Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  We move back toward our table—or rather, I float.

  Once everyone has had their turn hamming it up with Dwayne, he takes his leave to great applause. The string quartet is replaced by a DJ (of the turntable variety), and the photo setup is swiftly removed, giving way to a dance floor that soon is filled with bodies.

  While my abused leg muscles are in no shape to break it down on a 20x20 floor crammed with half-drunk VIPs, Marco offers his hand. “One dance,” he says. “It’s a slow song. I’ll hold you up.”

  Only a fool would say no to him.

  He leads me onto the dance floor, pulling me tight against him, one arm around my midsection, the other at ninety degrees holding my hand aloft in a gentlemanly waltz position.

  “Was he everything you’d imagined?”

  “And more. Thank you so much, Marco. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. You did this. This is all you,” he says, kissing me softly.

  “I can’t believe you told Dwayne about the show,” I say, once our lips part.

  “Can you imagine the publicity if he got behind it?”

  “Only in my wildest dreams.” He touches his cheek to mine. “But the play . . . if I go, will you miss me? Because I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t think I can leave you here.”

  “If I go with you, you wouldn’t be leaving me anywhere,” he says.

  I look into his face, my eyes widening. “You’d go? Back to LA?”

  “I could be convinced.”

  My heart thuds in my chest. Really? He’d go back, to be with me? “But . . . wouldn’t it make you sad? To go back? Too many memories?”

  “Portland’s been very good to me. I’ve done a lot of healing—I’m learning to forgive myself, at least a little.”

  “Marco . . .” I feel bad that I brought this up, especially tonight.

  “Spending time with you, around your infectious energy, makes me realize how much I really do miss my life and my friends there.”

  “No pressure from me. I swear. I’m sure your friends would be thrilled to have you back.”

  “You won’t beg and plead for me to hitch my cart to yours?”

  “Maybe a little begging and pleading,” I tease.

  We sway until the song fades and a faster beat takes its place. Marco leans close to my ear. “Shall we go find some fresh air?”

  A plan I can get behind.

  With one last, loving look at the ballroom, I follow Marco to the elevator to ascend to the hotel’s top floor, which houses Departure, a very posh Asian fusion restaurant. Marco asks for a table on the patio, and given that it’s just after eleven on a Sunday evening, there are plenty of seats to choose from.

  Marco orders wine for me, an espresso for himself since he’s our chauffeur, while I sneakily remove my shoes under the table, my aching feet grateful for the reprieve. He stands and moves to the glass railing overlooking Morrison Avenue, Pioneer Courthouse Square to the right, the shiny atriums on buildings up and across the way, the twinkly lights of a quiet downtown core, and east to the Willamette sleepily flowing northward to meet its big brother, the Columbia River.

  He turns and gestures for me to join him; I do, trying not to focus on the fact that we’re a million feet from the street below, and should there be a calamitous earthquake, we’re in trouble because I think Dwayne Johnson has left the building, or at the very least retired to his suite to take off his supersuit.

  “Did you have a pleasant evening?” Marco asks.

  “Like a dream.”

  “Excellent.”

  Marco wraps his arm around my waist as we gaze at the beauty of nighttime Portland.

  “I think this is possibly the best night of my entire life. No, not possibly. For sure. The best night,” I say.

  Marco turns, his bow tie loosened and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing just the perfect amount of dark chest hair and skin that is olive by nature and a shade darker thanks to our recent sunny days. My wine-infused fingers long to touch it.

  He leans on his left elbow so we’re facing each other, his smile soft as he reaches for my hand.

  A grin creeps across his face. “The night’s not over yet. There’s still time for you to cause trouble somewhere.”

  I punch his arm playfully.

  “Oww, you’re much stronger now than you were a few months ago.”

  “I’ve been under the tutelage of an excellent trainer.”

  “Is that right?” Marco moves even closer, his eyes on my lips. “Well, give him my compliments.”

