Romance in Color

by Synithia Williams

  She took the keys from Petra’s hand and opened the door. Petra let Sarah lead her upstairs, then plunked down on the sofa with her coat still on. She still felt chilled and the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with her. Sarah busied herself with finding a box of Swiss Miss in the cupboard and putting the kettle on.

  Where had all that anger come from, Petra wondered, as Sarah set a mug in front of her. “All I could find were these gross chocolate chip cookies,” Sarah said.

  “Helen came over last night for her own meltdown and she left these. I know kale chips and rooibos tea are usually more your style,” Petra said.

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I need a vacation from myself,” Sarah said, taking a cookie.

  They clinked mugs.

  “What happened tonight?” Petra asked.

  “I went to karaoke and I wouldn’t relinquish the mike. They were about to call security, so I left. Well actually, I was about to vandalize the door of the club with lipstick and the bouncer stopped me, so I kicked him. He happened to be an off-duty cop. Plus, I did it in front of another cop. I lost my purse in the scuffle. Someone stole my stuff in front of two cops. I’m going to have to cancel all my cards and I don’t want to think about my phone. Anyway, they held me there and debated whether to haul me to the station or just put me in a cab—like I wasn’t there. I talked the bouncer into lending me his phone and, luckily, remembered your number.”

  Petra stared at her friend. She was torn between telling Sarah that it was kind of awesome and wondering what the hell was wrong with her.

  “Look,” said Sarah. “I realize that my behavior tonight was really immature, which is why I kind of don’t want to talk about it. But I also realize that you deserve an opportunity to gloat, given what a hard time I’ve given you. That cop had more important people to attempt to arrest tonight. I wasted people’s time and hurt them because I was tipsy and petty. I should hold myself to a higher standard than this. I’m thirty-two and I’m a physician, for god’s sake.”

  Petra was quiet for a moment. Then she started laughing. “God, you’re a self-important little prick sometimes.”

  “Um, yeah, don’t hold back, Petey.”

  “I should hold myself to a higher standard than this. Why? Because you’re better than everyone? Because you’re a physician? You prescribe pills and I stick needles in people. What the hell makes us think that we’re such holy healers that we can’t be a little human, or a little imperfect sometimes?”

  “You saved a woman’s life last month.”

  “All I did was stick a needle in someone. The kind of needle that she could easily stick in herself, I might add. The only thing I really, really did was show her the importance of just doing it on the spot without embarrassment, before something terrible happened to her.”

  They brooded, lost in their own thoughts.

  Sarah drank more hot chocolate. “I love this stuff,” she said reverently. “Last weekend, I went to San Francisco and Bryant—he’s the new boyfriend, the new ex-boyfriend, actually—bought me some of that Ghirardelli hot cocoa. And it was delicious, of course, but I took three sips and couldn’t finish the rest of it. I love this cheap-o Swiss Miss. It tastes like chemicals and drugs.”

  “The new ex-boyfriend was the cause of this tantrum.”

  “Well, yes. And no. I accept trade-offs. I know that. I won’t be with anyone long-term, so I pick men who are imperfect. Take-away lesson: people always disappoint you. Don’t get overly involved.”

  Petra was quiet. At some point, maybe she had agreed with Sarah. But now, there seemed to be a lot wrong with those feelings. “I don’t think it works that way,” she said. “In fact, I disagree with almost everything. But I’ve never really been able to change your mind, and in the condition I’m in, I doubt that’ll happen. You’re used to these late nights what with birthin’ the babies and whatnot. I’m not. I’m going to sleep.”

  For the second time that week, she left a friend on the couch.

  • • •

  The next evening, Petra leaned in the doorway of Ian’s office at Field. She had never seen it before. She had never seen him at work before. She pursed her lips as he glared sexily at a laptop screen.

