“Big ones are better for doing it.”
My apartment’s dinky but will need more than a small air conditioner. “For sure. I mean, mine’s pretty tiny, but it would still need…”
He bites the inside of his cheek and raises his eyebrows.
When he said unit, he was referring to… “Oh my God, so not what I meant!”
“Sure. And this?” He nods at the bag in his hands.
“I want it on the bed.” For crying out loud, am I capable of speaking without everything sounding like a “that’s what she said” joke? “In the bedroom is fine.” A giant, throbbing innuendo…
What is wrong with me? This is Jack, my friend. Only my friend for reasons. Shaking my head, I shift a blue tub with my kitchen stuff into the tiny kitchen and move one from there into the equally tiny bathroom. On the way back, I trip over a bag and slam my leg into the corner of a box.
“Nice one, Grace.”
“Shut up.” I hiss through my teeth while rubbing my shin. “Ouch.”
“Are you bleeding?” He squats in front of me, cradling my calf to pull my leg closer. It’s tight quarters, and I can smell him—something fresh but mixed with his sweat. My mouth waters. Would I be able to taste it on his skin?
His fingertips graze the sensitive skin behind my knee.
Jesus. He’s never touched my bare skin there before. It’s just my calf. How can that make me feel…restless and unfulfilled?
He traces the skin around the injury with a fingertip. “The skin’s broken, but it’s just the first layer. Nothing serious.”
Tell that to my pulse, which is doing a splendid imitation of a jackhammer.
“Yeah.” My voice is raspy. “Nothing serious.”
His gaze crawls up my shin to my thigh, my torso, my eyes.
Oh, he knows what this is doing to me.
Deliberately, he slides his hand up my thigh before letting go. Then he stands and licks his lips, eyes locked on mine.
Now I’m covered with goose bumps, suddenly feverish with wanting his hands on my body again—and not wanting to let him leave my apartment until we’re sweaty for another reason. The intensity of the attraction I feel for him spreads through me from cell to cell like a virus. Liking him is deadly because I can’t feel this for him, can’t want him this much.
His fingers tangle in my hair and lift my face.
I shouldn’t be taking a step toward him, grabbing the front of his shirt, and pulling him closer like this. He crushes his body to me as his lips gently meet mine as if this means something. His tongue teases my lips open and eases inside my mouth, and when it touches my tongue, I shudder and clutch at him, desperate to pull him closer when I should be pushing him away.
But his hands are gentle, his lips are firm, and his tongue strokes mine in ways that dissolve rational thought and all the bones in my body. He tastes like peppermint and the last lover I can imagine ever wanting again because no one has kissed me like this—and I want more. I want it all.
He wraps me in his arms and squeezes. I stretch up, allowing more of my body to press against his, then wrap my arms around his neck and gently grind my hips against his. One of his hands slips down my side and around to palm my breast, lifting and gently kneading it through my shirt and bra. He’s already hard.
He breaks the kiss, and I’m left breathless, but then he pushes me against the wall and pins my hands above my head—and who the hell needs air anyway?
I arch against him, pressing my breasts against his chest, trying to ease the ache as he nibbles my earlobe and kisses his way down my collarbone, releasing my hands to palm my breasts.
I trail my hands under his shirt and over the cut ridges of his abs. He pulls one of my thighs up, pressing against my core, making me moan in his mouth when his lips find mine again. His mouth is everything.
God, I can’t wait. This is going to be so damn good. We’ll have amazing sex, and then…what? Live happily ever after? I tip my head back to give him better access to the tender flesh of my neck.
Shut up, brain.
He’ll be going out a few nights a week to work, where he’ll be surrounded by chicks like Rhonda Lavee, who have no compunctions about sleeping with guys in relationships. He’ll be surrounded by women only too happy to jump his bones in the coatroom—last names not necessary. Jack’s sexy as hell, and his track record doesn’t vouch for his ability to say no to temptation. The longest relationship he’s had was three months, if that.
