by DL White
“Don’t mind me; just basking in being right. You used to roll your eyes and cuss if I even mentioned Preston. You cursed the ground that man walked on. Now you say cute things and smile and laugh and…”
She sighs. “Thank God you two came to your senses, because Nate and I thought we were going to have to lock you two in a room until you killed each other or fucked it out."
While I laugh, Morgan waves down a waitress and places an order for a glass of Rosé. I am so happy to be getting back to normal, even if normal looks nothing like it used to look. When it’s just us again, she folds her arms on the table and leans forward to ask the question I know is coming.
“You never said. How are things?” Her brow rises conspicuously.
"Things… are great,” I respond, doing a terrible job of masking my smile. I know what she means by things.
“Oh? Like…great?”
I pause. And level a stare directly into Morgan’s eyes. “Observe my face.” I circle my head with a finger. “Then ask yourself if things are… great.”
Morgan chuckles. Then winks. “Oh, yeah. Things are great. You're all moved in, right?"
“Yeah. It’s been easier than I thought it would be. I guess because I’d been slowly moving in anyway. Preston set up our office today. He even unpacked all of my books. He bought a two line phone system, and recorded a voicemail message with both our names on it. It's..."
I pause, rolling my eyes at myself. Here I go, with this shit I hate about blissfully happy people.
“It’s…” Morgan prods, leaning in.
“Cute,” I finally spit out. I can’t even look at Morgan. “He’s actually super fucking adorable, trying to make sure I feel like I’m at home. I almost can’t stand it.”
“Aww,” she coos, beaming. “See, I love this Angie. Not unhappy, hateful Angie. So, the drinks weren't about Preston?"
I shake my head, sensing my face clouding over. "Work."
I fill her in on the latest employment related drama, to which she listens with rapt attention. "I'm probably going to look for something after the New Year. I hate being so happy everywhere but work."
"It sounds miserable. You're brilliant and talented and accomplished. And you beat Preston Reid! You know we're all behind you. And so is Preston—”
"But in a completely different way," I finish, cackling.
Morgan's wine arrives, and she sips from the glass slowly before setting it down in front of her. "What's he doing, anyway? I’ve never known him not to have a job.”
"Stuff for his uncle, I think. He's secretive about it. I’m suspicious, but I can’t figure it out. He hasn't worked since before the trip, but he doesn't seem too worried about it. When he gave me a key to the house, there was another key on the ring. He won't tell me what the other key is for."
“He’s never been secretive before. I wonder what's up with that…”
"And… he won't let me tell him I love him."
Morgan's chin dips, almost to her chest. Her eyes roll upward until the dark brown orbs are focused on mine. "He won't let you… what?"
“He says he's still working for it, there's a big thing coming. I don't know, but it's driving me crazy. Six months ago, you couldn't pay me to tell him I love him. Now I have to bite my tongue to keep from automatically saying it."
"That’s… weird, Angie."
The waitress brings several plates and sets them between Morgan and me: potato skins, braised chicken wings, and mozzarella sticks. I glance up at her and laugh. “I’m emotionally eating, okay?"
Morgan and I chat and laugh and catch up with each other as if it’s been ages that we haven't seen each other instead of weeks. She's married; I'm in a committed relationship that will end in marriage if Preston has anything to say about it. One of our best friends just had a baby, and another is on the verge of proposing. Somehow, when we weren't paying attention, we evolved from a ragtag group of kids that hung out together to grown up couples doing grown up things.
It's incredible not to feel so alone and to know that I don't have to be alone if I don't want to be.
Morgan dips into an emerald green Mini Cooper, a wedding gift from Nate. I get in my Audi and head home. I have to concentrate to turn left toward Lake Conway and not automatically drive to my apartment.
The lights are on when I pull into the garage. Still, I open the door gently and walk softly through the house, snapping off lights as I go. The TV blares last night’s episode of POWER as I make my way up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom.