  The office was crammed with the kind of touches that his apartment lacked. There was a corkboard covered with pictures of Stream at various stages of construction. A hard hat stood atop the file cabinet, and two shirts in their dry-cleaning plastic hung on hooks on the walls. His long desk held stacks of paper and a lamp, and he sat in one of those fancy ergonomic task chairs that reminded Petra of a bewinged Amazon insect.

  “Cuppers,” she said quietly.

  He looked up. His smile was instant and glorious.

  She pushed out of the doorway and took a step toward him. “It was the best I could come up with on short notice,” she said. “All in all, I’d say you’re much better at coming up with alternate underwear words than I am.”

  She took off her coat and draped it on a chair. He looked at her, in her tall chocolate boots and short skirt.

  “Cuppers,” he said, turning the word over slowly on his tongue.

  He rose slowly. There was a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Petra’s heart began to beat very fast.

  She almost felt the release of adrenaline into her bloodstream as he started to prowl toward her. But she was frozen, her lips slightly parted. She was in grave danger, half exhilarated, half terrified. Her mouth curved up into a crazy smile.

  “Interesting choice,” he purred. “I never would have thought to go that way, to go with something that holds your pussy and ass in place, maybe even warms them.”

  She nodded.

  “Which, I suppose,” he added conversationally, taking another step toward her, “would make me jealous of the underpants.”

  He came just far enough that he wasn’t touching her, just close enough that he could reach around her to slide one finger down her skirt-clad rear. “’Course, cuppers don’t exactly describe thongs, do they?”

  “I hate the word thong,” she said, her voice coming out as a whisper.

  He slid his hand to the hem of her skirt.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said quickly.

  His hand stilled. Her breath, his breath, rasped.

  “I miss you. I want to be around you. But I lose my head around you, and that scares me.”

  He dropped his hand. “I love you,” he said.

  Her heart fell into her boots and swooped up again until she felt dizzy.

  She closed her eyes to still herself, to stifle the ecstatic smile that threatened to crack her face and overwhelm her whole body. She stamped her foot, hard. “Dammit, this kind of thing is exactly what I’m talking about,” she half shouted, half whispered.

  Her fingers had curled into fists, but Ian grabbed them and laughed softly. When she opened her eyes again, he was still laughing, and relieved, and dazed, and backing her into the doorway. Without turning from her, he shut the door and locked it. “I love you,” he repeated wonderingly, putting his arms around her waist and pressing himself against her.

  “I love you, too, but—”

  In a moment he had unzipped her skirt. “You aren’t wearing any—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “—thing. You walked out into the winter without a single cupper to keep you warm.”

  “I was feeling optimistic,” she said, kissing his neck. “It’s a new thing I’m trying.”

  She gave a wide lick to his throat and started to undo his shirt buttons. “Although I don’t think we should settle on cuppers,” she added.

  He took his hands from her momentarily to remove his pants and shoes. Naked, she thought with a shiver. He pulled her into his warm body again. “I was trying it out in a sentence,” he whispered in her ear. “As one should.”

  They worked their way to his dark wood desk. He smoothed his hands across her shoulder blades and down her spine as he kissed her neck. She wedg
ed her arm between their bodies to grasp his erection, but he was holding her too close. She settled for maneuvering her fingers around the head and moving her thumb back and forth, but that was hardly satisfying. She wriggled back and parted her legs. It was difficult to sit on the surface, especially with the laptop computer just inches behind her, so she held on to the edge and arched her back to rub herself against him. Ian complied with her demand. He dropped his mouth to her chest, opening his mouth wide over one breast, while his tongue flicked over her nipple.

  She gasped with the pleasure of it and pressed herself forward. She wanted more: more pressure, more lips, more stubble, more teeth, more cock, but he was holding back. She hooked a leg around his waist to pull him closer. She was still wearing her boots, she noticed. That excited her even more, and she rolled her hips, sliding her greedy pelvis against his prick.

  He pulled his head up, teeth gritted. “I don’t have a condom,” he whispered, his eyes flashing almost angrily behind his glasses.

