by Kent, Julia
Fake it to make it became increasingly, outrageously difficult when he could touch something so authentic, so real, in Lydia.
Later, in the quiet of his apartment as he slipped into his tuxedo – which had indeed been freshly pressed and dry cleaned and ready to go – he had expected to feel more in his own skin with his hair and his eyes back. What he found was that he was searching for Matt Jones in the mirror.
Buzz! “Sir, are you there?” It was Dom using the intercom system.
“Yup.”
“Ready to roll, sir?”
“Ready to roll, Dom. Let’s go.” As the elevator descended, he stared at the buffed, stainless steel backs of the doors and thought of his body pressed against hers in that elevator, the scent of arousal inches away, pulling him anywhere but here.
J. K. Rowling must have been at a high society charity ball when she came up with the idea for dementors. A silent scream pounded through Mike’s head as he felt the life force of all goodness, happiness, flow, excitement, and exhilaration being sucked out of every pore. Diane clung to him as if he were her substitute for caloric intake.
She preened, scanned, surveyed, and critically analyzed the room to determine the exact number of people to make eye contact with, where they ranked in the room in terms of power, prestige, and impact, and ignored anyone who didn’t compute.
It made his balls ache. Mind muddled, as the speakers droned on and on, he reminded himself that it was a good cause, an important cause. The research money would help children, would help families, would help society and that these stuffed shirts were the very people whose wallets needed to be cracked open. If nothing else, these over-exfoliated, over-polished, over-entitled, under-conscienced, pompous, hollow beings were the ones who needed most to contribute to humanity. Even if it was just through a checkbook.
Diane quickly ignored him. He was a tool, a device. Once people had seen her with him, that was it. Clinched. Her reputation secured by a check box that said viewed arriving with Michael Bournham. He wouldn’t have sex with her tonight. Just about every other time they’d gone out – and they’d only gone out five or six times now – she’d bowed out sick or invented an early morning deadline and frankly, Jeremy was dead on. It was like fucking a toothpick with boobs.
Her enthusiasm for securing her spot at the top of the heap of humanity did not spread to the bedroom. If there were anyone less sexually engaged, he didn’t know where to find them. He had used sex toys with more presence and personality.
Biding his time, this would be mercifully quick as long as he survived it. As long as he could slog through the ever-deadening process of watching people do good. Of watching people pat themselves on the back for doing good and of watching people who were at the top of the capitalism ladder redistribute tiny increments of their wealth for the sake of a named wing, a plaque, a bench, a gene.
And then he saw her.
Lydia.
Callie had begged Krysta to come and help with registration and the live auction for the autism charity ball. None of the offerings really appealed to Lydia. Borrowing someone's private jet for five hours wasn't high on her list of priorities.
“That'll go for $25,000,” Callie explained. She was Krysta's identical twin, though people didn't seem to notice. Where Krysta was soft and big, with long ringlets framingher face, Callie was a half inch taller, with a marathoner's long, lean look. Her hair was cropped short in a no-nonsense style. The two had the same coloring, but that's where the similarity ended.
Callie's son, Kyle, was an adorable, if anxious, toddler. Throwing herself into every part of project-managing his condition, Callie had assembled a team of speech therapists, occupational therapists, behavioralists, Early Intervention specialists, and had become involved in the autism charity – all in the four months since Kyle's diagnosis.
“$25,000!” Lydia shouted, shocked.
“Too bad a date with Michael Bournham isn't on there this year,” Callie said, nudging her. They all knew she found him hot, hot, hot, the pictures in People Magazine and Entertainment Weekly always drawing a double-take from Lydia.
“How much does that go for?”
“Someone told me a night with him in Paris sold for $55,000 last year.”
Lydia whistled low, a sound of amazement. “Damn. So selling my car wouldn't get me anywhere close?”
