Ladies Man

by Katy Evans

  He frowns at that.

  I smile and say, “Well, bye.” I lean up and kiss his jaw, close my eyes and inhale his scent, then wave as I step outside.

  His eyes are tender as he crosses his arms and watches me with great interest, as if he knows I was lying through my teeth.

  I sit in the back of the cab, wanting him. Wanting to be the girl beneath him. I don’t remember wanting anything this much except once, when I desperately wanted Paul to take back the words I don’t love you.

  I call Rachel.

  Get voicemail.

  She’s traveling to Timbuktu or I don’t know where, and she’s sent me a few emails and texts. She probably steals a moment, connects with all of us, and goes back to being Mrs. Saint on her honeymoon.

  I stand, in my panties and my trench coat, on the sidewalk just in front of my building. I call Trent.

  “Hey, is there somewhere we can meet so we can properly finish what we started?”

  * * *

  We meet the next day at a club that Rachel has mentioned is the new “it” spot.

  “I was glad you called. I’m sorry I freaked out,” he says sheepishly, rubbing his freckles.

  “At least I learned one new thing about you. Never to trust you putting on the condom.”

  He laughs. “Try me once more,” he begs.

  And I take his sweet face and kiss his lips and whisper, “Maybe tonight.” I bite my lip at the look of excitement in his eyes, laughing softly.

  I’m happy—happy that I called Trent—when Tahoe arrives with Callan and another guy I don’t know. He looks at me from across a roomful of people, the music at full blast, and then he looks at Trent.

  He looks so thoughtful all of a sudden, scowling a little bit.

  I’m breathless and I finish off my drink to try to hide it. Someone slaps his back, drawing his attention.

  “What’s his problem?” Trent complains. “He thinks he’s king of the world, man. Hate guys like him.”

  “You were happy last weekend when he paid for our dinner, and before that when you went to his party.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that…I don’t like the way he looks at you. Can I get you another drink?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He heads off when “All We Need” by Odesza starts playing. Tahoe stares at me. I stare back at him, my heart pounding when he starts making his way toward me.

  He walks the walk, this guy. It feels like the crowd parts to let him pass.

  His lips start curling. A foot away, he extends his arm a little mockingly and opens his big palm. “I believe this is our song,” he says, flat and no-nonsense, very unlike the socially playful Tahoe I normally see at the club.

  I want to laugh but he looks serious.

  “It is, isn’t it?” I say, playing along.

  He’s lying. We have no song. But I’m bored and it looks like he is too. I give him my hand like a lady, laughing, and let him draw me onto the dance floor. He smiles and looks down at me as he finds us a spot and leans in close, his body heat crackling all around me.

  “He the one?”

  I nod, lift my arms and lock my wrists over my head, and start moving to the music.

  He moves sinuously, like a wildcat, and as he does, he looks at me again, longer this time. “So how are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  It’s hard to concentrate when my body is so close to his.

  Shivers run down my spine and I think he feels it because he drags a hand across the back of my neck and down my back. “Why are you even giving him the time of day?”

  “He’s my booty call.”

  His eyebrows pull into a frown and mischief sparks inside his eyes. “Getting a condom stuck inside you not enough of a cockblock for you two?”

  He takes my wrist in his grip and leads me off the dance floor, and I’m puzzled as I follow him. “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere else.”

  He leads me to the elevators, ushers me into the first one that opens, and pushes the T button, where the word Terrace is engraved beside it.

  I’m not prepared for the view. It’s spectacular. Wind slaps us as we step outside, and I’m surprised to find speakers on the terrace, playing the same music that had been playing downstairs. Several empty seating areas are scattered beneath the night sky. I suppose during the summer people like coming up here, but we’re heading into the holiday season and Chicago has been cold for weeks.

  Sam Smith’s “Like I Can” starts playing, and he says, as we take one of the empty lounge seats, “Maybe that’s his song for you. Think he likes you like that?” He shifts forward and props his elbows on his knees as he studies me.

