Troublemaker

by Kayley Loring

  “You mean why did it end?”

  “If you want to tell me, sure.”

  “Well, nobody cheated. And we didn’t have a lot of fights or anything. A former professor of mine, who knew that I had originally planned to move to LA to teach, sent me an email about a job that was going to be available the next semester. Not this job—it was at a private school in Hollywood. I looked into it and the neighborhood. And I thought about it for ages. I finally brought it up to Brent—that’s his name. And long story short, he wouldn’t even consider moving to LA if I got a job here. Even though he knew how much I’d wanted to, back when we first met. But he had gotten a really good job in Paso Robles when I was still in college, and it was just expected that I would stay there with him… Anyway. I was mad. And I emailed about the job anyway, but it was too late by then. And then I was really mad. More at myself, really. And it just gave me this whole new perspective on things and I finally realized what a rut I’d been in with him. And I told him I was going to move to LA. He said he wouldn’t do long-distance with me and he definitely wouldn’t move, so that was it. And almost as soon as we’d decided to break up, that same prof told me about this job. And I got it, and here I am.”

  “I’m really glad you’re here, Emilia.”

  Whatever residual anger she had toward Brent—what a dickhead name—whatever it was that got stirred up by those memories seems to dissipate. She smiles up at me. “Me too.”

  It’s quiet. Even on this small stage, even in the auditorium of an elementary school, there’s something so sexy about being alone with someone in a theater. Maybe because for me, theatre has always represented infinite possibilities within specific restraints. Transforming the silence of an empty space into something moving, something that resonates on a visceral level—that always gets me going. Being in this space with someone who resonates with me in a visceral way, that gets me off on a whole other level.

  “What’s the deal with your ex-wife?” she finally asks.

  “You sure you want me to talk about her?”

  “Hey, I showed you mine; now you have to show me yours.” She shakes her head, laughing and blushing. “So to speak.”

  “Well…her name’s Nova Tully. She was a dancer in New York. I had seen her in a show and I’d seen her around, and I had a crush on her when I was in college. She was a few years older than me and wouldn’t date me when I was a student. But I kept chasing her anyway. She’s electric. Y’know? I mean, I was twenty when I met her, and she was stunning. It felt like I was being struck by lightning every time she looked at me. If I met her for the first time now, at thirty-two, I doubt that I’d have the same reaction.”

  When you look at me, I want to say, it’s like the sun shining through the clouds or the way you catch your breath when you look up at the night sky in LA and actually see it painted with stars.

  I finish securing the backdrop and climb down the ladder, holding her gaze the whole time. When I’m on the bottom step, she moves away from me. As if holding my gaze and exchanging this information while being this close to me is somehow dangerous. I hop down and rest my forearms on one of the ladder steps and wait for her to get comfortable with this.

  “She went on a couple of world tours with a dance company, so I didn’t see her for a few years. The senior-year theatre production that I directed moved to off-Broadway, and I worked my ass off to get taken seriously as a young director in New York. And I’m not saying I was doing it for her—I was ambitious long before I met her—but in the back of my mind I was always thinking, well, I wonder if Nova Tully would date me now?

  Emilia slowly makes her way to the other side of the A-frame ladder and rests her forearms on a rung, opposite me. Our hands are inches away from each other, and I can see that hers are trembling just a little.

  “By the time I came back to town, I was the youngest Tony nominee for Best Direction in history. And we had this whirlwind romance that resulted in us getting married in Vegas when I was twenty-four. The next year, Ryder was born, and…she did want to have him. But she was really worried that she wouldn’t have a dance career after she had a baby. And I mean, she didn’t, for a while.” I take a step away from the ladder and slowly walk around it.

  Emilia walks around the other way, to where I was standing and grips one of the steps. The whites of her wide blue eyes are so bright and her pupils are huge. I assume the same stance on the other side of the ladder where she once was and continue the story.

