by Chloe Blaque
“Now try this one.” I hold up a taco for Evan, and he bites into the end, nodding after a few chews. He washes it down with a jalapeño margarita.
“Okay, that’s good.”
“It’s calamari. My favorite,” I say before biting into the same taco. Swallowing the remnants of my second margarita, I savor the burn, and the sexy way it’s making me feel.
Evan smiles when I lick my lips. “It’s vicious when you do that.” His hand winds around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a slow jalapeño-laced kiss. When we unlock ourselves, another round has appeared. Evan gives a thank-you nod to the smiling waitress, who answers with a wink.
“I think she wants you to get lucky tonight,” I tease.
“I’ll take all the help I can get. Drink up.” We clinked glasses, looking into each other’s eyes for good luck, and take a swig of the delicious concoction. Evan holds up another taco for me, nodding appreciatively when I lean in and fit my mouth around the tip. Swallowing, I wipe my lips and giggle at his suggestive look.
“I have a lot of fun with you,” he says, suddenly turning serious.
“Me too.”
“What if I told you I could be in New York more often?”
“I’d say good.”
“That’s it?”
“What does you being in New York more often mean?” My face is hot, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t had so much to drink.
“Means we could see each other…regularly.”
“How often is that?”
He shrugs. “Two weeks out of the month?”
“That’s more irregular than regular.”
Evan sighs at my snarky joke. “I just don’t want to leave here and never see you again.”
I blink. I don’t want that either. All my fantasies are slipping away and smashing to smithereens on the floor. His life is in San Francisco. “Let’s shelve this for now. Okay? Please?”
He stares at me for a long moment. “For now.”
After dinner, we stroll, hands clasped, through Tribeca, toying with the idea of going to a lounge but ultimately deciding to head home.
We are kissing on my couch, followed by the rising of my dress and the unzipping and unbuttoning of his clothing, which is impossible on such a small surface, but our laughter makes it all the more sensual. Half-clothed, we are about to fuck like teenagers when Evan’s phone starts buzzing from a succession of text messages on the coffee table. I am selfishly ignoring any outside distractions, so is he, but with a quick glimpse I catch a text from Tone that says: Call me.
Alarmed, I urge him to take the call and slip into the kitchen to pour us both a glass of wine. It’s tough not to eavesdrop, especially when Evan’s voice begins to get a hard edge. He’s not upset with Tone, but something is making him angry. I place the wineglass by his hand, and he takes a large swig. With his phone to his ear, he gives me a quick kiss, then he starts to pace. I sink into the couch and sip my wine.
“I haven’t checked my office voice mail. Was anything taken? Are you sure?” Evan barks. He shakes his head “I’m not sure I can get one out tonight.”
Overhearing him, I glance up. Evan is standing, hand on hip, with a pained expression on his face.
“I’ll try in the morning. I’ll text you when I land.”
Evan lets out a heavy sigh and turns to me. “There was a break-in at the gallery.”
“Oh no. Was anything taken?”
“I guess not, but the police said the lock on the entrance to the club was tampered with.” For the next several minutes, Evan checks his voice mail. Then he calls the police, followed by his club managers, who he asks to double-check everything. With a curse, he gets off the phone and tosses it onto the coffee table. “There isn’t much else I can do tonight,” he says, frustrated.
“You have to go,” I state.
“I have to go. I don’t want to.” The top two buttons of his shirt are open, exposing a sliver of skin that I long to snuggle into.
“I know,” I murmur.
“Come with me.”
“You know I can’t,” I say with a rueful smile. “You can always come back, you know.”
His lips find my cheek, and he hugs me tighter. I lean into his chest, wondering if this is a glimpse of what a long-distance relationship with him would be like—frequent absences and short nights together.
Evan books a flight at five the next morning. His bags are packed, and he lays his travel clothes out on the dresser, right next to the Wolford bag. I’m lying on the bed when he fingers the fuchsia tissue paper and starts drawing the hose from the bag in a long shimmery stream. “Let me help you put these on.” His eyes sparkle.