  Sam Smith sings, “He’ll never love you like I can…”

  “Oh, no.” I laugh, reaching up and trying to control my hair.

  He’s still thoughtful. “Why so certain?”

  “Because nobody can like me like that.” My smile fades. I can’t believe I said that.

  We stare at each other for a long moment. Not a breath leaves me, not a sound. It’s as if I’m absorbing every part of this moment—the song lyrics, the shade of his blue eyes, the line of his jaw and the slits of light caused by the angle of the moonlight.

  His stare generates a heat in my stomach that’s so hard to bear.

  “So this Paul,” he says, stretching an arm over the back of the lounge seat, his hand dangerously close to my nape. “What does he do?”

  “I don’t know. But I hope he’s eating shit and busy dying.”

  He chuckles—the sound low but resonant enough that it reaches deep inside me—and the corners of his lips hike up. “You don’t keep tabs on him?”

  “No, I’m not interested in the daily life of cow dung.”

  He laughs, and I grin, and he shifts a little and I shiver.

  He starts to remove his jacket.

  I open my mouth to protest but when I’m engulfed in it, I can’t talk. I duck my head when I feel myself go red and I don’t want him to see it.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, tugging it closer.

  I burrow deeper into the warmth and stare out at the city. “He sent me a letter, a few months ago. I tucked it into my underwear drawer and decided not to open it. The guy didn’t get that when I said I didn’t want to hear from him ever again, it included the written word.”

  “Let’s go open it.”

  “Excuse me? I don’t want to open it.”

  “Yeah you do.” He pokes my tummy with a finger, and I hold it.

  “Really.” I squeeze his finger.

  He extracts his finger and this time touches his fingertip to my nose. “Liar.”

  I open my mouth and bite his finger before he can pull it away.

  “Whoa. Hungry little cat, are we?”

  I let go, laughing.

  “What are you doing with this guy Trent, Regina?”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing with him?”

  I stare. “I feel like getting laid very hard.”

  “No, you don’t.” He smiles at me. “You feel like being made love to. There’s a difference.” He looks at me, eyes sparkling. “Candlelight, soft sheets beneath you…”

  “No! Where’s your sense of adventure? Against a wall is fine.”

  “Your hair spread over the pillow, every stitch of you naked…”

  “No, I just want hard sex, partially clothed. I don’t like being naked when I’m having sex, it makes me wonder if I look okay, and I don’t like wondering.”

  He lifts his brow. “Really.”

  “Fact. You can ask the members of my club.”

  He looks pissed off. “The members of your club don’t seem to do a very good job of making you forget yourself.”

  “Well, not all of them get to have as much experience as you.”

  He doesn’t laugh, only eyes me.

  “Not even with putting on a condom?”

  I laugh. “God, don’t remind me.” I shrug. “Maybe I do want
to be made love to. I deserve it.”

  He pulls one curl of hair from behind my ear, smirking. “That very much makes me want to be him tonight.”

  “GINA?”

  Startled, I look up and struggle to my feet when I see Trent stepping off the elevator with my drink in his hand. “Someone saw you two come up here.”

  I glance apologetically at Trent, then at Tahoe. “I’ve got to go.”

  Tahoe purses his lips and clamps his jaw, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stands and watches me leave. I’m smiling as I board, as he stands and just looks at me with a slow smile that flashes just for me, and when I tell Trent we may need a rain check for a make-out after all, I’m still smiling when I get home. Did he really mean what he said?

  Do I want him to mean it?

  Do I want to do anything about it?

  I hit the bed and pull out my iPod, play some music with headphones, wondering if I have the courage to do anything about it or if keeping the status quo would be best. Hours later I stand up and go to my drawers, opening the top right one and peering under the clothes to the bottom, where I set Paul’s letter months ago. I didn’t even tell Rachel about it because, luckily, I was the one who retrieved the mail every day while she was busy falling for ex-manwhore Saint.