Lying spread eagle in the middle of the bed is Preston. The overhead light, and the ceiling fan are on. He is out cold. I almost hate to wake him, but we both have to share the bed.
I pick up the Roku remote and turn off the TV, then kick off my heels and crawl across the bed, curling up next to him. As soon as I touch him, he jerks awake, inhaling deeply, smoothing a palm over the scarf covering his hair, tipping his head up and looking around.
"Oh. You came back."
"Did you think I was leaving you?"
“Nothing stopping you. What time is it?"
“It’s after ten.”
“Damn. Y’all got it in.” He grunts then rolls to his side to pull me to him, wrapping his arms and legs around me. "Have fun? How's Morgan?”
I am blissfully trapped, but I’m not trying to get out. “Morgan is great. Nate got her a cute little car. It’s totally her.”
“You want me to buy you a cute little car?”
I giggle. “If I wanted you to buy me a car, I’d come right out and say it.”
I begin to describe our evening, but Preston soon makes it clear that he has no interest in what two women talked about over drinks. He pops open a few buttons on my blouse and dips into my cleavage. I try to keep talking, but I'm distracted by his teeth nipping my skin. He pulls my breast from its lace cage and flicks his tongue across my nipple.
A wave washes over me, so strong. Shaking and short of breath, I want nothing more than him. Right now.
"You drunk?" He mumbles the question against my lips as we kiss.
"No, but it can be arranged."
"Nope. I want you to be all here with me.”
I laugh, even as my body seems to shout its approval of this proposal. I struggle to pull off my clothes with twitching fingers while Preston attempts to make sure he's touched every inch of my skin with his lips.
When I'm down to my bra, which is half off anyway, I reach for Preston's t-shirt and sweats and pull them off. I'm not surprised to find that he's not wearing briefs or boxers.
My bra is unsnapped; it falls and Preston tosses it away, then moves to sit in front of me, grabbing my panties and tugging them down. He tosses these away as well, then grips my knees and pulls them open. I watch him dip his head to my body, kissing down the inside of one thigh and then the other, biting the tender skin close to my sensitive center and then closing his mouth over me.
The stress and tension of the day melt away. The weight I've been carrying on my shoulders—worries about my job, my clients, where I'm going and what I'm doing... it dissipates, vaporizing in a mist as his tongue swirls and his mouth sucks. He moans while he devours me, enjoying every jerk of my hips and sigh from my mouth.
I have a pre-orgasmic tell that Preston loves. When I start to show, sometimes he slows down; sometimes, he plows through until I'm screaming. I suck in short, loud breaths, and my lips twitch, and my toes curl. To my disappointment, he pulls away.
But then, he is inside me. His forehead rests on mine; we share hot, rapid breaths. The sound of skin against skin joins our rising sounds of pleasure.
"Fuck, you feel so good," I grunt through my teeth, watching him watching me, feeling him feeling me. I grind up and into him, ready for the epic climax he's about to give me.
"I could say the same," he pants, "but I'd rather let you feel it." He doubles his efforts, grinding right up against my clit.
"Fuck, yes!" Rips from my throat.
Without stopping or slowing down or losing intensity, he decides we should talk. "You alright?"
"Mmmmph!" It’s all I can manage. My body is quaking, head to toe.
“You worried about work, right now?”
"No! I'm worried about coming!"
"I'll take care of that. I wanted you to see that I have a surefire method for relieving stress. How do you like it?"
"Fuck! I like it. Stop trying to be cute, and let me come!"
Preston laughs. “You're less fun when you're on the edge.”
“Fuck you! You're having a ton of fun right now."
"You're right. I'm having a good ass time with you, Evangeline. Get ready."
He reaches between us and flicks my clit, rasps his tongue over my nipple, and that's all it takes for my body to stiffen and then every muscle to pulse.