They all laughed. By the evening's end, Callie predicted, nearly half a million would go into a special research fund to understand more about the genetics of autism. Her eyes teared up as she talked about all of the ways that research was helping already. Words like “mitochondrial disorders” and “methylation” and “PET scans” and “cerebellum activity differences” went in and out of her head as Callie rattled off a near-encyclopedic understanding of the intricacies of the condition.
“Kyle's really lucky to have you,” she said, reaching out to hold Callie's hand. The act seemed to make Callie freeze, then melt.
“Thank you,” she rasped, wiping tears carefully from the corner of her eyes. “It's a lot to take in.” She fanned her face. “Can't cry! Can't cry,” she repeated, and Lydia instantly understood.
“Sorry!” Squeezing her hand once, she let go and got back to business. Registrants came in and, if bidding, were assigned a number. She and Krysta were only here for an hour or so, and she hoped she wasn't underdressed. Callie had said “ball gown,” so she and Krysta had hit a bunch of vintage thrift shops in Cambridge last week, Krysta settling on a long, black, flowing chiffon number paired with a loose silk coat, while Lydia went for red.
China red, in fact, with a scalloped neck, three-quarter sleeves, and a red pashmina for her arms and waist. Paired with red leather pumps and some fake diamonds, the dress worked just enough to pass here. No way would she ever really fit in; some of these women wore jewelry worth more than the cost of her parents' house.
Costume jewelry from the Central Square Salvation Army would have to do for Lydia.
“Lydia,” Krysta said through her lips, trying not to move her mouth. She sounded like a drunk ventriloquist. “Your boyfriend is here.”
“Matt?”
Choking on a laugh, Krysta nearly shrieked. “So now he's your boyfriend? You are hopeless.” She waved her hand toward the ballroom. “No. Bournham. He's here,” she said nodding in the same direction.
Silver, short hair. Shoulders that his jacket embraced perfectly, the cloth lining his muscles as if poured on his body. His back was stiff, and he held a praying mantis on his arm. Oh – no, just an underfed socialite. They all had arms like eleven year old girls.
If he turned around, she would melt into a wet, pussy-goo puddle right here, right now. Any part of her skin not covered by the sily fabric of her dress turned pink, hot from just beinging within hearing distance of the man. If he pivoted, even gave her a glimpse of his profile, she would surely orgasm on the spot, go blind from shame, and live out the rest of her life with a sly smile on her face as she told the story.
And then he did.
Without question, the very last person he ever thought he would see at this event was Lydia, who stared him dead in the face right now from just far enough a distance as to make it safe to stare back as Michael Bournham. Heart racing, hands flexing and itching to touch her, he took a deep, slow breath in through his nose, steadying himself. Diane's hand on his arm suddenly felt like an insect's dead appendage compared to the vision before him.
Luscious. Radiant. Sexy.
Fuckable. And oh, how. The red dress, lush, painted lips, her hair pinned up and off her neck. When she bent over to pick up a piece of paper, then tipped her head up to smile at a registrant for the auction he wanted to pummel the man she beamed at, for that smile should be his. That mouth should be for him.
And him alone.
He could practically smell her, throbbed with need to taste her, and all he could do was to maintain his face in a mask of neutrality, not daring even to twitch lest he reveal his animal nature underneath.
>
Ravaging her on the marble floor was not an auction item.
If it were, he would donate millions for the privilege.
Out of the office, she seemed more alive, softer and feminine in a way that work life didn't allow. His gut tightened, back going ram-rod straight as he fought to maintain control, to be a slab of granite, to show no emotion. Stealing glances at him, she lifted her hand to tuck an imaginary tendril of hair behind one ear, the gesture one of flirting, testing the waters to see which eyes would alight on her.
Rock-hard and throbbing, he needed to release himself in her, to grind and drive this insane sense of arousal and ownership deep into her pink warmth, to hear her cry out his name – his real name – as if he were the only man alive.
But he couldn't. Walking across that room and taking her mouth, hand snaking up her dress to feel her fire would reveal who he was. Would ruin his plan.
Would end ten years of ambition.