  Yeah, it’s still there.

  I slam the drawer shut. Because I won’t give the asshole the satisfaction of reading it.

  NOVEMBER

  The first weekend of November I get a call from Rachel. She sounds so happy and so far away. As we say how much we miss each other and I ask her about her honeymoon and she tells me all about the places they’ve gone, I wonder if I’ll ever even leave Chicago. Or better yet, leave Chicago with a guy, just because we’re each other’s best person to spend time with on Earth.

  She asks me if I’ll be going to Wynn’s gallery exhibition this weekend.

  I tell her I can’t go, that I’m working overtime, which is partly true. She drills me for more information, so I say I’m making house calls now, and that I spent all Halloween doing monster faces, which was fun.

  “Have you seen Tahoe and Callan? What are those two up to now that my guy is gone?”

  “Mischief,” I say. “Tahoe keeps asking me to one of his lacrosse games.”

  “Yeah, he told Saint he can’t wear you down. He really wants you to go!” She laughs.

  We talk a bit more, and I hang up the phone, increasingly unhappy about not going to his games, not feeling the relief I thought I’d feel by avoiding him. Instead I’m dissatisfied and curious, wondering what he’d say or do if I showed up.

  * * *

  For the past three weeks, Trent has been asking me out every Saturday. I hesitated at first but I finally decided I want to see where this leads, so I’ve said yes all three times.

  I glance around my apartment while Trent snores in my bed.

  We could work out.

  For the first time in a long time, I think I have a shot.

  I pull my knees to my chest and stare at him. I feel much more relaxed now about us and the sex. It was good. I get up and hurry to make breakfast, trying to make the tray as pretty as I can, the breakfast as perfect as I can.

  I suppose I could chalk it up to the smidge of guilt I felt last night when occasionally I got distracted during sex and thought of…well. You know.

  I wish my best friend were in town, so she could remind me of all the things she knows from Saint about Tahoe that bug me. There are so many things but right now I cannot name any except one: the girls he always hangs out with.

  Again, I wonder why he’s good enough for them, but not for me.

  “Back in bed, Regina,” Trent yells from the bedroom as I finish fixing up the tray.

  I bring it over. “I hope you like eggs.”

  “Ahhh, no, I’m vegan.” He frowns. “Haven’t you noticed?” I look down at the tray I made and want to just drop it and dip my face in a tub of water out of pure embarrassment. I’ve been going out with him for a few weeks and I hadn’t noticed he never ordered meat or dairy?

  I hate admitting it but I thought it was because he’s a bit of a pinchpenny, to the point I’ve started ordering only appetizers as main dishes too.

  “No worries, come here. Let’s have another go.” He lifts the sheets.

  “I’d like that. Yes.” I set the tray aside grudgingly, trying to work up the enthusiasm for morning sex.

  “I’m one hundred percent sure I’m not messing up with the condom this time either,” he says sheepishly.

  “Good, ’cause I don’t want to go through that again.”

  * * *

  He asks me to the movies that weekend. After a full day of work, I’m starving as we walk into the movie theater. I order a medium popcorn and a Coke, and then I follow Trent into the theater and settle next to him to watch the movie. We end up sharing the popcorn as we watch the film, and I realize I haven’t had a nice evening like this in a long time.

  THE SAINTS

  I focus on work the following week. The streets are cold and we get our first consecutive days of nonstop rain. It’s really dreary to be alone in my apartment so during the day, I hardly go there anymore. I have lunch with colleagues or friends—even Rachel’s friend Valentine. I’ve also been working nonstop, putting in extra shifts and adding more house calls to my schedule.

  I get a call from Rachel one morning while at work.

  “Gina!! We’re flying back to Chicago as we speak! Oh my god, when am I gonna see you? Are you free tonight? Wait. I need to unpack.”

  “That’s not even an issue, I’ll head over to your place and I’ll help you unpack.”

  I’m excited to see Rachel.