Hopping off the bed, I grab the bag and hug it to my body. “We have to be up in two hours.”
“That’s plenty of time to—”
“No, you’ll have to come back to play with them.”
Okay, but…” He holds up the slinky white ribbon. “Just this one?”
I find an oversize gray sweater, slip the silky hose on, and walk into the bedroom in my black heels. I feel like the lead in Chicago and do a little shimmy, showing off the silver bows running up my legs. Raising my arms, I fluff my hair, which lifts the hem of my sweater to show my pièce de résistance—no panties. He stalks toward me with that possessive look in his eye. Before I know it, I’m sprawled on the bed with his head between my legs. We don’t sleep.
* * * *
I’m like a zombie when I make breakfast, and Evan is ravenous. He hunches over his plate while he eats, and I try to memorize him this way. Then he is gone. Suddenly, it’s colder and quieter. Wide awake now, I go into the kitchen and sit on his stool, picking at what’s left on his plate. A small pile of blackberries is off to the side. It occurs to me that he might not like berries, but I don’t know. I need to know. I need to feel like we could have a shot. I text him.
You don’t like blackberries?
With each pop of the little black gems into my mouth, I glance at my phone. No response. The text comes through as I am having lunch and poring over the new business books I recently bought.
I’m allergic. I’ll call you later. Miss you already. X.
Aww, he’s allergic. That’s so cute. Somehow, knowing this makes me feel closer to him, and yet the feeling that our relationship won’t last tugs at me. I bat it away. Instead I focus on a future I can control—Fierce’s.
Tina gave me the list of our advertisers but warned me that they will want to see current statistics. Everyone has heard what went down with Viper. I need to show our former partners that Fierce is still going strong.
I have been researching my revenue options. Really I just need to keep one big advertiser, but I also need to keep my page views up, because I’m paid per click. Checking my stats, I’m worried when I see a downward sloping bar chart from a few weeks ago to today. It’s because my posts have dwindled. Going from three people to one has decreased my clickable content. I need to work faster, aggregate more stories, and create a better schedule so I can emulate three people. My fingers fly over the keys.
It’s after midnight, and I’m asleep in bed when I become vaguely aware that my phone is ringing. When I unearth it from my duvet mountain, Evan’s photo stares back at me.
“Hey…”
“Hi, baby. Did I wake you?” He sounds tired. I hear muffled music in the background, and I picture him sitting at his desk at the club.
“Mmmm. I must have nodded off,” I say, grazing my hand over the fallen book in my lap. I sit up. “So did you meet with the police?”
“Yeah. The perps got in through a side window and tried to get into the passageway to the club. Probably some kids.”
He tells me how long it took to fill out the police report, then between cleanup and temporary repairs, he barely got a chance to sit down. There is something else in his voice, though, and I ask him if he is okay.
“It’s Josie,” he says. I clench my jaw. “I found out she skipped a meeting with a friend of mi
ne—a lawyer who was willing to help her get out of her contract. I just called her. She said Skinny was stalking her, so she flew to New York. She tried to check into a hotel, but all her credit cards are cut off, and her bank account is cleaned out.”
“Oh my God. Skinny?”
“Yeah. She has no money and nowhere to go. Honestly, I don’t know what else to do to help her. I’m not even sure if I should help her after the way she acted, but she’s spiraling out of control.”
“She can come here.” I can’t believe I said it, but I cringe at the thought of Evan spending more of his time and money on her.
“What?”
“She’s your friend, and she’s in trouble.”
“Lex, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What are you going to do, set her up in another hotel on your dime? Skinny will find her again. She’ll run again. Nothing will be solved. She can stay here for a few days as long as she agrees to conference call with the legal team you put together. I’ll make sure she takes the call.” Evan sighs. “Plus I can’t help but think that my post had a hand in making her life a little more miserable right now.”
