Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise

by Penny Reid

  He grinned and set me down by the tub. The lights were off in the bathroom, but he’d placed candles everywhere. Their soft illumination embraced me, casting the obscenely large space in gently flickering shadows, softening reality somehow, and making Nico’s olive skin glow bronze.

  The bathtub was full of bubbles, the faint scent of my jasmine bodywash in the air, humid and warm.

  “In other words…” Nico sang quietly, reaching for the hem of my shirt and tugging it over my head, “I love you...” He undressed me methodically, all of his touches chaste and cherishing. I blinked twice, two new tears falling. He kissed my cheeks, like he could kiss the sadness away, and smoothed his hands down my bare back, a gesture meant to soothe.

  Once I was naked, I took a step toward the tub; but he scooped me up once again, and I let him. He placed me in the hot water, in the center of the thick bed of bubbles, just as the song changed.

  It was another Frank Sinatra tune.

  “What’s this one called?”

  “Misty,” Nico said, straightening. As he did so he whipped off his shirt and tossed it in a corner; then he swiftly depanted and climbed into the tub behind me.

  “Hard to imagine Frank Sinatra as helpless as a kitten up a tree,” I said as he positioned me between his legs, my back against his chest, his strong arms around my torso, holding me.

  “I think any man in love is as helpless as a kitten up a tree,” he whispered close to my ear, then asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I knew he meant my day, not Frank Sinatra in love and feeling misty.

  I shook my head, then turned my cheek so I could listen to him breathe, the beat of his heart. “No. I really don’t.”

  “Okay.” He hugged me tighter, resting his chin on the top of my head. “You should cry. Let it out.”

  “I don’t want to cry.”

  “Just know that you can.” He brought bubbles to my shoulder, then wiped them away with his large hand. “You can cry, you can scream, you can be your feelings, and I will love you just the same.”

  We were silent for a long moment as I considered his words, listening to the bubbles fizz and pop.

  “I missed our wedding,” I blurted suddenly, feeling overwhelmingly sad. My chin wobbled as I spoke, “Life is the sum total of our memories, and I missed that one…with you.”

  “I’m…” He sighed, his hand finding my thigh and squeezing it. “I’m not sorry, Bella. I’m not. It was beautiful and…horrible.” He laughed, his chest rumbling, “It was also weird…and wonderful, and I wouldn’t change a thing about it—other than that, part of me wishes you could remember it, but another part of me is glad you can’t.”

  “Then you left.” I turned in the tub so I could see him, so he could see me. “You left right after we were married. And you faked phone static every time I called. Not cool, Nico.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, his voice rising, “I did. I knew that I’d be home in three days. We needed to talk about it but not on the phone. Definitely not on the phone.”

  “Why?” My hands came down, and bits of soapy water and bubbles splashed against his chin and neck.

  “Elizabeth, I’m famous for two things: my apple fritters and my temper.”

  I screwed my face up, not wanting to smile and almost succeeding. “I thought you were famous for your alphabet soup recipe and wordy math problems.”

  “I’m famous for three things: my alphabet soup, my apple fritters, and my temper. I knew that if we spoke over the phone, one of us—likely both of us—were going to say something we’d later regret.”

  “You could have just told me that!”

  He lifted a single eyebrow and gave me a look like he knew better. “Really? You wouldn’t have insisted we argue over the phone?”

  I twisted my lips to the side, narrowed my eyes on him. A new song, again Frank Sinatra, filtered in through the door; it was one of my favorites, The Way You Look Tonight.

  I hated that he was right.

  “Fine.” I twisted back to my original position and settled against him. “I’m still angry.”

  “That’s fine…” He unwound my hair from its braid, massaged his fingers through it. “We can have angry sex later.” As though to illustrate the superiority of this idea, he tugged on my hair.

  “Stop pulling my hair.” I said halfheartedly because I liked it, but I was still upset about missing the ceremony.

  Nico released the strands and wrapped his arms around me again. “We can have as many weddings as we want. We can have another Vegas wedding or something with our families there, more traditional.”

