What Happens at Con

by Cathy Yardley

  Darla’s husband, Keith, and Abraham’s father and mother sat next to them, as the rest of the family spread out at the other tables. “So, you don’t eat meat, huh?” his father said.

  Ani nodded. She could feel Abraham tensing next to her.

  “It’s fine,” Abraham said to his father.

  “Oh, I know it’s fine,” his father said, rolling his eyes, then turning to Ani with what she felt sure he thought was a tolerant tone. “It’s become popular. Lots of Americans are vegetarians, too.”

  She blinked. “I was born in Seattle,” she said quietly, with a smile. “I am an American.”

  His father waved his hand. “You know what I mean.”

  Yeah, she thought. I know what you meant.

  Abraham’s father stared at her. “Vegetarian. Religious reasons? What religion are you?”

  She sighed. “I’m a variety of things, actually. I don’t like to label my spirituality.”

  He wrinkled his nose at this, obviously equating spirituality with hippie.

  “What about your parents?” he pressed. Like he had a right to know.

  Well, he had just miraculously fixed her batch grinder, so she didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “My mother is Hindu. My father is Muslim.”

  “Muslim? In India?” His father’s eyebrows jumped up to his hairline. “I thought India was all Hindus or whatever.”

  “India is very diverse,” she said.

  “Do you speak Indian?”

  “Nobody speaks Indian,” she corrected gently. “There are a variety of languages. My family is from Bengal and Jharkhand, so we speak Bengali as well as Hindi. Other places speak other languages, and there are tons of different dialects.”

  “Your English is great, though,” he added, looking at Keith. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” Keith agreed, before tearing at meat with his teeth. “This is great sausage, Carl.”

  She saw Carl’s eyes lighting up for inquisition. Abraham’s father wasn’t going to be deterred, so she sighed, steeling herself.

  “I hate it when you call someplace, like an eight hundred number or your insurance or something,” Carl continued, “and you get somebody with a really thick accent. It’s like, I can’t even figure out what they’re saying, you know? So annoying.”

  She gritted her teeth. “That must be.”

  “Honey,” Abraham’s mother said, from the side of her mouth. Her eyes were dark with warning.

  His father leaned on one arm, poking at his food with a fork. Then he looked at Ani. “Your dad wear a turban, then?”

  “Dad, Jesus,” Abraham said, covering his face.

  “What? Don’t mind me, sweetie, I’m just joking.” He frowned. “I am sort of curious, though. Does he?”

  “I think you’re thinking of Sikhs, not Muslims,” Ani said with a sigh.

  From the grimace on his face, she got the feeling he didn’t really care about the difference.

  “Right now, my parents are vacationing in France,” she said, eager to change the subject. “They live in California. I try to Skype them when I can.”

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,” his mother said, her voice full of longing.

  Happy at the topic switch, Ani smiled. “It’s so beautiful…”

  “Paris. Bunch of leftist cheese-eaters,” Carl said with a scoff. Then he continued on his original trajectory. “You’re a student? What are you studying?”

  “Infectious diseases,” she said, her voice short.

  He looked at her askance. “Well. That’s… well. Why would anyone study that?”

  “To help people, Dad?” Abraham interrupted, his eyes flashing.

  “I’m just saying, it’s a double-edged sword, studying stuff that’s maybe better off unstudied. Bad things can happen.”

  She looked at Carl, her exhaustion and irritation with his unchecked rudeness finally making the leash on her control slip. “Why don’t you just come out and ask: am I a terrorist?”

  Silence fell on the table. Abraham stared at her like she’d grown another head.

  His father blustered. “Good grief, I…”

  “I’m a grad student. I’ve just come back from a year at Helsinki. I’m going for my doctorate in Public Health. I’m studying to be an immunologist.”

  “What’s that?” Keith asked.

  “I study infectious diseases.” She looked at his father. “Which means I have access to anthrax and Ebola. Handy, huh?”

  His eyes widened.

  She leaned forward with an exaggerated wink. “Just joking, Carl.”

