Man Hands 1

by Sarina Bowen

  She stalks past me into the kitchen and grabs a skewer of yakitori chicken off a platter. She nibbles on it. “These are awesome. Now go put on a dress. There’s a cool party we’re going to crash.”

  I feel an immediate flutter in my nether regions, because that’s how I met Tom. The classic love story, right? Crashing a party led to boathouse sex led to the world seeing my sex tape. Which led to a fake engagement. Every girl’s dream.

  Wait…

  “I’m not going,” I say.

  “Yeah you are.” Ash grabs another skewer.

  “Nope. Have to watch my show.”

  She gives me a pitying look. “I know you’re hung up on him, sweetie. But that’s why you must. Get back on that horse.”

  “No can do.”

  She eats the rest of the yakitori, washes her hands and marches upstairs. I know she’ll come downstairs with a wrap dress and some of my new, sexy underwear. The lingerie I bought for Tom. I was tempted to get the underwear with little foxes all over them, but the lace thong was sexier. Then I thought, fuck it, and bought the foxes too. Balance.

  For the hundredth time I check my phone, but there’s no text from him. He’s probably busy wrapping up his Quebec special. Or maybe he’s composing his Dear Brynn letter. Tom’s a good guy. When he decides we’re officially done, he’ll be super nice about it.

  I’ll be sad even so.

  Ash returns with a pink wrap dress, and I fuss about the color and then put it on anyway.

  Fucking girlfriends.

  42 Up On The Rooftop

  Brynn

  “If they don’t have a TV here, I’m leaving,” I threaten as we step into the elevator.

  “If they don’t have a TV, you can watch your show on my iPad,” Ash says. “Of course, that will make you the sad girl who’s sitting in the corner of a decadent private rooftop party watching a home renovation show on her iPad.”

  “And you’ll be the superbitch who points that out,” I snap.

  “Stop squabbling,” Sadie says, whipping a lipstick out of her clutch purse. “This is my big night out, so get along or I’ll tell you gross stories about diaper blowouts.”

  That’s a pretty good threat, so Ash and I hug. Then she and Sadie check their lipstick in the reflective surface of the elevator panel. It’s the shiniest elevator I’ve ever seen. They should pass out sunglasses because the glare is killer.

  “Where are we, exactly?” I ask as the car rises forever upward.

  “The VanHeimlich building,” she answers. Telling me nothing.

  Ash has given me very few details of this party, either because A) she doesn’t know anything about it, or B) she has something to hide. It’s probably that second thing. I can only pray we’re not crashing a wedding. Or a funeral. That would actually be worse. And who throws a party on the top of a downtown office building?

  “Why?” I try, because I should really ask more questions.

  “There’s a new bar opening on top of the building. And they just put in some hotel suites for visiting dignitaries. None of it is open yet. This is their private preview night.”

  “Oh!” That actually sounds fun. “Are we invited, or should I prepare a story about how I know the VanHeimlich family?” They’re a family of billionaires who own half of Grand Rapids.

  “We’re invited. There’s a secret password. Just watch.”

  The doors finally part. I expect to see a lobby or a hallway, so I’m stunned to step out onto…a lawn. There’s grass growing on top of this tall building. It’s heaven! I see a grand water fountain, in which several partygoers are actually wading. And a bocce court! And a beanbag toss! There’s a long maple bar under a sleek awning. And since we’re on top of a building, there are views for miles.

  Leaving the house is awesome. Who knew?

  We are stopped immediately by Braht. No—not Braht. It’s his younger twenty-something clone. Same blond hair and blueblood features. Same linen jacket over shorts with lobsters embroidered into the fabric. Same boat shoes and attitude. But this edition is giving Ash a frowny face instead of panting like a dog in heat. “Password, please,” Braht’s Mini-Me says.

  “Wankapin,” Ash replies coolly.

  “Wait. Wankapin?” I chortle. Really—I totally chortled. It happens.

  But Little Braht gives me an icy stare. “It’s a flowering plant native to the Central American wetlands.”

  “Wetlands!” I giggle.

  He glares.

  The real Braht comes bounding over, pushes his clone aside, and sweeps his hand toward the bar. “Come in! Come in! Don’t let Bramly slow you down.”

