by Kent, Julia
“Lydia, chew your cud, swallow and then say it again.” Madge stood, tapping her toe. Mike’s stomach clenched. This was not good pie eating karma.
Lydia swallowed hard, wiped her mouth and said, “Grandma, I forgot my keys. Do you have yours?”
“Oh...oh, yeah.” The older woman handed the younger one a set of keys, which puzzled Mike.
“Keys?”
Krysta gave him a withering look. “They live together. Lydia and her grandma are roommates.”
His eyebrows shot up. That’s a combo he’d never seen in all of his dating years. Plenty of women he saw had roommates, some of them even men he didn’t know about, but a grandma?
Krysta leaned forward and cupped her hand to cover her mouth and said with a conspirator’s smile, “Madge isn’t around that much. She actually spends most nights with her boyfriend.”
“She has a boyfriend?” he said loudly in surprise.
Another glare from Madge. “What? I probably get more than you do. When's the last time you had a threesome?” Whatever desire he'd had a moment ago vanished, the pie turning to garbage in his mouth.
A year ago, he wanted to say. But not to her.
Lydia erupted into peals of laughter. “Matt’s a really good kisser, but I don’t know about him in bed.” And then her hand made its way up his thigh and he realized how drunk she still was. “Yet,” she added.”
He stifled a growl.
Krysta’s phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her pocket, read the text, and alarm splashed across her face. “Excuse me,” she said and stepped out of the booth, going over to the back of the busy restaurant, covering one ear and smashing the phone against the other. Mike watched, curious, as she spoke in hushed tones, clearly agitated. Within a minute she was off the phone, came back and said, “I’m sorry, guys. I’ve gotta go.”
“At two in the morning?” he asked, appalled. Booty calls were one thing, but this took the cake.
“Well, yeah. Pretty much. Madge!” Krysta seemed incredibly distracted. She scratched her head, running one hand through her curly hair. “Madge, can you take Lydia home?”
“I’m not off shift until 7 a.m. Krysta, I can’t. Sally called off, so we're already short a waitress. You hit me at busy time – the bars all just closed.”
“Oh, man.” Krysta was on the verge of tears, panic brewing.
“I’ll take her home,” Mike interrupted, aware that something deeper than a drunk dial was going on, but respectful enough not to pry.
“Right.” Krysta rolled her eyes. “You’ll take her home and I know exactly what you’ll do, Matt.” She formed an “OK” sign that converted to a middle finger salute.
“I’ll take her home, I’ll put her to bed, I’ll take her shoes off so she’s comfortable and I’ll leave her safe and sound,” he promised.
“Right,” Madge said. “I know your type.”
“What’s my type?”
She just stared him down. Oh, he knew her type alright, and he met her eyes, staring back. It went on for over a minute until, finally, Krysta broke it all off and said, “I gotta go. You guys figure it out. No matter what, I want Lydia home safe – but I don’t have a choice on this.” She pointed to the text on her phone, and off she ran.
“What was that about?” Mike asked. Madge left to grab an order and Lydia slid her hand up higher along his thigh. High enough for her to feel exactly what it was doing to him.
“That was probably Krysta’s sister,” Lydia said, her speech a little clearer, her demeanor a little calmer. Hopefully she was sobering up. He noticed Madge had surreptitiously delivered a cup of coffee and a small pitcher of cream and he motioned to it. Lydia's face lit up. She poured in about half the pitcher of cream and started to sip it, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
“Her sister?”
“Yeah, her sister has a son who's autistic and sometimes he has a really rough time at night and she needs help. So Krysta goes and helps her.”
“Oh,” Mike said, unable to think of the right words. And really, what could he say? It made him flashback on the ball he’d taken Diane to. The money for autism research. Lydia at the registration table. Jeremy's strange appearance. And for some reason the circle, the full circle, of all that gave him pause.