“I don’t know…”
“Evan, don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s two a.m. when I open the door, finding Josie Pink has been replaced by Josie Vasquez. Her black blonde-streaked hair is up in a bun, her face is sans makeup, and there are dark circles stamped under her eyes. The yoga pants and sweatshirt she is wearing are also rumpled. With a weak smile, she introduces herself as Josie, and I step back to let her inside.
“Thank you,” she says in a low voice with a slight Latin accent. She slips a few bags from her back, and they thud onto the floor. Any animosity I had toward her falls away when I see her slumped shoulders. Without her stilettos and her pink bustier, she looks frail and defeated.
“No problem,” I say. “I’m Lex. We’ve met.” Josie’s gaze hits the floor, and she nods.
“Yeah, Sorry about…all that,” she murmurs.
“Water under the bridge. I bet you are tired. Let’s get you set up in your room.” Grabbing one of her bags, I lead her to my small home office and show her the queen-size futon. Pushing aside my winter stuff, I make space for her in the closet, then show her to the bathroom. “Please make yourself at home,” I tell her.
There is a porn star in my apartment. The sentence is on loop in my head as I hear her unpacking. The hot chocolate I am making bubbles. I kill the burner and pour the silky liquid into two cups, then cart them down the hall, stopping at her open door. She’s on the phone, but pauses when I enter.
“To help you sleep,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says genuinely, and I turn to leave. “Wait, he wants to talk to you.” She thrusts her pink diamond-studded phone at me, and I take it into the hall.
“Is everything okay?” a very anxious-sounding Evan asks.
“Yeah, everything is fine,” I whisper.
“Has she gone crazy yet?”
“No.” I chuckle softly. “She’s unpacking and drinking hot chocolate.”
“If she freaks out for any reason, you can kick her out. I told her that.”
“Great, because that’s not awkward at all.”
“Lex, thanks for doing this. I…” Evan stutters, and my whole body stills. “I owe you,” he says.
My relieved exhale is accompanied by a sliver of disappointment. I wanted him to say something else. What scares me even more is that I wanted to say it back. “Be prepared to make it up to me,” I joke.
* * * *
The next morning, I am furiously typing up posts and trolling the Internet for stories. My page views dropped again. Shortly after I received that news, I began digging through a stack of mail that I’d been avoiding for days. My rent, phone, cable, credit cards, and student-fucking-loan bills are all due. On top of that, I received my health insurance termination letter.
Awesome day so far.
I’m having lunch when Evan calls me to check in. He’s so cute. All worried and nervous that Josie and I are going to have a catfight. He tells me that Josie has a call with her new lawyer that evening. I promise to get her on the call.
Josie sleeps well into the afternoon as I continue to work. I’m having coffee and winding down my day—making my own hours is a nice perk—when she emerges in a tank top that strains across her chest and yoga pants. She looks ragged, but her body is amazing. I shake off an image of her in her baby-doll nightie, sprawled on Evan’s bed.
“Hi,” I say.
“Morning,” she says, her voice still full of sleep.
“Actually, it’s almost four thirty.”
“What? Shit, I’m supposed to have a phone call or something,” Josie says.
“It’s at six. I talked to Evan earlier.”
“Oh, thank God. He’d kill me if I missed another one.”
“Coffee?” I ask, gesturing toward the pot.
“Ooooh yes.” She practically runs toward it. We sort of stare at each other, both of us unsure how to make small talk in this strange situation. “Don’t let me interrupt your work. Evan told me you run a women’s website.”
“It sort of a defunct women’s website now, but I’m trying to get it back on its feet.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to get on my feet too,” she says, sucking her teeth. Awkward silence. I haven’t had a roommate in ages.
“If you like to work out, there is a gym on the third floor. It’s usually pretty quiet.”
“Thanks. I might do that.”
“I have cable, streaming movies, and video games. The remote is over there.” She strolls to the entertainment system and plucks out the latest Grand Theft Auto game and holds it up.
“That’s me,” she says, pointing to a blonde cartoon hottie in a bikini sucking a lollipop. “I did the voice and everything.”
