Like a fish gasping for air, I open and close my mouth a few times. Nothing comes out and David takes the silence away by asking, “Now, did you almost say boyfriend before?” His eyes alight with humor and a touch of something so much more meaningful.
“I . . . um . . . no wait. I’m still–”
My words are swallowed up by his hot, hard kiss. His lips crush mine, his hand tangling in my long hair. My world spins so fast, I’m afraid I’ll be swallowed up by space itself. His lips make me feel as if gravity doesn’t exist. The only things capable of keeping me in place are his strong hands, holding steady to the side of my face and the nape of my neck. When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against mine, running his nose along the length of mine. “Because if you were going to call me your boyfriend, you can’t yet.”
“You bastard,” I yell, pushing him away again. “How dare you!”
Grabbing my hand as it pushes against his chest, he laughs. “Calm down. Let me explain.”
Nodding, I pull my hands out of his, letting them fall into my own lap.
“No matter what I say right now, you’re mad at me. And that’s fine. You can be as mad as you want, but I’m not going to let this misunderstanding get in our way. And I’m sure as hell not going to use establishing our relationship as a means to make you less angry at me.” After pulling the keys out of the ignition, he turns his attention back to me. “I have to work for the next two days. Hopefully that will be enough time for you to sort through how you’re feeling so we can have a normal conversation about this. And . . .” He leaves his sentence hanging as he steps from the car, forcing me to follow behind him.
“And what?” I ask, impatience clear in my voice. Resting my arms atop the hood, I mimic his stance, waiting for his response.
“And then I can take you out on a proper date. I might not agree with you being mad at me, but I can accept how you’re feeling. I should at least make it up to you.” He says all of this as he makes his way over to my side. Then, when he has me locked in between his hot body and the cool metal of the door, he murmurs, “Besides I think you deserve a little romance before I claim you as mine, don’t you?”
His last words zing through me like I’ve stepped on a live wire. It’s as if I can actually feel the blood moving into my neck and cheeks, heating my skin. Incapable of any kind of intelligible response, I nod and swallow hard.
“Good,” he coos into my ear, trailing kisses along my neck. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at six. Be ready.”
And with that, he loads my bags onto his shoulders, leading me up the stairs to the train platform. Before I step onto the train, he smiles, promising he’ll make it up to me.
Sitting on the train for the hour long ride back into Manhattan, a small smile curls at my lips. In the span of a few hours, I was offered the job of my dreams and all but claimed by the man of my dreams.
As the rays of sunlight slice through the dingy windows of the train, a sunburst of happiness takes root in my chest.
Sometimes, life is just too damn perfect.
And sometimes, we’re lucky enough to get a taste of that perfection.
Today is most definitely one of those days for me.
“You’re getting awfully dolled up for a few drinks at Smoke,” Ian offers his unsolicited opinion as I roll my sleeve up, cuffing it tightly on my forearm.
Pushing the other sleeve up and cuffing it the same as the other, I tell Ian, “I’m not going to Smoke with you. You’re going to have to grind up against all those poor helpless women at the bar all by yourself.” Arching his brows, he pretends to be insulted, but there’s something there suggesting my words hit a little too close to home.
Shrugging, he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, what a rough life I have.” Dropping to the bench separating the two rows of lockers at the firehouse, Ian swipes a towel over his face. Looking up at me with his post-workout sweat-covered face, he asks, “So if you’re not getting all dressed up for me–” His face lights up as he puts it all together. “Hot redhead? You know, you never did thank me for serving her up to you after the ball game. How was she? Is she a firecracker in bed?”
Choosing to deflect his comments, I simply say, “Wouldn’t you just love to know?”
Of course he doesn’t drop it. Carrying on, he continues, “Well, give me the details, asshole. She wild or tame? Hardwoods or drapes?”
Losing the battle with my calm, I snap. “You’re a shit, you know that? Shut your fucking mouth about her and what she does in bed. It’s none of your business.” Wadding up a towel, I toss it in his face. “And her name is Grace and you’d actually sound like a human being if you addressed her by it. All women for that matter. I’m sure if they knew you called them ‘dancing like a stripper,’ or ‘easy target,’ they’d slap you more often than they already do.” Shockingly, my words seem to reach him a little. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Slamming my locker closed, I grab my bag from the floor. “I have a date with a woman who I’m not even the tiniest bit embarrassed to be seen with in the light of day.”
“You wound me, Andrews.” Ian’s words fall on my back as I walk out of the room.
Turning back to face him, I sling my bag over my shoulder. Leaning against the door frame, I say, “Just think about it. You spend all this energy on the chase, all for what? To go home alone after a few hours of sex with some girl you’ll never see again.”
“You’re one to talk.” He throws his words at me with more than a touch of anger. “Since when are you the morality police? How many nights did you go home alone after a few hours with Kelsey? And how many girls were there before Kelsey? Too many to mention and many of them you wouldn’t even have given the opportunity at a repeat performance.”
“You’re right,” I admit, more than a little ashamed of my past. “That doesn’t mean a person can’t change. I guess maybe I’ve just found my motivation.”
“So now what? After like a month, at the most, you’re ready to get married and have kids. With some chick you knew from when you were ten. Talk about someone who has their priorities all fucked up.”
“No one said anything about getting married and having kids, but is it really that horrible of me to want more than getting drunk and finding random women? Is it so horrible that I’d rather have a meaningful relationship?” Shaking my head, I add, “You’re getting awfully ruffled up over this. Hitting a little close to the heart of the matter?”
“Shut the fuck up.” He waves away my words. “Get out of here and have fun on your date.” With that, I walk out of the locker area, wondering when my best friend will grow up. The entire exchange was awkwardly tense, but there was so much truth in what I was trying to tell him. He’s a decent enough guy, but for whatever reason he has, he sells himself short. Tells himself that settling down is for pussies. And maybe that was something I told myself a long time ago, but it rings less true now.
Needless to say, the rest of the guys whistle and make cat calls as I walk out of the station. It’s rare that any of us ever leave here in more than our uniform or jeans and a T-shirt. Apparently seeing me in black dress pants, leather shoes, and a blue button-down dress shirt is the same thing as witnessing Swamp Thing trudge through the place. They actually lean out the door of the kitchen, asking me a million questions as I load my bag into the trunk of my car. None of them hear the answers they want.
Leaving the station, I walk up West 10th Street, turning on Greenwich Avenue. Grace’s apartment is less than a ten minute walk from the station. The sun’s rays slice through the towering skyscrapers, painting the streets of lower Manhattan in specks of gold and orange. Turning down West 13th, I’m a few buildings away from Grace. After buzzing her apartment, I jam my hands in my pockets, rocking on my heels.