With a single kiss.
Elevator memories plagued him, intrusive thoughts that pinged in his head, behind his eyes, looping until he was half mad. The feel of ripping her panties down her legs. Sinking his fingers into her soft curls, then her warm, wet pussy. How she'd responded, so alive and writhing, that he –
“Michael,” Diane said, dragging over some state senator he vaguely remembered, shaking him coldly out of his reverie, the interruption like being slapped with a dead trout. “I won’t need a ride after all. It turns out that Joe lives in my building.”
Her affect was one that he had seen before. It was a tone that said I’m doing you a favor.
Oh, Diane, you really were.
“That’s fine, Diane. You go have fun.” He leaned in and whispered in Joe’s ear, “Toothpick with boobs.”
Eyebrows shooting up, daggers coming out of her eyes, she snapped, “Did you just say something about my boobs?” Faux offended and searching for the drama, her voice ticked up just enough to capture the turned ears of Diane’s true class, the class of desperate socialites.
He turned on the charm. “What I said, Diane, is meant to stay between two gentleman.” Nudging Joe, he shot him a fake wink. Joe was a swarthy Italian guy, late 20’s, looked like a model and had a name that generations of Bostonians knew.
Looking at Mike uncertainly but played along, not sure what the real game was here, Joe laughed and said, “Don’t worry about it, Diane.” And then he looked at Mike. “We’ll figure it out later.” Fake wink.
Mike didn’t need to win this one. Let Diane have her petty victory. Losing was better than winning sometimes, he'd learned – and this was one of those moments.
He nodded, turned around, and by the time he texted Dom and made it outside into the smog-filled street, he felt the weight of the ballroom's abyss crammed with unending, unyielding, soul sucking entities peel off, disappear, fade away, and leave him breathless.
Until he turned around for one last look at Lydia.
And found her in conversation with Jeremy.
“Hello, there,” a voice said, his openness and jocularity a stark contrast from the tight-jawed people Lydia had encountered thus far. Looking up from her papers, she felt a rush of surrealism, as it appeared her brother Miles stood before her.
He didn't – it's just that she didn't see too many six-and-a-half-foot tall men roaming around Boston dressed like something out of a bad 80s movie.
“welcome,” she answered. “Would you like an auction number?” He looked like one of the band. No – scratch that. The band wore double-breasted tuxedos.
He wore the kind of tux her dad had worn in high school, in his prom pictures. And the pants were something from Old Navy, topped off with loafers. She took a flying guess and assumed he wasn't a ball guest, but she treated him as if – just in case.
“Jeremy!” Callie said, coming around to give him a big hug. “You never comes to these things!” Her face wore an expression of deep curiosity. “Why are you here, you natty dresser?”
His coloring was close to Miles', with the dark hair and brown eyes, but this guy was so relaxed. Slothlike. He cared not one whit what anyone here thought, and it dawned on her that his outfit was a form of fashion protest. Not nerd-dom. Intrigued, she watched his conversation with Callie.
“I'm here to get the corporate jet for five hours and fly 200 chickens to Zimbabwe for little chicken massages and maybe a nice safari. Is that worth $55,000 or what?”
“You won't do that. You're too chickenshit.”
A rumbling of deep laughter from him filled the marbled, arched-ceiling hall, turning heads and garnering disapproving looks. Callie winced and raised her shoulders, shushing him. He just rolled his eyes, but complied.
Then focused on Lydia.
“Jeremy Forster,” he said, extending his hand and introducing himself. “And you are?”
“Lydia Charles,” she replied, careful to grasp his hand with equal fullness and pressure. Thankfully, he gave her a complete handshake, and not the limp-wristed, half-shake some men gave her, squeezing three fingers as if she were too delicate to touch palms.
“You having fun?” he asked. Before she could answer he added, “Gorgeous dress. It really shows off your skin tone.”
“Uh, thanks.” This one set all her sensors off, but she couldn't figure out which sensors. Weird? Adorable? Hot? Perverted? Genuine? Exuding some sort of mish-mosh of signals, Jeremy wasn't easy to read.
