by Tara Sivec
“For work, to talk about his uncle,” I explain, adding a few more swipes of mascara. “And since it’s a birthday party and his sister will be there, she can fill in whatever Baker might leave out. It’s a very sound business decision, Brooklyn. I can speak to both of them at one time, instead of wasting a whole other interview talking to Blake alone. It’s a time management thing; you wouldn’t understand.”
I sound like I have a stick shoved so far up my ass that I’m choking on it.
“Jesus Christ, pull that stick out of your ass already and hump that man!” My conscience, I mean, my best friend shouts through the phone. “You are being fucking ridiculous with this ‘no touching the boss until the work is done’ horse shit. No sex is making you cranky and uptight, and pretending like you haven’t wanted to screw that man since the minute you heard his voice is getting old.”
I scoff, shoving the tube of mascara aggressively into my makeup bag, so Brooklyn can see how ridiculous I think she’s being. But then I remember I just have her on speaker, not on FaceTime, and really underestimate how aggressive I can be with mascara when I’m annoyed. My makeup bag goes flying off the sink, everything inside of it clattering against the wall and the shower door before hitting the ground, with a few poor, doomed eyeshadow pallets, dying swiftly when they plop into the toilet bowl.
“Was that the sound of your vagina finally exploding from nonuse?” Brooklyn laughs when all the ruckus from my makeup flying around the room dies down. “Anyway, you’re dating. For at least a month now.”
“We’re not dating.” I sigh as I bend down to pick up everything from the floor. “We pinky swore. We’ve had a few instances of slightly crossing the line, but we nipped it in the bud, and everything else has been purely work-related.”
I finish grabbing everything from the floor, shoving it into my makeup bag as I stand back up.
“Let me break this down for you, dipshit,” Brooklyn mutters. “You flirt with each other, you’ve spent weeks getting to know a shit-ton about each other, you’ve met his family, one or more of his family members have your cell phone number and they use it, you’ve shared a meal together, you introduced him to your son, he helped you pick out a family pet, you guys have inside jokes, you talk by email or text every day, he either sends a car to pick you up or he picks you up himself, and you’ve been invited to a family birthday celebration tonight.”
My head started spinning as soon as she began rambling off that list, until I had to lower the toilet lid and my body slowly slunk down to sit on it.
“You. Are. Dating,” Brooklyn stresses.
After I’ve taken a few deep breaths and I can think clearly again, I shake my head, even though Brooklyn can’t see me denying this rubbish.
“This is… this is ridiculous.” I scoff. “I mean, we’re just hanging out while we work. And everything you listed has something or other to do with this job. We agreed to keep everything professional until the job is done. I mean, it sounds bad when you say it all out loud like that, but… no. No! We’re not dating.”
Right? RIGHT? I am not this much of an idiot. You can’t be dating someone for weeks, and you’ve never even kissed. Preposterous!
“Or, this job is just Baker’s excuse so you’ll hang out with him. Liiike, dating.” Brooklyn snorts.
“Oh my God, will you stop?” I shout as my heart starts to race and my palms start to sweat. “For the last time, we are not dating. And besides, I think I’d know if we were dating. That’s usually a discussion that happens wherein both parties agree to date. There have been no dating discussions. And even though it’s been a while, I’m pretty sure I remember orgasms going hand-in-hand with dating. No orgasms, equals not dating!”
I’m screeching. Good God, I’m screeching! Because I want orgasms. Baker orgasms. Wait, no, not just that. Other important, really vital reasons that are blah, blah, blah… Baker orgasms.
I quickly bend forward to put my head between my knees before I pass out, completely forgetting I have the tiniest bathroom known to man. My forehead smacks against the sharp edge of the sink’s laminate countertop as I go, my brain clearly not understanding the concept of how I was in the process of trying not to pass out. My mouth opens in a silent scream of pain, and I quickly clamp it closed and grit my teeth before it escapes and I have to tell Brooklyn what a dumbass I am.
