by Lauren Runow
“Right now,” she breathes.
“Me, too.”
I close the gap, pulling her into me, flush against my chest. Her eyes change from violet to a stormy black as I splay my hand further down her back.
Her mouth parts, begging to be kissed, but her eyes are telling a conflicting story. She has a passionate, lustful, and glazed expression, but as her eyes widen and search deep within my soul, I can see the trepidation.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
I give her my truth. “Petrified.”
Her tongue peaks out, glossing her lower lip, and her eyes glisten as she declares, “I’ll take your dare.”
“Kiss me.”
Her eyes flutter closed, and I slowly lower with every intention to place the most tender of kisses upon her soft lips. Our lips are just a whisper away…
“Bryce Sexton,” a woman loudly says my name from behind a statue, causing us both to jump and turn toward the door.
I drop my head when the sight of Christine comes into view with her hands on her hips and confusion written all over her face. Her determined footsteps make their way toward us as we stand there in an intimate embrace.
“Tessa, I see you’ve met my boss.”
Tessa’s body goes rigid in my arms, her eyes wild with shame. “This is your boss? As in your boss, boss?” The way she drops her voice to ask the question raises an internal alarm. Tessa looks up at me—first confused and then hurt. She pushes against my chest and steps away, putting her back to me.
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me, and the air that was clear just moments ago is now thick with despair.
“How do you two know each other?” I ask.
“We’re friends. Tessa is one of my guests tonight.” Christine walks up to me and places a hand on my waist, but I push it away. “I came here to see you.”
Tessa grabs her purse from the ground and rushes toward the door.
“Tessa!” I call out to her, but Christine is grabbing on to my arm. My teeth grind as I swing back toward her and spit, “What are you doing here?”
“You said I could come to the gala.”
I did?
Shit. I did.
Weeks ago, when the invitation came, she asked if she could come. I was knee deep in the latest entertainment scandal and trying to secure the next day’s exclusive to run on all sixteen papers. I said yes without even thinking.
I want to run after Tessa, but Christine is here, and I need to settle unfinished business. “I told you before, nothing can happen between us.”
Her face twists with disgust. “Yeah, after I was on my knees.”
“I stopped you.” I shouldn’t have even let it get as far as it did, but I was up from my seat as soon as my brain kicked in.
She scoffs. “My hands were in your pants.”
“On my pants.” I press my thumb into my temple. “It was a lapse in judgment. You’re a fantastic girl and an amazing assistant, but I can’t be in a relationship with my employee.”
Her shoulders relax as she steps forward. “Then, I’ll quit.”
“I’m not interested in you. Employee or not, I don’t want to be with you.” I didn’t intend for that to come out cruel, but it’s the truth, and there isn’t any way to pussyfoot around the issue.
Earlier, when I lifted her off my office floor and told her I couldn’t do this, she seemed to understand. Clearly, she didn’t.
A glassy expression glares up at me. She slams her back against the marble statue, the same one Tessa was against earlier, and cries.
I take a cigarette out of my pocket and hold it out in offering. She takes it and allows me to light it.
“You’ll get six months of severance and a glowing recommendation,” I say.
She inhales the nicotine, slowly lets it out, and nods in agreement.
“I’m sorry—”
“Fuck you,” she says, throwing the cigarette onto my chest and marching away. It falls to the ground and continues to burn.
This is why I don’t do relationships.
4
TESSA
There are a million things wrong with how my weekend turned out. I was ridiculed by a she-devil—Missy—hit on by a married man—Mr. Sexton—and questioned for over an hour by a woman in a hockey T-shirt, who had a bad hangover—Christine.
“What did he say?”
“What did you do?”
“Did he tell you I gave him a blow job?”
I shake a wave of nausea at the thought. Despite everything that transpired in one crazy hour, despite my better judgment, all I can think about is Bryce Sexton.
His dark complexion mixed with those coal-like eyes and square jaw make him seem dangerous. Yet, when he spoke, his voice was smooth and his touch was as soft as silk.
He has a strong body—wide and lean with a perfectly narrowed waist. While he overpowered me physically, I felt safe and protected in his presence. He knew things about me just by paying attention. And, when he pried, I let him in. That was new for me.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Mom’s question snaps me out of my daydream.
“Sorry. Thinking of something that happened this weekend.” I take a bite of my French toast.
She lifts her coffee and speaks before taking a sip, “It must have been an exciting Thursday night to have you daydreaming for three days.”
My fork drops onto my plate. “How did you—” I blanch. “Are you spying on me?” My mouth is full, so my words come out muffled.
“I called, and you didn’t pick up.”
With a swallow, I wipe my mouth with a napkin and ask in a pressing manner, “Am I that pathetic that you always expect me to be home?”
She answers matter-of-factly, “You must have been somewhere important to not return my call all weekend. I’m surprised you showed up today.”
I drop my chin. “For our weekly breakfast. You do understand, this is more scheduled quality time than most adult women give their mothers.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “Perhaps I should be one of those women who only sees her child on holidays. I’ll wait by the phone for the occasional call when you feel like talking.”