  “I’m not on the pill.”

  “I know.” A pause. “I don’t see why you haven’t written yourself a prescription.”

  She got off his lap. “That’s not really right,” she said. “I should really go in for a checkup.”

  But Sarah was her ob/gyn. Both of them had conveniently forgotten that fact. Petra was going to have to point that ethical lapse out to her…later.

  Despite the large outpourings of emotion, the mood had been somewhat dampened. Petra grasped the edge of the desk so that she wouldn’t wring her hands. But Ian pried them off. He brought her to the chair and set her gently on the waffled seat. She was going to have red hashes on her bottom, she thought, as he pushed her legs apart and looked at her. He blinked gently. “Scoot a little forward,” he said.

  “Ian, you don’t have to—”

  He fiddled with something just out of her sight and the chair rose with a psshhh of air. Her knees were now level with his face. His breath skittered over her skin and she squirmed in excitement and embarrassment. He smoothed his fingers up her thighs. “Let me do this,” he crooned, turning the chair gently.

  He followed the line of her inner thigh muscle with his thumb. She could feel his breath warming her knees.

  Why was she protesting? It wasn’t as if they hadn’t done this before. Why was she afraid of letting him give her this at this moment?

  With his other hand, he rounded his palm gently under her and brought her forward. The chair hissed again and tilted toward him and he began to touch her. He ghosted his fingers over the line of her folds, up and down lightly until she felt herself become liquid. She sighed and settled back. Her bunched skirt hid him from view except the top of his head. Sometimes his brows appeared, sometimes the inscrutable shine of his glasses. She saw, briefly, one eye flicked upward.

  She felt him open her inner lips slowly, circling, circling until she wasn’t sure if she was moving or if he was. A finger teased her entrance and she shifted toward it. She wanted to wrap her legs around his head and pull him in. She wanted so much, so much of everything, but even as she longed for it, it seemed he was moving away. A sob of frustration choked in her throat and she wanted to cry out at him. She almost felt angry. “Please,” she said, shifting restlessly. “Please come back.”

  As if he knew what she’d been thinking, he glided the chair closer and moved her legs, still heavy and encased in her boots, over his shoulders. She dug her thick heels into his back and whimpered. He moved his head closer and licked her and she jolted. She could hear the wet lap of his tongue, drinking her up, sucking her in. She moaned again. Her hips lifted and his stubble-covered cheeks pulled at the skin of her thighs. He delved deeper now, his thirsty sounds driving her wild, until he reached her clit. She could feel the tip of a digit tracing her delicately and she cried out. She was close. He pulled her wider, pulling her apart. His fingers dug heavily into her and his mouth continued to move, licking and pulling ever so gently. She wanted him forever, she thought, shivering. Her hands were at her nipples now. She was all open, and every touch from every part of his body made her surge up and up. She couldn’t hold together. She was going to fall into pieces under his hands. His lips gave another tug on her and she came with a cry, her body jerking. The chair bumped with her, swinging gently left and right. He had pulled away, although his hands still worked her. His face, appearing above her skirt, was pleased and wondrous.

  She was sweating when she fell back into the seat. Ian fiddled with the chair again and it moved down with another puff of air. She couldn’t wait for its slow mechanics, so she pulled him into her and kissed him, kissed his lips wet with her. His glasses were smudged and completely askew. He got up and picked her up and sat down himself, arranging her in his lap. They pressed their foreheads together and Petra found her heart slowing and slowing until her body was calm again.

  • • •

  Later, Ian had some food packed up in the kitchen. He snagged a bottle of champagne. He wanted to take her home and celebrate properly. They had condoms there. They could have more sex there.

  He was happy.

  Walking back to his apartment in the winter air, his arm wrapped around her, his body pressed as close as it could to hers, he fretted over how cold she must be and grinned like an idiot at everyone they passed.

