The Delivery

by Mara White

  I quickly smear red lipstick on my mouth and then push open the bathroom door, praying it won’t squeak. Then I let it go so it slams as hard as possible, and I clack my heels on the tile to make my presence painfully obvious.

  “Hello, Jennifer. Mozey.” I nod at them both and grasp my clutch like a life raft and force my face into a freakishly scary smile. I feel like I’m doing this a lot. Smiling should be a natural thing, not a defensive umbrella that I snap open in peoples’ faces and scare the bejeezus out of them. Me and my face have a few things to work on.

  “Hey, Doc.” Jennifer smiles back, looking like a guilty Cocker Spaniel. “You should check out Mozey’s work today. He really blew this one out of the water.”

  They both look scared. I probably have lipstick all over my teeth.

  Jennifer smiles again and shifts because she feels guilty for talking about me behind my back—for reveling in the moment of getting to call me a mean bitch. But Mozey is unaffected or at least I can’t see his guilt. He just stares and stares, his eyes penetrating right through me, trying to reach oil or China. For how much he shakes me, it seems I can barely make him waver.

  “I’ll look at it on Monday. I’ve got people waiting.” I stare back at Mozey, silently accepting his challenge. “Are you coming tonight?” I ask Jennifer, knowing she’ll back out of it.

  “I was just locking up. My folks are in town, actually.”

  “All right, well, have a good weekend everybody,” I say to them as if I were addressing a crowd. I wave a baby wave and angrily make my way toward the stairs.

  I’m halfway down the flight when Mozey grabs me by the shoulder. I turn around to meet his face. His eyes are fierce, and he’s glaring, looking like he wants to fight. He’s so fucking beautiful that it almost hurts me to look.

  “I told you no fraternizing. Try to keep your hands to yourself!” I say, throwing out the accusations unspoken between us.

  “Who is Gunnar? Someone you’re seeing?”

  “I beg your pardon?” I spit back at him, and I’m angry he’s been prying. Things are all heading in a bad direction. I need to pull the break. “I appreciate the painting, Mozey. But this is where I tell you any designs you may have toward anyone who works here are strictly off limits and those kinds of things will walk you right out of the building.”

  “I don’t have any designs.”

  “Jennifer is your supervisor.”

  “Who cares about Jennifer?”

  I can’t make it any more explicit without embarrassing myself. I’m breathing hard just from the two us standing so close.

  “So let’s just call it a week and from here on out keep it in your pants until you’ve either been handed a sentence or you’re acquitted at trial. That’s the very best advice I can give you. Consider this your last warning.” I’m whisper-shouting at him, and I’m hyperaware this is all being recorded by our security system.

  “Why can’t you just be yourself around me?” Mozey asks, looking forlorn. “I just want to get to know you. I really like you, but you’re like Fort Knox. You won’t even let me be nice to you.”

  He’s right, and it makes me sigh and roll my shoulders in defeat. He’s got great intuition, but it still doesn’t change things. I want to be honest, but I have to be very, very careful. I cannot encourage him, no matter how right being near him feels or how much I like it.

  I sit on the stair and pat the spot beside me. Mozey crouches down with his legs wide and leans against the railing.

  “I’m from Detroit, Mosey. From Michigan,” I say, trying to wrap my head around how I’ll say this. “I heard you asking.”

  “Me chingan,” Mozey smiles.

  “What?”

  “Mexican joke.”

  “My family was, is—also made up of immigrants. My parents don’t have jobs. They did, but they lost them. I pretty much support them both and my grandmother who now needs around the clock care. My younger brother is there, but he’s not—he’s never been that responsible. My family is Russian, but they’re pretty old fashioned. I have a million and one explanations I could give you,” I say, picking at my cuticles.

  “You’re family is Russian, so that’s why you can’t be real with me?”

  “No. And I probably shouldn’t even be sitting here with you on the stairs, but I need to talk about this too. My entire family depends on this income, so I have no choice but to do a good job at it. If we were somewhere else, maybe I could hug you back or get to know you, but here I’m reserved for a very good reason and I guess I just need you to know that.”