The loudest, most satisfied groan rolls from my lips when he pushes me over the edge. I am numb. I’m temporarily deaf. Spots dance in front of my eyes.
Eventually, I feel Preston's lips on me and attempt to kiss him back.
I can't let go of him. My arms remain wrapped around his neck. My legs lock around his torso. My eyes lock onto his, and we stare at each other while coming down. While our breaths return to normal, and the sweat droplets on our skin evaporate.
"I'd say it, if I could, Preston.”
"I know," he says softly, kissing my lips. “I feel it. Hold it a little longer. It'll be worth it."
"It already is."
He dips his head to my shoulder and rests his full body weight on mine. I love this man draped over me.
34
“I am starving.”
The lunch crowd at Grande Luxe has thinned by the time Preston and I arrive for a belated midday meal. We pick our favorite table and slide into either side of the booth, accept a menu from the waitress, and chatter with her as she sets our table with water and silverware wrapped in napkins.
Preston growls, perusing the menu.
"I'm sorry that took so long."
"I'm not complaining; just hungry." Preston flips the menu over, scans it, and slides it to the edge of the table. "I'm going to get a burger and some curly fries. I've worked up an appetite."
We've been at the hospital all morning. Dad started having tremors— massive, deep muscle spasms that he can't control or bring himself out of. Eventually, they subsided, but Dr. Quinton decided that he should come in.
During their weekly poker game, Preston overheard Mom trying to arrange a courtesy van to pick him up and take him to his appointment, since she had a meeting at the dealership. Preston offered to take him, and my grateful dad agreed.
But he should have told Preston not to tell me, because when he mentioned, casually, that he was taking my father to the hospital for some tests in the morning, I insisted on going with them.
It turned out to be nothing more than par for the course for Parkinson's. Dad was afraid the episode meant he was either getting worse or that his meds weren't working. Doctor Quinton ran tests and monitored levels and determined him to be okay.
The hardest part of Dad’s illness is worrying about every little thing that seems out of the ordinary. That he’s upbeat with a great attitude, even laid back about it, makes it easier to hold on. But not much.
Preston's fingers brush my knee as we wait for the waitress to come back and take our order. "He's fine, baby.”
“I know,” I tell him. I’m trying to stop my foot from bouncing. Leftover nervous energy. “I heard Dr. Quinton. That doesn’t stop me from worrying about him.”
The waitress stops by our table to take our orders. We sit in comfortable silence except for Alicia Keys wailing No One through the speaker above us.
"Hey," he says, sitting straight up all of a sudden. Preston points at the silver locket that hangs from my neck, a relic from a Christmas many years ago. I’d been waiting for him to notice. "Is that what I think it is?"
I smile and finger the metal, worn and softened by age. "I found it when I was packing my apartment."
"Is the picture still in there?"
We’d taken a cute photo one afternoon at Lake Conway. I used the color copier in the school library to shrink it down and cut out our faces to fit inside the locket. But that photo was gone. I shake my head.
His face falls, ever so slightly. “I mean, I still have it. It's just not in here."
I flip the locket open and reveal a picture of us on St. Lucia, the day of the kayak outing. We were sitting together up against the tree trunk. Someone had snapped a photo and added it to a slideshow site where we'd all uploaded our pictures for sharing. I downloaded it for myself, and when I found the locket, had it resized to fit.
"That's a nice one,” he says, before I snap the locket shut.
"Tomorrow you have to wear the Orlando Magic jersey I bought you that year.”
We laugh together as the waitress arrives with our lunch—chicken sandwich for me, a burger for Preston and fries to share.
"I probably still have that in a box in my old room. I never threw away anything you gave me."
I stop chewing, my eyes rolling up to his. “Seriously?” I dip my head and shove a fry into my mouth before I mumble, "I threw away a lot of stuff you gave me."
“Seriously.” He undresses, then redresses his burger and takes a bite. Around a full mouth, he says, “I’ll look for it when we go by there on Christmas Eve."