  “Bramly?”

  He growls.

  “Is there champagne?” Ash demands, her spine as straight as the VanHeimlich building. Braht has the weirdest effect on my friend. I just don’t understand it. He turns her Bitch Meter right up to eleven.

  “Of course, milady. Step right this way.”

  She sort of sneers at him, and I trail along, admiring the rooftop lawn. The grass pokes my toes through my sandals. I wonder how they mow up here. And can weeds even travel up to the thirtieth floor?

  The bartenders are all wearing white shirts to show off their tans. They’re so clean-cut that it’s distracting. Their teeth shine so brightly I almost need shades.

  “Champagne?” a bartender asks, flashing me his gleaming smile.

  I plunk down on a bar stool. “Of course!” I say all hoity-toity like. “I always drink champagne on rooftop lawns, darling!”

  The irony goes right over the poor thing’s carefully styled hair. “Coming right up!”

  When my champagne arrives, it tastes phenomenal. Even better—I spot a TV screen over the bar. Though it’s currently dark. “Pardon me, young sir.” I wave down the nearest Ken doll. “Would it be possible for you to tune that television to H&G? My fiancé’s special is on tonight.” That’s right—I’m namedropping to see Tom on the tube. But these are desperate times. “Have you seen Mr. Fixit Quick?”

  Ken Doll has no idea what I’m talking about. But he hands me a remote control with another blinding smile and then moves off to make a Tom Collins for someone.

  “These bacon-wrapped scallops are divine,” Ash says. She sets a tiny plate in front of me. “Drink up, honey. I got you another glass of bubbly.”

  Life is really good here on the rooftop. Tom’s show flickers to life above me. There’s no sound, but that’s okay. I don’t need sound to admire Tom in his tight-fitting T-shirt, directing the delivery of a truckload of two-by-fours. He hammers a cross-piece to a stud, and when his biceps flex, I feel it in my nipples.

  Also, bacon-wrapped scallops are divine. I pull my notebook out of my bag and add “Wrapped and Stuffed Things” to my Top Ten List in progress.

  There is a montage of Tom and his guys demolishing stuff. Walls come down. Windows are added. There’s a big deck outside with killer views. It’s romantic. When I see him standing alone at the railing, looking out at the mountains, he looks lonely.

  During the commercial break, I let Ash introduce me to some of Braht’s friends. They have names like Buck and Chandler. One of them is a VanHeimlich, and I study him to see if I can tell he’s a billionaire.

  Nope. Just another preppy with an expensive watch. They all look alike to me.

  I drink more champagne. Sneaking my phone out of my bag, I check the screen. It’s blank. Tom still hasn’t called or texted.

  But, hey. I knew this would eventually happen. He just got his career back, and so did I. This was the plan all along, right? The newer, more confident Brynn can handle this disappointment, even if Tom was really very special.

  I’m done pining for men who don’t want me. New Brynn doesn’t do that.

  New Brynn does, however, keep the fancy bar’s remote control in her purse. Just in case they feel like cutting off my TV privileges. And as soon as Ash allows me, I retreat to my bar stool for another hit of Tom.

  Everyone has celebrity crushes, right? I’m not
being obsessive.

  Tom installs a ridiculous hot tub on the deck. Shamu’s tank is smaller than this eyesore. Tom actually rolls his eyes at it. I don’t even need the sound track to hear his disdain.

  One of Tom’s buddies sticks his head out of the door and beckons. His face is grim, and I sit up straight, wondering what’s gone wrong.

  When the camera cuts to a smirking Chandra, I almost drop my champagne glass.

  “Uh-oh,” Sadie says from over my shoulder.

  I watch while Tom greets Chandra. I can’t hear what’s said. But he kisses her on the cheek and then walks away.

  “It’s only a cheek kiss,” Sadie points out. “And, analyzing his body language, that was a reluctant cheek kiss, anyway.”

  The show cuts to a commercial.

  Feeling a little lightheaded, I turn around and survey the crowd. There’s a bocce game going on, two competitors in penny loafers are tossing their balls together.

