by Cee Smith
Mr. Belford moved like he was one with the city. Aside from the passing men and women intrigued by his model-like appearance, no one seemed to bump into him, and he barely even glanced into oncoming traffic as he darted across crosswalks. It made for difficult hunting, but it also added an element of excitement.
I pulled my purse up higher on my shoulder, clutching it tighter to my body as I hurried across the street to catch up the few feet I lost when he unexpectedly dashed between cars to the other side of the street. I passed behind the car still honking, the driver still shaking his hand in the window.
A smile made its way to my lips. At least I’m not the only one who seems to be affected by Mr. Belford’s arrogance. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Arrogance? I lingered over the thought as he slowed down right before reaching a side street with few people on it.
Mr. Belford stopped outside a red-bricked building, five stories high with a large black awning outside the main entrance. Did he live here? It’s not something I expected from the uptight Mr. Belford. There wasn’t even a doorman. With some shuffling and digging in his pocket he produced a key and strode into the building.
Shifting from foot to foot, I waited what felt like hours before it was safe enough to move closer.
I only wanted a brief glimpse of the man behind the mask. Who was Mr. Belford? And when did he become Vett? Was it when he was at home lounging around in nothing but his sweatpants, or out on a date at the movies? Or was that when he became Everett, and Vett was only for those he met on the subway? The thought beckoned a smile to form, and I couldn’t wait any longer. My feet propelled me forward, impatient with the idea of having to wait one more minute.
Red and brown brick buildings climbed into the sky, shading the sun from my intrusion into Mr. Belford’s private life. I approached the building where I saw him slip in. Just outside the door was a call box with twelve names. Middle column, second name down—Everett Belford. My finger floated above the button. There was a resounding click, and the door to my left opened leaving me with a choice—Do I go inside and up to apartment #401, or do I flee back down the street to the subway and forget this ever happened?
A couple discussing their Friday night plans emerged onto the street and my hand darted out to catch the door just as they continued making their way down Mercer Street. Even with my fingers clutching the frame of the door, I still lingered, half in and half out, while deciding whether I should push forward or consider my social investigation completed. The parquet floors led to a hallway where the glimmer of silver doors beckoned me like an unopened present.
I forged on.
For the age of the building and the wood floors that look scuffed down to the sub-flooring, the elevator was a fresh surprise of polished metal grasping onto the floral notes of the woman’s perfume who’d just exited. It wasn’t cloying as smells can sometimes be in closed in spaces. Instead it smelled kind of fresh, like walking through a meadow with fresh blooming flowers—still ripe from yesterday’s rain. It was a calming effect that was welcome when everything else inside me was screaming with caution. I pressed the button for the fourth floor and listened to the soundtrack of creaks and groans, of the old building as I passed every floor.
The doors opened and I looked up and down the halls. There appeared to be four apartments on the floor with one door leading to an emergency stairwell.
Every step in my heels created a hollow drumming sound, which radiated through the carpet and down the hall. A sound that very likely could have been heard on the other side of any one of the apartments. I gritted my teeth as I reached down to remove my shoes. Heels in hand, I tiptoed down the hall on lighter feet.
401 shined on the door of the last apartment on the left. The gold font seemed out of place for an apartment that was the antithesis of the golden standard of apartment living in New York. As I approached his door I could hear rustling from within his apartment—the slapping of cupboards, the thump of a glass meeting a solid surface, the refrigerator opening and closing. So much for privacy; the thin walls announced everything happening inside. Maybe he was having a nice cold beer after a long day of busting everyone’s balls—mine especially.
I dropped my head to take a peek at the inch of light visible beneath his door. I didn’t see any shadows, so I took a step closer, lining myself up with his door.
All of this secrecy could have been avoided if he hadn’t acted like he didn’t remember me from that night on the train.
My fingers ghosted across his door, tickling the wood with my closeness, but just before I brushed my fingers across the glossy wood I heard footsteps drawing me back to the very real possibility of him finding me there, just outside his door. His steps drew nearer and I peeked underneath the door again only to see that the light had darkened. I hightailed it to the last door on the left leading to the stairwell. Before the door closed behind me, I heard the familiar click of a deadbolt unlatching. His door opened and I was already making my way down the staircase. Hiding out in the stairwell of my boss’s apartment was a new low.
Realizing he had returned to his apartment or taken the elevator, I leaned against the concrete wall to catch my breath. My heart felt like it might have catapulted from my chest—whether from running down the stairs or from fear of being caught, I wasn’t sure. I just wanted to get the hell out of there before anyone else saw me.
“He sounds like a fucking dickwad, if you ask me. Are you sure it’s the same guy?”
I sat on the couch with my roommate and replayed the events of the past week, careful to include the important bits. I told her about my meeting on Tuesday and his questions, which would seem belittling coming from anyone other than him—followed by the two times that we touched, all of which were initiated by him. As I told her about my earlier meeting and how he was less than pleased with my work, I watched her face wrinkle with displeasure.