  “I know.” I sighed, the anger dissipating and disappointment taking its place. “There’s nothing I can do about it, I know that. I’m just still…I love you. I wanted to be lucid for it.”

  “Then I am sorry,” he said quietly, sincerely, and I knew he meant it. “Do you forgive me?”

  “Yes…but we’re still having angry sex later.”

  “Deal.” I felt his smile against my shoulder.

  “And I’m going to bite you and smack your ass.”

  “Promises, promises...” He nipped my shoulder, his teeth feeling delightfully sharp.

  Bundled in his arms, in the hot bubbly bath, in the comfort of shared silence and unobtrusive lights and Frank Sinatra’s velvet crooning, I relaxed. Every so often Nico would place a kiss on my neck or fondle my breast but escalate the touching no further. I sensed he was enjoying the peace and calm and being together just as much as I was.

  Abruptly, he chuckled again and squeezed me. “Honestly, I’m just happy this is what you’re upset about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wondered…” He began haltingly then nuzzled my neck. “Never mind.”

  “No, say it. What did you wonder?” I fished his left hand out of the tub and fit mine over it. I compared our rings, they were a perfect match. I felt my mouth hitch to the side; I liked how they looked together, our hands. I liked the contrasts, the big and the small, the dark and the light. I loved how the rings he’d chosen reflected the differences between us, but they complemented each other. They belonged together.

  I felt his chest expand with a large breath before he said on a rush, “I wondered if you would be angrier about us getting married so quickly, not about missing it.”

  I grunted. “Um…no.” I thought about this statement then continued, “Actually, hell no! I woke up that morning, after you left, and I was…” I paused, not wanting to admit that I was panicked because I thought I’d married some faceless stranger. Instead, I opted to say, “I was angry about missing our vows, missing you, but when I saw your note and the marriage certificate, I was so relieved that it was done. Watching and helping Janie and Marie plan this marriage monstrosity has been more than enough wedding planning for a lifetime.”

  “I thought you might have been dragging your feet about setting a date for a different reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. All I knew was that I wanted you to be my wife as soon as possible, and you didn’t seem to be in a hurry.”

  I shook my head, lacing my fingers through his; I tsked, “Oh, Nico, if you thought these things, why didn’t you ask me?”

  “Trusting you with my heart is new. I saw my chance and I took it and I’m not sorry I did. I’m as helpless as a kitten in a tree, you know.” He said this last part quietly.

  I felt like he’d knocked the wind from my lungs; my chest hurt, and my stomach plummeted. I turned in the tub and straddled his hips, gripped his face between my palms, and pressed a fast, urgent kiss to his lips.

  Before I spoke I made sure his eyes were on mine. “Nico, you understand that I am also as helpless as a kitten in a tree with you?” My voice betrayed the desperation I felt.

  He turned his lips into my palm. “Yes. And your heart is safe with me.”

  “Good.” My gaze moved between his, and I kissed him again, fiercely, and said against his mouth, “Your hea
rt is safe with me, too. I promise.”

  He nodded, “I know,” brushing his nose against mine, and his hands moved from my hips to my bottom. “Your other body parts, however…”

  I laughed lightly and rolled my eyes but then quickly gasped as the fingers of his right hand moved to my front.

  He nipped my chin. “Sei deliziosa, ti mangerei di baci... iniziando da qui.”

  “Oh, Nico…”

  He didn’t have to speak in Italian to get me hot, not at all; nevertheless, I wasn’t about to volunteer that fact any time soon.

  ~END~

  Scene 3: Hacking the Hacker

  Author’s Note: Dear Reader, This scene takes place sometime after Sandra and Alex’s 1-year wedding anniversary.

  ***

  Friday’s Horoscope: A confession will lead to a very surprising turn of events. When faced with the improbable, sometimes you just need to press the button.

  “I’ve always wanted to taser someone.”

  The clackety-clack of the keyboard stopped. Though Alex didn’t glance up from his work and his facial expression hadn’t altered, I knew I’d surprised him.