  Their bocce balls. Because even though this is a great party, it’s not that kind of party.

  I think about the last party my friends dragged me to—when my ex had walked in and I’d lost my marbles. Good thing, too. Because that’s how I’d met Tom.

  But my life doesn’t need a repeat. There’s no boathouse, for starters. More to the point, there’s no Tom. I scan the crowd and find that I’m surrounded by a sea of people who like to golf. None of them know how to handle a nail gun. I can just tell. Some of these men get manicures more frequently than I do.

  “What are you looking for?” Sadie asks the question cautiously, the way you speak to someone who might not be okay.

  “Tom,” I sigh. “I’m looking for Tom. I… I think I’m in love with him.”

  “Uh-oh!” Ash says, swooping in. “Here. Do a shot.” She waves at one of the bartenders. “We have a tequila emergency over here!”

  “No we don’t,” I say firmly. My eyes travel back to the TV screen. I see Tom on a bed of some kind, and my heart flops over like one of my mother’s Jell-O molds. Chandra sits down beside him. They’re touching!

  I let out a tiny shriek of dismay.

  “Salt, tequila, then lime,” Ash recites with the same urgency a fireman uses to say stop, drop, and roll.

  But no. Hold your tequila and don’t pull the pin on your fire extinguishers. Because even though I can’t hear the program, I know what endings look like. I’ve had endings, and they look like Tom and Chandra on that screen. He’s saying something nice, and she’s looking wistful.

  Then she gets up and walks away.

  “Yeah!” All three of us throw our arms in the air and cheer. Heads turn as preppies look over to see if maybe there’s a baseball game on. But it’s just Tom on the screen, getting up to check some tile grout.

  “He’s mine,” I say out loud. Then I say it again because apparently once wasn’t creepy enough. “MINE.” Then, “I’m doing this. I’m going after him, even though he hasn’t texted me back. Even though his plane was supposed to land an hour ago, and I haven’t heard a word.” The thing is, Tom loves me too. I can feel it in my belly, right near the bacon-wrapped scallops.

  “Oh, wow,” Ash says. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be your rebound fuck.”

  “He was the antidote to your red flag! Remember, you really shouldn’t trust your instincts for a while,” Sadie offers. She means well, but….

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, throwing back that shot of tequila she ordered me. Because tequila shouldn’t go to waste even when your life isn’t really ending.

  Ash hands me the lime and shakes her head. “This won’t end well. True love doesn’t happen, honey.” Her eyes dart to the side. “Except to Sadie,” she amends quickly. Because it’s rude to tell your married friend that her life is a farce.

  “Not even to Sadie,” Sadie mumbles. Then she grabs another shot off the bar and drinks it.

  Ash hands a lime to Sadie, who looks like she needs that tequila at least as badly as I do.

  “Well…” Ash puts her hands on her tiny hips. “I suppose it would only be fair to tell you that I put your phone into airplane mode right when I arrived at your place two hours ago. So you wouldn’t be distracted by texts from your mom when you were hoping to hear from Tom.”

  For a second I just blink at her. Then I wrench open my purse, toss out the remote control, and grab the phone. I turn off airplane mode and say a quick prayer.

  The thing floods with texts. Half are from my mother, wondering how to pronounce the word “gif.” But there are several from Tom! Where are you? I’m outside your house.

  I hit the call button. “Tom?” I gasp when he answers. “You’re back!”

  “I missed you, baby. Where are you?”

  “On a rooftop! At this weird party. Braht is here and—”

  The call drops.

  “Damn it!” I scream. “We have to leave. Tom is looking for me.”

  “We can’t,” Ash says. “Your driver needs an hour before her two glasses of bubbly wear off. I didn’t have any tequila or we’d be here until midnight.”

  Damn her and her zero percent body fat.

  Okay, there’s always Uber. But where to ask them to take me? Tom’s house? Mine? I need a location. I need a big, romantic reunion. I’m due, damn it. Tom and I running toward each other across a meadow filled with daisies. Or Tom and I leaping over suitcases in the airport to reach each other.

  Or Tom and I buck naked in a boathouse. I’m not picky, as long as he’s there. And naked.