  “So if we were somewhere else, you’d give me a chance?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mozey. Or if I did, it’s not what I meant. You are extremely talented and intelligent and charming, and I think you’ll go far. I have absolutely no intention of letting myself or anyone else screw that up for you. I’ll be the last person to stand in the way of your success.”

  “Even if you wanted to.”

  “Even if I want to,” the second I say it I wish I could take it back. I feel like he manipulated the words right out of my mouth—like he stole them without my permission. The look of satisfaction on his face is one of sexual conquest. I have the urge to punch him hard in his sexy, washboard gut and then kiss the satisfaction right off of his smug face.

  But I do neither. This has come way too close to admitting my feelings. After collecting myself from sitting, I dust off my butt, squeeze his shoulder and whisper, “see you on Monday.” Mozey stays on the step, somehow managing to look both riled up and tired as he watches me retreat.

  When I get back to the office Janey and Gunnar have already left, so I pack up what I’ll need over the weekend. I take one last look at my new painting but decide not to analyze it. Who cares if they think I’m prickly? I probably should care, but I’ve got priorities. Like my much more urgent date with a gin and tonic.

  Chapter 7

  Z’s is a dump but a friendly one with cheap drinks, and it’s literally walking distance from the office. We come here almost every week. Maybe if my life were more exciting, I wouldn’t be such a creepster over a hot delinquent kid. Maybe I should try clubbing or hanging out with someone other than my staff. Of course that will end up in the bucket along with ‘maybe I should go on a diet’ or ‘maybe at the library I could meet a nice man,’

  I spot Janey and Gunnar at a table in the back, and it looks as if they’ve lost steam on the future I’d envisioned for them. I order a round of tequila shots, take a deep breath and head on over. Gunnar jumps up when he sees me like he’s thrilled I showed up. I almost wish it were just Janey and me for another lousy, girl’s night out. Now I won’t be getting laid for sure because I’m not sleeping with Gunnar. I hand Janey my keys and tell her to keep them in her purse.

  Janey tips her tequila back, rolls her eyes then gestures to the dance floor. I can see her plan already because I know from prior get-togethers that Gunnar is no dancer. She wants to ditch him. So much for the sleigh ride, red wool scarves and pink cheeks I’d already planned for when his parents invited her back for Christmas. Gunnar declines our invitation and makes his way to the bar. Janey grabs my hands and yanks me out onto the dance floor. The tequila feels like warm syrup spreading over my body, and I let the week’s tension flow out of me and dissolve into the beat of the music.

  “I hate it when guys act like they’re all into you and then enter girl two and they just switch like it’s nothing!”

  “What do you mean? Are you talking about Gunnar?”

  “It’s obvious he likes you, but when you’re not available he’s all over me. Then he switches when you walk in. He’s like a dog who focuses one hundred percent on whoever has the treat.”

  “Most men are like that. Don’t throw him a bone if you’re not interested. You don’t have to give him your treat.”


  “Well, if he wants my treat, he can’t get distracted. He has to slobber for my treat and my treat alone.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, grabbing a shot one of the cocktail waitress’ hands me from her tray as she makes her way across the dance floor. I tip it back and wince at the burn. Janey and I come here a lot and we tip really well, so one of the perks is the staff gets us drunk.

  “Speaking of distracted, what’s with you? Is it that kid?”

  “What kid?” I say with my very best Muppet eagle scowl.

  “Pfft! You are so ridiculous, Lana. The kid with the hair. The one you stare at like you’re going to bore a hole through his head with your laser lust beams.”

  “Funny, Janey.” But now I’m blushing, sweating and feeling like a criminal.

  “Oh sensitive subject,” Janey says as she shakes her hips and runs her fingers through her hair. “You can tell me, Lana. What? I won’t tell anyone. Who am I—the crush police?”

  “I am very uncomfortably attracted to him, and I hate myself for it. There I said it. Happy? You got me. Now lock my ass up and throw away the key.”

  “Because he’s a delinquent or because he’s young?”

