by Lisa Sorbe
After.
After homework and social obligations. After jobs and creating a brand for myself.
After, after, after.
The thing is, though…sometimes there isn’t an after.
Sometimes there’s just…nothing.
And the only things left are the empty promises you never got around to fulfilling.
Shoulda.
Coulda.
Woulda.
For me and Lenora, time just continued to pass. Life wore on, and on…and soon the distance between us seemed to measure just as much in thought as it did in miles.
“I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed.”
I’m lying on Daniel’s bed, naked aside for my bra, with one leg thrown over his. We’re skin to skin, our bodies damp with sweat and flushed pink from the quickie we were determined to fit in before I left for Minnesota. I’m cutting it close; my flight leaves in two hours and with LA traffic as horrendous as it always is (not to mention the way Daniel’s running his hand up my bare thigh, turning me on all over again), there’s a good chance I just screwed myself right out of my inheritance.
Pun intended.
He heaves a sigh, and my head rises and falls with his breath.
“I know you’re disappointed.” I trail my fingers along his chest, appreciating the hard contours, his smooth skin, before dragging them up his neck and grazing my fingernails behind his ear, something I know he likes. Aside from the sex, things between us have been tense since I arrived at Daniel’s place a mere half hour ago, and I’m determined to put them right before I leave.
Daniel’s hand skates up and over my stomach, his palm warm against my already fevered skin.
“I’m not thrilled about it, either,” I point out, biting my lip and struggling to maintain control as he works his hand down, down, down… “But I don’t have a choice. I have to…fuck, Daniel.”
His touch becomes more insistent after the moan I’ve been holding back breaks free. He knows he’s won, and his voice boasts a teasing lilt it didn’t have earlier. “You have to what? Hmm?”
“You’re doing this on…on purpose.” The last part of the accusation comes out as a gasp, the words escaping against his chest as I bury my forehead in the crook of his neck. The hand I’m using to push his away quickly becomes useless, and in an embarrassingly short amount of time it’s taken up the charge, flattening against the very one it was trying to banish and, instead, urging it on.
When it’s over, when I’m spent more than I’ve ever been in Daniel’s arms, he pulls away, sliding from his king-sized bed and rumpled sheets to pull on a pair of black satin pajama pants that sit just low enough on his hips to turn my insides right back into a lusty, mushy mess.
Again.
Though to be fair, Daniel’s always had this effect on me.
We met exactly one year, four months, five days and twelve hours ago. And in the one year, four months, five days and, oh, approximately five hours that we’ve been, you know, intimate, the sex hasn’t gotten stale. Not once.
“That was low, Rodriguez,” I chastise, following him out of bed and scrambling around for my clothes. “Real low.” I hook a black lace thong around my finger while desperately scanning the floor for my pants.
Daniel reaches down, snags my jeans, and shrugs. He grins the same sexy grin that caught my attention the day we met, the same one that’s held sway over me ever since. “That’s Doctor Rodriguez,” he says, handing me the jeans and slipping an arm around my waist. Pulling me close, he bends down and presses his lips to my ear. His breath is hot, and I shiver when I remember where his mouth was not even ten minutes ago. “Even to you, Miss Vane.”
He’s kidding, of course. For the first month we were together, I introduced him as Dr. Rodriguez whenever we ran across someone I knew and he didn’t. And each time, he’d squint his boy next door baby blues, humbly hold up his hands, and laughingly refer to himself as, “Daniel, just Daniel.” So the fact that he’s scolding me now isn’t as harsh as it sounds. Though there is a hardness to his words, a depth to his tone that indicates he is, maybe just slightly, annoyed with me.
Of course, I know from where his irritation stems. And it’s not due to emitting the coveted doctor prefix, that’s for sure.
He’s ticked I’m leaving him to show up at his parents’ anniversary party alone.
