Annihilate Me

by Christina Ross

  “You think?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Oh, and I assume that you went out tonight with some makeup on? And that your hair wasn’t the hot mess that it is right now? And that you didn’t go out in public with any stains on your dress? You know, like that one right there.”

  She pointed at my crotch.

  I looked down and—mortified—I saw the stain.

  “Oh, my God. This dress cost a fortune.”

  “Girl, you’re in a hot state of disrepair.”

  I came into the living area and sat on the sofa.

  “Don’t you think you should put down a towel before you sit on that sofa?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “No, really. Please.”

  “Whatever.” I leaned back against the sofa and grinned up at the ceiling.

  “Should I leave you alone?”

  “Oh, no. We’re going to talk. I’m on fire. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I think I’m getting the picture. Did he give you a hickey?”

  “Do he give me a what?”

  “A hickey.”

  “Nobody gives me a hickey. No one even uses that word anymore.”

  “Just teasing. But I have to say that it’s a relief that you still have your restraint. That’s good.”

  “You don’t even know how much restraint I showed tonight.”

  “Looking at you, I’d guess that you showed none.”

  “Not true. I was a ball of restraint, even if it wasn’t by choice.”

  “So, you’re still as pure as bottled water?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say I’m... intact.”

  She put her drink on the table beside her and stretched her hands behind her. She was so petite, it was as if she was barely there. “All right,” she said. “I need the deets. Spill them. Enough of this silliness. I’ve been dying to hear all night how your evening went, and it looks as if you two got along swimmingly, so to speak. Thus the towel I wished for earlier.”

  “Very funny. That has never happened to me before. I hope I haven’t ruined the dress. It cost a fortune.”

  “You’ll be fine. Take it to a good dry cleaner, and they’ll get the stain out. Though I wouldn’t want to be you when you have to point it out to them.”

  “What am I going to say to them?”

  “Nothing. They’ll know what it is, and judgment will thunder down upon you. Just look contrite, grab your ticket, and get the hell out of there.” She pulled her blonde hair behind her head. Beside her, the air conditioner hummed. “So, are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

  “You are not going to be prepared for any of it.”

  “Jennifer, you look as if you’ve been roughed up by a dozen thugs, but in the best way. And your eyes are a little unfocused, which isn’t like you, except for when you’ve had a bit too much to drink, which I’ve witnessed a few times too many. But I doubt that’s the case here. And I am prepared. Minus the dress, the shoes, and the jewels, I think I’ve been where you are now. Only several years ago. It was heaven and hell, all at once.” She tucked her legs beneath her, but then she untucked them and stood. “What am I thinking? You need a martini. That will loosen you up enough to talk. I want the good shit. Be right back.”

  “Do we have good vodka?”

  “You know we do. We can afford it now. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I think I have amnesia.”

  “Sweetie, you’re just horny. You’re a vessel of pulsing hormones. It’ll pass. Let me get you a drink. It’ll numb the pain. Or whatever it is your going through.”

  “That would be a mystery,” I said.

  Then I told her about the facts of my night.

  * * *

  “He did what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “And you did what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I can’t believe this. Who are you?”

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Let me see the photos.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “We share everything. Do you really expect me not to ask to see them? Come on, Jennifer! You can’t give me a blow-by-blow like that and expect me not to ask to see the photos.”

  “Fine. But let’s just say it’s not my proudest moment.”

  “Who cares? For you to trust someone like that says it all to me. I said it earlier and I’ll say it again—you’re in deep. I just didn’t realize how deep.”

  I got my phone and brought up the photograph he sent. I showed it to her. Greedily, she took my cell from my hand.

  “Holy shit. I’ve seen photos of him online, but not like this. He’s hotter than I thought. Look at that chest, never mind his abs. As busy as he is, where does he find time to stay in that kind of shape? And look at that smirk on his face. You know, if my apocalyptic zombie books ever get made into a movie, I’d want the lead actor to look like him. Or, frankly, to be him.”

  “I don’t think Alex acts.”

  “But I bet he could finance the project. I’ve done my research. Part of Wenn is Wenn Entertainment!”

  “You’re killing me.”

  She looked at his photo again, and sighed. “He’s totally into this.” She looked up in approval. “Good for you, sweetie. Really. Now, where’s that photo of you?”

  “You don’t want to see that.”

  “Oh, yes, I do.”

  “Just swipe to the next image then.”

  She did. I winced. And then, for whatever reason, she was silent for a moment. I’d gone too far. I knew it. But then she said, “Hello, Victoria’s Secret supermodel. Look at you. And tasteful, too. Nice bit of cleavage. Love the hair covering the boobs, but just showing a trace of lace. And you’re biting your lip, your eyes are closed, and your head is pressed back. It’s obvious you’re in the back of a limo. This must have slayed him. Well played, love. Well played. It’s as if Mario Testino took this shot, only with a Warhol edge.”

  “Mario who?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Is he one of your fashion photographers?”