  “Is this on one of your lists?” he asked; his cobalt irises looked eerie, the light from the computer screen giving them the appearance of glowing orbs.

  “It is, actually. It’s on my Things To Do Before I Have Children Because They Might Get Me Arrested list.”

  I’d made a list, shortly after our one-year anniversary, of the top ten things I loved about being married to Alex Greene. But then I found ten wasn’t nearly long enough, so I decided to make it a top one hundred list instead. After struggling to fit everything within the confines of one hundred, I gave up and decided it would just be a list with no end.

  Although the ranking was sacred.

  This led me to create other numbered lists. And, because Alex thought it was hilarious, he kept a list of all my lists.

  “Really…? Taser someone?” he asked, resuming his typing. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “No. It’s true. I’ve always wanted to do it.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. You’re too empathetic. You wouldn’t be able to purposefully hurt someone.”

  “I would.” I decided not to tell him about the time I’d pistol-whipped a thug in Elizabeth’s old apartment. It hadn’t come up yet, and I was saving it for a time when I wanted to shock the hell out of him. “I would do it if that someone were a criminal.”

  Alex’s answering smile was roguish. “I’m a criminal.”

  “No, you were a criminal. And you know what I mean. Someone in the middle of a crime.”

  “I could be in the middle of a crime right now.”

  I glowered at him, setting my coffee down on the breakfast bar. “I mean a violent criminal in the middle of a violent crime—like assault or armed robbery or…kidnapping. If I came upon someone in the middle of a violent crime, I could totally taser the hell out of that person.”

  He was silent, his eyes still on the screen of his laptop, but now he was moving his wireless mouse around and clicking like mouse clicking was a contest.

  I sipped my coffee, studied his handsome face, and decided that I loved him more every second I spent with him. I wondered briefly how that was possible.

  Then I allowed my imagination to wander; I pictured tasering a violent criminal. I couldn’t do it if the guy was just standing there or had surrendered. Alex was right about that. But if I felt threatened, or was trying to stop her/him, or if I were saving another person, then I knew I’d have the tits for the job.

  “I could totally do it,” I said to the room, nodding to myself. “I would do it.”

  His gaze narrowed on the screen, then he lifted just his eyes, trapping me with a stare that looked both challenging and enthusiastic.

  “What time do you get off tonight?”

  “Depends on what time you get me off tonight.” I winked at him.

  I was pleased to see Alex grin then roll his eyes. “God, I love you.”

  I laughed like an evil person at his reaction, then volunteered, “I can get off work as early as four, why?”

  “Let’s go to the Chicago Museum of Art. They’re having a special exhibition of Monet.”

  “Monet? Impressionists? You don’t like impressionists. You told me they look like finger paintings.” I looked at him askance, then gulped the rest of my coffee.

  “Humor me. We’ll get cake after.”

  “You know I love cake. But if we keep eating cake at this rate, my increasing bottom size will require a new wardrobe.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, but I couldn’t help my smile. I loved this about Alex. He didn’t seem to care if I was fit or flabby; every change in my body got him excited. After we married I developed a tummy pooch and the very real beginnings of love handles. He loved it, loved them. He’d grab and bite and smack my soft parts during lovemaking and growl his approval.

  I didn’t love it because I felt unhealthy, so I started seeing a personal trainer and got mad fit for a period of time. He loved that, too. He exploited my newfound strength and flexibility, and—after borrowing Janie’s illustrated guide to the Kamasutra—we’d been extremely adventurous.

  Currently the pendulum was swinging in the other direction. It was my birthday month, and I’d always had a tendency to celebrate by eating dessert after every meal. As well, my trainer was off climbing some mountain in Timbuktu (or thereabouts), so I’d stopped going to the gym because I was, at heart, lazy and hated exercising for the sake of exercising.

  “Where my bottom is concerned, I think you’re good with anything and everything,” I said, lifting my eyebrows meaningfully.

