by Linnea May
CHAPTER III
“Yes?”
I hold my breath.
Yes? Who says Hello like that on the phone? Especially when it’s an anonymous number? It could be him, but I am not entirely sure.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, observed by Yuka’s overly curious eyes and ears while she holds her hand above her mouth to quiet herself. My hand tightens around the phone as I was trying to crush it, pressing it against my ear with excessive force.
He’s still there. I can hear him breathing.
Say more, my mind begs. I need to be sure.
A few more moments of awkward silence follow, before he finally adds something.
“Nicky? Is that you?”
Fuck!
I hastily remove the phone from my ear and try to end the call by uncontrollably pushing on the touch screen. These damn touch screens! Nervousness takes over and turns me into a trembling mess as I try to hit the red symbol that would let me escape into the save haven of anonymity. Instead, the phone slips out of my hand and drops down to the floor - with the call still running.
Yuka yelps and giggles in surprise while I dive after my phone, unable to prevent a bunch of panicky curses to escape my mouth. I finally get a hold of it and manage to end the call.
“Fuck!” I yell, now sitting on the floor to Yuka’s feet.
Of course, she is having a great time with this. She bursts out laughing, almost falling off her chair as she tries to help me get back up on my feet.
“Oh my god, Nicky!” she cries. “That was awesome!”
I actually broke a sweat. My cheeks are blushed and my heart is racing like a mad animal.
“Damn,” I continue my barrage of cursing.
How old am I again? I am acting like a stupid teenager. And I haven’t even behaved like that when I still was in high school.
“So, I assume that really was him?” Yuka asks, still laughing at my unfortunate behavior.
I nod. My hands are trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Yes,” I utter. “It was him…”
Yuka’s eyes are glowing with excitement. “What did he say?”
I look at her, still trying to gather myself.
“Yes,” I reply. “He said ‘Yes’. And then he said my name.”
“Oh, damn, Nicky!” Yuka exclaims, unable to contain her excitement. “So he knew it was you?”
“Maybe,” I stammer. “Well, I’m pretty sure he knew after that little stunt… and after you started giggling.”
“Hey,” Yuka objects. “Don’t blame me, girl. You were the one who went for the chicken option!”
I know she’s right. I sink bank into my chair and let out a desperate sigh.
“Well, this went great,” I mumble.
“I think it did,” Yuka adds, still smiling from ear to ear. “You have to properly talk to him now. Obviously.”
I look at her, raising my eyebrows with doubt. “I guess so…”
We both flinch when my phone lets out an unexpected beep to inform me of a new message.
Yuka looks at me, alarmed.
“Nah, can’t be him,” I assure her. “I hid my number.”
“You sure?” she asks.
I nod as I casually look down at my screen. It is only a short message: “Smooth, cool girl.”
My eyes widen. I recognize the number - because I just dialed it.
“Oh my god, is it him?” Yuka investigates as she notices the look on my face.
I nod in silence.
How is this possible? I made sure to hide my number several times. Was I really that clumsy? Or does he have some kind of spy device that makes anonymous numbers obsolete?
“What does it say?” Yuka presses.
I glance at her. “He is making fun of me. Just like you.”
She claps her hands and laughs. “Haha, with good reason!”
“Whatever…”, I mumble.
Another message pops up.
“If you want to see me again, you just need to say it.”
I gulp. My heart is racing again.
“So?” Yuka is sitting at the edge of her chair, beaming over to me. “Will you be getting another billionaire treatment or what?”
“Oh, Yuka, please-”
“Hey!” she interrupts, raising her hands in defense. “Come on, there’s nothing going on in my love life - let me at least get excited about yours! Especially when it’s the elusive Evan Beckhart who is courting you.”
“Love life - don’t call it that,” I object. “It’s not like we’re dating or anything. I’m not even sure I would want that. I mean, this could get really complicated with who he is…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yuka says, stopping me with a wave of her hand. “I like that you’re being so cautious. It’s probably for the best with that guy. But would you please meet him for coffee or something? And don’t let him forbid you to ask questions again!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
***
The message I send him has a picture of the article attached to it. And I keep it short and distant: “We need to talk. Coffee?”
This feels like the perfect sassy move that he would expect from me. Or so I hope.
I can see that he reads my message shortly after I sent it, but he does take his sweet time in replying.
I don’t have to work this entire weekend and have very little things to distract me, so I actually spend the majority of my time glancing at my silent phone in hopes of hearing from him. How pathetic.
At least Yuka is busy. She never spends much time at home and this weekend is no exception. With two jobs, a big circle of friends, her band and her current attempts at making it as a freelance designer, her life is about ten times as busy as mine. It’s no surprise that she hardly finds the time for men.