And, truth be told, I’m a little ticked about it as well. Daniel’s father, Dr. Rodriguez, Senior, is a plastic surgeon to the stars. And not just any stars, like the B or C list wannabes, ones that are here today and gone tomorrow. Nope. He slices, plucks, and cuts the big ones—the A-listers. The ones who sport his handy work in blockbuster, award-winning films, and then, under the cloak of secrecy, turn around and refer their co-stars to.
A good portion of them are going to be at the party tonight. And while I’m not immune to the sight of stars—I’ve lived in L.A. since I was seven—this party would have been a game changer. For the first time in my life, I’d be dining with them instead of serving them.
Daniel works in his father’s clinic and, at just thirty-years old, is poised to take over the whole practice in just a few short years. Which means that tonight, as his date, I would have been sitting thigh-to-thigh with the cream of the crop.
I force myself from his arms and shimmy into my jeans. “You know if there was any way to get out of this, I would.”
Daniel’s laugh is dry as he crosses the room, picks up his phone from his dresser, and scrolls. “There is a way, Lenny.” I watch the muscles in his back flex as he lifts his shoulders. “You just say no.”
His response is so nonchalant, so dismissive, that for a moment I just stand there, staring at his perfect back, at a loss for words. Then, as if sensing the heat from my gaze, he turns, drops his chin, and sighs. “Look, I know what this means to you. This,” he hooks his fingers in the air, “inheritance.”
I fold my arms over my chest and arch a brow.
Daniel, who comes from money, who has never had to worry about money, who is basically wealth personified, has no idea what this means to me. There’s no way he could.
I watch him make his way back across the room, his body moving with a feline grace that makes me think of a jungle cat stalking its prey. His hands, which are used to create so much beauty, pull me in. Grazing my jaw with his thumb, he gently tilts my face to his. “Baby, you don’t need your grandmother’s money.”
I scoff. “Welp, Doctor Rodriguez. I have a college degree in a subject that not only bores me, but is next to impossible to get a job in, and I support myself as a waitress at a club where the customers make more in one month than I do in a year. So I’m pretty sure my grandmother’s money wouldn’t make my quality of life any less bleak.”
“Bleak.” Daniels laughs and pops a kiss against my forehead. “You’re so dramatic. Not to mention adorable.”
“And you’re hilarious.” The grumble in my voice belies the statement. “You know that, right?”
“What I know,” Daniels says, slipping a finger under my bra strap and giving it a tug so that it falls over my shoulder, “is that tonight wasn’t going to be just about my parents.”
I frown, and when I meet his gaze, something in his cerulean eyes makes my heart rate quicken. Those eyes, so light when everything else about him is dark, so dark, relay a plan that, over the past few months, I’d been wondering about, but hardly dared to indulge.
I know what he’s implying. I know.
My mind races back through time, nearly a year and a half, to the day we met. At Kendra’s urging, I agreed to try out lip augmentation and scheduled an appointment at the clinic she frequented—which, coincidentally enough, just happened to be the one Daniel’s father owns. I admit I only did it for my vlog, a trendy snatch of news to relay to my followers. But because I wasn’t aware there was a junior version of the senior when I called to make the appointment, and the receptionist didn’t make the distinction when she scheduled me, I just assumed I’d be se
eing the owner, the head honcho, the man Kendra swore would be the secret to her success. So, needless to say, I was more than surprised when Daniel walked into the exam room, broad shoulders filling out his white coat in a way that made me want to rip it right off so I could see what was underneath. His smile was friendly and warm, and by the time his perfect teeth flashed against his copper skin and he’d introduced himself as Dr. Rodriguez Junior, my heart was stammering more from infatuation than from nerves. The procedure practically broke my bank account, but the results were beyond amazing, and I ended up falling for the sexy young doctor who stuck my lips with a syringe and made them, along with my heart, swell to almost twice their normal size.
And the fact that marriage has been on my mind lately isn’t a surprise. We coupled the very day we met; Daniel surprised me at my apartment that night with flowers, a six pack of bottled water (to make sure I stayed hydrated after my procedure), and an ice pack for my sensitive lips. He jokingly referred to his visit as a house call, and we ended up on my couch, watching Up (of all things) and falling asleep next to each other not even halfway through. The next morning, after waking to Daniel brushing a kiss over my still tender lips, we fell into an exclusivity that hasn’t been broken since.
