. Like his facial expressions as he explains the area’s Mexican history. He takes my hand during our exploration, and I let him keep it. We stop on a street corner by a popular restaurant and stare up at the graffiti-covered building.

  I turn to him. “Evan, are you a closet artist or something?”

  “No, I don’t sketch much anymore.” His expression darkens. “I used to want to be an architect.”

  I stay quiet, giving his hand a small squeeze as he continues.

  “When my father left us, my mother took on two jobs to support my sisters and me,” he says. “Enough money was scraped together to put me through college. My uncle had a small law practice and offered to give me a job right out of school. It was a sure thing. Creative arts weren’t encouraged.”

  I hate the sadness in his voice. Or is it regret? I want to console him the way I would a lover. Kiss his lips and rub his back, tell him his creativity can’t be taken away by a law degree. But I shake it off, reminding myself that we aren’t lovers. That technically I have a boyfriend I haven’t quite broken up with yet, and I’m supposed to write a gossip story about Evan’s very good friends. Instead I offer up something of myself.

  “No one cared what I went to school for. My parents passed away when I was a kid. My father’s mother raised me, and her goal for me was to meet a husband and have babies.” I take his arm, and we begin a slow pace down the street, which is darkening as the sun begins its set into the hills.

  “I could have gotten a degree in underwater basket weaving for all she cared.” That gets a chuckle out of him. “I came out of school with the husband, but that didn’t work out.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Just a few years.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No.” I swallow, wondering why it’s always so hard to admit that.

  After a short pause, he speaks. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  “Thank you,” is all I can say as we fall into our own thoughts and only the crunch of our sneakers remains.

  I look down at our feet stepping in unison: his black high-tops and my silver ones. I gaze at our locked arms—my brown fingers snake around his white arm. Maybe all the art has gone to my head, but I notice that he and I are full of contrasting colors that act as a complement when set against each other. My mouth goes dry when I think of all of him laid out next to all of me. When I glance at his face, I am surprised to see him watching me. Caught, I smile an apology and quickly look away.

  We stroll a few more blocks to a heavily populated area filled with music and restaurants. Evan keeps me close as we thread through the crowds. We stop in front of what looks like a small shack with a cardboard menu posted outside. In perfect Spanish, he greets the man and woman at the counter, who seem happy to see him.

  “Hungry? These are the best tacos in the city,” Evan says.

  “Mmm, let’s do it. I love tacos,” I say, slipping away toward the menu. My body is pulsating, and I need some distance. I don’t want to want him so much. Caring about him will interfere with what I know I have to do.

  Evan comes up behind me as I read the menu. “Are you sure you are okay with this?” he asks. “It’s not a place I usually take a date.”

  “Why?” I ask over my shoulder. “The music, the people; there is romance here.”

  “The last girl I brought here didn’t think so.”

  “Let me guess. She was a model slash actress, and her stilettos got stuck in the s
treet cracks.”

  He is just over my shoulder, and his laughter ruffles my hair. I fleetingly wish things weren’t so complicated.

  “Former model, and she muttered something about health codes and the lack of seating.”

  I laugh. “Well, I like it here, and this isn’t a date, so you don’t have to worry.”

  Grabbing the belt loops of my jeans, Evan whips me around and gives me an intense look. I think he is going to argue with me, but his mouth just forms a thin line.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “I don’t know if you can handle what I want,” I tease.

  “I’m dying to handle you,” he murmurs, and I imagine him handling me by pumping furiously between my legs.

  “Two steak tacos with a corn cob and a Corona,” I say quickly.

  “Nice,” he says with a wink and walks to the counter.

  While Evan waits at the window, I grab us two seats at the end of a picnic bench and pull out my phone. There is a text from Tina that she loved the Muse piece. I text her a quick thank-you back. I glance up and see Evan watching me with a discerning eye. I’m about to put my phone away when a message pops up from a 415 number.

  No texting unless it’s to me. Sexting is allowed.