“Yeah? I didn’t realize that was you. That must have been fun to do.”
“It was cool. I had to go into a little studio and record all the phrases. I got a lot of money for that… Well, Skinny got a lot for that.” Josie moves to the couch and hugs her knees. “You have a nice place. I bet you probably never had a man trying to tell you what to do.”
“Are you kidding? My ex-husband got mad when my jeans were too tight. “‘I can see your panty line!’” My imitation of my ex has us both snickering.
“Well, mine got mad when I wasn’t showing enough.” Josie jumps off the couch, affects a gangster stance, and makes her voice deeper. “‘Girl, this is a brand. Those titties are a brand. All you need to wear is a bra and panties. I don’t care if we are at dinner, at the plaza, or at the goddamn White House. All you will ever wear is a bra and panties!’”
“No, he did not say that,” I say with a neck roll.
“Girl, yes he did. Those bags I brought are full of bras and panties.” We peal into giggles like college girlfriends. She isn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe Skinny was making her act like a psychopath.
* * * *
At six o’clock, Josie is on speakerphone in my living room with Evan and her new lawyer. There is a lot of legal jargon and contract talk that flies over my head, but the tone of the meeting seems hopeful. Laptop in hand, I make myself scarce and move into my bedroom.
Where are you? Pops up on my phone from Evan.
Pay attention to the meeting. I went to my bedroom.
I miss you.
I miss you too.
Are you naked?
That makes me smile. I’m not naked, but I could be. Buck naked, I text back.
Send me a pic.
No. You are in a meeting!
Look who was in the club last night.
Evan sends a pic through of him and Snoop Dogg, aka Snoop Lion, in the VIP lounge, smiling together for the camera. I barely glance at Snoop; only Evan has my attention in a white T-shirt under a black sport jacket. Then I see a half-visible girl behind them in a very short, very tight red dress, lookin
g—it seems to me—dreamily at Evan. I want to jump into that phone and rip her hair out.
Who’s the girl in red? I type, but I immediately delete it. Don’t jump to conclusions; don’t be that girl.
Nice pic, I type instead.
Your turn, Evan texts.
I don’t have any celebrity pics.
You know what I want, he texts.
I bite my lower lip, unsure if I want to snap a photo, afraid the pic could end up in the hands of some horny teen in Siberia, but the girl in red has lit a jealous fire.
I slip out of my T-shirt, flip onto my side, gather my duvet around my chest, and rest the swells of my breasts on the fluffy mound. Pulling my bun from the top of my head, I free my curls and adjust them to frame my cleavage. Extending my phone in the air, and pulling my face out of the picture, I snap a few shots, pick the best, and send it to Evan. Almost immediately my phone buzzes.
I want under those covers, Evan texts.
If you were here, I might let you in, I text.
What else would you let me do?
What do you want to do?
I want to rip off that cover and fuck you senseless.
Are you still in the meeting? My door is closed, but I can hear Josie’s muffled voice.
Yes. Don’t change the subject.
I laugh. So sorry, what subject were we on?
Me making love to you.
Oh, I thought you said you wanted to fuck me.
I’m going to make love to you. Then I’m going to fuck you. Then I’m going to spend hours on those gorgeous breasts you’re hiding. And then another hour tasting you.
My heart pounds. This is fun. When do I get to taste you? I type.
Just ask, baby.
I’m asking.
You’re gonna make me get on a plane.
Six hours for a BJ?
Six hours for you.
Come here. Snuggle with me. I want to touch you.
I’m there, touching you, your lips, your breasts, your sweet pussy.
I glance at the door, unbutton my jeans, and slide my hand under my panties. With every stroke, I think of Evan. With every push of my fingers inside myself, I imagine it’s him. The phone slips from my hand as I build to orgasm, needing to touch my breasts and squeeze my nipples just as he would do. I suck in air, preparing for his imaginary kiss, and raise my knees. I come hard, gritting my teeth, quietly writhing on the bed.