Now, I hook a finger in the waistband of his pants and press my cheek against his chest, trying to coat myself in as much of his scent as I can. “And just what do you mean by that?” I ask, trying to act like I don’t care about his answer when I do. So much.
He reaches down and grabs my left hand, rubbing his thumb against my ring finger. His voice is a hum in his chest, and my cheek vibrates with a promise that sounds more like a taunt.
“You’ll just have to wait until you get back to find out.”
This isn’t happening. Please Lord-God-Almighty-and-baby-Jesus…tell me this isn’t happening.
“Can you try it again, please?”
The rental agent lifts his brows, no doubt thinking thoughts he would never dare say out loud. Not to a slightly frazzled customer who is clearly bordering on the brink of hysteria. He obediently runs my card again, his straight lipped grimace shifting to a frown as the word DECLINED flashes across the screen. For the fourth time. In a row.
That was my second card.
And I’m out of options.
Shit!
He holds out the useless piece of plastic and I take it, my mind racing. Closing my eyes, I pull in a deep breath and pause, stalling. When I open them, I force my lips into a smile and cock my head, trying to look as trustworthy as possible. “Joe, is it?” I ask, nodding to the nametag on his polyester vest.
The guy nods, not at all moved by my attempt to be personable. He’s geeky-looking, with wire frame glasses, a slight build, and a long, bony nose that matches his long, knobby limbs. I was hoping, based on his appearance, that I could maybe turn on the charm and play to his weakness. Certainly, a guy like this has never received attention from, well, anyone before.
I know, I know. It’s a cheap move, and one I normally don’t like to employ. But I’m desperate here.
“Do you think,” I ask, lowering my voice and leaning forward on the counter, “that I could maybe, you know, just pay for everything when I bring the car back?”
His eyes flick to the collar of my V-neck sweater which, thanks to my position, is gaping just enough to offer a fairly exquisite view of my cleavage. I hold my breath, knowing even before he shifts his attention back to me that I’ve lost. Apparently, Joe the rental car agent is not impressed with my tits.
His voice, like his expression, is bored. “That’s against policy, ma’am.”
No. No way. Now he’s just adding insult to injury. I’m twenty-four and so far away from madamhood it’s ridicul—
“Next, please!” Joe’s already dismissing me, craning his neck to look at the line snaking behind my back. I hear the scuff of shoes against the tiled floor as the customers shimmy forward, one by one, anxious to get a car and get on with their day. Joe’s frown lifts into a smile as he catches the eye of someone over my right shoulder. Someone who, more than likely, will more be able to pay for a vehicle.
The woman at my back is so bundled up I can barely see her face through her wraps. When she takes a bumbling step forward, I hold up a hand and move closer to the counter, blocking her path. “Look,” I say, hating the tremble in my voice, the flood of tears filling my eyes. “If this is about the deposit, just tack it on to the bill. Hell, add extra insurance for that matter! I don’t care! Keep the card and my driver’s license as insurance. Go nuts, and I’ll pay for everything in two days. I swear. Two. Days.” I feel like crossing my fingers over my chest and folding my hands in prayer. Hell, if Joe would let me, I’d drop to my knees and kiss his smelly Vans.
Anything for a car. So I can drive four hours to a funeral that starts in less than five.
“You need your driver’s license, ma’am.”
My smile is strained. “Not if I don’t get pulled over.”
He sighs. “The whole reason for the deposit is to make sure you bring the car back.”
I laugh like he just told a joke, not pounded the final nail into my coffin. “But of course I’ll bring it back! Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
Joe squeezes his eyes shut like he’s getting a headache. Maybe he’s catching mine. Because right now, my head is throbbing, about to split in two. In fact, my whole body is vibrating, the energy ping-ponging back and forth between my cells like I’m in some quantum collider or something.