  I glance up, but Evan is staring out into the street. I hide my wide smile and text back.

  Why are you texting me when I am ten feet away?

  A breeze takes my hair into my eyes, but I battle it back. I’ve been fighting the wind ever since we got to the Mission District. I bet I look like a Wookiee.

  Because you look beautiful.

  Smoothing a hand over my hair, I hide my blush with my curls in case he is watching. I feel like a teenager on my first date—anxious about how I look and eager for a small touch or a kiss. Evan is coming toward me with a tray of food when another text from Tina buzzes through.

  Lou said you are working on a piece about a football player and a porn star?

  The teenager in me dies.

  I hate Lou, I text back and stash my phone.

  It’s dusk when we take a slow walk back to the street where we parked the car.

  “Anywhere else?” he asks, holding open the car door for me. I’m surprised he’s still willing to chauffer me around.

  “No. I should really get back to the hotel. I have some writing to do.”

  He gives me a curt nod as I climb in, and I watch him move around the car to the driver’s side. The engine roars, and he punches a switch on the radio. Alicia Keys surrounds us.

  We ease onto the road, but I notice he’s taking it easy. The odometer is barely registering sixty mph, though there isn’t much traffic now. Alicia is singing about doing the unthinkable, and I feel like she’s crooning my every thought. I let out a sigh. Evan glances at me, his eyes still unreadable.

  “Tired?”

  I nod and yawn at the same time.

  “Don’t sleep until later. Your body needs to get used to the time change.” The word body sizzles in the air like a flame.

  “What should I do to stay awake?”

  His head whips toward me. I laugh. It sounded innocent enough in my head. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out.”

  “Come to the club tonight.”

  “I don’t want to be up all night.”

  “Then just come by for a drink.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug and let the music take over in my head. The thought of lounging in his office with him is tempting.

  We pull up to the hotel, and, after waving away a bellman, Evan helps me out of the car. We stand facing each other on the curb.

  “Thank you for today. I had a lot of fun,” I say.

  “I did too.” He smiles.

  I’m about to utter a good-bye when Evan’s arms wrap around me, and he locks his mouth to mine. My body responds with a glorious heat that I haven’t felt in, well, I can’t remember when. It isn’t like this with Pete, ever.

  It’s the kiss from the night before but sweeter, fuller, hotter. Evan’s lips are smooth and warm, reducing my thoughts to naked bodies, heat, and sweaty sex. His hand travels to the nape of my neck and winds its way into my hair as his tongue teases into my mouth. His muffled groan reverberates in my ears just as his palm tightens upon my lower back and pulls me even closer. The frantic thump of his heart echoes my own.

  He nibbles and sucks along the column of my throat. My head falls back to give better access, and I slide my hands through his hair. A small gasp escapes me when he palms my ass, giving a small squeeze before sliding his lips back up my throat, stopping at my ear. “Let me come to your room,” he whispers.

  My body has lost all its weight, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders, very aware that my nipples are as hard as diamonds. All I want to do is wrap my legs around him and ride into the sunset.

  But I can’t. Lawsuit or not, I am very aware that I will have to write something about Josie—his friend. Encouraging Evan, as good as it feels, isn’t a smart idea. I move to step out of his arms, but he holds on.

  Okay, that’s sexy.

  “I don’t think so,” I whisper.

  Evan admires my face for a second before dropping a kiss on my lips and releasing me, but he holds on to my hand and pulls me in to his side. That move alone puts my body into a perpetual hum.

  “Is it because I said I’d sue?”

  “Well, it didn’t help.” I smirk. “But no.”

  “Because I’m white?”

  “Don’t be crazy,” I say with a rapid head shake.

  “It’s the boyfriend.” His voice drops an octave, and he grips me little tighter to his side. It was a statement, not a question.

  “It’s because of a lot of things that have to do with me, not you.”

  His slow nod seems to mask a conversation in his head. “We are having a soft opening for the gallery tomorrow,” he says. “Come. A lot of the art came from the Mission District. It would be great if you could write about it.”