  She sat, eating a forkful of potato salad, staring him down.

  And then he started laughing. Not just chuckling. Like, roaring laughing.

  “Holy shit,” Abraham whispered.

  “I like you, girl,” his father said. “You give as good as you get. Bet you don’t put up with Abe’s bullshit, either.”

  “Historically, no,” she said, feeling relief turn her bones to Jell-O.

  “Well, you keep on doing that. I like a girl who’s spunky.”

  Gah. She didn’t like that, either, but she’d pushed enough tonight. She’d just count the moments until she could get the heck out of here, good potato salad or no.

  Abraham put his arm around her back, squeezing her in a tiny little half hug, and suddenly she felt better.

  “You watch yourself there, Abe,” his father continued. “You’re punching above your weight class with a girl like this. Girls like her don’t stay with guys like you.”

  “Carl!” Abraham’s mother snapped.

  “What? I’m joking.” But his eyes said otherwise.

  Later that night, Abraham was finally able to tear them away from the bosom of his family and get the hell out of Enumclaw with a working ball mill. “I can’t believe he got it to work!” Ani said, all but bouncing in her enthusiasm.

  “I knew he’d be able to,” Abraham countered, which was true — he had no doubt in his father’s ability to fix things. What he had somehow forgotten was his father’s — well, in their family, they called it “political incorrectness,” with pride. When he’d met Fezza, he’d given him some shit about what country he was really from, since answering “Puyallup” hadn’t done the trick. His father could be charming in his own way, but he didn’t have a filter, and took a certain pride in not having one. He was an O.G. troll. He liked to push people’s buttons and see if they’d take the bait.

  He hated the fact that his father had made Ani uncomfortable. Knowing that he himself used to lack that same filter — and have that same pride — now made him feel like a shit. It was like he just hadn’t seen it, or had thought it was some point of pride to be a dick.

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  Toughness, he thought. If you couldn’t take some verbal abuse, then you were weak, and not to be respected. His father had taught him that, especially growing up in a house full of girls. He had to carry on his father’s legacy, his father’s stances. He’d gone to the military. Hell, he had a good — no, great — job as a video game programmer, and his father still thought he was a pussy.

  What the fuck was that?

  “What are you thinking about?” Ani asked, startling him. “Because you’re gripping that steering wheel like you want to strangle it, and I’d kinda like to get home in one piece tonight.”

  He shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He took a deep breath. “Actually, it’s not nothing. I’m sorry I put you in the position I did, meeting my family. And my dad’s bullshit.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first person I’ve met who thought they had the right to ask me about my background,” she said, her voice mostly casual. Mostly, he noted. “I probably shouldn’t have answered back with the terrorist thing, either. It’d been a long day.”

  “No, he liked that,” Abraham said. “He likes it when people stand up to him.”

  “He likes it when people are rude to him?” she said, sounding startled. “Or was it the fact that I wa
s a girl that I could get away with it?”

  Abraham paused. He hadn’t really thought about it, but… “I think if you’re respectful, he’s good with people standing up to him,” Abraham admitted slowly. “But the fact that you’re smokin’ hot definitely did not hurt. He’s got a weakness for beautiful women.”

  She laughed. “Sure. Beautiful in my jeans and a T-shirt.”

  “Angling for compliments?”

  It must’ve come out sounding dickish again, because she sighed. “No. I’m pointing out that… You know what, never mind.”

  He felt it, that sharp sting. “You have to know you’re beautiful,” he said, his voice coming out sounding like sharp gravel. “You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever laid hands on. Your eyes. Your smile. God, that body…”

  He heard her swift intake of breath.

  “I still want the hell out of you, but I’m trying to take it slow here. So, just believe me when I say you’re hot, all right?” He knew he sounded disgruntled, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “God, I am such an asshole.”

  There was quiet, and then he heard her let out a peal of startled laughter. “What am I going to do with you, Abraham?”