  That evening, I head over to the Saints’ new penthouse. Wynn has another gallery opening tonight, so it’s just me.

  Rachel and I spend the first hour just talking while she unpacks. She tells me about their honeymoon. Their new penthouse is so grand and beautiful, I get easily distracted.

  I hear male voices out in the living area for a moment. They’re combined with several sets of long, heavy male footsteps, then they fade away. I keep wanting to ask her if Saint is seeing his friends tonight. But I don’t want to feed my curiosity, and decide that if I tell her anything about my life, it should be about Trent.

  “Bali was so wonderful I wanted to stay there forever. We went to Bora Bora, Dubai, then Saint had some business in Berlin…oh, but it’s nice to be home.”

  “Rachel, I could get lost in this apartment.”

  “I know. It feels so big for just us two. But tell me about you!”

  “What is this?” I fish out a lovely velvet box from Rachel’s suitcase.

  She comes over and flips it open to reveal a pair of gorgeous, irregular gray pearl earrings.

  “Some black pearls we snatched on the streets of Papeete. Saint was like: ‘I can get you a pair a thousand times better than these,’ but I insisted on these ones. They were right there, the moment we were, and I like that they’re flawed, see?”

  She puts them on and then pulls out a T-shirt from her suitcase. “So, I brought you this. I saw it in Harrods and it reminded me of you.”

  It’s a white T-shirt with Marilyn Monroe on it. In pink italics: Beneath the makeup and behind the smile, I am just a girl who wishes for the world.

  I clutch it to my chest. “It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you, Rache.”

  “What are you up to? Did Wynn move in?”

  “Not exactly. I might move out.”

  “What?! There is no way you are moving out.”

  “The apartment is too big for just me.”

  “Gina! Malcolm will take care of the rent. I know he’ll insist on it. Here, let’s go ask and I’ll show you the pics. They’re on his phone.”

  “I am not going to let anyone pay my rent, Rachel,” I hiss as I follow her to the library. “I’ll kill you if you tell Saint about it, do you hear me? I am not taking anyone’s charity and I’ve got this under cont
rol,” I continue. The sound of male conversation reaches us as we walk up to the half-open door.

  “I’m seeing someone,” I whisper to distract her.

  She pivots around to face me. First thing that Rachel asks when she digests this information is, “What? Gina! When do I meet him and how come I didn’t know?”

  I groan. “You were on your honeymoon! And I didn’t know where it was going, so…”

  “Well. Where is it going? Tell me about him!”

  I hesitate because, compared to her whirlwind relationship with Saint, my relationship with Trent seems so…simple. But simple is good for me. “You’ll get to meet him soon, I guess,” I say.

  She looks stunned, and it just feels so great to have my friend back, that I can’t help but smile at her confusion. I motion toward the door and quickly change topics. “Anyway, show me the pictures.”

  She frowns at me. “I’m hearing all about it before you leave, Gina,” she warns.

  I nod, laughing, and push her toward the door.

  “No hair off my balls, right?” Callan is saying inside the room, followed by male laughter.

  Rachel pushes the door wider and breezes into a library fit for a whole state. “Malcolm, Gina doesn’t have a roommate.”

  Well, I guess my attempt at distraction didn’t work.

  Her husband is leaning against the bookshelves with his arms crossed and immediately spreads out one arm to hug her to him. “Well that just won’t do,” he says as Rachel sets a kiss on his jaw. “Hi, Gina.”

  “Hi, Saint. I’ve got my situation under control so please don’t even think about it.” I shoot Rachel a disgusted look when she flashes an unapologetic smile at me.

  Although I had sensed Tahoe in the room, I don’t spot him until I dare to turn around. I watch him rise to his feet and come to his full intimidating height. Our eyes meet—his blue ones striking me like a Taser—as he pulls his hand out of his jeans pocket, and I feel his stare travel to deep, dark places in my body.

  “Hey, Gina,” Callan Carmichael says sweetly from his seat.