“Yeah, you’re dating.” She laughs, as I bring my hand up to my forehead and gently press my palm against the spot that feels like someone pounded with a hammer. “You are definitely dating, just without the naked, orgasmy, good parts. He saw right through your ‘keeping things professional’ bullshit, fucking started dating you without you even realizing it, while still respecting your ‘keeping things professional’ bullshit boundaries, until you got a clue,” Brooklyn muses. “Jesus Christ, marry this guy and have all of his babies.”
I don’t even know if the stars that are flashing behind my eyes right now are because my brain is exploding from me “finally getting a clue” as Brooklyn so nicely put it, or because my brain is actually exploding.
Slowly pulling my hand away from my throbbing head, I see a small splotch of blood. I literally see red as my anger starts to grow.
“Be honest here, Ember,” Brooklyn speaks, suddenly completely serious. “How long should this interview for the article really have taken? It’s a magazine article, not an entire biography going into a book. If Baker sat there, just spilling everything at once, how long? An hour, maybe two if we’re being generous, right? Instead, he has spread this out over weeks, and weeks, getting you to spill your deep, dark secrets to get to know you, and mother. Fucking. Dating you. Goddamn genius, I tell you.”
“That motherfucker,” I seethe, wincing in pain when gritting my teeth just makes my head pound even more.
“Go get ’em, tiger!” Brooklyn cheers. “For the love of all that is holy, stop denying yourself the naked, orgasmy, good parts. But you know, kick him in the balls a little first. But not too hard. You want those babies to still be able to function.”
Deciding to stick with anger over Baker’s trickery, instead of getting all girly and mushy thinking about naked orgasms, I stomp my feet against the ground and take a stand.
You know, figuratively. I’m pretty sure I’ll vomit if I stand too quickly. I don’t so much take a stand, as I move with the speed of a sloth that takes three hours to crawl one foot.
When I’m finally upright and standing in front of the sink, facing the mirror, I cringe when I see my reflection. There’s only a tiny red cut on my forehead right by my hairline that’s not even bleeding anymore, but under that is a lump the size of a grape I’m pretty sure will be turning black and blue any minute now.
“That. Mother. Fucker,” I mutter again.
I don’t know why it’s Baker’s fault I might have given myself a slight concussion, but it is. It’s all his stupid, secretly-dating-me fault.
I smack my finger against the End Call button on my phone in the middle of Brooklyn telling me to call her as soon as I have an orgasm status report on a scale of one to “I Can’t Remember My Own Name.”
Knowing the Uber Baker sent for Lincoln and me will be here any minute—Goddammit, that does not mean we’re dating, come on!—I make quick work of cleaning up the cut on my head as gingerly as possible, and putting a Band-Aid over it to hopefully cover up all the damage.
The fact that the only Band-Aids I have in the house at the moment are bright yellow-and-green ones with Tinkerbell on them, and the fact that I grabbed them at the check-out of the store the other day because they made me smile and think of Baker and the way he calls me Tink, means absolutely nothing. If anything, this bright beacon of happiness on my forehead just makes it easier to maintain my fury with Baker.
No one dates me without me knowing it and gets away with it. Orgasms be damned. *Scene ends with vagina curled up in a disheveled heap, wailing to the heavens as her misery pours out of her in a flood of tears* Oh my God, stop it! We are m
ad at him. Pissed. Furious!
“That motherfucker,” I mutter again, with a little more feeling, shutting off the bathroom light as I walk out into the hall, lifting my chin and preparing myself for battle.
Lincoln played a game on my phone the whole ride to Baker’s, which gave me too much quiet time to think. About how he made me feel like me again, about how comfortable I am around him, about how sweet he is even when he’s being annoying as hell, about how much he makes me laugh, how he’s made me not miss home quite so much, and how he was nervous to meet my son.
That last one almost did me in. I almost got out of the Uber when it pulled up to the curb in front of the gym, grabbed Lincoln’s hand, and ran as fast as I could to Baker.
Fortunately, having to walk up so many fucking stairs on the outside of the building to get to Baker’s loft above the gym gave my anger a much needed resuscitation. With each stomp of my cowboy-booted feet against the wrought-iron stairs leading us up and up, forcing me to do cardio against my will, I’m rightfully pissed by the time we get to the top, and I pound my hand against the door.