  He turned into her science building’s parking lot, next to her car. “I’ll walk you up to your lab,” he said as he shut off the truck.

  “Why am I not surprised you’re chivalrous,” she murmured.

  “I’m old-fashioned, and a lot of shit happens,” he muttered. He started to get out of the truck, but she put a gentle hand on his forearm, stopping him.

  “You’re not an asshole,” she said quietly. “Bossy, yes. Sexist, sometimes. Surly as hell? Definitely.”

  He snorted.

  “But you listen,” she said. “That means something. You’ve been nothing but helpful to me, even if you’re sometimes kind of grumpy about it. You bring me food, you help me out, and you know what? You’re kinder, and softer, than you let on.”

  “I’m not soft right now, sweetheart,” he said, only because the thought of her calling him soft chafed at him. But the rest of it — she was grateful, he could tell. He could make out her features from the fluorescence of the parking light. Even in deep shadow, her eyes were large and doe-like, her cheekbones high, her lips full.

  Beautiful, he thought. But also smart as hell, as his father had noticed.

  You’re punching above your weight class, boy. No way a woman like that sticks with a guy like you.

  “Goddamnit,” he said, then leaned over, getting close to her face. “I’m doing this because I want to have sex with you again. I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel addicted. And if that means bringing you dinner or fixing your lab equipment or cleaning your damned apartment, then I’ll do it. Because you are hotter than hell and I’m not finished with you yet, and I’ll do whatever I have to, to prove that.”

  He leaned toward her, predatory, looming. Paused.

  He was waiting, he realized.

  Waiting to see how she’d respond. Not wanting to rush her. Wanting her to want him and be as much a part of this as he was.

  Any other woman, he might’ve kissed to convince. But he knew thanks to her that it wasn’t the right way.

  And waiting made it that much sweeter when she leaned forward, twining her willowy arms around his neck and pulling him the rest of the way against her. He groaned against her lips, kissing her with all the intensity and pent-up longing he’d been bottling up for the past two weeks. His mouth pressed against hers, his tongue lashing out and parting her lips before delving inside, tangling with hers as she gasped and arched her back, letting out a small moan in response.

  He cupped the nape of her neck, beneath her long braid, holding her taut against him. He wished he didn’t have bucket seats, wanting to drag her across the gear shift and press her against him, straddling him. As it was, they were awkwardly but intently melded together, their mouths playing as his other hand roamed over her body and her hands clutched at his shirt, tugging him as close as she could. Finally, she put a hand on his chest, nudging him back as she breathed, deep gulping breaths.

  “Oh, my God. You’re so good at that,” she said. “Seriously. You’re like the Norse God of kissing or something.”

  He felt a little dizzy. “You are no slouch, either,” he said. “Although you’re going to need to give me a few minutes. I’ve got a boner here that I could joust with, and I don’t think that’s the kind of chivalry you had in mind.”

  She burst out into a chuckle. “You are insane,” she said. “I really don’t need you to—”

  “I’m going with you,” he said. “When is this fucking thing of yours done, anyway?”

  “What? My proposal?” She sighed. “Another four weeks. I haven’t had a lot of time to work on it, with all this other stuff going on — grading papers, and these extra research lab assignments…”

  “Four weeks. Then you’ll have a little more breathing room, right?”

  He could see her eyes narrow. “Yeah…”

  “Tell you what. I’m not going away, okay? But I’m not going to pressure you,” he said, when he saw her jaw set and her gaze turned to a glare. “In fact, we don’t even have to have sex. We won’t have sex.”

  “And by sex, are we talking, like, legal definitions?” she said. “What’s your angle?”

  What was his angle? He just wanted to bag her, get her out of his system… didn’t he?

  He frowned. Did he?

  “My angle,” he said, “is to get to have headboard-banging, forget-your-name sex with you. But not when you’re running at half power. I know what you’re capable of, and I want it all.”

  She laughed. “Okay. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Four weeks,” he said. “And I’ll do whatever I can to make these four weeks easier for you — so when it’s done, you’ll decide to have sex with me. And we will fucking burn the joint down, for as long as you want after that.”