I lift my fork and point it at her light eyes framed in thick black glasses. “You’d never be able to handle it.”
“Neither could you. Face it, kid; we’re a team. You need me as much as I need you.”
I roll my eyes at her with a smile, knowing she’s right. My mom has been my sole guardian and confidant my entire life. As the daughter of a single woman, you learn to be strong and confident together—especially when you make some rather poor choices and find you need your mom more than ever.
“What time are you picking up Charlie?” she asks.
I take a swig of my coffee. “The Masons are bringing him home at five.”
She leans her elbows on the table and rests her head in her palm. “I hate that you let Charlie sleep over at Rob and Eleanor’s house. And why the four-day weekend? It’s bad enough you give him to them once a month. Do they really need to stretch it?”
“They’re good people, Mom. It was Rob’s mother’s ninety-fifth birthday. It seemed like the right thing to do. Just because their son is a grade-A asshole who neglects his child doesn’t mean the Masons aren’t good grandparents. You and I both know it’s good for Charlie to know his family and that he’s not completely unwanted.”
My mom lets out a harrumph. “And what is the sperm donor up to these days?”
“Running a Jet Ski stand somewhere in Australia,” I say with disdain.
Ashton Mason was the love of my life for a solid three months. Yes, I understand how ridiculous that statement is now, but at the time, he was my everything.
At eighteen years old, I fell head over heels for this guy with dusty-blond hair and a crooked grin. He was the life of the party, and I worshipped the ground he walked on.
That was, until the day I told him I was pregnant, and he handed
me money for an abortion. I threw the cash in his face and never saw his sorry ass again.
The Masons didn’t know they had a grandson until two years ago. Once they found out, they immediately started with the calls and emails, asking to see him. I welcomed it, but I kept them at arm’s length until recently.
My mom must see the forlorn look on my face because she stretches her arm across the table and grabs my hand. “I miss you. I don’t like the house being so quiet. I like seeing Charlie’s toys all over the living room and your makeup strewed across the dining room table, and I like hearing your music blaring at all hours of the day. The salon even misses you.”
Before I moved from Berkeley, I did bridal makeup at Fabuloso Salon. It was a great job to have as a single mother. I worked weekends and had three days off during the week to be with my baby. The pay was good so long as I lived with my mother, but I can’t be a child forever, especially when I have one of my own.
I applied for a job at a prestigious salon and spa here, in San Francisco, thinking they’d never hire me. Not only did I get the job, but also the pay is triple what I was making back home, and the tips are astronomical. I can afford to support my son and myself for the first time in five years. On a frugal budget, that is.
“Next time you go to Fabuloso, tell everyone I said hello and that I’m living it up in San Francisco.”
She squints one eye. “And by living it up, you mean—”
“Having unprotected sex with every man I meet on the sidewalk,” I say just as I pop a strawberry in my mouth and chew with a devilish grin. She doesn’t seem amused, so I add, “Or tell them I took a job as a burlesque dancer.”
“Tessa.” She doesn’t like my humor.
I act surprised by her reaction. “What? It’s a form of artistic expression.”
She sits back and folds her arms across her beige pantsuit. Yes, my mom wears her empowerment clothes, even to casual meals with her daughter. “You’re being crude. Now, what’s this talk of sex with men?”
I give her a deadpan expression. “I was kidding.”
Her mouth purses, and she takes me in. Her chin rises with the intake of knowledge she’s acquiring from a single expression. “You’ve met someone.”
I glance down at my food. “I’m not talking to you about this.”
“Who is he?”
With a forceful stab, I pierce the red fruit and take a bite. “He’s no one. It was nothing. Just someone I found mildly attractive. That’s all.”
She looks at me deeply and sways a finger. “Be careful, Tessa Lynn. Be very careful. Men are after only one thing.”
“As I can attest from the Lego-obsessed kindergartner who inhabited my womb.”
The waiter comes over with the coffee carafe and refills our cups.
He asks if we need anything else, and I answer, “No,” as my mother looks back at me as she silently thinks.
When the waiter leaves, I add milk and sugar to my cup and lean back in my seat.
Mom’s arms are crossed as she taps her fingers on her arm. She lets out a breath. “Tessa, you know I love Charlie with my heart and soul, and I can’t imagine life without him. But please, take my advice now. You have so much going for you—this new life in the city and a career on the rise—and a man will only wash it away.”
“I know, Mom,” I agree.
“Think of Charlie. You have a chance to raise a boy who respects women, not sees a string of men coming in the household to use a woman and take off when they’ve had their fill. I know you have wants, but there are toys for that sort of thing.”
The woman sitting in the booth next to ours gasps at my mother’s brazen mention of sex toys.
“Thank you for painting me as a gullible twit when it comes to the world of dating,” I say with sarcasm.
She uncrosses her arms and lets out a sigh. “There are so many good men in the world. Lord knows my own father was a saint, bless his soul. You’re a single mother in a big city. Take it from me when I say you are prey for the wrong kind of man. I have a ton of clients who sing the same song.”