  “Meanwhile, my career really took off. So at least I could support us in New York, but it was a struggle for her. She started teaching dance classes eventually. But she really loved Ryder. He became the axis around which we revolved, but there was this growing tension between us as a couple. Anyway, at a certain point it became clear that I had to move to LA for work because there were just so many opportunities. Plus, my parents are out here. Her parents were never around to help out, but it was really hard for her to leave New York. She did, though. And things fell apart almost as soon as we’d moved into our house here. Not my house—I let Nova have the other one. Ryder was four. The marriage lasted longer than anyone expected it to, mostly because I was so stubborn and didn’t want to give up on it… Not unlike you with your guy, perhaps.”

  She straightens her arms out in front of her, to the center of the A-frame, and I reach for her hands.

  “Well, you had Ryder to think about.”

  “Yes. And ultimately, the best choice was for him to not have to be around that kind of tension.”

  “And you get along with her now?”

  “I do. We’re a lot better at co-parenting than we were at being married.”

  She stares at our entwined hands. “And are you… How do you feel about marriage now?”

  “After being divorced?” I stroke the knuckles of her hands with my thumbs. “I’m optimistic about the possibility of being married again, to someone more stable. As long as it works for Ryder too.” I let go of her hands and walk around to her. She turns to face me. “I mean, as we’ve learned from A Christmas Carol—we must live in the past, present, and future.”

  She removes her glasses, carefully places them on one of the ladder steps, and then takes a step back, sliding her hands into her front pockets, and I take a step closer to her.

  “We can learn from the past, but we can’t let it prevent us from experiencing what’s right in front of us.”

  She keeps walking backwards, slowly, her shining eyes locked with mine, and I keep moving with her, my hands in my back pockets.

  “And we must strive to make the future better for everyone.”

  She’s backed up against the wall, between the two rows of heavy stage curtains.

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Stiles?”

  She nods.

  She shivers.

  I press one hand against the wall, above her shoulder, and drag my fingertip along the exposed skin just above the scooped neckline of her T-shirt.

  She shivers even more.

  “Is it okay for me to touch you like this now?” I whisper into her ear.

  She nods.

  The skin of her neck is fragrant and smooth and radiating warmth, and I cannot resist it. I press my lips against her neck, behind her ear, and then lower, and lower, and then back up to her cheek. “Is it okay for me to kiss you like this?”

  “Oh shit,” she whispers. “Yes.”

  She grabs my face and kisses my mouth hungrily, and as soon as her warm tongue touches mine, I unfasten both clasps of her overalls and the heavy denim drops to the floor around her ankles. I don’t think she even notices that her gorgeous bare legs and those same damn panties she was wearing at the observatory have been uncovered, because she’s so busy kissing me. Or maybe she does notice, but she doesn’t stop kissing me as she takes one of my hands and slides it up her flat belly, pressing and holding it against her breast.

  Fucking hell, Miss Stiles.

  “Is it okay for you to touch me like this?” sh
e asks, her voice all breathy, but I can still hear the sarcasm.

  I squeeze her ass with my other hand and caress her tenderly, just beneath her breast, along the side of it, kissing along her jaw, her cheek, and only when I can tell she’s dying for it, I graze my thumb across her hard nipple.

  She starts doing something amazing to my earlobe with her tongue. and I let out a groan.

  “You are trouble, aren’t you, Miss Stiles?”

  “Nuh-uh,” she says as I feel her hand on my crotch. “Better hurry up before I come to my senses and realize I’m not this kind of girl.” She captures my earlobe between her teeth, tugging on it.

  Jesus.

  I move her hand away because I am not going to pick up my kid at my parents’ house smelling like I just came in my pants.

  I reach into her panties, and Jiminy Christmas, I don’t know what’s hotter—the way she moans and bites her lip or the warm, wet slice of heaven between her legs. She arches her back and clenches around my fingers immediately. “Whatever you are, you’re my kind of girl,” I grunt. “You know how wet you are for me?”