“So, it’s you and me,” she said, starting to rub her hand slowly and firmly up his leg. “How ‘bout it, Matt? You want to take me home? Be the decent guy. Make sure,” she leaned in, put her hot mouth right up against his earlobe, “I’m safe and warm in bed.”
He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, tightened his solar plexus and suppressed a groan, grabbing his fork and shoving half the pie in his mouth so that it would be occupied with something other than what he wanted to do with it. Which, he was pretty sure, was illegal in all 50 states in public.
Lydia made her way through her pie, quickly, and her cup of coffee. Madge seamlessly delivering yet another refill and he motioned for one himself. This would be a very long night, and he'd need every drop of liquid alertness he could drink. She finally came back and just left a pot and a giant pitcher of cream, which Lydia devoured within three cups.
Krysta had abandoned her two pieces of pie so they made their way slowly through them until he was so full he wished he could pop open the top button on his jeans and just sit there in a sugar coma of bliss. Instead, though, he had to fight to hold himself back from being the indecent guy, from being the not-so-gentlemanly man, from taking her home and having his way with her and having his fun with her. And giving her as much as he would get, of course.
He knew that he would regret it in the morning. She would, too. He’d always wonder whether it was the alcohol or Lydia talking. So, it was better to wait. To wait until he knew that whatever response he got, whatever sighs and moans and touches and tickles, caresses and twitches and groans and releases – they were all from Lydia and only Lydia. Not a Cosmo or three.
For now, any desires he had needed to be quenched with five kinds of pie and a cup of coffee.
It turned out Madge and Lydia lived less than a block away. No surprise there; Madge practically lived at the joint. As he walked her home in the wee hours between three and four, he found her yammering on, something about how Grandma didn’t just work there, she owned it and he stopped cold in the street. “Madge owns Jeddy’s?”
She covered her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh, that’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell.” And then laughter. “But – yeah. Promise me you’ll keep the secret?”
“I promise,” he said. “I’m really good at keeping secrets.”
“You are. I’ll bet you’re Batman, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, suddenly serious. “I'm Batman.”
Aglow from the streetlight, cute and innocent and loose but no longer unfocused, Lydia's face beckoned. While he could be good and respectful and decent, there was nothing wrong with letting off a little bit of steam and so he reached out and pressed his lips against hers to steal a kiss. They had reached her building, and she responded with such passion that he regretted his promise to Madge and Krysta, their tongues exploring and yearning for more.
Pulling away, she fumbled for the key, led him up two flights of stairs, and soon they were in the apartment, her body rushed, dragging him to the couch. Hot hands untucked his shirt, moaning at the touch of her fingers on his warm flesh, the moan his or hers or both; it was getting hard to tell, and he didn't much care as her hands caressed his neck, running through his hair, mouth hungry and demanding.
Leaning her back on the couch, her breasts pushed up and his hand found it, groaning as her nipples responded instantly, her hands reaching for his pants button. Their breath mingled in the silent room, the sound of her gasps like happy laughter, joyful and enjoying this in a way that he fell into so easily.
As one hand played with her full, voluptuous breasts, the other sought out her hot core, finding uncovered thighs leading to –
Ah.
No panties.
&n
bsp; Throwing her head back, she laughed loosely. “You can't get another pair from me tonight,” she teased. “I'm not wearing any.” Searching fingers slipped below his waistband, and when she found what she sought, she sighed, pushing her hips into his hand. “And you're not, either.”
“I don't wear panties,” he murmured in her ear, her hand closing over his thick rod.
“Oh,” she pouted, playacting. “That's too bad.” Her mouth took his with a boldness that made him need her so achingly, then pulled back, leaving cold air to torture his lips. “We could have fun with that.”
Bzzzz.
Why was he pulling away? And did he have a vibrator in his pocket? Something was buzzing like crazy and her sex toys were in a completely different room.
“Phone,” he said, scrambling off her and standing. Brow furrowed, he read a text.
Then he closed his eyes, took two deep breaths, and began tucking in his shirt.