  I can’t dance and talk about this, so I walk toward the bar.

  “Neither! Because he’s smart and articulate and a crazy-talented artist and because he happens to be way too sexy to be only eighteen!”

  “I meant why do you hate yourself. I can see why there’s attraction. He’s hot, for a rotten little teenager.”

  “Oh,” I say, pouting while I order us two gin and tonics.

  “Look, there’s Gunnar salivating all over that chick’s milk bone. Fetch, Gunnar. I hate him. He’s such a dog.”

  “Maybe now he’ll leave us alone. Wait, I don’t mean that. It sounded really mean. I respect Gunnar. He’s great at what he does, and he helps so many kids.”

  “You don’t have to be a diplomat. We’re getting drunk at a bar. You’re allowed to live a little. Don’t hate yourself for a weird, inappropriate crush. We’ve all had them. When I was seventeen, I was in love with my gyno. Took everything I had not to grind in the stirrups.”

  “Oh God, Janey that’s sick. I love you, but you truly are a demented soul.” I slam back another tequila the bartender has placed on napkins in front of us, presumably free of charge. My heart blurs a little as the alcohol rushes to sedate me.

  “Don’t look now, Doc, but teenage dream just waltzed in the front door. Apparently you’re not the only one who can’t tell he’s underage.”

  “What?” I say, whipping my head around to see Mozey in his signature black t-shirt and jeans, hands in his pockets, confidently casing the place.

  “Oh, God. Jennifer told him we come here. I don’t think this is safe. I’m drunk, Janey. Can you get me out of here before he sees me? Do something to distract him! Can you cover for me?”

  Janey pays me no heed and is already absorbed in monitoring Gunnar and his conquests.

  “The blonde didn’t want to share her treats,” Janey says, staring in Gunnar’s direction and slurring ever so slightly. “He’s got a lot of nerve. He came here with me! I’ma go keep him company.”

  “Please don’t leave me, Janey. I can’t deal with this!”

  Mozey spies us and raises his eyebrows in greeting. He’s so cavalier, as if this were casual, as if we had all planned on meeting here. I snatch the drink in front of me and quickly down the rest of it. My brain races, searching for the right thing to say to quickly excuse myself without causing any embarrassment.

  Mozey saunters up like the panther he is and without taking his hands out of his pockets, puts his hip against the bar and smiles at me. It’s a lazy, seductive smile oozing with confidence. How fast can he forget our conversation on the stairs? There is no part of him that is afraid or that holds any apprehension. I’m boneless, like a blob of jello and quivering in his presence. I bet he’s got a serious bone to contend with.

  “I’m off duty. I can’t give you any advice or advocate for your benefit. I’ve had too much to drink—otherwise I’d report you. You either lied on your application or you’re in here illegally.” I say with little emotion. I’m okay with “your ass is busted mode.” It’s a part I have to play everyday at work.

  Mozey’s smile lingers warmly in his eyes as he takes me in. He moves his hands to his back pockets and directs his attention to the bartender who has thrown down a cocktail napkin in front of him.

  “What’ll it be?” he asks him, not even questioning Mozey’s age.

  “Screwdriver and one more of whatever she’s having,” Mozey says as he retrieves his wallet.

  “Oh, no. No, thank you! I’m done. I was just leaving,” I say, standing up abruptly.

  Without a word, Mozey reaches out and puts a firm hand on my shoulder. He pushes me back toward the barstool, and I slump down slightly in awe of how assertive he’s being.

  “You’re drunk, Lana. You shouldn’t drive. I’ll get you home.” He says it loud enough for the bartender to hear who then raises his brow at me.

  “But ah… gah!” I garble, so bowled over I can’t even articulate the obvious.

  I jump up and march away from him, swinging my arms like a peeved-off child. I burst through the front doors of Z’s and continue through the parking lot. That’s when I remember I gave my keys to Janey and told her not to give them back—that we’d call a cab and come back for our cars in the morning. I spin in the other direction, crunching the gravel under my feet and march off toward the highway with the need to get away. I’m fleeing my role as an authority figure. I can’t be that right now; I’m way too taken with him. I’m drunk on tequila, attraction and lusty infatuation.