  “Yes. Always.” She bears down against my hand, squeezing her thighs together, rocking back and forth.

  “You’re always this wet for me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vega.” She grabs on to my biceps, squeezing hard.

  “Do you even know how fucking hot you are?”

  “Only for you, M-Mister…” She can’t even finish that sentence, she’s so close to coming.

  Christ.

  I turn her around to face the wall so I can massage her clit with my hand, harder and faster, from a better angle. She pushes against the wall until her arms are straight, and I wrap my arm tight around her waist. Her head falls back, and forward, side to side as she presses her ass against the hard bulge of my jeans. She’s breathing so hard and undulating and whimpering, and that’s when I massage her swollen breast and my fingers slip inside her again and I use the palm of my hand to stimulate her while I fuck her with my fingers.

  She cries out in surprise and pleasure.

  Her sweet voice echoes around the empty auditorium.

  She catches her breath, and I can tell she’s self-conscious now.

  She tries to hold herself still and tight around me.

  “You aren’t running away from me this time.”

  She shakes her head.

  “You better not.”

  She shakes her head again, and I feel the waves again.

  “You gonna come quietly for me, Emilia?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  I curl my fingers and find the small, rough spot inside her, and her startled gasp tells me that I’m probably the first to find it, and Jesus, fuck, that’s hot.

  “Oh my God, Alex.” She goes limp before tensing up around me again, clenching and unclenching.

  I fucking love the way she’s contracting and writhing around and groaning quietly like she’s in pain, but she’s still trying to fight this, and goddammit I want this woman to come hard for me, more than I want anything else in my life right now.

  I grab on to that messy bun and pull. I am nearly blind with lust, but I feel her silky hair cascade around my hand, and she comes undone when I tug on it. That’s my girl.

  “Alex,” she cries out, just once.

  The sounds that escape her lips are a sweet and sexy symphony of infinite possibilities within specific restraints, and I hold my hand flat against her clit until she finally collapses back against me, her breaths so heavy and loud, absolutely fucking divine.

  She rests her head against my shoulder and reaches her arms back around my neck, heaving and gorgeous and limp and mine.

  This woman is mine.

  I want to do all the things, with and to and for her.

  Into next year and beyond.

  I kiss her cheekbone, and she sighs.

  There isn’t one more thing that either of us needs to say to each other tonight.

  The end of this semester will be the beginning of something we’ve both wanted ever since the summer.

  I know this.

  Just as I know, without looking, that the phone in my back pocket is vibrating with a notification from my mother, asking why I haven’t come to pick Ryder up yet.

  And I know that I’ll have to wait until I’ve put my sleeping son in his own bed, and closed the door to his room, to go to my own room and re-live this until I get my own sweet and quiet release.

  REASONS WHY I CAN MAKE THIS WORK WITH MR. V - Emilia

  1. Because I would be crazy not to at least try, and I am not crazy.

  2. Or maybe I’m totally crazy now and that’s okay, because #MisterVega’sFingersOMFG

  3. Because Mr. V is definitely not crazy, and I trust that he will be discreet.

  4. Because I adore Ryder, and even though I do not completely trust that he would be discreet if he somehow found out about his dad and me…well, I don’t know what I’d do. But my brain cells have been replaced by orgasms and hormones, so I don’t care right now. Yeah. That’s how dumb I am from being completely taken over by orgasms and hormones. Just from fingers. Holy shit. Just. From. Fingers.

  5. Because it’s not just the kisses and the fingers and the orgasms. It’s so many things that add up to Mr. V and me being a thing. If I can’t figure out that kind of math equation, then I don’t deserve to teach second graders and I definitely don’t deserve Mr. V. And I do. I deserve him. I deserve everything he’s willing to give me.

  23

  Emilia

  “That was the longest standing ovation the audience has ever given after a show since I’ve been here,” Mrs. Woodard tells Mr. Vega and me.