"You don't have to look for some crap I gave you for Christmas twenty years ago, Preston.”
"It wasn't some crap. You had to save a lot of allowance money to buy that. It meant a lot to me."
I can't and won't argue with him. Preston had a job, but I was always saving half of my allowance to be able to buy him something for Valentine's Day, his birthday, and Christmas. It meant half as much spent on nail polish and cool clothes and shoes, but worth it to see his face when he opened that box.
“I’m surprised that you still have that,” he says, finishing off his burger.
"I'm not sure I meant to have it still. Something wouldn’t let me throw it away. And something let me find it a few weeks ago.”
After lunch, we both slide into the car, prepared to head home. Instead of pulling out of the space, he leans onto the armrest, his face an inch from mine. I close the short distance between us and kiss him.
"Thanks for lunch. I needed it after today."
"You don't have to go to the office, do you?"
I shake my head. "Why?"
He gives me that coy smile he's been giving me for weeks. I've stopped asking what's up because he never tells me. He acts mysterious and then walks around with a smug grin all day.
Classic Preston.
He pulls out of the spot and starts heading in the opposite direction of home. I'm curious, but I'm not asking questions.
On the way to wherever we're going, he asks me questions about work: how my cases are progressing, how Troy manages the heavy load he’s carrying.
He lets me complain and relate story after story of why I don't want to work at Flanning & Rourke much longer.
Meanwhile, we're headed downtown. The Business District.
35
We turn into an empty parking lot that surrounds a brick building with elegant arches, big windows, freshly planted grass and bushes around the perimeter. He parks in front of the building and cuts the engine.
Wearing that same smug grin, he pops open his door and gets out of the car. I follow his lead and meet him at the glass double door entrance. The lights are on inside, but the building seems empty.
"What is this place?"
"You're about to find out. Let us in.”
I reach for the door and pull one of the handles. It's locked. “Do you have a key?”
“Yeah. So do you.”
"I have a key? To this place?"
"Yep.” He stares at me for a few seconds before he starts to laugh. He reaches out to cup my chin and tip my head up. "Baby. Think. You have a key."
My eyes pop open. Wide open. I have a key. I dig into my purse, pulling out the keyring with the silver key to the home we share and the mysterious, homeless brushed gold key.
Then, confused, I frown. "Why do I have a key?"
He chuckles and nods toward the door. “Let us in. I'll show you."
The door unlocks easily. Our footsteps echo on the dark wood as we walk toward a tall, circular wooden desk. The wall behind the desk leads up to a sky light, allowing the sunshine to beam in and warm the building.
On either side of the desk, I can see the other end of the building. A flight of stairs leads to the second floor. The whole space flows from front to back, top to bottom.
It smells… new. The building's façade is old, but the interior is fresh. Bright paint, windows encased in plastic wrap, floors gleaming with a shine that doesn't say it was laid fifty years ago. The wood on the stairs looks freshly milled, the banisters dusty as if they'd just come off the lathe and sander. Framed prints, wrapped in plastic for protection, lean against the wall, marking the spots where they will hang, to brighten and decorate the space.
This place is under construction.
"You ask me what I do all day… a lot.”
Preston walks ahead of me, then he turns, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm either over at the place my uncle had renovated for Troy, or I'm here. The place my uncle is having renovated for him."
At once, I understand. Preston's uncle isn't moving back to Florida to join the ranks of retired seniors, playing golf and shopping at Wal-Mart. He's coming back to work, to form a law office. A new and improved office, from the looks of it.
"The whole place is lit up, electronically speaking—fiber everything. We'll have a couple of TVs up here by the front desk. Have to keep up on the news. Every office is wired for cable and internet."
I chuckle. “Sort of how they design tech offices in Silicon Valley. They’ll never go home.”
“Think about how many nights you’re still at your desk at seven o’clock. Why can’t you be comfortable?"