Huh? This was not the direction this moment should be going in. Migrating to her bedroom was next. Not this. Her loose, happy feeling turned into sudden thirst. As if he read her mind, he walked out of the room and toward the kitchen. A rush of water, then he re-appeared, glass in hand.
“Drink this,” he said kindly, not sitting next to her as she'd hoped. What had gone wrong? What had she said?
“Who texted you?” she asked after gulping down the water. Exhaustion began to seep in, but she fought it. Not now!
“Krysta.”
Oh, she was going to kill that woman.
“What did she say?” Lydia's voice came out like a menacing growl, and Matt flinched. Good. If Krysta had just cockblocked them, she was –
He slid his phone out of his pocket and flashed it at her.
Madge will make you eat the balls if you take advantage the text read.
“Oh, God!” Lydia groaned in anguish. “Way to kill off every single sexual drop in me, Grandma.”
“I think that was the point.”
The room spun – not too much, but just enough. Lydia stood and swayed a bit, Matt rushing to help her. “I'm really tired,” she said, reluctant to admit it but comfortable enough to do so. The twin feelings surprised her, and he smiled kindly, helping her walk to her bedroom.
A very different walk than the one she'd envisioned moments ago.
In her room, he pointed to her dresser. “Get dressed in your pajamas and I'll make sure you have a glass of water for the morning.” As he stepped out, he kissed the top of her head. “You'll need it,” he chuckled.
Pulling off her skirt, she rooted around her top drawer for granny panties and put those on, plus her favorite penguin-covered flannel Pjs, her feet grateful to be released from the agony of her purple-leather dancing heels. The night was shot, and some part of her had slipped out of desire to an acceptance that, oh, something. Her mind didn't work quite right as she slid between the cool sheets, her cheek loving the pillow's downy luxury.
Barely noticing Matt when he came back in, her last memory was of a kiss on her cheek and a light caress of fingertips on her forehead.
On his way out, she heard him mumble, “Mr. Decent sucks.”
Chapter Eight
Who was performing the macarena in the apartment above hers? Wait – there was no apartment above her. She and Grandma lived on the top floor. So, the jackhammer, the bum bum bum bum bumpa-bumpa-bumpa bump in her brain was in her brain and not really outside. Someone appeared to have sneaked into her home in the middle of the night and sprayed her mouth with cotton balls. As she peeled her eyelids open, her fingers prying the flesh apart, the sun attacked her with all the violence of a provoked porcupine and she realized that she was just waking up in the morning.
In bed, in her favorite jammies, shoes off and placed neatly under her bed. She could see the little pieces of purple leather from under there as she leaned over and just let her head hang down. One of her grandma’s afghans was thrown over her – quite neatly, in fact – squared perfectly with the bed. She must have slept without moving, and from the way that her head throbbed she guessed she hadn’t gotten up to have any water or to do anything to mitigate those three Cosmos.
How had she gotten home? She didn’t remem – oh. It all came flooding back. The bar, the dancing, her hands on Matt, the way – oh, God! Maybe the Earth would swallow her whole and suck her in. Would that take away the blinding pain? Even more important, would it mean that she didn’t have to go to work this morning?
Had she really done all of that last night? She felt under the afghan quickly and located her panties. They were on. Whew! It hadn’t been that bad. Lydia relaxed her shoulders, her body sinking into the soft mattress. It relieved the pain for about three seconds and then it came rushing back. What she needed, right now, were three Advil, a giant glass of water, and a cup of coffee.
Water was right there, next to the bed. Drunk off her ass and she remembered to do that? Not her style. Greedy for the liquid, she sucked it down, and then remembered.
Matt. He must have done that, thinking ahead to her hangover. A small, shy smile covered her lips.
No one else was here. Grandma was at Ed's house. She was completely alone, which meant that if anyone was going to help her, it had to be her. The downside of being single.
As she slid her legs over the side of the bed and rolled her head back on the bed, she lay prone, feet flat on the floor, arms above her, waiting for the energy to trigger her solar plexus and abs to curl her body up, to change blood pressure, to recover physically enough to even begin to plan out how she would make it to work. She engaged her brain to fire the signal to her belly to encourage her arms to move up and whoosh!