  She loved him. He loved her. How simple and wonderful it was. They kissed in the elevator and in the hallway. When they got in the door, they dropped their bag with a clunk and shed their clothes on the way to the bedroom. Afterward, he wrapped her up snugly in blankets and spread the food out on the bed. He opened the warm champagne and they drank it out of mugs. They ate too much and she fell asleep. He watched her and in the morning, they woke up together, fuzzy-mouthed but happy. He insisted on driving her back to her apartment so that she could get warm clothes. He set out for Field for an early start. She went to her office.

  And that’s when it all started to go off the rails.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The first phone call came from Ellie. “Petra, where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  Petra contained her urge to squeal, I was with my boooyyyfriend, and simply said, “I was out.”

  Nonetheless, a tiny hiccup of delight managed to escape her. Ellie ignored it.

  “Well, the divorce came through and Mom and Jim decided not to wait. They’re getting married the weekend after next,” Ellie said. “You didn’t pick up your phone so Mom, in her usual Lisa Lale fashion, assumed you didn’t want to talk to her.”

  A few days ago, Petra would have been dismayed by the news of Lisa’s rapidly impending nuptials. Today, it barely managed to squelch her. “I will call her, I promise.”

  “Pete,” Ellie said, “what are we going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” Petra asked.

  She had a patient arriving in five minutes. She started to go through her notes.

  “I mean, it’s too soon!” Ellie wailed.

  “Seriously? You’re getting upset about this now, after screaming at me to be more supportive and stop being negative?”

  “It’s just so soon. I wanted a little more time to prepare.”

  “Well, you’ve had six more months than me. Suck it up.”

  Petra hung up.

  She took a deep breath. Ellie had been preternaturally calm for most of her life. She was entitled to a flip out occasionally. After a cooling-off period, Petra would call again and try to smooth it out. But Ellie was not going to spoil her mood.

  She stuck her chin out and gave a determined smile.

  Her patients today were the usual mix of the itching and the cursing. She dropped a few shots and rubbed cream on arms. She administered spirometry to a coughing fifty-year-old bank manager and jumped up and down shouting encouragement to blow. It was times like these that Petra wished that her office walls were a little thicker. Three times, they performed the test; the bank manager’s forced expiratory volume sucked. Petra told Joanie
to arrange for a follow-up appointment.

  Before she knew it, it was lunchtime. Joanie was out so Petra took a call from her landlord, Mr. Willand. He told her that the downstairs tenants were moving out and asked if she would she be interested in taking over the space. Petra put down her yogurt and tried not to laugh too hard.

  She did not tell him that she was barely getting by, but she did let him know that there would be little chance that she’d need the extra room.

  “The downstairs is not that big or expensive. I’d rather have someone take both spaces at once,” he started to say.

  They had decided on a short-term lease, which although it was unusual for a business, Petra thought prudent at the time. The landlord argued that they could renew at the end of the year. He seemed, at the time, to like the idea of a doctor taking the upstairs office. Now Petra realized that she might have hamstrung herself with her cautious move. It was as if she had expected herself to fail, that she had expected to give up the business, and tried to cut her losses ahead of time.

  Willand said something about how much trouble it was to have two separate tenants, how the quilters on the first floor had been pretty much perfect except for the fact that quilting was probably not the most profitable enterprise, and he speculated about how much he could get for the spaces combined, as if she weren’t there.

  “But you’ll renew me for next year if I want to?” she asked, her anxiety kicking to a higher pitch.

  She couldn’t relocate her practice. She loved this place and it had been hard enough getting people in the door to begin with. How would she do it if she had to change addresses, move delicate allergen bottles, and print new business cards? What if she had to leave the neighborhood? She’d have to get a car. She could definitely not afford a car.

  Mr. Willand sighed gustily and gave a wobbly, “Well, we’ll see, Doc,” which didn’t bode well at all.

  The third phone call came from Kevin’s father’s administrative assistant.