The thundering in my skull has lessened to a dull pulse that’s more annoying than painful, thanks to the three over-the-counter pain relievers I took before the Uber came. And thank God for that, especially when the door flies open and Blake lets out an ear-piercing scream of excitement when she sees me and Lincoln.
Introductions are made between the two of them, hugs are given, and before I can even blink, Blake has handed off Lincoln to Rachel, who takes him over to meet the other kids, and I’m being dragged into the loft.
Baker’s loft. His home. The place where he eats and sleeps… and bathes. Naked… with bubbles. Grrr, no, I’m mad! Stop being horny!
When Baker told me he lived in the loft above the gym, I pictured this tiny, mess of a man cave with nothing but an unmade bed in the middle of the room, and no other piece of furniture. Which is why when he invited me over here on a Wednesday night, I naturally assumed he was bringing me to his only-a-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-room sex lair.
Stop thinking that sounds like a fabulous idea. We’re mad!
Blake introduces me to a few people standing around the kitchen island, sipping on drinks and eating snacks, including Rachel’s parent’s and one of their close friends. We move on into the living room area, where I’m introduced to a few more friends, who are kicked back on Baker’s two leather couches facing a flat screen television hanging on the wall that’s playing the Cub’s game. Kids run around yelling and laughing, including my son, who zips by me without so much as a glance in my direction. The television is on, and conversations are happening. You would think this would all be just noisy chaos, but it’s not. Because Baker’s loft is huge. It’s the same three-thousand-square feet as the gym below, and it’s one giant, wide-open, industrial space with brick walls, hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city.
And of course I can’t help but smile when I look around the place and see everything he’s done to get it ready for a little girl’s birthday party. The pink princess theme is loud and proud, and has thrown up all over this loft. Tons of pink streamers hang all over the walls along with posters of princesses, pink helium balloons tied to every surface, pink glittery Happy Birthday banners hung in various locations, and a table filled with nothing but pink desserts. He even has strands of pink lights hanging from the exposed beams in the ceiling all up and down the loft.
Oh my God, he’s so sweet!
He’s been secretly dating you!
“Ahhh, there’s Baker,” Blake states, nodding to a door on the far side of the loft.
My “That mother fucker” dies on my lips as soon as I see that Blake is nodding to Baker, who is currently coming out from the door and back out into the main part of the loft. Carrying an adorable little girl with dirty blonde hair pulled up into two high ponytails, who’s wearing a frilly, pink, princess dress, hugging a stuffed unicorn under her arm, and who is giggling uncontrollably at something her uncle is saying to her as he carries her in the room.
No! I will not succumb! Resist the force!
“That’s my daughter, Skylar,” Blake says proudly. “She left Mr. Unicorn in Uncle Baker’s room, and he took her go get it before there was a meltdown.”
Nope. Don’t care that seeing him holding his niece made him look even more ridiculously hot and amazing. I also don’t care that I now know where Baker’s bedroom is, and also now know where that unmade sex bed is located, with the rumpled sheets just waiting for more rumpling. Don’t care at all.
Skylar takes off running in a blur of pink toward the dessert table as soon as Baker makes the mistake of putting her down.
“Shit. I better go get her before she inhales half the table,” Blake mutters as she takes off jogging toward the dessert table, where Skylar is currently reaching for a pink-frosted cupcake. Leaving me standing here alone, where I’m too far from other people to start talking to someone so I can stop staring at Baker.
I’ve been trying to pretend like his eyes haven’t been locked on mine since he started lowering Skylar to the ground, but I can’t. I can feel the heat from his stare even with him being ten feet away from me. He’s staring at me like he’s picturing me naked, and I immediately regret my outfit choice. Old, scuffed, brown, cowboy boots, with a red, short, baby doll sundress that leaves my shoulders completely bare. It’s something I would have worn to a birthday party back home, and it felt like a suit of armor when I put it on, giving me the power to kick Baker’s ass.