  “I’ll try,” I say, knowing I won’t go. “Good night.” I slide my fingers from his, and I head through the lobby doors.

  Sexual desires aside, I am doing the right thing. If tomorrow goes as planned, I’ll have a contract from Viper, and Evan won’t want to see me again.

  Chapter Ten

  An invitation to the Muse gallery opening is sitting on my desk when I get to the office the next morning. Inside is a handwritten note.

  Don’t forget your glasses. Bikini optional.

  A lone E is scrawled underneath, and I smile a little at the thought of him wanting to see me again. But that will change. After uploading my flash drive, I pull up the piece I put together for Viper.

  Caught Creeping! Porn star Josie Pink is spotted snuggling up with a new boo. Where’s Big Skinny?

  The picture I took of Josie and Evan graces the page with a three-sentence caption underneath. I left out Evan’s name, but I’m sure the story will be enough for him to hate me. And slap me with a lawsuit. I have to put myself first in this situation. It’s my career on the line.

  I’m posting the piece as a draft into WordPress when Lou pops his head into my cube. It’s only eleven a.m., and he’s so wired his eyes are bulging. Viper must be putting him through the wringer.

  “Well?” he asks. “Is it finished?”

  “Good morning, Lou. Did you have a nice weekend? I did, thanks for asking,” I say with sweet sarcasm. Apparently common courtesy was laid off with the rest of the office. I turn back to my computer.

  Lou takes a deep breath. “Alexandra. I’m sorry. Good morning.” He comes around to my side of the desk. “How did you do with the Jared Waters stuff?”

  “Actually, I didn’t find anything on him. I went with the porn star.” I turn my monitor and show Lou the piece. His face scrunches.

  “What happened to the football player?” he asks, his voice rising.

  “She’s not seeing him. She’s seeing some other guy.”

  “So who’s the guy?”

  I shrug.
“Not sure. All I got was a pic.”

  “This is all you got?” Lou’s face is red, and he tugs at his tie.

  “She’s cheating on Big Skinny,” I say, my voice rising an octave. Lou looks like he’s about to explode, and I can feel my contract slipping away.

  “Who cares? She’s a fucking porn star. She probably fucks five random guys a day. The football player is the story!” Lou slams his hands on my desk and pauses to steady himself.

  I roll my office chair back a few inches and take a hard swallow. “You know, Lou, making up stories about celebrities isn’t why I built Fierce. There has to be another company out there that will appreciate—”

  “Get it through your head. It’s Viper or nada.” He sputters, and I swear his eyes flip to red before turning back to gray. He practically spits when he speaks again. “Now, you can fix this by Photoshopping that football player in next to the porn star. Randy!” Lou calls out.

  Wide-eyed, Randy appears with a notepad in his hand. Lou snakes an arm around him and brings him toward the computer. “Randy, Alexandra needs you to Photoshop a picture.”

  “No. I won’t do that,” I say, motioning for Randy to have a seat. “I’m going to go with this piece, and Viper can give me their feedback.”

  “This piece is nothing without knowing who she is sleeping with,” Lou screams and points at the “mystery” guy beside Josie.

  “But it’s Ev—” Randy starts. My look cuts him. I shouldn’t have told him!

  “Everyone’s going to wonder who it is,” I say quickly covering. Randy shrinks. “It will generate mystery, but if you really think we need to know who this is, then I may have a lead.” I hold up the Muse invitation. “Josie will be here tonight. It’s possible her man will be too.”

  Lou takes a deep breath and composes himself. “Fine. I’ll tell Khan you need one more day.” He leans on the desk so his face is level with mine. “You will find out who this guy is and post it tomorrow. It better be good.” My anxious nod satisfies him, and he walks off.

  “That man has lost his mind,” Randy says.

  “I know. Sorry I cut you off, but I can’t have Evan’s name in here. He promised to sue, and my conscience is needling me. It’s complicated,” I whine.