by Julie Cannon
“Throwing wild parties and orgies?”
My face heated from the image of Tobin naked at an orgy.
“I’m not that wild girl.”
“No? Then who are all the girls in the pictures flooding the Internet?”
“It’s just an image,” Tobin said, and I felt her retreat from whatever personal connection we had.
“An image?”
“It sells tickets.”
“I thought your music sold tickets,” I commented.
A flash of something crossed her face, then disappeared. “Jake subscribes to the old adage that as long as your name is in the news…”
“And what do you subscribe to?”
“Whatever fills the venue,” she said flippantly, almost rehearsed. I detected more than a little bravado in her statement but let it go.
“I really would think your music would fill the venue.” Okay, I couldn’t let it go.
Tobin didn’t answer right away, and I waited for a flighty, superficial comeback. Instead, she just looked at me intently. It was as though she was trying to see through the layers and into my soul. I told myself not to break eye contact, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
I had no problems holding my own across the negotiating table or the boardroom. One article passed around in a staff meeting claimed I had brass ovaries, which made me laugh, and my staff called me steely for weeks. I said what I meant and didn’t dance around a topic. If I wanted something I asked for it and expected the same.
The longer Tobin looked at me, the more I wanted to fidget and look away. But I didn’t. She wanted JOLT and I held all the cards. Then why did I feel like I was totally out of control?
“So tell me about you,” she said, surprising me. “Other than you have a bitch for a sister-in-law.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said, remembering the scene in my parents’ living room the evening the “gal-pal” pictures hit the streets.
“We have all night,” she replied.
I flashed on what I’d rather be doing with Tobin all night than talking about my family.
“Where did you go to school?” she asked.
A safe topic, I could do this. “Vassar for my undergrad and Stanford for my graduate work.”
“Wow, beautiful and smart.”
Surely she didn’t think I was beautiful. I was ten years older than her, had lines on my face and saggy skin around my middle. One was a published fact, the other concealed with just a bit of foundation, and the third, no woman had seen. My reaction pissed me off. I had completely transformed myself from a laughingstock to a successful, self-made woman who had made something from nothing. But sometimes I had very little confidence in myself and how others saw me, and it made me more than a little angry.
“Did I say something wrong?” Tobin asked carefully.
“No, not at all.” I was irritated I had been so obvious. I needed to work on that or it would be a long month.
“Do your parents still work?”
I proceeded to bore Tobin with my family tree and entertained her with stories of how utterly ridiculous and stuck-up Brittney could be. “I still can’t believe my brother Harrison would marry someone like that.”
“What about your friends?”
“I have a few,” I said, not sure I wanted to delve this far into my personal life. Family was one thing because you were stuck with them, but friends were a personal choice and often said a lot about your own character.
“Have a BFF?”
The excitement on Tobin’s face when she asked made my heart flutter again, and I started talking about Courtney. I gave Tobin the quick version of her profession, family, and how we met.
“Wow,” Tobin said. “That could have ended very badly,” she said, referring to the drug the guy had dropped in my beer.
“And that was years ago, before we heard so much about ruffies and Rohypnol. It’s not like it is today. Women in bars are vigilant about keeping an eye on their drinks so they won’t end up a terrible statistic, or worse.”
Tobin nodded, then changed the subject to something lighter. “What do you do for fun?”
“I used to play rugby.” Just saying the word shot phantom pain into my left ankle.
“Rugby?” Tobin said, clearly surprised. “As in bad-ass football-without-a-helmet rugby?”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“Wow, I’m impressed. Beautiful and tough. You don’t play now?”
“No. I broke my ankle. Figured that was a good warning note.”
“So what do you do for fun now?”
“If I tell you, you’ll laugh at me,” I said, surprising myself. I rarely talked about myself and certainly not in a teasing way that begged for follow-up questions.
“I promise I won’t. It’ll be our little secret.” Tobin crossed her heart, drawing my attention away from her tempting lips to her chest.
I suddenly wanted Tobin to know all my secrets. Correction—learn all my secrets.
“I mow my lawn.”
The look of confusion on Tobin’s face told me she didn’t understand my answer. Nobody ever did.
“I mow my lawn,” I repeated, starting to feel as ridiculous as I apparently sounded. “I love sitting on my lawn tractor, with the sun on my face and the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air. I can’t really explain it other than to say it’s relaxing and just something I absolutely love to do,” I admitted. “My neighbors think I’m crazy,” I added.
“Why is that?”
“Because everyone in the neighborhood has a yard service. Pickup trucks towing trailers with mowers, Weed Eaters, shovels, blowers, three kinds of rakes, and assorted other necessary tools pepper the streets every day. They pull up, four guys jump out and scamper around the yard, each with his own specific job, and before you know it they hop back in the truck and drive off. It seems like it’s perfectly choreographed.”
“But no truck pulls up in front of your driveway.”
“Nope. If I had a dollar for everyone that gawked at me as they drove by, I’d have a bundle. Some don’t even make eye contact.” I chuckled. “It’s as if it embarrasses them that I have to do my own yard. Like I can’t afford a service. My God. We live in the same neighborhood. I can afford lawn service,” I said, trying not to sound like I was flaunting my wealth.
