Текст книги "Roomies"
Автор книги: Claire Adams
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter Twelve
Standard Procedure
Dane
The view of Wrigley’s shapely posterior rising and falling as she works me into her is pleasant enough, but my heart just isn’t into it.
Not that Wrigley minds or even notices. The fact that I’m hard is more than enough for her.
We’re back on the roof, but the people across the street are all tired of the show.
I know how they feel.
I’m lying on the ledge with one foot on each side of it and Wrigley’s got her back to me. Once I got over the initial fear, this really doesn’t feel like anything exciting or even new.
“Oh yeah,” she says, slamming her core onto me again and again, “fuck me hard!”
I’m wondering if I were reading a book right now, would she even notice?
It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Things could be worse.
Though I’m not sure how.
I lift my hips as she comes down, burying myself deeper inside and I may as well be somewhere else entirely. There’s no passion, no thrill.
To stay interested, I fantasize about rolling a little to one side and wonder if I’d still be inside her when we hit the pavement.
I close my eyes and start to pretend that she’s Leila, but immediately stop. I’m not going to cheapen Leila like that.
Come to think of it, it’s kind of a bad sign that I’m not so concerned about cheapening Wrigley like that.
“Are you about there?” I ask, trying to put enough enthusiasm into my voice to not pull her out of her moment.
She stops riding me, though I’m still inside her.
She moves one leg over the side of the building so now only gravity is holding her in place. Yeah, I’m inside of her, too, but I seriously doubt that would be enough to stop her from going over the edge.
Wrigley lifts her other leg over my body so she’s facing me now, straddling me and she leans forward, kissing my lips as she says, “I think I want a relationship with you, too, Dane.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I said I want to be in a relationship with you, too, Dane. You were right. There’s more between us than just sex.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. I don’t move and hardly breathe. This is about the last thing I was expecting from tonight.
“What do you think?” she asks, grinding herself onto me to emphasize the question.
I look at her. She’s already looking at me.
Her eyes are pale blue. They’re not the darker blue of Leila’s, but they’re not without their warmth.
She kisses me and I just stay there, hands hanging down.
I look over the edge of the building and I look back at Wrigley.
And I decide to jump.
“I’d love that,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”
She lets out a glee filled squee and puts her hands on my cheeks as she kisses me vehemently.
“I’ve never wanted to be with just one man before,” she tells me.
She throws her head back and to the side, letting her hair fall over her left shoulder.
“I don’t see any stars,” I tell her.
She stops moving and the smile slowly fades from her expression.
“What?” she asks.
“The sky,” I tell her. “I don’t see any stars.”
“Oh,” she shrugs. “The city’s too bright.”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
This isn’t a bad thing. Wrigley and I do seem to get each other on a deeper level, even if that particular level is generally strange and somewhat terrifying.
She’s not a bad person. She’s into some weird shit, but that’s not a crime. Well, what we’re doing right now technically is, but you know what I mean.
Her muscles tighten around my cock and she slides herself up and down my shaft slowly.
“I’ve been practicing,” she says.
“What?” I ask, still looking for even a single glimmering point of light in the sky.
“Kegels,” she says. “It helps me grip. See?”
She flexes herself around me again.
“You like?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I smile. “I like.”
“It’s getting cold,” she says. “Wanna go inside? We can always pick this up on the bed or…” she kisses me. “The couch or…” she kisses me again. “The floor or…” she presses her whole body into mine and breathes in deeply as she kisses me once again. “Wherever.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Okay.”
She grips me again as she slips herself off of me and a moment later, I’m just lying there on the ledge atop this building, still trying in vain to spot a single star in the sky.
* * *
It’s seven in the morning, and I haven’t slept yet.
Wrigley’s feathered breath is warm on my bare chest as she sleeps peacefully in my arms.
What I’m worried about right now is that I’ve never known this woman outside of a strictly sexual context.
Yeah, we’ve gone places and we’ve talked, but we’re always on our way to a new place to have sex. We’re always talking about what we’re going to do with each other when we get there.
I know there’s more to her than that, but I just don’t know if I’m ever going to see it.
I’ve spent so much of my life treating women like flavor of the hour that I’ve completely forgotten what it’s like to be that guy, to ask those questions and really get to know someone.
“Are you awake?” the whisper comes as a slow rush of air, barely audible.
“Yeah,” I whisper back.