“I’m offended. I blew the guy, for Christ’s sake. It’s him. I can’t figure him out though. Sometimes he acts like he’s never seen me before, but then other times it feels like he wants me to make a move—”
“Yeah, that’s some pansy bullshit. No man his age should be expecting a girl to make a move. So either that’s not it or he’s playing some grade school shit, picking on the girl he likes the most because he doesn’t know how else to communicate. I’m saying pass on this one.”
“You haven’t even seen him.”
“Because that’s gonna change my mind,” she punctuated her words with an eye roll. As she shook her head, her bangs danced against her eyelashes before she blew an exhaustive breath pushing them higher up her forehead.
“Here,” I scooted closer, pulling my phone out to show her the asshole she said wasn’t worth it. One look and she’d be singing a new tune. We didn’t always like the same type of guy, but Vett was an every-girl kind of guy.
“Stalker much?” She laughed as she leaned in while I flipped through my photos. I found the one he took at that art benefit, the one where he wore a tux, and double-clicked the image to enlarge it on my screen.
She grabbed the phone from my hand like she couldn’t see perfectly well from where she sat.
“God damn. Ryan asked you to blow this guy? Was he fucking crazy, or were his balls just that big?”
“I think he just had big balls.”
“You would know. Ahhhh,” she nudged my shoulder and burst out laughing.
“Alright, alright. Give me my phone back.” I took my phone, but not before sneaking in one more look.
“So your asshole is sexy. That could be kind of hot actually. He could be all, ‘Do you know what a 90-degree angle is? Here, let me fuck you over my desk so you can find out.’ He’s probably used to fucking stupid girls, so now he doesn’t know how to treat one with half a brain. You just have to grow some balls. Don’t let him talk down to you.”
“Easy for you to say. It’s not like he leaves room for me to argue.”
“If you’re waiting for room then you’re ne
ver going to find it. You have to make room. I was telling you, treat him like he’s got a little dick and you’ll be halfway there.”
“Do you think I should ask him if he remembers me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t phrase it like that. What if he says no? Talk about embarrassing. You’ll leave there fucking crushed. There’d be no way you could go back. So if you care about your job then I’d think about how you want to go about that one.”
“Yeah.” I started to chew my nails while I thought over Tea’s suggestion. She was right. There was no way I could just come right out and ask if he remembered me. I would be too humiliated to return to work if he were to say no. Even worse, what if he said yes and just shrugged his shoulders like so what? I either needed to be ready to put myself out there for more or bring it up because I wanted to establish boundaries. I was stuck in the spin cycle with no end in sight.
“But if you think you’re not gonna stay, you should totally have office sex before you go. Shit, I wish my boss was even half as hot as yours. I’d blow him just for nicer office supplies.”
“Now who’s a ho-bag?”
Tuesday, August 24th
The previous day was spent brainstorming with Ed, but my attention was scarce since I found myself glued to Mr. Belford’s door and the fact that he hadn’t shown up for work. I wanted to ask someone about his absence, but I didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention by my inquiry. Instead I sulked at the window like a puppy waiting for its owner to get home. I felt his absence, in part, had something to do with what happened on the train on Friday. Was it a mistake? Was he mortified that he took things too far and now he didn’t know how to interact with me? He couldn’t hide from me forever.
Tuesday rolled around and I checked my calendar to find our meeting had vanished, which made no sense; he was in the office. I’d seen him enter his office earlier that morning. I didn’t even have anything to say or present in our meeting, but I was beyond irritated. Was I being punished for something? He couldn’t have known it was me in his staircase, so why the distance?
I sequestered myself at my usual desk, and to everyone’s benefit, I was left alone to drown in my own torment. I took a glance at my phone to see the picture of Mr. Belford’s face. Something about the ease of his smile taunted me, or maybe it was the fact that I felt like a lab rat to be picked and prodded at while stuck in his labyrinth. I didn’t sign up to be tricked and toyed with, but that’s what he was doing. Fuel in my chest burned with shame that I’d let myself be put in this situation. However, I couldn’t say anything to him without first resigning myself to the fact that if it didn’t go my way then I would be out of a job, either by his hand or due to my own embarrassment.
When Mr. Belford left his office, passing my desk without so much as a word, he made the choice for me. Like termites chewing at my insides, the indecision left me hollow. I couldn’t let another day pass without at least drawing whatever this was to the surface.
That day on the train I captured a glimpse of my future in the depths of those eyes and to let him go would be like blowing out the candles on a cake and telling someone what you wished for—I didn’t want to ruin the only chance I might have with him. I wasn’t ready to let the dream die.
Mr. Belford passed my desk again on his way back to his office and I found myself rising. I stepped outside of myself and watched as my legs carried me to Catherine’s desk. My voice asked if he was available.
“He’s ready for—”
He opened the door. “Thank you, Catherine.”
His look drew me into the room and I clasped my hands together, looking for something to occupy the thoughts spiraling through my mind—most of which included wondering what the fuck I was doing. The spontaneity of this trip left me without words. I was still fearful of what I might say when he motioned for me to take a seat.