But with his hands on me, I don’t care if he can’t be trusted. I just want more and more. And that’s the part that scares me into sanity.
I tear myself away from him and stumble a little. He reaches out to steady me, but I right myself.
“What’s wrong?”
I push my shaking hands through my hair and try to think unsexy thoughts. “We can’t do this.”
“What, kiss?”
I want nothing more than for him to press me against the wall and kiss away my protests. “No. Yes. We can’t do anything.”
He drags his lower lip through his teeth. “Why? The attraction between us is insane. And based on that kiss, I’d say we feel the same way about each other.”
“It’s not as simple as that!”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s…” Best to just forge ahead with the truth so he knows where we stand. “I’m not looking for a random hookup.”
“Neither am I.”
“Please. Does the nickname DJ Madhead mean anything to you?”
He frowns. “That was years ago.”
“Either way.” No need to get into my cheating mother, my dad’s heart attacks, and my refusal to be broken the same way. “We’re friends.”
“And that fucking hot kiss changes nothing?”
“No.” Even though I keep my voice gentle, he flinches like I’ve slapped him. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I never meant to lead you on.”
“So because I have a bit of a past, we can’t date at all?”
“A bit of a past? Your nickname is DJ Madhead because eight girls lined up to give you blow jobs in the DJ booth at a gig!”
“It wasn’t eight. It was more like four.”
“That so doesn’t make it better, Jack.”
“I was twenty-one when that happened. We hadn’t even met yet. I’ve been tested, and I’m clean, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
My heart sinks. Because no matter what he says, it’s still not over. To this day he has a group of fangirls who stalk him from gig to gig—including a girl who slept with my ex while we were dating. The fact that it’s all these years later and he’s still happy to be the life of the party says it all. “I can’t just be another of your girls.”
“If I could take that back, I would, but I can’t.”
I didn’t want to tell him the whole truth. “It’s not just that. You’ve been doing the same thing since we met.”
“So?”
“You play other people’s music for a living, and you’re really good at it. I do like you, but I need a grown-up—not one of the Lost Boys who refuses to put his toys away.”
“Is that how you see me?” He leans against the wall with a dazed expression.
My rationalizations are harsh, but I lay them all out there. “You’re not the relationship guy. You’re the fun guy, the wild ride. It’s better for us both if we skip a relationship that ultimately will go nowhere. I want more than a good time.” Mom was always chasing what she thought was a more exciting man than Dad. I had a front-row seat and had to watch as she wrecked our family and literally broke my dad’s heart. I refuse to go through it myself. “I’m too old for roller coasters. I need stability.”
“That’s bullshit. If I’d known that your only objection was money—”
“I’m not looking for a sugar daddy. The kind of stability I’m talking about has nothing to do with money. I need to know I can trust someone. I need a man who takes things seriously.”
/> “And I don’t?” He crosses his arms.
“You party for a living.”
“Is that all that’s standing in the way? Because you think I don’t take life seriously?” He raises his chin. “What would you say if I told you I bought the brownstone I live in three years ago?”
“What? But what about your neighbor downstairs?” Jack has the upstairs of a modernized brownstone. The downstairs is a separate suite with an elderly man for a renter—perfect for Jack because the man is hard of hearing and doesn’t complain when Jack spins records at home.
Jack shrugs. “I let him stay because his rent nearly covers the mortgage payments and because he’s eighty-three with nowhere to go. His useless son barely visits him. There’s no way I’d kick him out.”
That’s surprisingly sweet, but I’m stuck on the fact that Jack owns his brownstone. Those things are worth millions. I had assumed he’d lucked out with rent control when Pete had helped him move. (I hadn’t been able to get the day off to help.) “Why didn’t Pete ever say anything?”
Jack shrugs. “It wasn’t important. My assets are nobody else’s business. And that club we were at the other week? Frisk? I’m a co-owner.”