  I’ve been trying to maintain some distance from him when we’re at school. Ever since Finger Night, two nights ago. But she summoned us to join her at the snack table after the performance. I keep inching away from him, nevertheless.

  “It was fantastic, just fantastic,” she continues.

  “Yes, bravo.” Miss Farrell says to Alex, squeezing his arm before turning to me. “It was so cute.”

  As she walks away, she mutters in passing, “Well-played.” As if we’re competing for Ryder’s dad and I won this battle but she plans to win the war. Puh-lease. I’m winning all the battles and the war.

  “The kids are the ones with the talent,” Alex says to my principal. “And Miss Stiles did most of the heavy-lifting.” He puts his hand on my back for half a second, and I have to swallow a lusty groan.

  “But Mr. Vega was the one who got everyone excited.” Literally. All of us. “He deserves all the credit.” And a Tony Award for Best Direction of My Clitoris.

  It might be my imagination, but Mrs. Woodard narrows her eyes at me and looks back and forth between Alex and me a couple of times. “Well, it was a great success. Thank you to both of you for your time and effort.” She pops one last bite of white chocolate truffle into her mouth before saying, “Now I have to go pretend to be happy to see some parents. Happy holidays. Enjoy your vacations.” She pats us both on our shoulders and walks away.

  Without looking at each other, Alex and I reach for little paper plates and napkins, piling snacks onto them and trying to act like we totally didn’t do something naughty in this very room less than forty-eight hours ago.

  “Ryder did great tonight.”

  “I know. He keeps telling me that.”

  I laugh. “I especially enjoyed his ad lib about Mr. Scrooge’s itchy underpants making him extra grouchy.”

  “I’m very proud.”

  “Did you get some of it on video for his mom?”

  “Yup. Already sent it to her.”

  “Good.”

  We saunter over to the end of the long table and start mumbling while holding food in front of our faces and facing away from each other, like old-school spies.

  “I have never seen anyone look so hot while holding a Rice Krispies treat with a Rudolph face on it,” he says. “Stop it.”

  “Well, I’m not going to stop e
ating this treat, so deal with it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You smell like a Christmas cookie that went camping in a damp, sexy forest.”

  “Thank you? There was an unfortunate incident involving my son and a few things that he thought I should smell like. Apparently, Cheyenne told him that women like it when men smell like vanilla. So he got a bottle of vanilla extract from the kitchen, poured it into his hand, and then slapped my bare chest with it when I was getting dressed to come here. And then he sprayed me with cologne to try to cover it up. You like?”

  “It makes me want to sit around a campfire and eat you up,” I say, waving at Poppy’s parents across the auditorium.

  Alex covers his mouth and coughs, choking on a Santa Oreo.

  “You okay?”

  “Never better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Speaking of… Ryder is going to a sleepover at my friend’s house tomorrow night. How’d you like to come to my place for dinner and whatever?”

  Now I’m choking on a tiny glob of marshmallow-covered Rice Krispies.

  Alex rubs my back.

  “You okay?”

  I nod, eyes watering. “Yes.”

  “Yes, you’ll come to my place?”

  I nod, clear my throat, and catch my breath. “What’s on the menu? Barbecued man meat?”

  “I had a vegetarian meal planned, actually, but the man meat is definitely on the table.”

  “Okay, I’m going to go talk to someone else now.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “Yes. It was.”

  “Congrats again on the show!” he calls out as I walk away from him with my thighs clenched together.

  I’m going to text Franklin right now and tell him to start picking out an outfit for me to wear tomorrow night.

  As I stand on Alex’s doorstep, holding a bottle of wine, I wonder if it was a terrible idea to wear the same skirt that I wore to the Griffith Observatory. It’s a warm evening and not at all windy. I do love this skirt, even though it sometimes behaves like an asshole. Franklin insisted I wear it, despite what I’d told him about my Santa Anas experience.