The sound of the door shutting was resolute, making me jump. His hand settled over my shoulder in an attempt to ease my nerves. Despite his intentions, the action only heightened the intensity of my anxiety.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry I canceled our meeting earlier, but I wanted to give you more time to work out your ideas. How are they coming along?”
I was thrown off by his question and his apparent ignorance of my underlying emotions. Something was simmering between us, and I came in with every intention to lay it all on the line and get to the bottom of it. Unsure if I could endure another week of the back and forth, I needed answers. After only a minute of being in his office, I could already feel my fortitude wavering.
“Um, no, it’s fine. I have Ed helping me with ideas.”
“Good. I was thinking of taking a little field trip. You up for it?” A heartbreaking smile broke free from his face and I became putty—easily manipulated to go along with anything coming from those lips. I swallowed past the jumble of words glued to my throat and nodded my head.
“Great. Are you ready to go now, or do you need a minute?” I stood waiting for some underhanded remark that would make me feel inadequate to even breathe the same air as him, but one didn’t come.
“You come here a lot, don’t you?”
“I’m a benefactor here. History is a bit of a passion of mine.”
“And why’s that?”
He looked at me as if measuring the weight of my question. Did I sound like a smart-ass when I asked it? I didn’t mean to, but maybe that’s how my enthusiasm came across. I wanted to show him how genuinely interested I was in learning everything about him. How could I explain that without sounding like a crazy person?
“I’m intrigued.” Willing my cheeks not to blush, I tried focusing on the other people that passed us. While they were interested in the history of planets and mammals, I was captivated by the history of Vett.
“I like seeing the symbiotic relationship between who we are now and the history that’s led us to this point…take that first man who thought to create fire. Do you think it was an accident? Or was he considered strange, maybe an outcast for thinking that rubbing sticks together would create heat?”
“Maybe it was a woman.” He stopped looking at some chart delineating the evolution of man and looked down at me. Those eyes the color of a budding spring were an elixir to my soul. In those eyes I felt lost and found, like I was falling and like gravity had transfixed me to that very spot. Everything fell away when he looked at me like that, like I was the first of my kind—the Eve to his Adam.
His lips spread like sap falling from a tree, completely unraveling me. It’s like I could see every muscle in his face working to lift his lips into the most dazzling of grins. His smile morphed into a smirk and he leaned into me. I could feel the heat from his body wrap me in its embrace, cloaking me like a second skin. Without thought, I drifted closer, my hands hovering somewhere between our bodies. To some it might have looked like I was trying to keep some space, to keep our bodies from touching, but in fact, it was the opposite. I wanted more of what I had felt on the train Friday night. His posture and the look in his eyes was the most open I’d ever seen him, and I wondered if he was as swept up in the moment as I was.
I held my hands up in hopes that he would lean in just a little more. What will it feel like when our bodies finally merge? Without the additional layer of clothes, I’d be able to finally feel the hardness of his body through the sensory receptors of my fingers. I’d yet to see him without clothes on, but I imagined it daily. I’d seen the way those oxford shirts of his dipped, tilted, and stretched around hidden muscles, how his body yawned like he’d spent all winter hibernating as he’d taken off his blazer.
I was still staring into those eyes when his body pressed against my hands. I didn’t know what I expected, but when my hands registered the crispness of his shirt, I didn’t expect him to lean in farther. It was like he was trying to break the barrier that’d been rising between us since the moment I started working for him. For a week I’d been chipping away at concrete with an icepick only to
have him add another block. Could this be the turning point for us? Perhaps now I’ll no longer need my icepick. Is this his way of showing me that his walls are coming down?
Pressing hard into the muscles of his chest, I wanted nothing more than to trace the silhouette of his body. I stilled, only focusing on the muscles directly beneath my fingers. The muscle was thick, dense, and unforgiving against the weight of my hands. Through the fabric, the heavy thump of his heart beat solid and deep. His heart was as sure in every beat as the man who was as sure with every word. His chest rose with his next breath and he leaned into my shoulder just before exhaling.
This one moment, which in all actuality passed in the blink of an eye, stretched out for me. As if happening in slow motion, I could see every intake of breath, blink of his eyes, twist of his mouth, rustle of his clothes—nothing was beyond my observation.
“Every woman has to have her secrets, right?” His words steamrolled over my neck and punctured my ears with a blanketed desire only he could wield.
I want to be his secret.
I wish I could say I was the femme fatale or the sexy seductress, that I had some witty comeback capable of luring him to the darkest corner of the museum where he would succumb to my darkest cravings and hidden fantasies, all of which included our bodies naked and writhing in bliss. Instead I felt myself cowering beneath his words, shying away from the intensity of those eyes. For the first time, I was scared—scared of what to say or what he would infer, scared of this magnetism that drew me to him from the very first time I saw him on the train. I was scared of falling and what it meant to do so.