I can feel the muscles in her face pulling back and when she lifts her head to turn and look at me, she’s smiling.
“Good morning,” she says.
I can’t help but smile back.
“Good morning. How’d you sleep?” I ask.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept so peacefully.”
“I’m glad,” I tell her. “Hey, it occurs to me that we don’t really know that much about each other.”
“Yeah,” she says and waits for me to continue. “Oh, that was your point.”
I scoff. “Okay,” I tell her and start to sit up. “I get it.”
“No, no, no,” she says, with a bit of a chortle as she pushes me back down. “We don’t know that much about each other. I guess I just figured that maybe we could start on that today. Do you have to work?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Later, though. I don’t have to be in until noon.”
“That’s right,” she says, patting my chest. “You’re a chef.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
I’m trying to estimate how bad the fallout is going to be if I tell her that I have no idea what she does for a living, but she catches on before I’ve got any hard figures.
“I’m a social worker,” she says. “I mostly work with kids and teenagers.”
“Yeah? That’s got to be pretty rewarding.”
“It is,” she says. “It’s one of those few things in my life where I really feel like I’m making a difference for someone, you know? It’s not all Polaroids and hugs, though. I deal with a lot of bad shit on a day-to-day basis.”
“I bet.”
“That said,” she continues, “Every once in a while, I’ll come across someone who’s just in that receptive place and you wouldn’t believe how even a child can turn things around when they want to.”
“You know—maybe this is going to sound rude, but—”
“That’s not what you expected?” she asks. “It’s not what a lot of people expect, but it’s what I do. I love it.”
“Yeah, but you’re—I don’t know how to say this without being a dick,” I say.
She laughs. “It’s all right. I’m pretty sure whatever you’re going to say, I’ve heard a lot worse.”
“You’re into some pretty kinky shit.”
She lets out a gut laugh.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound, and it paints her as a completely different person than the nymphomaniac that I’ve been fucking for the past month or so. The laugh softens her.
“I am,” she says, “but I don’t take that to work with me.”
“Yeah, but—I don’t know, aren’t you ever nervous that you’re going to be doing it in one of the paddle boats in Central Park and have one of the kids you work with see you?”
“That’s why I don’t go to Central Park,” she says.
“Yeah, but what about the top of the building?” I ask. “We’ve been up there a few times now and, except for last night, every time, we’ve had an audience.”
“Parents keep their kids away from the windows in the city,” she says, “especially in this neighborhood. You never know what you’re going to see or who’s going to catch you looking at them.”
“You’ve really put a lot of thought into all this, haven’t you?”
She laughs again and my trepidation starts to thaw.
“I guess you could say that. Look,” she continues, “there’s a way for me to get all the, in your words, kinky shit out of my system without putting my job or any young eyes in jeopardy. Sometimes it takes a bit of creativity, like last night at the stadium. It actually made me pretty nervous being out in the middle of everything like that, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Seriously,” she says. “Did you ever bother noticing how I was making sure that you were covered at all times from an outside viewpoint? I mean, sure, someone might have walked up and saw my head in your lap, but I’m sure you would’ve noticed before they saw too much of anything.”
“You know, I was kind of worried about this,” I laugh, “but I think this just might be the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“Take it easy there, Tonto,” she says. “We’re dating exclusively, but that doesn’t mean we’re married. Pull it back a bit, will you?”
She’s smiling.
This is the first time I’ve ever really seen her smile in the daylight.
The woman I went to bed with isn’t the woman I woke up with, and for once, that’s not a bad thing.
“So, you wanna fuck and get some coffee?”
Or, you know, maybe she’s the same woman and I’m just getting to know her better. That’s probably closer to the truth.
She kisses my chest and I feel something that I’d completely forgotten.
I feel cared for.
She lifts her head, asking, “Or do you want to do the coffee thing first?”
I chuckle.
“Maybe some coffee,” I tell her. “Otherwise, I don’t know that I’m going to make a good showing.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?” she asks.
I’m about to tell her the truth, but the look in her eyes is so innocent, so—what’s the word?—concerned and I can’t bear to hurt her feelings.
“I slept all right,” I lie. “I think I’m just getting used to having another person in bed with me.”
“I’m in bed with you all the time,” she teases.
“Not sleeping,” I tease back.
“All right, I’ll go get some coffee on,” she says, actually going as far as to cover herself as she reaches over the side of the bed for her bathrobe.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s cold,” she says. “I’m used to your body heat. I’ve been sleeping with it all night.”
