Lust

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  He grinned. “I’ll take that. I’m the pimp and you’re the . . .”

  He looked so serious that I had to crack up. “Damon! Come on. I love working with you. I love everything about it, all that you’ve taught me, all that we’ve done together. But I want it to stay this way. Heck, if you want to do something, promote me. But I don’t want to go out with you.”

  Even with only the candlelight, I saw the shine leave his eyes and his smile dim. “I guess it’s just that everything else is there.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe that a woman wouldn’t go out with him, and I would’ve been mad at his arrogance if he didn’t look so sad.

  He said, “I don’t get it. I mean, all the other girls . . .” He cleared his throat as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

  But even if he hadn’t spoken those words, I knew all about him and the women. In the year since we’d met, the women—from politicians to party girls—hadn’t stopped. “You’re just different from anyone I’ve ever dated. I like you.”

  I needed to just tell this man so that he would understand, and then we’d never have to do this dance again. “It’s not you, Damon,” I said, trying to put a softness into my voice that would ease him into this rejection. “I’m just not interested in dating. Not you, not anyone. I just don’t want to go out with any guy.”

  “Oh.” He stared at me for a long moment. “Oh! Okay!” He nodded. “That’s cool.” Now he shook his head. “Wow.”

  I breathed, relieved. Because I loved working with this man and he’d been such a great friend; I didn’t want to lose that relationship.

  He said, “I didn’t know you were gay.”

  “What?” I slapped my hands on my lap. “I’m not gay,” I said, glad that we were in a private room, because the volume of my voice probably made the walls shake. “I didn’t say that. Because I don’t want to go out with you, you think I’m gay?”

  “No.” His volume matched mine. “You just said you didn’t want to go out with a guy.”

  “Not because I’m gay,” I shouted. “It’s because I don’t want to end up dead like my mother!”

  My words stunned him but not as much as they stunned me. Because that was not what I’d meant to say; it just slipped out. It wasn’t until his hand covered mine that I realized I was trembling. When I looked up at him again, questions filled his eyes and inside I sighed.

  I’d gone back to my inside voice when I said, “I don’t want to date because of where it could lead me in my life.”

  “Your mother died because . . .”

  I could tell he wanted to finish the sentence, but he couldn’t because he didn’t know, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand. All he knew was that my mother had passed away. But now the door had been opened. It was just that I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell him.

  “My mother died . . . of a broken heart.”

  He blinked, but then his shoulders relaxed. As if my words were just a cliché. As if a broken heart wasn’t a real cause of death. Well, it may not have been medical, but it was the truth. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked me.

  I didn’t, but I didn’t know any other way to get Damon to accept the fact that I would never date him. “My mother fell in love with a married man.”

  “Oh.”

  “She was only seventeen when that happened.”

  “Oh.”

  “She got pregnant. With me. She was only eighteen when I was born.”

  “Oh.”

  “And he left her. Alone to handle being so young, to handle being a pastor’s daughter, to handle it all by herself.”

  “Oh.”

  “He denied that he ever loved her and in the end . . .” It was hard to finish my sentence. “In the end, it killed her.”

  He nodded and squeezed my hand. “I’m really sorry that happened to your mom. But Tiffanie, what does that have to do with you?”

  Now he wanted me to go into the specifics of how I was damaged, how my DNA was so screwed up that I couldn’t take the chance on love.

  “I just want my life to go another way” was all I told him.

  He stared at me for a moment, then stood up. Was he really going to just walk out? Was he going to leave me here because I wouldn’t go out with him? Was he going to fire me for real?

  He paused by the door, flipped the light switch, and illuminated the room so brightly that I had to squint for a little while before my eyes adjusted. Back at the table, Damon blew out the candles, then sat next to me once again.

  “Okay. I hear you and I’m glad about two things.”

  I released a long breath of relief.

  He continued, “First, I’m glad that it’s not me and I don’t stink.”

  I smiled.

  “And second, I don’t have anything against gay people, but I’m glad you’re not gay.”

  I grinned.

  “Because I know I do have a chance.”

  The ends of my lips turned downward.