“That’s dumb. Don’t they know who you are?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. I don’t care either. I made it a point to get to know those on either side, in back of me, and across the street. Other than that, if they don’t want to know who I am, that’s their issue. I do have a snow-removal service in the winter though. But only during the week.”
“Let me guess. You like to plow your own driveway,” Tobin said, seeming pleased with herself that she’d figured it out.
“Absolutely, but I pay someone to do it. I leave pretty early in the mornings and get home late and need to be able to get into my garage. What about you? I’m sure you have dozens of stories of life on the road.” I really did want to know, but as soon as the question was out of my mouth I wasn’t so sure. I did not need to hear about all the women that had crossed her threshold.
Luckily Tobin only shared stories of some of the escapades of her crew. The more she talked, the more it became apparent that they were a tight-knit group and rightly so. They were together more than the members of any other profession I could think of right off the top of my head, and being in a different city every day wasn’t conducive to having a wide circle of friends. When I glanced at my watch I was surprised to see it was as late as it was. I hadn’t noticed the time fly by so fast.
“I guess I’ll turn in,” I said. I wasn’t really tired, but the lull in the conversation was a little awkward. I felt uncomfortable being alone with Tobin and not sure what I was supposed to do next. She’d kept the conversation light and unthreatening, but a hint of sexual tension between us always lurked just below the surface. I didn’t know if I wanted it u
ncovered.
“Sure,” Tobin said, standing when I did.
My heart tripped again when her eyes went to my mouth. Was she going to kiss me good night? Make a move? And what would I do if she did?
“Do you need anything?”
It took me a moment to figure out she was talking about getting ready for bed. The longer she looked at me the more I was tempted to say something stupid and inane, like, are you going to tuck me in? “No, I’m fine,” I answered, hoping the voice I heard actually said that and not the former. “Will we stop during the night?”
“Probably once. You don’t have to get up or come out if you don’t want to. You might even sleep through it.”
“Probably.” I chuckled. “I’ve been told nothing wakes me up. Good night.”
Chapter Thirty
I felt an unfamiliar flash of jealousy of the women who had first-hand experience of how Kiersten slept. She was a beautiful, interesting woman with equally sophisticated women to pick from. There had to have been many lovers in her past and certainly many more in her future, and the green-eyed monster churned in my stomach.
The one and only time I felt like this was years ago. I’d met Carrie Chapman at a charity event, and we’d hit it off immediately, talking for most of the evening. Three days later we had dinner and, four days after that, at least six or seven orgasms between us. I was playing in an upscale club pretty regularly so I was in town more than out. We’d been seeing each other for several months, with Carrie coming to the club on Friday and Saturday nights. When I noticed a tall blonde paying a little too much attention to Carrie, I began to feel all the emotional crap of jealousy.
The first class I took on my way to my degree was English, and one of my assignments was to use Wikipedia to describe an emotion, so I chose jealousy. The online source stated that the word typically refers to the thoughts and feelings of insecurity, fear, concern, and anxiety over an anticipated loss or status of something of great personal value, particularly in reference to a human connection.
Okay, I get that with Carrie, all those years ago, but with Kiersten? And just by thinking of who might have shared her bed in the past? I am certainly not insecure or afraid. Nor do I have anxiety over the anticipated loss of something of great personal value. First, Kiersten and I barely know each other, so there’s nothing between us of personal value to lose. Second, I can have just about any woman in my bed at any time, so it’s not like I’m afraid of being alone. Third, I don’t do human connection, so if I don’t do it I can’t be afraid of losing it. There, that was a logical, if not a redundant way of rationalizing my situation. So why hadn’t I convinced myself?
I wasn’t really tired, and no way would I fall asleep with Kiersten in the bed right across the hall from me, so I fired up my laptop and signed in to class. Might as well get some homework done instead of sitting here brooding over the women in Kiersten’s life.
I was three courses away from my degree in business and was determined to finish. I had managed to keep my enrollment in the program a secret from the prying media, and everyone else for that matter. I was proud of what I’d accomplished. As an offspring of trailer trash I was never expected to amount to anything. Not that anyone cared one way or the other, but it was just a given. I was as much a product of the cycle as I was an integral cog taking my place at the appointed time. But I had gotten away by sheer will, talent, and more than a few lucky breaks.
As much as I tried, macroeconomics just didn’t hold my attention for long tonight. I wasn’t a good reader and often had to read things at least twice, but my mind kept wandering from the words on the screen to the woman down the short hall.
Why was I so interested in Kiersten? I rarely asked anyone about their personal life. It’s not that I didn’t care. It’s just that I don’t usually care that much. I knew a lot about my band, Jake, and a few stagehands, but that was only because they mentioned something in a conversation. And I certainly didn’t want to have to answer any questions about mine. But our conversation tonight didn’t scare me, only fed my curiosity of everything about Kiersten.