Right before the power of his heated stare almost makes my knees give out, his blue eyes suddenly narrow, and he stalks toward me with something that looks like worry in his eyes.
“Jesus Christ, what happened to your head?” he mutters as soon as he gets to me, pressing his hands to either side of my face and tilting my head up so he can get a better look.
Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m wounded. And it’s all your fault!
“It’s fine. It’s nothing,” I brush him off, pulling my face away from his hands before I start getting all melty and gooey again.
I. Am. Mad.
“It’s not nothing. There’s a lump, and it’s black and blue. You need ice. Maybe stitches. You definitely shouldn’t be standing,” he states, grabbing my hand, turning, and starting to pull me in the direction of the couches.
I’ve been taking care of other people for so long I don’t even remember the last time someone took care of me. It makes a lump form in my throat, even though I don’t need ice or stitches.
But I’m mad, goddammit!
Tugging on Baker’s hand, I get him to turn back around and face me.
“I’m fine. I swear. I just bumped my head at home, took some aspirin, and now I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt.”
All of a sudden, his hand comes up between us.
“Pinky swear,” he orders, his eyes flickering away from mine to look worriedly at my head.
No, no I will not cry right now.
Wrapping my pinky around his, I move our fingers together up and down slowly, too choked up to even utter any words.
“Nice Band-Aid, Tink,” Baker says after a few quiet seconds, the corner of his mouth tipping up as he looks down at me.
Jerking my finger away from his, it’s my turn to grab his hand as I turn and start dragging him toward his bedroom.
Wait, no! I can’t take him into his bedroom. I’m mad. I can’t see that rumpled sex bed and keep remembering I’m mad!
Take him in the fucking bedroom and get us some dick, for the love of God!
Seeing a small door to the right of the entrance to Baker’s bedroom as I continue pulling him behind me, I quickly find out it’s a bathroom when I get close enough to it. Moving aside, I shove Baker in first, following quickly behind. As soon as we’re inside, I slam the door closed and whirl around to face him.
“You look a little tense,” Baker muses, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his butt against
the edge of the sink.
“Because I am tense!” I inform him. “Funny thing happened earlier. My best friend seems to think we’re dating.”
“Well, we are,” Baker says.
“We most certainly are not!”
“I’m pretty sure we are.” He smiles.
“We haven’t even kissed yet!” I fire back, a big old, “Booyah!” locked and loaded.
And then Baker’s smile falls. And he slowly drops his arms and pushes away from the counter, taking a step in my direction before stopping.
“Cancel the pinky swear,” he says in a low, serious voice, his eyes never leaving mine.
The fucking pinky swear I made him agree to about this just being business.
“I mean, who’s being presumptuous now?” I scoff, with a half-hearted roll of my eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to date you. Maybe you’re a sucky kisser. I can’t date a sucky kisser.”
Baker takes another step toward me, and I swallow nervously, even though I’m not even nervous. I’m fucking vibrating with excitement and want and need.
“Cancel the fucking pinky swear,” he orders again quietly.
My heart is beating out of my chest, and I don’t even know how my legs are keeping me upright at this point.
What the hell am I doing? This is ridiculous, and Brooklyn is right. It’s making me cranky and uptight.
“Okay,” I whisper with a shrug. “It’s cancelled.”
Before I even get all the words out, Baker has closed the distance between us, slid one arm firmly around my waist, and hauled me up and against the front of him. He steps us backward a few more inches until my back smacks against the closed bathroom door and he’s holding me against it by molding his body to mine. His free hand comes up between us and he slides his palm against my cheek, moving it to the back of my neck where he grips it, tugging my face closer to his until our noses are touching.
“Just so you know, Tink, I’m not a sucky kisser.”
I don’t even have time to attempt to come up with a good, sarcastic comment before Baker’s mouth is on mine. I immediately part my lips for him, a soft whimper coming out of me as soon as I feel his tongue slide into my mouth and slowly swirl around my own. My hands fly up to the back of his head, pulling his mouth harder against mine as he deepens the kiss.