This is what a relationship feels like. I almost can’t remember feeling it before.
It’s not a bad feeling.
Wrigley’s hair is disheveled and hilarious as she walks out the door on her way to the kitchen, and I’m starting to wonder what I thought was so scary about settling down for a while.
I don’t know if things are going to work out or not, but this is probably the best morning I’ve had in a few years.
“So,” I call through the open doorway, “what time do you go to work today?”
“I’m off today,” she calls back. “And will you get your lazy ass out here? I’m freezing.”
I smile to myself. This is quite the turnaround from last night.
Last night, she was storming out of my rental car because I’d only suggested that we go out on a real date and when she got in that cab… I guess I don’t really need to go back over that right now.
Last night was a very different world with very different people in it.
I’m up and out of bed, morning wood kicking in, though I haven’t slept, so I don’t bother with pants. I just check the top drawer of her dresser for a towel. We tend to go through quite a few of them on any given occasion.
Wrapped up, but hardly hiding anything, I walk out of the bedroom and find Wrigley putting bread in her toaster.
“Hey there,” I say as I walk up, wrapping my arms around her.
“Well good morning to both of you,” she laughs. “Did you change your mind on coffee?”
“Nah,” I answer.
“So, there is something I think we should probably talk about,” she says. “I don’t want to put it all on the line or anything, but I just want to know where you stand.”
“Okay.”
“Your roommate,” she says, “what is the deal with the two of you?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, the first night we got together, you shouted her name as you were coming. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging or anything.”
“Yeah, didn’t you shout your name about that same time?”
“Yeah, but whatever,” she says, leaning back into me. “I just need to know what kind of relationship the two of you have. Like are you just roommates, are you roommates that fuck, are you hung up on her, what?”
“We’re just roommates,” I tell her. “We’ve had a near miss or two—actually, now that I think about it, just the one, but it was kind of drawn out—but no, nothing’s ever happened.”
We’re in a relationship and people in relationships are supposed to be honest with each other, right?
“Okay,” she says. “You’re being totally honest, right? I’m not going to impale you with a meat thermometer if you tell me the two of you have bumped uglies.”
“You know, that’s one of my least favorite terms for it,” I laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says. “This is the free pass for both of us. You can say pretty much whatever here and, as long as it’s not way too fucking overboard, it’ll slide.”
“Really,” I tell her, “nothing’s happened.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I heard you the first time, but are there feelings there or what? Guys don’t usually call out the name of their roommate when they’re slogging someone else’s snatch.”
“Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?”
“Answer the question,” she says, pulling away from me to butter the toast she pulls from the toaster.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I thought there might have been something there, but she’s with some other guy now. It doesn’t matter.”
“So if she weren’t single…?”
“Nothing happened when she was,” I answer, starting to get a little tired of this particular line of questioning. I understand where Wrigley’s coming from, but I wasn’t prepared for it this morning.
“But if she weren’t single now, would you be here with me?”
“What does it even matter?” I snap. “I’m not there, I’m here. Can we just drop it?”
“No,” she answers calmly. “I think you should be honest with yourself before you really decide to jump into something with me. Am I the woman that you really want to be with, or am I just a decent second choice? You’re really not going to hurt my feelings unless you lie to me.”
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Just stand there and calmly ask me if I’d rather be with someone else?”
“Well, it does seem like something that might make things difficult for us in the long run, and if that’s the case, I’d like to be prepared for it. I don’t see any reason to begrudge you your feelings if that’s what they are. Is that what they are?”
“I don’t know, okay?”
That’s probably not the most romantic thing I’ve said to a woman in the morning.
“Okay,” she says. “Are you really ready to have a relationship with me, or are you just trying to run away from the fact that Leila’s with someone else?”
“When did you turn into Dr. Phil?”
She just laughs.
“I don’t know where my mind is, and I don’t know what my feelings for Leila are, but I do know that from the moment you woke up this morning, everything in the world felt so much better.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess,” she says. “Toast?”
Chapter Thirteen
Screening
Leila
Back in the office again, and Annabeth is getting on my last nerve.
I made the stupid mistake of telling her what happened last night with Dane and how he just took off with barely a word. Now, she’s giving me her, “You know what you gotta do?” routine, and after the twelfth repetition of the question, I’m starting to boil.
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her. “Dane and I have never really broken the ice. I mean, we have, but something’s always happened to cause it to freeze back over again.”