“You’re right.” I play with my empty sugar packet. “You don’t even need a man to procreate. You can just walk down to the bank and pick yourself up some sperm.” I regret the comment as soon as I say it.
It’s the story of my life.
My legacy.
When my mother was in her twenties, she was swindled into a relationship with a man who said she was the “personification of beauty and integrity, rolled into one.”
Cheesy, I know.
He pushed that a life without children was the best for them, and they embarked on a love affair filled with late-night parties and travel. Well, he traveled for work a lot, bringing her back lavish gifts.
That was, until she discovered he had a secret family in Burbank, including three children—one of whom was conceived during their relationship.
Instead of getting mad, she swore off men, marched her size-six, power-suit-wearing ass down to the fertility clinic, and got pregnant on her own. Add that with my less than romantic knocked-up story, and you have my mother, Kathleen Clarke—a fortress of feminist solitude.
At fifty-eight years old, she is a women’s rights attorney. She has appeared on a number of news programs, standing beside her clients, reading a statement on the lawsuit they’re dropping on a firm. She’s dedicated her life to sticking up for women who don’t have a voice.
She’s brilliant and beautiful, and I’m beyond proud to be her daughter.
That’s why my heart sinks at the look on her face. My words hurt her. I can see that.
“Mom, you raised me to have a strong mind. I know firsthand what’s out there, and I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“I only want the best for you and Charlie. He doesn’t need a man in his life to be a good human being.”
“I can attest to that,” I say proudly. “Listen, I know this move is hard on you, but it’s important to me that Charlie sees I’m doing this on my own. That’s what you always taught me—that I was strong enough to make anything possible.
“Growing up, I had everything I ever needed because I was your everything. That’s what I want for Charlie. To give him the world because he is my world. I’m making great money, he’s in the best public school in the county, and he now has a personal relationship with all of his grandparents. Trust me when I tell you a man is not in the cards for me right now.” Grabbing the dessert menu off the table, I hand it over to her. “Now, enough emotional talk for one day. I want to top off this meal with a ridiculously high-calorie brownie volcano. What do you say?”
A wide smile graces her face. “I’d say I raised you right. Let’s get whipped cream, too.”
“Deal.”
My apartment is way too quiet without the constant sound of a television. For once, my floor is spotless since I had a chance to put everything away while Charlie was at his grandparents’.
It’s not that he’s a messy kid. I just feel like a kid should be able to be a kid, so I allow him to keep his toys out, especially when he’s in the middle of building a pirate ship, rocket, or whatever other Lego toy he comes back with from the Masons.
It took a long time for me to allow Rob and Eleanor this special weekend with Charlie. I never begrudged them a chance to see him. I hoped their desire to know their grandson would spark Ashton’s affection for him. Instead, it did the opposite, sending him halfway across the globe.
The farther Ashton travels, the more the Masons want to see Charlie.
Knock, knock.
It’s still early for them to be here, so I look through the peephole and see Abby’s curly brown hair.
I open the door. “Hey, stranger. Charlie’s gonna be home soon.”
She walks in and heads into the small kitchen that’s to the right of the entry. “I’ll only stay a few minutes then. I know how much you like your alone time with him after he’s been away for the weekend.”
“I should like
the freedom, but I miss him.” There’s a fresh batch of cookies on my stove, so I grab a few and hand them to Abby. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”
She grins as she takes a bite of warm, chewy goodness. “God, you’re the best mom.”
I lift my eyes to the sky as I walk to the fridge and take out the milk. “Hardly.”
She swallows. “Dude, you sleep on a pullout couch, so your kid can have his own room.”
As I pour two glasses, I look behind her at my sweet little living room and pullout sofa that converts to my bed. Our television is sitting on my dresser, and the end tables double as nightstands. Luckily, the apartment has a large closet in the hallway that works well for my clothes.
When I decided to move to San Francisco, I chose the neighborhood with the best elementary school. Turns out, the best school is in an expensive neighborhood. I might be making good money, but I need to save, and a one-bedroom apartment is helping me do that.
The kitchen is tiny and lacking a dishwasher, but it has everything I need to make home-cooked meals. The bathroom has a tub that’s too small for soaking, but it’s the perfect size for Charlie to climb in and out of on his own.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I place the glass of milk down in front of Abby. “This apartment is all I can afford right now. Besides, it came with the best neighbor, and that, my friend, is a priceless commodity.”
“Damn right.” She lifts her glass to mine. We clink and take a drink. With her cookie tapping against her lips, she says, “So … Bryce Sexton.”
The cold milk almost gets lodged in my throat. I let out a cough. “Nothing happened. I already told Christine when she cornered me in the lobby yesterday.”
“Heard about that. She can be a bit …”
“Dramatic?”
Abby smiles. “Yeah, that. So, seriously, Christine said you two looked pretty intimate.”
I lean an elbow on the table and run my fingers along my lips. We shared the faintest of kisses, and my lips are still buzzing with the memory. “She’s exaggerating.”
She lowers her forehead and looks up at me, unconvinced. “You were in his arms.”