She was bright, intelligent, interesting, and way too serious. I get that she has devoted the last twelve years to getting JOLT off the ground, but other than her friend Courtney, it didn’t appear she had anything else. She worked, and from what she’d said so far, her social life revolved around JOLT-related events. I wondered where she went on vacation, what books she read, her favorite movies, and her to-die-for dessert.
I’d only been in the foyer of her house the night of her reunion, and even that small space felt warm and inviting. There were wood floors, soft lighting, and a lot of color, at least in the areas I could see. I wondered if she decorated it herself or hired a professional. I guessed she did it herself, but then again, if she was an outdoors person, maybe the interior didn’t interest her. I’d have to ask her about that. I wanted to ask her about a lot of things.
I pictured her on her lawn mower with a floppy hat and a tall tumbler of iced tea in the cup holder, driving back and forth making perfect, neat rows in the green grass. I have never mowed a lawn in my life. Not much opportunity for grass to grow in a cement-slab trailer park. Weeds certainly found their way into any crack or crevice, and even without any water, they grew like, well, weeds. At the beginning of one summer I measured one at the back of our trailer. I wanted to see just how tall it could get, and every day I charted its growth inch by inch in a worn spiral notebook I’d snagged out of a neighbor’s trash pile. I stopped tracking it when it extended past the top of my head; I was five feet six inches at the time.
I got a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and touched my keyboard, waking my laptop. I still had three questions to answer from this week’s assignment and the thirty-eight pages of Chapter Seventeen to read for next week. My study time was limited because of the secrecy around what I was doing, so I needed to get it done. Twenty minutes later, my mind still on Kiersten, I gave up.
Chapter Thirty-one
I heard Kiersten moving around in the kitchen area, cracked open an eyelid, and glanced at the clock on the side table. I was surprised to see that I’d slept a few hours. The last thing I remembered was tossing and turning, images of Kiersten feeding my fantasies.
I tossed the covers back, got out of bed, and pulled a robe over my naked body. I ran my hands through my hair and rubbed my eyes, making sure there was no disgusting sleep-gunk residue. Doing as much as I could without running water in the bedroom, I opened the door.
I squinted, the bright light from the kitchen blinding me for a minute. When my eyes adjusted I saw Kiersten sitting at the kitchen table, her back to me.
“Do I smell coffee?” I croaked. It had been years since I’d been up this early, and I wasn’t sure I was even awake.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said, turning in the chair.
Her hair was disheveled, and the dark circles under her eyes signaled that she too hadn’t slept much. “No, not at all,” I lied. “I smelled the coffee. No one ever makes me coffee in the morning.” I shuffled to the cabinet and pulled a cup from the shelf above the pot. I drank my coffee black, and by the lack of any evidence to the contrary, Kiersten did as well. I took a sip, cautious of the steam billowing from the cup.
“Mmm. Delicious,” I said. It was so good I almost purred. “I don’t know if it’s because you made it or you added something special to it, but this is better than delicious.” I took another sip, the hot liquid sliding down my throat. “May I join you?” I asked, indicating the chair to her right.
Kiersten used her toe to push the chair away from the table a few inches in invitation. “Nice color,” I said, lifting my chin to indicate the cobalt-blue polish on her toes. “Sexy.”
Kiersten scoffed. “You really do need coffee,” she said, tucking her feet under her chair.
She was sexy, with her hair up in a loose ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of any makeup, and that sleepy, just-waked-up look. She appeared soft
and vulnerable, and it suddenly hit me that it had been years since I’d had a woman in my kitchen first thing in the morning. Or any time of the day for that matter. Other than work, the only thing I did with women is fuck. We never had a conversation, never talked about movies or the plight of the poor. Very few words were ever spoken that weren’t along the lines of “Oh yeah,” or “right there,” or “harder.” That realization was unsettling.
“How long have you been up?” I asked. This was a situation I’d never experienced. I never did morning-afters and never had anyone travel with me, so coffee chit-chat was foreign to me.
“About half a cup,” she answered, using the amount of coffee consumed as a time reference.
“Did you sleep?”
“Not too much,” she replied honestly. “It takes me a couple of nights before I get used to sleeping somewhere other than my own bed.”
A wave of heat coursed through me with images of nights in her bed, and I coughed as my coffee took a detour to my stomach. My throat burned and my eyes watered as I leapt to the sink, filling an empty glass with water. Kiersten was beside me in an instant.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her hand on my back.
When I could speak again I said, “Just went down the wrong pipe.” I coughed a few more times before I was sure I wasn’t going to choke to death. “I’m fine, really,” I said, trying to convince both Kiersten and myself. I settled back in the chair. Kiersten refilled her cup and returned to her place as well.
“Hungry?” she asked. “I saw some eggs in the fridge and muffin mix in the pantry.” She blushed. “Sorry. I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for the coffee.”
“No, no problem.” I waved her statement away. “Mi casa, su casa,” I assured her. I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “We usually stop for breakfast about now. Gives everybody a chance to get out and have a good meal. Let me check with Frank and see how much longer. If you’re starving I’m sure we can scrounge up something.”