  She was silent, and he wondered if it was too insane.

  “You liked it when it was a one-night stand,” he pointed out, deciding to focus on the sex because… well, because anything else was confusing for him. “This is like a gun waiting period. Followed by a multiple-night stand. With benefits.”

  He’d never begged a woman to sleep with him before, and he felt a little emasculated. But he also felt a little shameless. She was worth it. More than worth it.

  “I don’t know,” she said, picking up the grinder. “But… I’m more open to it.”

  “Oh, really?” he said, trying not to sound caustic and probably failing miserably.

  She frowned. “You don’t get to treat me nicely and then get sex. That’s not how this works,” she said. “I was exhausted when I was spouting that stuff off.”

  “So, you don’t want a wife anymore?” he said, tongue in cheek.

  “I mean, you don’t treat me nicely just so you can have sex with me,” she said, her tone serious. “You treat me nicely because I fucking deserve to be treated nicely.”

  “Well, of course,” he said, stunned.

  “And you get sex if I decide to have sex with you. They’re not related. Too many men think that sex is transactional — I bought you dinner, you owe me, that kind of thing — and I don’t want it to be that way between us.”

  “It’s not.” He nodded, eager to reassure her. “It won’t be. I promise.”

  She got out of the car, and he walked around, taking the grinder from her. She glowered at him, but finally relinquished it. It was small, but it was sort of heavy and awkward. It wasn’t a problem for him, and he found he liked carrying stuff for her. It made it feel like high school or something.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole before,” he said, surprising himself. “I mean, with Tessa. With you.”

  “Okay,” she said, not contradicting him. He grimaced, then smiled. Had he really expected her to pretend that he hadn’t been?”

  “Hey. Maybe I can change,” he teased. “You know. Yo
u could be a good influence.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” she said as they walked to the lab. “Because the love of a good woman is all it takes to turn a grumpy guy into a lovey-dovey super-boyfriend.”

  “Whoa. Who said anything about love?” he joked, wiggling his eyebrows. “Sex, baby. Sex will turn a guy into anything you want.”

  By now they were in a well-lit area, and he saw the look of sadness, and acceptance, on her face. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

  And he suddenly wanted very much to tell her that he was not right. He didn’t know about love — when he’d been in love, it seemed like one big headache after another. But he knew that sex with Ani was phenomenal.

  The thing was, he was starting to learn that not having sex with Ani was good, too.

  He’d have to think about that.

  Chapter 7

  Abraham was still thinking about the night before — the kiss in the cab of his truck — as he ate his lunch in the break room at MPG. Most of the members of his programming crew were sitting on one of the big leather couches they’d purchased, parked in front of the big-screen TV, playing video games. This time, it was a demo version of Kill Zone: The Gauntlet. They were going head to head, on PVP mode. So far, it seemed like new kid, Dennis, was kicking everybody’s asses.

  “Anybody else want a shot at the champ?” Dennis crowed.

  “Watch out, we got a badass over here,” Fezza said, grabbing the controller from Jose.

  “It doesn’t surprise me that I beat Jose,” Dennis said with a quicksilver grin. “I mean, you’ve been dating that chick for how long?”

  Abraham noticed Jose’s normally easygoing expression go tight with tension. “Two or three weeks.”

  “And you still haven’t closed the deal yet?” Dennis shook his head as the game started up again and he spawned into the battleground. The split screen showed him on the right, Fezza on the left. “What the hell are you waiting for? She holding out for a ring or something?”

  “Two fucking weeks, Dennis,” Jose growled.

  “Two not-fucking weeks,” Dennis snickered.

  “What about you?” Fezza said, obviously trying to change the subject as he frantically moved his character, trying to outflank Dennis’s more powerful one. Abraham studied their strategies. He got the feeling Dennis was going to draw Fezza into a trap. “Did you nail that skull pasties chick from Erotic City Con?” Fezza continued.