“You do love your metaphors,” she says, the smoke coming out of her mouth in short puffs.
“I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I tell her. “Any news on the job front?”
“Nope,” she says. “One of these days, I’m going to get the phone call from somewhere. I’m just trying to keep my sanity until it happens, ya know?”
Yeah, I know.
This morning, Kidman asked me if I wanted a raise. Stupid me, I said yes.
“Elderly men shouldn’t be allowed to grab their junk in public,” I say without sharing the context.
Annabeth laughs. “What?”
“Kidman,” I answer. It’s the only answer I need.
“I’ve got that all figured out,” she says and tosses me a pen.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.
“Just don’t say anything to get yourself in trouble,” she says vaguely. “So, what are you gonna do about your roommate problem?”
“We’re back on that? Seriously, I don’t even know what happened. For all I know, the phone call could have been his mother saying she’d broken a hip or something.”
“Nah,” Annabeth says. “It sounds to me like he was off his game as soon as he saw you and that friend of yours macking on the couch. You know what you gotta do?”
“Annabeth, I swear if you utter that phrase one more time, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”
“Easy there, girl,” Annabeth says, spitting her cigarette out of her mouth in the process. “I was just gonna say that you should just talk to the man and see what he has to say. If you and him aren’t gonna talk, you’re just gonna end up going past each other, wasting all the hours of your lives wondering what the other one is thinking.”
She has a point, but I’m not quite ready to admit it.
“I really thought you would have heard something back on one of your applications by now,” I tell her. “You’ve got the grades and the pedigree. I wonder what’s holding it up.”
The glare on her face seems pretty out of context, but maybe I’ve overstepped again. I have a tendency to do that when I’m trying to lead a conversation away from something I want to avoid.
“We should probably get back in,” Annabeth says, leaving her half-smoked cigarette smoldering on the ground.
We make our way back inside and don’t say a word to each other on the way. When we’re back to our floor, we just part ways, and I’m starting to think I can’t do anything right.
“Tyler!”
I swear to all that is holy that if this geezer makes one stupid comment, I’m going to lose it.
“Yeah?”
Well, he’s not grabbing himself, so we’re off to a good start.
“Did you put this on my desk?” he asks.
“Did I put what on your desk?”
“This!” he shouts and holds up a file.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “What’s in it?”
“In my office!” he shouts.
Anymore, it’s not all that common for anyone working on this floor to even bother looking up when Kidman starts screaming at me. This time, though, I’m not the only one that can tell this rant is going to be different.
I’m not even in his office before he’s telling me to close the door.
I follow instructions and try to prepare myself for what’s about to happen.
“Do you know what’s in this?” he asks.
“It’s a folder,” I answer. “I don’t know—”
“Did you put this on my desk?”
“Sir, I honestly don’t know which folder that is. I’ve put a few folders on your desk today, but without knowing what’s in that one, I really couldn’t tell—”
“Do you think you’re funny?” he asks. “I get that I’m not the easiest person to work for, but this is so far over the line you’re in another country.”
“Sir?”
He slams the folder on his desk.
“You know, I’d expect this from that friend of yours, but coming from you—this is really too much.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
“You mean to tell me that you’re not the one who printed off a copy of my bank statement, put it in a file and set it on my desk?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He takes a breath.
“You really didn’t know what was in this, did you?” he asks, starting to cool down a little.
“No sir, I didn’t. Why would someone—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You can go.”
“Sir?”
“I said go!” he shouts. “I’m not going to tell you again!”
So I go.
With the door closed behind me, I try not to look at all the faces looking at me. Although I’m technically off the hook, this office is great at one thing and it has nothing to do with finance.
As I make my way toward Atkinson’s office, as I have absolutely nothing else to do right now, and I’d really like to take my mind off of everything, I can hear the not-so-hushed voices.
“Yeah, he just came in screaming. I think she’s going to get fired.”
“Look at her—no, not now, she’s looking over here. She looks like she just got fired.”
Somewhere around the eighth utterance of the word “fired,” I’ve had enough.
“Oh, will you all just shut up?!” I shout. “Every time someone leaves the room, you’re all pick, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick as if your lives are such a pretty picture!”
“Leila?”
“What?!” I yell, spinning on my heel.
I turn around and, standing there like a scolded child is Mrs. Weinstock, one of my five bosses.