  “Gotta go, ladies,” I say, dropping a tip onto the bar and winking at the bartender. “I have people to see and sex to have.”

  I take off running. Why am I running? Because I know what I want, and I want Tom and that means I want him now! I am clearing the perfectly manicured rooftop patio, bee-lining down the endless lawn towards the brushed metal elevators.

  I press the button on the elevator. Nothing lights up. Come on, fucker. I press it a few more times just to show it who’s boss. And then I hear a whir, and a strip of blue light zips around the elevator, maybe signifying takeoff. I don’t know. I need to focus. I’m so stirred up, certain that the only thing that will calm me down is a bowl of chocolate soup, or sex with Tom. Orrrrrr, sex with Tom in a bowl of chocolate soup.

  Now I really can’t focus.

  I reach into the gap of my dress and adjust my boobs They need it. Plus, it comforts me. So when the elevator door dings and slides open, there I am, standing with my hand firmly wrapped around my breast and holy fuck if it isn’t Tom, grinning right at me.

  The blue lights sparkle.

  43 Sir Fixit Dick is Excited

  Tom

  The only thing I register in my sleep-deprived and stressed-out haze is that the elevator doors have slid open with a slight snick and flashing lights, like I’m about to enter the main deck of the Enterprise. When those doors snick open, I have to admit, I’m a little startled. There is this gorgeous, curvy, delicious woman staring at me as she fondles her breast. And then I laugh, because what else can you do?

  What happens next surprises me, and that’s saying something. Brynn takes one look at me, releases her breast, and says in this voice that seems to come from the bottom of a well, or maybe from her inner wolf, “MIIIIIIINNNNNNEEE.” And then she pounces. It’s déjà vu all over again to the boathouse.

  This time, though, I’m ready for her.

  She leaps, wraps her legs around me, and my big hands enfold her and go straight to her ass where I heft her up a bit, so I can have a better hold, because right now, and for a very long while, I’m going to hold on to this woman. I hear her growl one more time and then she’s sucking my face. I mean that literally. She’s like that alien pod thing in Alien, only, you know, the version of an alien that is super-hot and totally fuckable.

  I suck her face right back. In the elevator. The doors slide closed and then I’m all over her and she’s all over me and…

  Fuck.

  We’re in an ele
vator.

  “Baby,” I manage.

  “Shut up,” she says. And she kisses my lips, my neck, my ear. Then she tugs open my dress shirt a little at the top and kisses my clavicle, so I push the button to floor number thirty, the penthouse, where Braht has already reserved my room.

  It’s like he knew or something.

  Whatever, I’m not questioning it because—

  I AM GOING TO MAKE SWEET LOVE TO MY WOMAN FOR HOURS, my dick shouts.

  Sweet love? Huh.

  Then I nod, and then my face is in her cleavage and my tongue and my hands are doing things, and my dick is so happy he’s humming. Or vibrating. Whatever. Sir Fixit Dick is excited.

  When the doors ding and slide open again, I let her feet slide to the floor and stop kissing her just long enough to look at her so I know she is real. Her hair is mussed and her breasts are heaving against her fucking wrap dress, and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.

  For now.

  But I’m pretty sure I’m going to be even happier in a few minutes.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Penthouse,” I say. “I have. Key.”

  “Oh. Yes!” And then we’re kissing again.

  There’s the plastic key card, a slide, a fumble, and we fall into the room. I shut the door. She’s undressing me and I’m unwrapping her. It’s Christmas every day with this woman! God, I fucking love her.

  She stops abruptly.

  “You do?” she asks, and either I said that out loud or she can read my mind. It doesn’t matter.

  “Brynn, yes. God. Somewhere between the boathouse and your fondness for appetizers, I fell for you. Hard. And…I’m in love with you. I want you. I want what we have to be real—”

  She interrupts. “It is real, all of it.” She rips my shirt all the way open, flinging buttons everywhere. It’s very butch, and I know I’ve found the woman for me. She tugs my shirt off so I’m bare-chested, and she is standing there in a push-up bra and these tiny panties that leave too much to the imagination, so I yank on them until she’s free. So much better. I don’t have the patience for imagining anything with her.