I feel lame and one-dimensional compared to her. While she is bubbling over with ideas and passion for so many things, I tend to be fully contend with wasting my free time in front of my computer, or napping, or grabbing a low priced beer at a grungy club with loud - and good - music. As much as I like alternative music, I really don’t have a sense of rhythm or any talent for playing an instrument myself, even though I truly wish I did.
Yuka is a drummer in her band and saved up for a long time to be able to afford her own little drum set. It is rather small sized but still takes up almost half of her room.
She is out for band practice shortly after our chat. After that, she has another shift to cover at the bar, just like last night.
And I am just sitting here, alone in my room, with nothing else to do but to wait for a message from him.
I feel worse about myself with every minute that passes, so I decide to pursue the one activity that Yuka cannot call her own: Running. I run a lot, not only because I like to stay in shape, but also because it is the best way to clear my head and truly be just to myself for a few minutes. My phone always stays in my room, and sometimes I even decide to run without music and just take in my surroundings.
Not today, though. I need to move and get out, but I don’t want to be completely alone with my thoughts. I don’t want to think about him too much, and my music could help with that.
It has been more than five hours since he has read my message by the time I leave the house for my run.
Six hours by the time I get back.
Seven hours by the time I have showered and prepared myself a simple dinner.
Almost eight hours, when I finally hear the relieving beep.
I am standing at the kitchen sink, right in the middle of washing the dishes when I hear it. My phone is placed on the table behind me, next to the magazine. The little light that announces are new message is blinking.
I take a deep breath and quickly dry my hands before I turn around to fetch it.
It’s him. Finally.
“Do you want to see me again?” He asks.
I frown at the screen. Has my last message not been quite clear about that?
I ponder whet
her I should make him wait just as long as he did with me, but decide that I have displayed enough childish actions for this weekend.
So I start typing.
“Yes. That would make talking to each other easier, don’t you think?”
I hesitate for a moment before I hit send. If you ask me, it is his obligation to provide now, no need for me to be all sweet and begging.
I put the phone aside and turn around, ready to continue my dish washing duties, when the phone beeps again.
My hands are shaky when I pick it up this time.
“Do you think that’s the way to talk to me?”
Damn. Okay, he does not take my sassy side well today.
Another message pops up.
“If you want to see me again, I need you to say it. And address me the proper way when you do.”
Address him the proper way?
My cheeks blush when I realize what he is talking about. The dominant type, huh. I didn’t know this sort of power play would be extended beyond the bed room.
An excited little tingling inside me tells me that I like it. A lot.
I quickly look around as if to check if there was anybody who could watch me. Ridiculous, of course. I am all alone. Yuka’s curious eyes are far away and not concerned with me at the moment.
And I would never have to tell her about this. I never will, I am sure.
I am nervously biting my lower lip as I type my reply.
“I would really like to see you again, Sir.”
Send.
It is baffling to me, how exciting this is. So different to the way I usually act towards other people - and especially men. And so incredibly satisfying.
This man makes me want to please him, serve him. And only because it gives myself pleasure.
This realization is only underpinned by the gigantic leap my heart takes when I read his instant reply.
“Good girl.”
CHAPTER IV
We agree to meet the next day. For coffee. Just coffee, I try to remind myself. Yet, I take all the preparations as I would usually do before a date that leaves the option for sex.
It wouldn’t be the worst to happen, after all.
But it is not planned. I keep repeating that - to myself and to Yuka, who is displaying one of the broadest grins I have ever seen on her face when I get ready to leave.
“I won’t wait up,” she pipes as I am about to head out the door.
“It’s an afternoon coffee, Yuka,” I reassure. “Don’t get too excited!”
She just shrugs and sends me off with a friendly wave.
I am surprised to find him waiting for me at the end of the stairs in front of our house when I rush through the door. Yuka is not the only one in our household who is always late. I am usually running when I leave the house, too.
He looks so dashingly handsome that it is intimidating. His clothes are more casual today, but still fancier and more dressed up than me. He is wearing a thin pullover in anthracite and blue dark jeans, both of which he clearly did not buy at a cheap retail store. His hair is gelled and looks more like it did on the picture in the article than it did on the night we met. I don’t like it this way, it makes me want to ruffle through it. And I might just do that later on.
His appearance reminds me why I would usually shy away from too good looking men like him. They make me feel bad about myself. I feel scrubby and cheap next to him, even though I did put some effort into the way I look. I am wearing my favorite black skinny jeans and a colorful top in warm colors that go well with my dark brown hair - according to Yuka. I would consider these my best clothing items and yet I am sure that they must be nothing but low quality attempts at looking fancy from his perspective.
Also, my hair doesn’t play along as usual. I keep trying my best at making it look somewhat nice, curled or straightened, but it never ends up the way I imagine.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask. “I thought we were meeting at the café?”
He smiles mischievously and shrugs. “I just wanted to make sure you find your way.”
I reach the end of the stairs and come to a halt next to him. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”
“Ring the bell?” he says. “Knock? There’s many ways to make yourself be seen or heard.”