  “He’s one of the fashion photographers. Think Madonna, Madonna, Madonna—throughout the years. And many other famous women.” She admired the photo a moment more before handing me back my cell. “I bet that made Alex second guess everything.”

  “After he received it, he wanted to ask the driver to turn the limo around. I told him that wasn’t happening because I think he’s right. This should build. I want it to build.”

  “Are we building a two-story home? Or a skyscraper?”

  “Definitely not a skyscraper.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “But I will wait as long as it takes for it to feel right.”

  “When it does happen, you better be ready for that, honey. Because this man is going to annihilate you.”

  “Is that one of your zombie words?”

  She finished her martini and cocked her head at me. “Maybe. But when he gets his hands on you and you both decide the moment is right? That’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to feel annihilated, but in the best sense. He’s going to rid you of your virginity, and destroy you in bed. Those are the two definitions of ‘annihilate’: ‘rid’ and ‘destroy.’ Just you wait and see.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning at six, my cell rang. I’d left it on my bedside table in case Alex called during the night, which he hadn’t. I reached for it, and saw his name on the screen when I answered.

  “Mr. Wenn,” I said.

  “Ms. Kent.”

  “How are you this morning?”

  “Despite getting no sleep? Surprisingly good.”

  “What kept you from sleep?” I asked.

  “What do you think? Did you sleep?”

  “There might have been some tossing and turning.”

  “Just the tossing and turning?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “That you did something to give yourself relief.”r />
  “What if I did?” I said.

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you judge me if I did?”

  “I thought this was about holding back,” I said.

  “It is. I did nothing to myself last night, though I sure as hell wanted to. I was hard for a good hour.”

  I blushed at the thought. “It was your choice.”

  “It was the right choice. By the way, that was an interesting photo you took of yourself last night. And an unexpected one.”

  “I could say the same.”

  “Do you ever take a bad photograph?”

  “I’ve taken my share of them.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “I think I looked at you for most of the night.”

  “I hope your battery held out.”

  “Miraculously, it did.”

  “Look,” he said. “I know you have to work tonight, but it’s still early and my first meeting isn’t until nine. Are you up for breakfast?”

  It would take me forty-five minutes to get ready. “I’d love to have breakfast with you. Where should I meet you?”

  “At my place. I’m cooking.”

  “You cook?”

  “I do.”

  What doesn’t he do?

  “When should I send a car for you?”

  “At seven?”

  “That’ll only give us a couple of hours....”

  “But we’ll have tonight, after I get out of work.”

  “I have an event tonight,” he said. “It’s a big one, so I’ll probably be too late to pick you up. But a car will be waiting for you to make sure you get home safely. I apologize.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. You need to tend to your business, Alex.”

  He sounded frustrated when he said, “I also need to see you more than just a couple of hours a day, Jennifer.”

  I wasn’t about to engage him now. He worked days and evenings, and I worked evenings. What did he expect? I had two days off a week, with an additional day off to try out new restaurants for Stephen. Somehow, if he wanted to see more of me, Alex would have to adjust his schedule, if that was even possible, which it should be since he owned Wenn. But I knew better. That wouldn’t be so easy for him to do. The board at Wenn expected a lot from him, including attending as many events as possible. Getting away so we could see each other was going to be an issue. And how is that going to affect our relationship?

  “We’re wasting time,” I said. “Let me take a shower. Send the car sooner than later. I’ll be ready before you know it.”

  * * *

  When I arrived at Wenn ten minutes before seven, the driver told me to go to Mr. Wenn’s private elevator. “Someone will be waiting there for you. They’ll see to it that you have access, Ms. Kent.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I went inside, and was greeted by the security guards at the front desk, all of whom addressed me by name, which felt bizarre to me. I nodded at them as I went to the concealed elevator just behind them. When I did, I saw that the person who was waiting for me was Alex himself. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, but otherwise was perfectly groomed and ready to start the day as soon as he changed into his suit. He took me in his arms and kissed me when I walked over to him.

  “You’re here early,” he said.

  “I’m curious to see how well you cook.”

  “Is that it?”

  “It depends on how we define ‘cooking’?”

  “Breakfast.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “That’s fine. And maybe I came because I wanted to spend more time with you.”

  “That makes me happy,” he said. And I could tell that it did, even though there was an undercurrent I couldn’t quite define. He seemed distracted again, just as he had early last night, before I came clean with him about my past and things took a romantic turn. I decided to just be myself, and see how the next two hours played out, especially considering what had happened between us the night before. Would the chemistry still be there? Or was all of that just in the heat of the moment? I hoped it wasn’t, but what did I know?

  He slid a card into a slot next to the elevator and we stepped inside when the doors opened. When they shut, the elevator soared, and he pressed me against the rear wall. “You look beautiful,” he said, kissing me on the neck and then hard on the lips before he leaned me back and fingered the length of my hair. “And your hair is curly.”