Craning around him, she struggled to catch another look at Michael Bournham, but he was gone. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment.
“I'm that bad?” He leaned in, face softening, brown eyes fringed with impossibly-long lashes. He had a rumpled look that reminded her of David Duchovny in Californication, of some of the intensely funky sex scenes where he was just so damn appealingly real. Game for anything.
No holds barred.
“You're good,” she grinned. “Just lost sight of someone.”
He studied her face. Really studied it, not worried about too much time passing, prolonged eye contact, or making her uncomfortable. Which he was.
Finally, he said, “Michael Bournham, right? You want to meet him?”
“I've met him,” she answered, cool and composed, hiding the heart that tried to salsa dance in her chest. “I work for him.”
“You do? Are you his personal assistant?”
No, just his dominatrix in my fantasies, she thought. Her face rushed to warmth at the thought, and Jeremy's eyes traveled down, taking in her chest, her dress, then returned to home base at her face.
“No. Just an admin.” Learning to say that without gritting her teeth was a victory.
“I'm sure you're not just anything, Lydia, in Michael Bournham's world,” he responded, starting to walk toward the exit. With a little wave, he rounded the threshold.
Out of sight.
“What was that about?” Krysta asked, returning from a missing pen crisis, new box in hand.
“I do not know,” Lydia answered honestly. As a new attendee approached the table, she returned her attention to the task at hand.
“Jeremy donates $50,000 every year,” Callie whispered to them both.
Jaw on the floor, Lydia gasped. “And he dresses like that?”
“Never judge a book by the cover. Even if it's Fifty Shades,” she hissed, nudging Lydia, who groaned as Krysta and her sister snickered.
“Jeremy, what the hell are you doing here?” Just as Mike was about to step outside to get into the car he saw his friend wearing a comical version of a tuxedo with a powder blue jacket, a ruffle that looked like something out of a bad Awkward Family Photos entry. And was he wearing cargo pants ? With scuffed Merrills? He knew that Jeremy’s net worth had to be in the couple of millions, so this was not about a lack of money.
This was Jeremy.
“Picking up a hot rich chick,” Jeremy said, nodding. “So far, all I see are Botox Barbies.”
“It doesn’t work that way, dude. The hot chicks come here to pick up the ugly ri
ch dudes.”
“Oh. So who bagged you?”
Mike paused, a bit perplexed and not sure how to explain it. Instead, he let frustration seep into him. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s always complicated, Mike.”
“This isn’t about me. Why are you here? And,” he cringed, taking in Jeremy's outfit, “why do you look like Tim Gunn's worst nightmare?”
“I am here because I think the cause of autism and research is important,” Jeremy said in a loud voice meant to carry. Mike stared at him, hard. He didn’t doubt that; he knew that Jeremy had a nephew with autism. In fact, Jeremy had been the one to get him involved in this particular non-profit organization, but he had always been an anonymous donor behind the scenes.
Finally, it hit him. “You thought I might bring Lydia here and you wanted a chance to see her.”
“Maybe.”
“If you wanted to meet her, why don’t you just swing by the office?”
“I can’t do that, Mike, because you’re not Mike at the office.”
“Shit.” Which was precisely why he hadn't approached her tonight. “So, you came all the way here looking like Weird Al Yankovic playing a homeless dude just so you could catch a look at Lydia?”
“I didn’t have anything better to do.”
“You never have anything better to do, Jeremy.”
“Life of the idle rich.”
“Must be nice,” Mike sighed.
“It is nice, Mike, and you can do it too.” Jeremy thumbed his fist at the doorway. “And that Lydia is one fine lady in red.”
“No, I can’t.” He frowned. “And if you're thinking what I think about Lydia, I don't think she's...you know.” How she spoke so freely about MFM and menage ran through his head at rapid-fire pace. Tuck the thought away for later, he told himself.