  We’re so close, we’re breathing the same breath. I’m sure he and anyone within a one-mile radius can hear my heart pounding through my chest wall.

  And then his hand moves from the railing to my cheek, and we’re kissing, and he tastes like wine, and his lips are plump and delicious, and then his other hand is around my lower back, pulling me to him, and the cheek hand moves to my gorgeously coiffed hair, but I don’t even care because it’s just hair, and Miraculously Beautiful Marco is kissing me, really kissing me, not that sloppy, slobbery tonsil hockey Trevor was so good at, but a proper, sensual, teasing kiss that pretty much melts all the bones in my body—

  “Your drinks, sir,” the waiter interrupts. We pull apart and Marco nods at the young waiter, who is sporting a blush almost as dark as my Cabernet he’s just delivered.

  Once we’re again alone, I can’t look away from Marco’s face, the way the twinkly lights reflect in his widened pupils or the soft crow’s-feet around his eyes or the dark shadow that so desperately wants to be a beard but serves to turn me on with a simple brush against my neck or how he tucks his curls behind his ear like he’s a kid.

  “Is this real? Are you real? This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me. I don’t follow through with stuff, I don’t meet my childhood heroes, and I certainly don’t kiss men who look like you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  Marco takes my hand in his and kisses my closed knuckles. “Four months ago, this seemingly timid young woman with hair the color of caramel and a lofty goal tucked in her pocket walked into my gym. This girl had allowed the people in her life to dictate her destiny to her, and yet there she was, taking the first step toward reclaiming the reins of her fate. Over the course of four months, she stopped whingeing long enough to recognize the power she has always had within herself, despite the obstacles thrown in her way, despite the efforts of others to dampen that sparkle that outsiders gravitate toward. She became part of an extended family; she showed me the meaning of true friendship and gave freely of her time, her resources, her trust. She showed me grace under fire. She showed me her humanity, even as the rest of the world laughed behind their hands or shot at her with their poison-tipped arrows. She showed me that she had what it takes to show up every day and get the job done, even when things hurt or when the entire world was in flames around her. She showed me that she can find silver linings, that she’s a true phoenix who can rise from the ashes rather than paint herself in their soot.”

  I open my mouth to interrupt him, but he shushes me with a finger against my lips.

  “You are the biggest handful I have ever trained. But you also have the biggest heart. You work harder than any of my other clients. When you come in, you give everything you have, and not just to your workout but to the humans around you. You listen to their stories and ask about their days and their kids and their pets and their jobs. You give them time, which is often all people need. Look what you did for Howie.”

  I hiccup against the emotion rising in my throat; tears sting the corners of my eyes, but his fingertips are there to catch them before they track down Jericho’s paint job.

  “When Danielle Steele with an e walks into the fitness center, the entire place lights up like sunshine has burned through the ceiling. You lost your job because that building couldn’t contain you when you burn so brightly. That is why we’re here tonight. It’s because of you. Your friends wanted to give to you what you give to them
every single day just by being you.”

  “You make it sound like I’m saving orphans or curing cancer,” I say, giggling through a light sob. “I’m a huge selfish jerk. You’d know that if you’d read my blog.”

  “I would know no such thing. That blog—your diary—that’s personal. And even if I were to read it, it would simply show me that you’re exactly who you present yourself to be. A bit nutty, the butt of a lot of other people’s misspent jokes, the unfortunate recipient of some questionable parenting. Who among us doesn’t have skeletons in the closet?”

  “At least my skeletons have cute activewear now,” I say.

  He grins and pushes his forehead against mine. “That’s my girl.”

  That’s my girl? I want to be your girl forever, Marco. If this is a dream, please never let me wake up.

  He wraps his warm hands around my bare upper arms, and I shiver under the intoxicating feel of his skin against mine. When he kisses me again, the shudder is full body, helped along by the steady breeze that tickles the edges of the orange patio umbrellas.