“You don’t know my last name, though, do you?”
He casts me a naughty smile and puts his arm around me to pull me closer. I am beginning to question my ‘just coffee’-mantra as he pulls me in for a kiss.
He gently pecks my lips first, almost shy, before his tongue forces its way inside. He eagerly claims me, invading my mouth as if I was threatening to run away from him. I close my eyes and take him in, enjoying every moment of his sensual invasion. I am so taken in by him that even the noisy street sounds around us seem to diminish during our passionate kiss.
“Who knows,” he whispers after our kiss ends. “I might have my ways to find out.”
“You’re just saying that to scare me,” I say.
A little part of me is scared, though. He may just be joking - or not. Either way, I remind myself to be careful with him, despite that enticing kiss. Mesmerizing me like this might just be part of the game.
“You ready to go?” he asks, still holding me in his arms.
“Yes,” I reply. “Coffee.”
He smile down at me and gently caresses my left cheek with the tip of his finger. “Yes, coffee.”
I hadn’t even noticed the limousine that is double-parked behind us. He leads me to it and opens the door for me to get in before him. The perfect gentleman. I am rolling my eyes and grinning like a charmed girl at the same time.
The driver brings us to the café that we originally agreed upon as a meeting place and Evan orders me a cappuccino and a cake he insists I have to try despite my protests of not being hungry.
“You’ll try it,” he concludes after we are seated and our order is placed. “If you don’t eat it - I will. But I’m pretty sure we’ll have to fight over it.”
“So, you decide what I am eating now, too?” I jokingly ask.
He smirks. “I would like that. But I know you’re not ready for that.”
The fact that he calls me “not ready” confuses me for a moment. Is that really something he would be into?
“You said we need to talk,” he adds, looking at me with confident expectation. “What’s on your chest?”
“Didn’t you see the picture I sent you?” I ask.
He nods. “I did.”
I am a bit perplexed at his calm and anticipatory demeanor. Shouldn’t he be the one on the defense right now? Why do I need to give this conversation a head start if he is the one with the revealed secret?
“I had no idea,” I stutter. “Who you are. One would think you’d mention something like this…”
“Something like what?” he asks. “And what does that mean - who I am? Who am I?”
“Well,” I say. “You know… you are someone. Someone who has articles written about himself, someone who has been named one of the hottest billionaire singles of the country, someone who-”
“And does any of that information mean anything to you?” he interrupts. “Would you have been impressed? Would I have been a more likeable person if I had put that information about myself out there right from the start?”
“Well, I mean-”
“Do you really think that’s the way I should introduce myself to a girl like you?” he continues. He appears to be offended, angry even. Or hurt. It is hard to tell with his calm and shielded manner.
“A girl like me?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well, what I mean,” he says. “Look, all you need to know is: I didn’t hide anything from you. I told you my name - and I was pleasantly surprised to see that you had no idea who I was, because in most cases, to women your age who are reasonably caught up on tabloid gossip, I am the ex-boyfriend of Sheila Buffay, that allegedly hot rich dude she used to date a
while back.”
He leans back and pauses for a moment as our cappuccinos and the cake are brought.
“I’m sorry,” I say as my hands wander back and forth between him and the cake.
He doesn’t say anything, but beckons me to try the cake by nodding towards it. “Try it.”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, just loudly enough for him to hear.
I look up at him to see his reaction as I fetch my fork and lean forward to follow his order. He casts me a satisfied smile.
“See,” he says. “That is the part I would like to focus on when we are together.”
“What part?” I ask with my mouth half full as I chew on the first little piece of the cake. What a classy lady I am. But damn, it tastes good.
He must be able to read the satisfaction in my face, because he smirks at me as if he caught me doing something naughty.
“Good, huh,” he says.
I nod hastily. “Yes, very.”
“The part I was talking about,” he adds. “Is the unbelievable chemistry between us. I am good at reading people, so you don’t have to tell me that you are feeling it, too. I can see it. So, just continue eating your cake, while I tell you what I want you to know, understand?”
I nod and obediently reply with another “Yes, Sir” before I stuff my face with another piece of that heavenly chocolate cake. Geez, I wonder what kind of drugs they add to this to make it taste this delicious.
“So far, you have nothing but a faint idea of what is possible between two people like us,” he continues. “You might despise me for who I am or what I represent - though I hope to redeem that image comes time - but that doesn’t matter for now. All I would ask from you is to give us a chance to explore this chemistry. It is rare, very rare. And you have to trust me when I tell you that I haven’t felt like this in a very long time.”
“Since Sheila?” I ask.
He sighs.
“I don’t want to talk about that now-”
“But I do,” I interrupt. “Because there is something I need to clear up.”
“Is that so,” he says, sounding anything but happy.
“You have to admit,” I continue. “That I bear a remarkable resemblance to her.”
He shrugs. “Yes. So?”