With the rooftop patio? Jack actually owns his place and a business? Maybe I’m the Lost Boy here. “As of when?”
“Six months ago.”
“Wait. You’re a business owner?” The staff had been deferential to Jack, but I’d thought it was because they were friends and liked him because he DJs there a lot. “Why didn’t I know that? You haven’t changed anything about your life.”
“Why would I? That’s not who I am.”
“So those women who kept coming up to you on the rooftop patio?”
“Employees.”
He has employees. What the sparkling fuck? When did Jack, the man-whore DJ, become a responsible adult with more going for him than I do?
Whatever. I’m letting myself get distracted from the point. He may own a business, but he hasn’t really changed a thing about his life. The girls are still there. He’s still the life of every party. And the fact that I didn’t know about all of this just proves that he’s about as open as a Chinese puzzle box. “I’m happy for you, but it doesn’t change anything.”
He shakes his head. “There’s no arguing with you, is there? You’ve made up your mind about me.”
I don’t say anything. Jack sets the elevator key on my counter. “I’ll take the stairs.”
Too many emotions buzz beneath my skin, but I don’t want him to leave, not like this. “Jack, I just can’t. You’re—”
“I’m not your fucking mom. Grow up.”
I get a nice view of his back and then the inside of my door as he leaves me in my lonely, new apartment.
I would flop morosely to the floor, but there’s no room with all the boxes. Not enough room to pace either. Frustrated, I kick a box, but that only hurts my toe.
I’m all keyed up, but he’s gone, and I don’t really know what happened—except that he’s not quite what I thought he was.
Maybe I’m not either. I’m an asshole, but I can’t be completely wrong about him. Maybe he’s doing better than I thought he was, but he’s still partying for a living. Surrounded by flashing lights and women sipping drinks while shaking their tits at him. That’s not work. That’s a commercial selling a fantasy—and I’m not buying it. Sooner or later the lights come on, and you have to wake up and see the harsh light of day.
And if he can’t trust me enough to tell me anything about himself, how I can trust him not to stray?
I focus on unpacking, but two hours later, my body’s still humming with tension and my throat aches from thirst.
Needing to take my mind off things, I unpack my computer and sponge off the neighbor’s Wi-Fi, signing on to Missed Connections as quickly as I can to take my mind off Jack. By the time I open my browser, my hands shake on the mouse.
Where Are You?
I double-click.
I’m looking for you. Blond hair, blue eyes—
Not me then—I’m a brunette with hazel eyes. I close them now, regret washing over me at the look on Jack’s face when he left. I came off like a judgmental bitch. Pushing away the shame, I focus on the next ad.
The tattoos on your legs were amazing, but the one on your pinky finger drove me wild.
The places where Jack touched my body suddenly tingle. Wild? His hands drove me three blocks past teenage fangirl insane.
I hate how all I want is more.
You can’t have more. He left for a reason.
I shake my head and click on the next Missed Connection.
It’s a vain attempt to distract me from how shitty I feel about the things I said to Jack.
And the discomforting fact that maybe I really don’t know him at all. The worst part is that now I may have ruined our friendship as well.
Chapter 8
Our main client base is made up of hipster-yuppies—a fairly new breed of people who are a mixture of crunchy granola and corporate successes. A perfect blend of both worlds, becoming more common as the world turns more corporate and greener at the same time. You can find them riding their bikes to work in their suits and getting baristas to pour seven-dollar coffees into fancy eco-friendly thermoses. They’re about the environment, not spirituality like Ziggy and Fern, and boy, do they care about money…as I learned when Ziggy overrode my scheduling and double-booked two of them this morning. They took turns bitching about the egregious waste of their time and money for ten minutes.
The days that suck the worst are when Ziggy decides to try his hand at reception. Without supervision, he’ll check the messages—and he always screws them up. Unless I want to spend hours trying to decipher Ziggy’s messages or search the schedule and hope I stumble upon the change, I’m forced to wait for Ziggy to reappear and tell me what his hippie shorthand means. But before that, he’ll come out and wonder why I haven’t dealt with the messages yet, as though I should just know what he meant by a misspelled name and nine digits of a phone number.