  Marco takes off his tux coat and wraps it around my shoulders. “Would you care for your wine?” he asks.

  “I do have wine at my apartment . . . unless Aldous and Hobbs beat us to it.”

  He lifts a brow, his smile slow as he bends to my lips again. “Are you inviting me over for a nightcap?”

  I whisper against his mouth, “I’m inviting you over for breakfast.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  I’m up against my front door, laughing like a hyena—which will surely earn me some angry Post-it notes on my mailbox from my neighbors in the coming week—but Marco is pressed against me, trying to get the key in while he bites my neck.

  Aldous mewls on the opposite side. I finally take the keys from Marco so I can get us inside with more expedience, but as soon as my back is turned, he wraps his arms around my waist, his torso pressed against me, and proceeds to nibble from behind.

  “Would you mind your manners? What would the queen think if she saw you?” I whisper, finally getting the right key in the lock and scraping the door open. Marco stumbles in behind me, his brown curls already mussed, even as he tries to tame and tuck them behind his ears.

  My shoes off, Marco’s borrowed tux jacket on the nearest chair, I hold up a finger to keep him at a distance, just long enough to disappear into the kitchen and get a cat treat for Aldous. I need her occupied for a little while so that I can be occupied myself.

  When I come around the corner from the tiny kitchen, Marco is in the center of the living room, a teasing smile on his face, his eyes sparkling under the influence of low light.

  Slowly, I tiptoe to him. He’s easily six inches taller than I am, so I do have to look up once we’re standing so close. Without a word, I pull off his untied bow tie, unbutton one, two, three buttons of his shirt, pull it out of his tux trousers, finish unbuttoning, and then slowly I ease it off his beautifully sculpted, olive shoulders. His breathing, faster than usual, matches mine, and my hand against his heart tells me he’s feeling the same thing I am.

  His skin under my hands breaks into gooseflesh as I touch the muscles I’ve only ogled from afar. I splay his left hand atop mine, palm up, and trace the fresh scar from his heroics at the bar.

  “My hero . . . you are a remarkable specimen. I’m so glad naive young Nicola lives thousands of miles away,” I whisper.

  His hands move to my bare shoulders, up my neck. He cups my face and leans down to me, our lips again meeting, stained with wine and swollen with lust. Slowly, he reaches behind and finds my gown’s zipper. The dress loosens and puddles around my feet. I tremble under the warmth of his touch.

  Softly, he pulls away and pushes me back a half step. He examines me, head to toe. “I must say, I am quite good at my job.” He reaches around and cups my butt cheeks; his hands then move up my back, kneading gently. “Still sore?”

  “I was.”

  “And now?”

  “Less sore.”

  He pauses and lifts my arm, looking at the ink along my left rib cage. “Your tattoo . . . I’ve not seen this before.”

  “I haven’t spent much time at the gym in my skivvies.”

  “What a loss for me,” he teases. “Is that a number? Ninety-four?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  His lips purse together, and he pretends to lock and throw away the key.

  “It’s Dwayne Johnson’s jersey number from when he played for the Miami Hurricanes the year they won the national championship—in 1991.”

  Marco smiles and runs a finger over the tattoo. “Steele, when you dedicate yourself to something, you really are all in.” He snickers and kisses my neck again, atop my shoulders, his breath light against my ear. My whole body feels like it’s made of flames.

  With a boldness I didn’t know I had, I unbutton his trousers; his hands find the clasp on my strapless bra. Both garments fall to the floor.

  We’re both shivering, though it’s far from cold in here. His smile is infectious as he traces the contours of my face. “You’re beautiful . . . you do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Takes one to know one,” I say. He kisses the tip of my nose, and when I look down, my breath catches in my throat—and not just because of his impressive physiological reaction to our closeness. My hands on his upper arms, I take a step back. “Oh. My. God. Are those—are those Rock boxers?”