  “That’s true.” I saw him shrug and felt his eyes move over my body as I hopped off my stool and crossed to the sink. “As long as it’s your bottom.”

  My automatic smile was a little shy and a whole lot goofy, his words caused a spreading warmth from my chest to my forehead and stomach and fingertips. He was so good at catching me off guard with these lovely little comments. The best part was that he said them so nonchalantly, like he had no idea they were compliments. Rather, to him it was just plain honesty, and that made the words a gift.

  After rinsing my cup and basking in the glow of his impromptu and unassuming admission, I walked around the counter and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He turned to meet me, and before I could withdraw, his hands grabbed my hips to stay my retreat, bringing me between his legs.

  “I’ll meet you at the museum at four thirty?” he said, his lovely voice lovely and…just lovely.

  I smiled, again shy and goofy, and placed my hands on his broad shoulders. “Uh-huh.”

  He pulled me closer, kissed my neck, then whispered in my ear, “Then after we’ll have cake.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded then shivered because his hot breath tickled me.

  He nibbled on my jaw, his hands sliding up my sides. I pressed myself into his palms and sighed, “I’m going to be late. Being late, I can’t abate or profligate. If I’m late I’ll have to stay, and you’ll wait, as we have a very important date.”

  Alex exhaled a laugh, nuzzling my neck, then lifted his head and gave me a fast kiss. “Nice rhyme.”

  I squeezed his shoulders and stepped away, reaching for my bag and coat. “See you at eight-”

  “Four thirty.”

  “Yes, but eight rhymes with late. If you’d let me finished, I was going to say, see you at eight divided by two plus thirty, mate.” Walking backwards, I gave him a salute.

  “My wife is crazy.” He folded his arms and watched me back toward the hallway. He wasn’t smiling—not with his mouth—rather he was just looking me with his dark blue eyes, all intense and focused. I knew I had to go, but like most mornings I didn’t really want to. I was under the Alex love spell, and while in his vicinity, I mock-seriously considered leaving real life behind and abandoning all my responsibilities in favor of marathon make-out
sessions.

  Not really…but sorta…but not really…but sorta.

  “You love my crazy. It makes excellent fig chutney.” I turned, grabbed my coat, and opened the door to leave, a big fat smile on my face.

  “Looking forward to you getting off.” I heard him call after me, and I laughed—happily and stupidly in love.

  ***

  I was late.

  I was a full hour late, and that meant the museum was twenty minutes from closing.

  I’d texted Alex and suggested we meet at the cake place and forego the museum, but he insisted that we go anyway. I found him waiting for me outside of the building at the bottom of the steps. He stood out for several reasons. First, he was the only person not staring at his phone; rather, he was people watching. Second, he was—by far—the sexiest man in the world (to me), therefore he stood out like a stripper at Sunday service.

  And third, people had given him a wide radius of personal space. He’d grown back his faux Mohawk at my request after having a respectable haircut for over a year. This plus his large frame, dark jeans, black boots, black T-shirt, and general air of don’t fuck with me typically repelled strangers.

  As soon as he spotted me, he straightened from where he’d been leaning and jogged over. In a rush, he pulled me in for a fast kiss then thrust something in my hands.

  “Here. Put this on.”

  I glanced down at the object; it was a black T-shirt. I placed my bag on the ground and shrugged into the shirt, but I didn’t get a chance to read it because Alex grabbed my bag and my hand and tugged me toward the entrance to the museum.

  “We have to hurry.” He said without looking back at me. “Are you okay to jog in those shoes?”

  “Sure…” I could and I would; but I’d pay for it later. I gave my sky-blue heels a weary once over, then ended up running after Alex. Apparently, his definition of jogging was a sprint.

  We dashed into the museum, raced through the lobby, and didn’t pause to pay.

  “Wait, what about-” I sputtered in protest.

  “Already done, hurry.”

  We climbed the stairs two at a time, and Alex pulled out his cell phone. While mounting the steps, he touched out a message then stuffed the cell back in his pocket.