“Ma’am,” he says again, and I bristle. This guy is my age, for Christ’s sake. “If you can’t pay for the deposit, I can’t rent you a car. Now, if you’ll step aside please…” His eyes are pleading, and suddenly I wonder how many people like me he has to deal with during a work shift.
Probably too many. Because I have the same problem at the bar.
How many customers do I have to run down each week because they conveniently “forget” to pay? How many more fail to leave a tip after I bend over backwards for them? How many men (and woman, for that matter) grab my ass, stare outright at my chest, and don’t even glance my way when giving their orders? I’ve had dollar bills and coins flung at me in anger, in haste and, a few times, just to push my buttons to see if I’d react. Several women have thrown drinks in my face because their dates were flirting with me, and I’ll never forget the man who fanned ten one-hundred dollars bills out onto the table, offering me a grand if I agreed to blow him in the john. When I refused, he called me trash and said he was just kidding, that he wouldn’t stick his dick down my throat if I paid him. Then, when I slapped him across his flabby face, he threatened assault charges until Roy had one of the bouncers throw him out.
I could go on. And on. And on.
Which is why I turn and walk away. Away from Joe, away from the customers pressing up against my back, away from Atlas Rent-a-Car, away from the pitying looks of what feels like half the airport.
And right into the broad back of a man who’s built like a tank.
I tilt my head back as he turns, a dismissive apology ready on my lips, and then immediately bite it back when I see the expression on his face. He’s pissed. Or, at least, he looks that way. High cheekbones offset a chiseled jaw and a strong, Roman nose. His hair is short, a no-nonsense crop of chocolate strands threaded with subtle streaks of warm butterscotch, rogue locks still reflecting the sun’s kiss long after summer has gone to bed. When he meets my gaze, his eyes—a shifting kaleidoscope of greens and browns—narrow.
He looks to be in his early thirties, though it’s hard to tell beneath that scowl.
My reaction is kneejerk to his, and I glower right back. “Excuse me,” I huff, the apology laced with sarcasm, like he’s the one that ran into me and not the other way around. I brush past him, roughly bumping my puny shoulder against his larger one, and try to be discreet as, not even two steps later, I reach up to rub away the pain.
Yep. Pretty sure that’s gonna leave a mark. Assho—
“Yo, Lenora.”
I stop, the muscles in my shoulders tensing like I was just dowsed in a bucket of ice water. Yet my entire body is alive with a heat I can’t explain.
I turn slowly on the spot, one hand clutching the handle of my suitcase and the other gripping the strap of my camera bag.
Like the woman in line at the car rental company, he’s wrapped in layers, his battered Carhartt coat unzipped to reveal a gray flannel jacket with a white thermal shirt peeking out from beneath the open collar. A thick red scarf dangles from his neck, and despite the surrounding buzz of the airport, his heavy leather boots thud loudly on the floor as he crosses the short distance that I just put between us.
When I say nothing, the man tries again. “You are Lenora, right?” His lifts his brows and takes another step closer. “Lenora Vane?”
I swallow, wary of his approaching figure but refusing to shrink back. “On paper.”
Shaking his head, he lifts his eyes to the ceiling and huffs out a breath. “All right. So this is how it’s gonna be.” He chuckles, though it’s dark and filled the same irate sarcasm I directed at him not even a minute ago. “Figures.”
I can only stare, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth and every question I have stuck smack dab in the center of my throat. Because I have no idea how this guy knows my name—my legal name, the one I never, ever go by. And here, in the Minneapolis airport, of all places.
When he regards me again, his smile is pleasant enough. But his eyes…his eyes are filled with contempt.
“I’m Ben Sloane.”
“I thought you’d be older.”I feel snarky, frustrated, and my voice reflects the agitation throbbing just behind my right eye. But it’s only a little after nine in the morning, and I’m exhausted from a long night of flight delays and snoring seatmates. My head is pounding, and the bumpy way Ben’s old truck shimmies and sways up the interstate isn’t helping matters any. Gravity seems to work differently in here; I’m practically thrown from my seat whenever the rust bucket hits so much as a pebble.