  Marco grins broadly as he pirouettes, complete with the required ass-wiggle, to show off his WWE-licensed undergarments. “After the John Cena water bottle, I had to step up my game.”

  I tackle him onto the couch, straddling his lap, both of us giggling like fools, laughter giving way to less childish fare as hands and lips and tongues express the mutual admiration we’ve been delaying.

  “It did seem a bit odd to have met a man in person while my most sensitive bits were swaddled in fabric with his face printed all over it.”

  “I have a solution for that,” I say against his lips.

  “Do tell . . .”

  “Let me unswaddle you.”

  Marco smiles, bites my lower lip, and in one smooth movement, he lifts me up, supporting my ass with both hands, my legs tightly wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. I never want to let go.

  He carries me into my bedroom; holding my body with one arm, he uses the other to sweep my discarded robe and the throw pillows onto the floor. Gently, he lowers me to the duvet. I scoot toward the headboard as he crawls on after me, his curls dangerously messy, his lips full and hungry, his eyes on fire.

  When he’s hovering over me, I rest a hand against his chest. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  Tenderly, he bends to kiss me. “The night is still so young . . . Don’t thank me yet.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  A rather annoyed feline sits on my belly, biting at the hair on Marco’s arm where it rests just under my bare boobs. Morning sunlight streams through the break in my gauzy bedroom curtains. I hazard a look at my bedside clock . . . ten before eight.

  “Is Aldous going to eat through my arm, or should we maybe feed her?” Marco asks sleepily.

  I turn my head, inhaling and holding it so he doesn’t get a noseful of my morning dragon breath. When his eyes creak open and he smiles, my heart skitters in my chest.

  He pets Aldous before she really gets hold of skin, but instead of lavishing all his attentions on her soft fur, his hand pets my exposed fleshy bits, and he moves to lean over me.

  “What are you doing?” I giggle under his weight. He buries his stubbled face in my neck, my breath quickening under his soft kisses along my shoulders.

  “What do you think I’m doing? It’s morning, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Monday morning. Don’t you have to be at work?”

  “I can be a few minutes late.”

  An hour later—after an inconsolable Aldous has been fed because come on you bad humans what are you doing can’t you see I’m starving here—I�
��m hogging the showerhead as Marco rubs out my muscles that are knotting up after a very physically active twenty-four hours. While I’m sad that Jericho’s beautiful hair sculpture is now a sopping mess, it feels good to be free of pins and hairspray as Marco’s fingers scrub the shampoo into my scalp.

  “If I’d known barfing in a garbage can in front of you would’ve earned me this kind of specialized attention, I would’ve done it years ago.”

  He chuckles. “Well, let the record show that not all barfing beauties get this level of attention.”

  “What made my barfing event so unique?”

  “Because you looked so completely pathetic when it was over.”

  I halfheartedly smack the side of his muscled thigh. It’s the only thing I can reach with my back to him, and this scalp massage is too bloody good to interrupt.

  “You know, my sweet Danielle, just because your competition is over does not mean you can fall back to old habits,” he says.

  “Sure . . . Yeah . . . Whatever.”

  He kneads a tight spot in the musculature around my shoulder blade, and my knees threaten to buckle. “We’re going to get clean, get dressed, grab proper smoothies, and head to the gym.”

  My eyes pop open. “Really? Today? Can’t we just be naked in my bed all day?”

  “We will have time for nakedness after the gym.”

  I turn around, taking my turn with the soap. “Are you sure? I can give you all the workout you need, right here . . .”

  He moans under my hands, but then stops me before I can work him into a real lather. “Gym first. Then dessert.”

  I push out my bottom lip in a feigned pout. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  When he brings up a bag from the car with a complete set of clean gym clothes, I tease him about his forethought. He said that it was his evil plan all along to corrupt my virtue, and now that he’s done it, he can return his tux, get his deposit, and escape to South America to start a new life.