  He held up his hand as if he wanted to stop any protests coming from me. “Just kidding, okay?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was or wasn’t, but I prayed that either way, he heard me . . . and he believed me. I hadn’t told him that I would remain single and loveless until the end of my time on earth. I hadn’t told him that I knew any kind of love in my life would kill me. It was a fact that would sound crazy to other people, but something that I believed down to my bones. Because it had to be something in my mom’s DNA that would let her leave me, something inside of her that she couldn’t help and I was so afraid that she’d passed that on to me.

  But because I didn’t want to talk about this anymore, I simply nodded, reached across his place setting, and retrieved the portfolio. “So, can we get back to business?”

  He nodded, took off his jacket, and loosened his tie as I opened first to the Delta Sigma Theta event.

  In between, a waiter entered and took our orders, and we continued to work, doing our review the way we’d done each week for the past eleven months. Through sips of our drinks (water for me and ginger ale for him) and forks filled with crab cakes and Caesar salad, we went right back to being Damon King and Tiffanie Cooper, the pulse of King Commotions. I was grateful that Damon understood, at least he seemed to, at least for tonight.

  * * *

  OPENING MY EYES, I reached for my wine before I pushed myself from the sofa. I took in the darkness of the city from my twelfth-floor window, the blackness broken only by the white dome of the Capitol that sat in the center of my view as if my window was its frame.

  But this view that had always been able to capture my attention did nothing for me tonight. Instead, my thoughts were on how Damon never gave up on me. Even after I’d given him that solid no, he continued. His pursuit was slow and respectful, but he kept at it until I couldn’t do anything else except give in to his love. With that history, how could I even think about another man now?

  Placing my glass on the window’s ledge, I closed my eyes and with my fingertips massaged away a headache that wasn’t there physically but certainly was emotionally. It was clear that Trey did something to me—I’d be a fool if I didn’t accept that fact. And wasn’t acceptance the first step?

  My second step was to make a plan and that plan was to stay away from Trey. I only had to see him two times this week—at the dinner Thursday night and then at our wedding on Friday. All the hours between now and then, I wouldn’t let him into my sight. I would decline any lunches or dinners that Damon arranged; I wouldn’t even go by Damon’s house (my new home), since Trey might very well be hanging out there.

  Then, once the wedding was over, once Trey returned to Atlanta, it would be all Damon, all the time.

  Damon.

  Picking up my wine, I leaned my head back, turned my glass upside down, and swallowed the last drop.

&
nbsp; Damon.

  I left the glass on the living room table, then headed straight to my bedroom.

  Damon.

  Snuggling under the covers, I closed my eyes, and with gratitude in my heart, I whispered a prayer, “Lord, thank you for this man that you made just for me. Thank you for Damon and every blessing that you’ve given to me through him and this life. My heart is filled with so much gratefulness, Lord. Thank you.”

  I said a silent Amen and then stayed in that spiritual space for a little while, wanting the prayer to not only reach God but to settle into my heart. When I opened my eyes and rolled over, Damon was still on my mind. When I closed my eyes, Damon was there, too.

  But then I drifted and I dreamed. And in my dreams, there was only one man. And it was not Damon King.

  11

  Tiffanie

  Without even looking, I knew my eyes were red; they had to be, since I had tossed to the left and turned to the right all night.

  I hadn’t slept anywhere near two hours, but before my cell phone alarm even started with Sam Smith singing “Stay with Me,” I jumped up and out of my bed. Even though I was my own boss and never rolled away from my mattress before nine o’clock, there was no need for me to remain in bed having these eyes-wide-open dreams.

  I moved with purpose, glad that I had so much on my to-do list today, since I’d accomplished nothing yesterday. In the shower (I’d kept the water on chill), I tried to tick off the tasks in my head, but I couldn’t maintain any kind of focus.

  I may have been naked, but I felt like there were ants in my pants—I could feel them. And there were still thoughts in my head—I could see them.

  I adjusted the showerhead and turned the flow to pulse. The stream felt like pellets striking my skin, but I welcomed the attack. By the time I stepped out of this shower, every ant, every thought would be dead.

  I could almost feel my blood pulsing when I turned off the water. There was no need for my usual dash, since it wasn’t even seven when I slipped into my jeans and white tailored shirt. I even had time to bump my hair instead of pulling it back into a ponytail.