  “No time for a flat iron this morning.”

  “I like it when it’s like this. It reminds me of the first time we met.”

  “Why does that seem like ages ago?”

  “It’s only happened to me once before, but, sometimes when you meet someone, it’s as if you’ve known that person forever.”

  Was he referring to his wife? Of course he was. I wondered what she was like and what she had looked like. Though I’d looked, I’d seen no photographs of her in his apartment the night before. Maybe they were too much for him to look at. Perhaps they were gone for a reason—so he could move on with his life. Regardless of whatever was happening between us now, I felt terrible that he lost his wife so early. It must have devastated him.

  The elevator slowed, he took my hand, and we stepped out. It was so sunny—and his apartment was so white—that the light streaming through the surround of windows was almost blinding.

  “How can you stand that?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s an instant wake-up call.”

  “I bet it works.”

  He smiled. “Have you ever been to Paris?” he asked when we left the elevator.

  “So far, I’ve gotten as far as Manhattan.”

  “Not a bad start. Do you like French food?”

  “I love it. Along the coast in Maine, there are a few very good French restaurants.”

  “I miss Maine.”

  “I don’t.”

  He glanced at me, but said nothing. “Do you think you’ll be taking me to any French restaurants in New York?”

  “If any hot new ones open up, it’ll be my pleasure. What other kinds of food do you like?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Jennifer. As rare as they seem they’re going to be, a night out with you is what matters to me.”

  He tightened his grip on my hand, but I couldn’t help but linger on what he really was saying. Because of the job I took and because of his own hectic schedule, our lives weren’t designed for us to spend much time together. The undercurrent I sensed earlier was now clear. Not being together was going to be difficult for him, possibly because his wife, who might not have worked, had always been available to him. And if I was honest, it also was going to be difficult on me. So, where did that leave us now? How would the reality of our situations impact what was only a budding relationship? At this point, everything was so fragile, it was as if we were walking on broken glass. Leaving him now would be difficult, but not as difficult as it would if months had passed. If we invested in each other for a long period of time, it would tear my heart out if we finally decided we couldn’t be together because of mere conflicts in our schedules. But we each had our own lives to live. He didn’t have to worry about his next meal or the next month’s rent—I did. So, which would win out? The potential for a meaningful relationship or work?

  I had a feeling that too often in this particular city—by far one of the most aggressive and challenging of cities—it was work and that saddened me.

  “How about an omelet with fresh tarragon, salt, and pepper beaten into the eggs, roasted asparagus tucked inside, and a bit of Parmesan cheese on top? Fresh orange juice, obviously. And a croissant and good coffee?”

  “Are you sure you haven’t ordered in?”

  “With the exception of the croissants, I’m positive. You’ll witness all of it.”

  “It sounds fabulous, but do you have time to make all of that?”

  “It’s quicker than it sounds. That’s what I love about French food. Some of
it is time consuming to prepare, but much of it is actually simple because they don’t use a lot of ingredients. It’s all about the preparation and the execution—in this case, you cook the eggs very slowly. Protein should be cooked on the lowest heat for the tenderest results. When I was growing up, our cook, Michelle, who is French, taught me a lot. To escape from my mother, which I did as often as possible for reasons I won’t bore you with, I spent a lot time with Michelle in the kitchen. I enjoyed learning from her because she was kind to me, because she loved me, and because I could hide when I was with her. She was an amazing chef. Sometimes, I think she had more influence on me than my mother. She was a sweet, loving woman, but stern when she needed to be. ‘Not like that, Alex—like this. Pay attention. You’re making too much of it. Why do you harm the food like that? You should love it. Caress it. It’s not that difficult, mon chéri. Treat it like a woman. You’ll see what I mean. Yes, that’s right. Just like that.’ That sort of thing.”

  Why did he need to escape from his mother? “I would love to meet Michelle. Is she still alive?”

  “She is, but she’s in a nursing home. Parkinson’s. She doesn’t know me anymore, but I visit as often as I can anyway. I just like being near her. I wish she was well enough to know you, but in her condition, that’s impossible.” His throat thickened when he spoke, but he quickly cleared it. Wherever she was, I had no question that he was taking care of her. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Sit at the bar. You’re the business junky. Read the paper. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Can’t I help?”

  “Not at all. You’re my guest.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Maybe one day you’ll cook breakfast for me.”

  “Shakespeare never came up with more tragic words.”

  He shook his head at me, but I could feel his affection. “Oh, come on.”

  “I can do frozen waffles and toast. And coffee. I totally can do coffee.”

  “So, you don’t cook?”

  “Well, not at the level you’re about to cook, and certainly not French. But I am a good homestyle cook. I can cook like my grandmother used to cook for me. It’s very rustic, but delicious, if you like that sort of thing, which I do. I can make a killer apple pie. And I know how to make a good steak. As an additional bonus, roasted chicken and vegetables are a snap for me. I’ve got those covered.”