  “Lana!” Mozey shouts as he jogs after me.

  I swing my arms harder and try to wish away the buzz from the drinks.

  When he catches up to me, he grabs my shoulder again and forces me to stop, right as a semi-truck barrels by and blasts it angry horn in warning. The close range of the pass nearly knocks me off my feet, and it’s Mozey’s steady arms that pull me back, crashing into his chest. It’s Mozey’s arms that wrap around me and strongly sustain me. He doesn’t waiver. He doesn’t let go of me. He doesn’t break eye contact.

  “This is crazy, Lana! You gonna walk home on the highway, just to get away from me? Give me your keys, and I’ll drive you. I’m completely sober. I didn’t even have a sip.”

  I want to cry and stomp my feet. Even more than that, I want to grab him and kiss him and never stop kissing him.

  “No fraternizing!” I shout right into his face, then more quietly peep. “Janey has my keys.”

  I follow Mozey back to Z’s and insist on waiting outside. If Gunnar sees me leave with him, I could easily lose my job. He passes right through the bouncers without even having to reach for an ID. I slink around my car in the parking lot, feeling like a sex offender who will surely get her social work license revoked for even having those thoughts—of kissing him or holding him—even just smelling him. I’d be happy to smell him.

  Mozey jogs back with my keys. Janey must have handed them over—no questions asked. It’s reassuring how little faith she has in me.

  “I don’t want you to know where I live.” I pout as I pull the seatbelt across my chest.

  “I’ll forget as soon as I drop you off. I promise. I’d just feel better knowing you got home safe.”

  “Chivalry isn’t dead,” I say flatly. “But don’t expect any favors. I treat all candidates the same, regardless of any outside factors.”

  “Jeesh!” Mozey smiles and shakes his head.

  “What?” I shout, overreacting to every little thing.

  “You’re even bossier when you’re drunk. I didn’t think it was possible.”

  We drive down the highway, and m
y heart speeds faster than the cars. There’s so much tension in the air between us, I’m afraid it will suffocate me. I try to focus on the vehicle’s brake lights in front of us, but my mind is in panic mode. It’s still running away down the highway.

  “Pull over!” I yell, reaching across him trying to grab the steering wheel.

  Mozey jerks the car into the emergency lane and slams on the breaks. I hurl forward in my seat and feel momentarily afraid. The seatbelt yanks tightly across my chest. I’m in a car with a criminal, and we’re probably breaking multiple traffic laws, I won’t even mention the moral ones.

  “Goddamn it, Lana! You are so impossible!”

  When he says it, I instinctually know that this moment right here, is the moment before he kisses me. I should stop it, I know I should. But I can’t. It’s happening and it’s stronger than me.

  Mozey faces me and in one swift movement; he leans over and grabs my chin with his hand. He pulls me to him forcefully, one arm grabbing around my back. He lays his mouth on mine, and I melt into his scent. I feel how strong he is as my hands grip his arm and dig into his biceps. Yet he parts my lips with his tongue giving me the softest, sweetest, tender kiss. His hand wanders up my neck, diving into my hair. I whimper and tip my head back into his hand as his tongue gently explores my mouth. I’m not really kissing him back; I’m frozen in fear. He pulls back and looks at me with his smoky-chocolate eyes and caresses my cheek as if I were tender and precious and not the calamity I feel like.

  “I’ll forget this part too. As soon as I drop you off. I promise.” Then he kisses me again.

  This is a kiss. This is the kiss I will never, ever forget. I may forget everything else, my own name included, but I know I will never forget how I feel in this moment. I won’t forget his kiss.

  We drive to my apartment mostly in silence with me giving directions with about as much emoting as a GPS. I feel dirty—like a bad person and a complete fuck-up. But I’m also warm and swimmy and still buzzing from his lips. I want them all over me. I want to kiss him and be the one to initiate it. When we arrive, he pulls the keys out of the emission and puts them in my hand.