by T Gephart
“So what, you want to go home?” I didn’t need to check the time to know it was still ridiculously early.
Mason, looked out through the window at the passing traffic. “You want to show me just a regular bar?”
I rolled my eyes, throwing the car into gear and easing back onto the road. “Fine, we’ll go to a regular bar and sit like a couple of old men in the corner. Just don’t try and convert me or anything. I’ve had my fill of fucking drama tonight.”
“Dallas, I’m not even religious. I’m not trying to stop you from anything other than getting a fist in the face.” He laughed, relaxing into the seat.
My fingers gripped the steering wheel tight as I muttered under my breath. “I could have taken him.”
“Sure you could, it was his five friends I was more worried about.”
“That’s what you’re for. You worried about messing up that pretty face of yours?” I volleyed back not sure whether or not he’d have my back.
He shook his head, a grin spreading across his lips. “Not worried about my face or anything else. I’ll even buy the next round.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that.” A free beer was a free beer, and if there was one thing I needed it was a drink. “Okay, celibate. Let’s go spend some of your money.”
Kitty
THURSDAY NIGHTS BLEW.
Eve was busy with gallery stuff, Lani was on a health kick and trying to talk me into going to Bikram yoga, and the woman who lived in the apartment next door was practicing her Inuit throat singing. She wasn’t Inuit or a singer but believed—like Lani with her hothouse yoga—it would give her better life balance.
I didn’t need my chakras cleansed or my spirit amplified, and I hadn’t hit that level of boredom yet but it was close. Instead I sat on my couch, balancing the plate that contained my dinner on my knees and tried to work out exactly what was the difference between frittata and omelet. I had apparently made a vegetable frittata, using the food delivery service my sister had suggested.
Katy—yeah, our parents were so original—was a year younger than me but was my complete opposite. She was married, pregnant and knitted blankets that she donated to premature babies. She cooked, she cleaned, and had only ever been with one man—her husband. But while it might seem like she had it all together, she hadn’t been able to hold down a steady job in forever. She’d changed majors in college four times, barely gaining her bachelor in general studies by the end of it. She could barely choose a job, let alone a career, flipping between working at bars and restaurants, retail stores and then going to do courses like cosmetology which she had no intention of ever using.
Together we would have been the perfect woman. Me, kicking ass in the professional world, while she had the domesticated side under control. And because her dinners looked like they belong on Pinterest, I decided to take her advice and try one of those meal subscription box services. It was idiot proof, they deliver the box with everything you needed to make a healthy, nutritious and well-balanced meal, and you followed the directions. I’ll admit that about three steps in I went rogue and tossed everything into the pan, hoping for the best. Which was why I was looking at the mess on my plate trying to work out if it still fit the card description.
It didn’t taste great but it was better than another night of takeaway, and the glass of wine helped it go down. Besides, I was so involved watching a whole season of Project Runway, I hadn’t even noticed I’d finished the unnamable dish until I reached down with my fork and there was nothing left.
My motivation to do the dishes was also at a low, choosing to continue with the next season and dumping my plate on the coffee table while I chilled on the couch.
Boredom.
Which could only lead to bad things.
With my mind and hands idle, my thoughts wandered back to the man I’d seen in the elevator. He was gorgeous, and someone I’d probably like to get to know better.
Fine.
It was his body I wanted to get to know better. Wondering if he knew what to do with what he kept hidden underneath that well-fitted suit. I didn’t have to see him naked to know he was ripped, the broad shoulders and chest and narrow waist billboarding his toned physique.
He had to be a client.
Leaving Heidi Klum and her fabric militia humming in the background, I pulled up my laptop and logged into the Braxton Hill portal.
As assistant to the CEO at Braxton Hill, I had access to almost everyone’s schedules. Made things easier to track down executives, or get a temp up to speed when someone took unscheduled time off.
And oh so convenient when I wanted to look who had what appointments so I could try and work out who the mystery man was. Some might call it misappropriation of company resources, while I preferred to look it at as using all the tools at my disposal. Besides, it’s not like I was using the information for anything shady. I was just going to get his name and then stalk him on the internet like a regular person.
As I’d exited the elevator at approximately one thirty, I had to assume the meeting had ended around the same time. Then all I had to do was look through the time blocks and hopefully narrow down my search.
There were three possibilities.
Lyle McCure.
Saxon Banks.
JD Easton.
Three names were better than twenty, each one of them entered into the search engine and hoping one or more of them would have an accompanying photo.
It didn’t take long, the winning entry JD—Justin Dean—Easton.
Justin was in his early thirties, a lawyer who worked near Wall Street. Other than his public persona, there wasn’t a lot to see which meant I had to be content with just his name.
Oh well, at least my night hadn’t been a total wash and with that little nugget of information tucked into my proverbial back pocket, I decided to go to bed.
I stripped off in my bathroom, going through my nightly ritual of cleansing, naked. In my mind it made sense to be bare, taking off my makeup and moisturizing not only my face but also my body. My mom had drummed into both Katy and I that our skin wouldn’t stay great forever. And as a woman who looked like she was still in her 40’s even though she’d passed that time over a decade ago, I listened to everything she said. Well, almost everything she said. Okay, fine, skin care was probably it.