“Mrs. Weinstock,” I say, “I am so sorry.”
“Would you come and talk to me in my office?”
“Sure,” I answer, my voice suddenly small again.
Kidman is the filthy old man. Atkinson is the drill sergeant that wants you to scrub the floors with a toothbrush—although, to be fair, he’s only had me do that once. Iverson keeps calling me Kayla and hasn’t once given me clear directions on anything, so when I invariably screw up, he’s always got something to say about it. I still haven’t met Mrs. Beck.
Mrs. Weinstock, on the other hand, she is the master of the guilt trip.
With that soft-spoken tone and those big eyes, made even bigger by the thick glasses she wears—I swear, for the sole purpose of adding to the puppy effect—she can make you feel worthless just by looking at you.
Once I’m in her office, she asks me to close the door behind me.
“Have a seat,” she says.
She’s the oldest forty-something woman I’ve ever come across in my life and somehow, that only makes her entreaties all the more gut-wrenching.
I sit and wonder whether she’s got me in here to make me feel terrible about yelling at everyone in the office, or because Kidman told her that I put that file on her desk or what.
“How are you doing? You seem a little stressed,” she says.
“It’s been a rough day,” I tell her. “Then last night, there was this whole thing with my roommate…”
Even though I know better, those big brown eyes just make me open up. I can’t help it.
“I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” she says. “I just got a call. Someone from Claypool and Lee—did you know they’d be calling me for a reference?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I thought we talked about that.”
“Well, we did,” she says, “but I didn’t think you’d actually go through with applying somewhere else. I thought we’d made a nice home for you here.”
“Ma’am,” I start, “it is absolutely nothing against you. I’ve just been looking for something more permanent.”
“I thought you’d want to stay here,” she says. “But you’ve never once asked me if we had anything open for you. Why is that?”
“To be honest, ma’am,” I start, “I haven’t had the greatest experience here. I really don’t get the feeling that anyone really wants me around.”
And now she looks like she’s going to cry.
“I’ve always been so nice to you, Leila—”
“What did you tell them?” I interrupt, as I’m starting to get the feeling that she just torpedoed me.
“I told them that we sure didn’t want to see you go,” Mrs. Weinstock says.
“Did you give them any reason not to hire me?” I ask.
“Now, why would I do that?”
Yep, she’s actually crying now. I really hope I got that other job; otherwise, I might just end up getting fired by Rose Nylund.
“I didn’t say that you did, Mrs. Weinstock,” I answer, but she’s too busy wiping the tears from her eyes with a tissue to pay me much attention.
This is torture.
Right now, I kind of wish I was back in Kidman’s office.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just hate to see talented people like you go.”
“Well, they’re just calling references,” I tell her, hoping that might comfort her enough to get her to stop the sobbing. “I probably won’t get it. Annabeth’s up for the same job and she’s the likely choice.”
“Annabeth?” Mrs. Weinstock howls.
Oh, great. Annabeth’s going to kill me for that one.
“I can come back,” I tell her.
“You’re all going to leave me!” Mrs. Weinstock cries and with that, she’s overplayed her part.
“Oh, will you stop it? You’re a grown woman. People get hired, people leave. That’s just the way it goes. You can’t guilt everyone into doing whatever you want them to do.”
Her expression changes in an instant. “You don’t talk to me that way,” she barks. “I am your superior, and you will address me with proper decorum.”
“You know what? I am so sick of all the crap you people pile on me every time I come into work. I’m just trying to do my job and do it well, but every single time one of you asks me to see you in your office, I want to throw up, and you, Mrs. Weinstock, you’re the worst one of all with your whole grandmother act. You know what you are?”
“What am I?” she asks, and I think we’ve gotten a little off topic.
I let my temper simmer for a beat.
“You are someone who asked me into her office to tell me something, and I’ve got a feeling you haven’t told me half of it yet. If you bombed my chances with Claypool and Lee, fine, I’ll find something else, but I’d just like to know so I can stop putting your name on my resumé.”
“For your information, I gave you a glowing review, and I called you in here to tell me that I was their last call. The job is yours if you want it, although I sure don’t envy them putting up with your behavior.”
“Maybe if you—wait, what? I’m hired?”
“The man told me to have you give him a call when you had a free moment and they’re going to work out a time to get you in for training.”
“I’m hired?”
She goes to respond, but the suddenness and volume of the “Woo!” that comes out of me overpowers anything she might be trying to say.