The room swam. Why did she chug that last Cosmo? What the hell was she thinking? And at $9 each, she wasn’t exactly rolling in it now. $27 for a headache. Not a bargain. Worst deal ever – because she felt as if she had made a deal with the Devil himself: Matt Jones. A deal that took away her respect, her professionalism, and a little chink of her heart because as she felt for her panties again in a panic – oh good, they were there – the next thought was, why are they still there? Why wasn’t she good enough to sleep with last night?
She propped herself up on her hands, palms flat against the mattress, wrists aching within seconds from the weight of her shoulders pushing down. She had very little head control but she needed to acquire it. And so, determined as ever, she sat to wait this one out. Sandy had taught her a long time ago that no matter how difficult something is, if you wait long enough, it will go away. If she waited long enough perhaps Matt Jones would go away. But oh, how she didn’t him to.
Lydia was not a drinker. Which made the fact that she had gone out and had this much all the more telling that something was off in her world. She hadn’t felt a compulsion to drink and it had been fun, but tossing back that last Cosmo as if she were steeling herself against some great travesty that she had to fight seemed so barbaric and beastly of her. The steady, painful thrumming in her neck and head was an all too visceral reminder that, for whatever reason, Matt Jones made her act like a completely different person.
It was like she was two different people.
Why hadn’t he slept with her? He could have. She was willing. Even through the haze of alcohol it wasn’t a desire driven solely from a bottle. Inhibitions were down, her libido was up, she could feel – literally – his matched desire. Why had he brought her home, tucked her into bed, and left? Lydia remembered the feel of his soft lips on her temple as she had faded off to sleep, the comfort of being cared for by someone who wasn’t biologically obligated to do so. Nobody had tucked her in like that since she had mono when she was in high school, her mom slaving away over her.
It felt good. It felt tender and nuanced. Matt wasn’t just some guy that she could play with or learn from and move on. There was something more here, and the fact that he had the decency not to take advantage of her made her want him all the more.
The problem, though, was that she actually had to get to
work in order to see him again. And that meant standing up. Any other day, that would be no problem, the action involuntary, so quick and simple she didn’t think of it or pause or hesitate. Right now, what normally was a nanosecond of effort had 921 separate and distinct steps involved in moving her a total of two to three feet vertically.
She reached for her phone, which she noted had been neatly placed on her bedside table, and took the easy way out. Autodialing Krysta’s number, she waited three rings and –
“‘Lo?”
“Did I catch you asleep again?”
“Well, it’s 6:30 in the morning, Lydia.”
“Can you come over and help me?”
“Ahh. Feeling a little unwell?” The teasing tone of Krysta’s voice told Lydia that yep – it really had been that bad last night. She had to ask, though.
“That bad?”
“After you serviced three guys on the bar all at once – don’t worry, I’m sure the video will go viral, or has already. One girl, two bartenders.”
“Ha ha.” Lydia's head started to explode as she actually spoke the words aloud, pushing aside the cotton balls with a tongue that felt like it had last been kissed by Jabba the Hut.
“You were fine, but I assume Matt was the gentleman he promised me he would be.”
“I’m still wearing my panties.”
“Good. Because really he should only have one pair, not two.”
Lydia was really regretting telling Krysta the elevator story. “Yeah. That’s right,” was all she could think to say.
“You want me to come over there and make coffee and take care of you, don't you?” Krysta’s voice was flat, not rude, not disappointed. Just stating the obvious.
“Mhmm.” Lydia was quickly realizing that when she actually spoke, pain gained momentum. Humming might do better.
“You can’t even talk, can you?”
“Mmn mmn.”
“I’ll be over in fifteen minutes but you’d better have some decent shampoo over there because I’m gonna have to shower.”
“Mmm.” The sound she made was one that connoted ‘not sure’.