My parents were great, still together and living in Torrance. I didn’t see them as much as they would have liked but they didn’t judge me. In fact, they openly supported me and my life choices, which was probably why I was able to get through life with a decent self-esteem despite my many missteps. It could be worse, I could be severely unhappy, hating my job, and have the skin of a Komodo dragon.
While I was thanking my parents and my regimented skin care routine, I heard knocking at my door. Not banging like the dude who lived one floor up from me did when he came home drunk and got the wrong apartment. Like a regular knock, as in someone was at my door and wanted me to open it.
At midnight.
While I was naked.
Yeah, I wasn’t that stupid.
Disregarding my lotions and potions, I hustled to my bedroom and grabbed a robe. I still wasn’t sure what the plan was, but the person on the other side of the door didn’t seem perturbed that I had yet to answer.
The knocking continued, my name only heard as a low whisper as I stalked to the door.
“Kitty.”
“Dallas?” I called back, confused as to whether it was him or someone who sounded remarkably like him. We had already spoken a few times today, our last conversation either by phone or text, hours ago.
“Yeah, it’s me. Can you open up?”
Ordinarily a late-night visit from a man meant only one thing.
A booty call.
It wasn’t uncommon for a guy who I’d been with once to turn up drunk or horny on my doorstep. Some would text first while others preferred the element of surprise. Sometimes I was up for it, sometimes not so much. And it was only my feeli
ngs on the matter that determined whether or not I opened the door.
But it was Dallas and we weren’t doing that.
Pretty sure our agreement to help each other being better at hook ups meant we weren’t sleeping with each other.
“Kitty, you going to let me in or not?” He laughed, reminding me that while I was internally debating I had yet to answer him and/or open the door. And that was just rude.
Deciding I’d left him standing outside long enough, I unlocked it and pulled it open. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”
His eyes glanced down my body, taking me in like he usually did, but the usually cocky grin that accompanied his “look” wasn’t there. “I need to talk to you.”
Still no closer to knowing what was wrong, I invited him in and locked the door behind us. It was clear something was bothering him, and it unnerved me a little.
“Tell me.” I grabbed his hand and led him to my sofa. “What’s happened? Is it Josh? Eve?” The thought of something bad happening to one of our friends was terrifying but the only explanation I had for his somber mood.
It was Dallas—he never got depressed or serious.
“Do you think I don’t talk to women?” he asked with zero context.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to get a read on whether or not he was drunk. He hadn’t been slurring his speech and he walked just fine when he entered my apartment. No glassy eyes or rosy cheeks, or signs of excess sweating. Then again, he’d only just walked in, so it was probably irresponsible to assume he was sober too.
“Dallas, is this a trick question? You are talking to one right now.”
“No, not you.” He waved his hand. “Like other women.”
Yeah, if he wasn’t drunk then he was definitely under the influence of something because that sentence made no sense.
I felt his forehead, testing to see if there was any fever. “Honey, did you take something? You talk to women all the time. Like a lot of women. You spoke to one this afternoon, remember? She baked you cookies.”
“Apparently that doesn’t count if you are trying to get them in bed,” he huffed out in frustration. “I was drinking with Mason tonight, and there was this girl who was looking to use me to start something with her dude. Now, I don’t give a shit what is happening in someone else’s relationship, as long as it doesn’t impact me. But Mason had said some shit earlier about me not getting the best deal because I don’t get to know them or talk to them—shit, I can’t remember everything. And I swear, between Bible Holly, the chick at the bar, and then him, my head is completely messed up.”
It was obvious he was agitated, and while I didn’t know exactly who Mason was and why he was relevant, I needed to know a little bit more about what he said to Dallas if I was going to make any sense of it.
“Babe, you are going to slow down and go over it again for me, okay? Who is Mason?” I turned to face him, his brows pulled tight into a frown.
Given the prompt, Dallas launched into the details, telling me about the newest member of their team. They’d been looking for someone for a while so I wasn’t surprised Josh had finally hired. I listened intently as Dallas told me all about the new tattooist, and his theory on women. I didn’t interject, letting him get all the way through to the incident at the bar with the woman he’d previously slept with.
“So Mason and I ended up going to Bricks and Mortar near the shop, sitting in a booth like a pair of teenagers on a date.” Dallas scratched his neck. “And I can’t stop thinking about what he freaking said.”
“About the woman trying to make her boyfriend jealous?” I asked, more than just a little agitated someone would use him like that.
Sex for sex’s sake was fine when everyone knew the score, but using him as bait wasn’t cool.
He shook his head. “Nah, that was dumb. I knew something felt weird, but didn’t have my head in the game. I meant about him saying I could have better sex if I got to know them better.”
“Ummmm . . . I guess?” I shrugged, not really sure. I mean, how was I supposed to answer? I had no idea what it felt like for him, and if it would improve with the added insight.
His frown deepened. “You mean, you don’t know?” The surprise was genuine, like he was expecting me to have an answer.