Unfortunately, last week when I responded that one of the scheduling conflicts was not my doing, I got a lecture about being defensive. Judging by Ziggy’s and Fern’s reactions, being defensive is one of the worst things you can be. I thought being a shitty secretary was worse. Apparently not.
At the law firm, I was responsible for drafting and filing contracts that were worth millions of dollars. It was stressful, but the work I did was important. That, and the partners I worked with didn’t screw up my efforts and then treat me like an idiot when things went wrong. If you caused a problem, you copped to it, simple as that.
The fact that Fern and Ziggy care more about an agitated tone than the truth is highly aggravating. Tiny bubbles of annoyance float through me, but there’s nothing I can do. Even if I know better and my way is more efficient, Ziggy is the boss, and it’s his place. At the end of the day, what he says goes.
Though sometimes, I’d like to punch him right in the aura.
The laundry leaves too much time with my mind unoccupied. I haven’t been able to get Jack’s kiss out of my head. He has no idea how close I came to shoving him into my bedroom and then breaking in the apartment one room at a time. He’s definitely better off financially than I imagined, but he’s found a way to party for a living. He’s still not a safe dating prospect, but even if he were, I’m pretty sure he’s never going to talk to me again. I should have softened my words.
Morosely, I toss the last towel onto the shelf and head back to my desk to fill out Ziggy’s next client’s receipt so it’s ready to go when they’re done. I fucked up. Even though I have my reasons, I owe Jack a huge apology.
Phyllis is curled up in a chair in the corner. She clears her throat as soon as I sit down. “Um…” I can feel that she wants me to ask what’s up, but I hate people trying to pique my interest that way. Besides, the other day, she started talking about her sex life in way too much detail and didn’t even stop wh
en clients started coming in. It was super awkward.
I was only nodding and not actively encouraging the conversation, but it still looked like we were both discussing inappropriate things at work—something Fern lectured me about later at length. She practically snarled at me when I told her the conversation had been one-sided.
More of me being defensive.
I sucked it up and apologized, and she promptly brought up her workshop again as a better place to “explore and learn.”
“Uh, Sarah?” Phyllis finally gets tired of waiting for me to ask what’s up.
“Yes?” I keep typing the promotional poster Fern asked me to create.
“My name is spelled wrong in the receipt book.”
That’s odd; I don’t usually make mistakes like that. “I’m sorry to hear that. Tear that page out and start a fresh one.” I change the font on the poster, aiming for something more whimsical.
“It’s on every page.”
“What?” Insurance companies look for any excuse not to pay out, and I’m always super careful about forms. But mistakes happen; maybe I did screw it up. I finally give her my full attention.
She moves to the desk and thrusts the book in my face. “See?”
I take it and hold it at a more comfortable distance. Sure enough, when I flip through, I see that the name I printed on each page is spelled the same. I double-check it against the spelling on her schedule on the computer, and it’s the same. That means it’s incorrect there as well. “Spell your last name for me.”
“H-e-n-d-e-r-s-e-n.”
That’s what I wrote, and what’s on the computer. “Phyllis, that’s what’s printed on every page in the receipt book.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not the printed name. The signature. It’s spelled wrong.”
Is she fucking with me, pranking the new girl? “Uh, you’re the one who signed them.” I wait for her to laugh and tell me she “got me.”
Her glare is glassy and condescending. “Why would I sign my own name wrong?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wouldn’t do that. No one would.”
Does she seriously not remember signing her own name on every page? It was only a few days ago. “I don’t sign the sheets. I don’t normally even fill in the therapist’s name and RMT number. If you remember, you’re the one who had me do that for you, but I never signed your name.” I stop talking as she rips the book from my hands and stalks back to her chair.
Missed Connections Page 6