“How can I know? I can tell you that no two women are alike and what one woman wants, another doesn’t. We don’t all want deep and meaningful conversations. Sometimes we like it dirty and rough, and don’t want to feel like it makes us less than for wanting that. Sometimes we want to wear tiaras and sip tea pretending to be princesses. Women are complex creatures.”
“Great, well now I’m even more confused. I was hoping to come here, have you tell me it was all horseshit and have one less thing to worry about.” He sighed, leaning back on the sofa seemingly defeated.
I, myself, toggled wildly trying to decide what I wanted. I’d given up on the fantasy, believing a man who would be able to take me as I was and have a longstanding relationship, didn’t exist. I’m not sure if it was my fault or theirs that I attracted and was attracted to guys who didn’t fit that mold. Possibly because the fantasy didn’t exist. It was a dream sold to us by toy manufacturers and movies, leading us to believe that there was someone for everyone and you just had to find them. But that wasn’t true, which is why I’d given up looking.
My body relaxed against the couch beside him, our shoulders touching as I shifted my weight. “It sounds a lot like a relationship if you ask me.”
“Yeah, and neither of us wants that.” He laughed, wrapping his arm around my body and pulling me closer.
It was strange to have him touching me and for it not to be in a way that was sexual. I mean, we’d hugged and stuff like that when we’d seen each other in the past. But his arms around me felt different. Non sexual, non-demanding—like he didn’t want or expect anything from the touch.
“Hey, we should do it.” My spine jacked up from the couch as the idea floated through my head. “We should try it.”
“Try what?” Dallas asked, completely oblivious to my brilliant plan.
I waved between us, trying to illustrate the familiar comfort we’d slipped into. “We should try to get to know each other better. Talk to each other. And then, I don’t know, in a few weeks or a month, have sex again and see if it is better.”
His lips twisted into a gorgeous Dallas grin. “Babe, if you want to have sex with me, you know all you have to do is ask.”
“Not now, Dallas.” I shoved him playfully. “It’s an experiment. To test if Mason’s theory is right. We already have our baseline; we had sex when we didn’t know each other that well. Then we have sex again and compare data.”
He screwed up his face in horror. “Now you’re just making sex sound like work. Who even does that? Mason has already messed with my head, now you want to take away whatever joy was left.”
“It’s not going to be like work.” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, it’s not really different to what we are doing now. We are talking and helping each other. We just need to take it a little bit further.”
His eyes dropped down to my breasts, following the column of my throat and back up to my face as a wicked grin spread across his lips. “You want me to handcuff you?”
“Not sexually, dumbass.” I elbowed him, fighting my own smile. “I mean we go out and get to know each other a little better.”
“Wait a second, did you not just suggest we have sex? How did that get taken off the table so quickly?”
“We are going to have sex, later,” I promised. “When we know each other better, like Mason would know one of the girls he sleeps with.”
It sounded strange, saying those words like I was talking to a stranger, which wasn’t accurate at all. I knew Dallas probably more than most of the men I’d slept with, which probably wasn’t well enough. Maybe Mason had a point, sure as hell worth finding out.
Dallas looked skeptical, nowhere near as convinced as I was that it was a good plan. “So
do we write it on the calendar or something? How long does this getting to know you phase last?”
“Jesus, Dallas. I’m just as in the dark about this as you. I’ve dated a guy for three months before I found out he was stealing my used underwear and selling it on the internet.”
While I did wonder why my collection of panties had dwindled, I just assumed I’d misplaced a few. Or the industrial washer at the laundromat ate them—happened all the time. And it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d forgotten panties or a bra somewhere else, usually in a backseat of a car or a boyfriend’s apartment. But the dumbass who I had been delusional to believe was my boyfriend happened to leave his web browser open. My previously missing—and worn—hot pink Agent Provocateur lacey bikini underwear stared me in the face from the computer screen. They had been up to two hundred dollars and bidding was still open for another three days.
“Let’s do a month,” Dallas decided. “It will take into account the fact we already know each other. Like when they take into account the time you’ve already served before they give out a sentence.”
I narrowed my eyes, pretending to be annoyed. “Now who’s making the sex sound unsexy. I don’t think sleeping with me has ever been compared to jail time.”
“Are we back to talking about the handcuffs?” He laughed, not buying my pissed off face for a second.
“Dallas, focus,” I huffed, my manufactured annoyance starting to become real.
“Sorry, I’m focused,” he apologized, actually looking sorry.
My body turned into his arms, looking up at him with excitement. “Okay, so we do this. Any questions?”
He hesitated, biting his lip like before he asked, “What about other people?”
“If you’re suggesting a threesome, that’s a bad idea.” I shook my head, not willing to even consider it. “We won’t know them like we know each other and therefore skew the data.”
“I meant, are we doing this like you would a real relationship? What are the rules for this?”
He was so adorable, tilting his head to the side with eyes full of sincerity. “Dallas, we aren’t dating and I’m not your girlfriend so you don’t need to worry about being faithful. If you see something you like, then go for it.” It wasn’t like we were or ever would be a real thing. So he was free to do what or whomever he wanted. “I’d probably avoid getting involved in a serious relationship until after we’re done though. I don’t think it’s fair to that person if we’re spending so much time together and then cheat on them when we sleep together.”