  Then I did something I hadn’t done in months—I made breakfast. Well, if you could call dumping two slices of wheat bread into the toaster and pouring a glass of orange juice making breakfast.

  The sun pushed through my windows when I sat at the counter, took a bite of toast, and logged onto my iPad. I pulled up the Washington Post.

  If you want to guarantee never getting ahead in life, watch TV. The most successful people turn that off and find out what’s going on in the world.

  Those had been some of Damon’s first words to me, the morning of my second day with him. He’d taken me into a conference room where the table was stacked with newspapers. Not just the Post and Wall Street Journal but the Times (both New York and Los Angeles), the Chicago Tribune, and the Dallas Morning News.

  That was just one stack—I was shocked to find international papers from London, Paris, Frankfurt, and Milan in the other pile.

  I’d felt like I was being tested every day for those first two weeks. But checking out the papers became a part of me, and after I stopped working for him, reading the newspapers was my habit.

  But not even the circus of the upcoming election was enough to keep my thoughts in line.

  I slammed my iPad shut, jumped up from the table, and went into my normal dashing mode. The way I moved, there was no space for Trey as I slipped on a navy blazer, gathered my tote, stuffed my purse, and rushed out of the door and down into the underground garage. But the moment I slid behind the steering wheel of my car, I moaned. Trey was there; he’d left his scent behind. I inhaled, and ­remembered yesterday.

  I couldn’t get to the office fast enough. There would be plenty there to distract me from these thoughts and memories that I didn’t understand. As I wheeled my car out of the garage, I rolled down the window (even though it wasn’t even fifty degrees) and turned on the air conditioner (to high!), hoping to circulate Trey’s scent right out of my car.

  The streets were filled with rush-hour traffic, and I had to dodge so many cabs and Uber cars I couldn’t focus on anything more than not getting into an accident. And when I pulled into the parking lot right next door to my new spa, Utopia, there were new thoughts to take up the space. Just a couple of dozen feet away, my best friend was standing in front of two contractors, her finger pointing, her head snaking, and her lips moving fast. She was going off on someone about something.

  This was why Sonia Rios Matthews was part of my team. As the project manager for the renovation of Utopia, she worked directly with the contractors who’d been hired to refurbish this sixty-year-old building that had once housed an old department store.

  I grabbed my purse and tote, and by the time I slipped out of the car and was within a few feet of Sonia and the men, I was shaking my head. She may have had a problem, but the two workers didn’t seem to notice. They watched her like they were about to devour their favorite meal.

  Their reaction to my bestie was typical. That’s just the way it was with Sonia. My Latina sister had been a looker from way back in the seventh grade when we met. Back then, Sonia looked like a teenage model rather than a twelve-year-old. The high school boys were all over her, so much so that there were times when I didn’t want to walk down the street with her.

  Don’t get me wrong, I turned a head or three wherever I went. But my girl was what the guys called a true dime. She was fine in the only way that mattered to men, she was nothing but curves. And the arches and bends that made her a woman gave her measurements that demanded men’s attention. When she walked by, every man had to stop, every eye had to stare, and it came dang near to every knee had to bow.

  The thing that was funny, though, was that Sonia never seemed to notice. Like right now; her 38 Gs (we’d just been measured at Victoria’s Secret and who knew you could be a G?) jiggled with every syllable, making those men pant.

  Stepping up, I played Good Samaritan, rescuing the men. “Good morning.” Giving my brightest Colgate smile, I asked, “Is there a problem?”

  The men turned their big grins to me, while Sonia’s glare stayed on them.

  “No, no problem.” Sonia spoke in her no-nonsense tone. “Everything’s under control, right?” she asked, with one hand planted on brickhouse hips like that old-head group, the Commodores, sang about back in the day.

  The men’s heads bobbed up and down, but then with a final (and what looked like reluctant) nod, they stepped away.

  Sonia didn’t even look at me when she said, “We’re opening on time. No matter what.” But then her gaze came to me. “De acuerdo; no te preocupes.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said, as always surprising myself, even after all these years, whenever I understood Sonia.

  “I just want to make sure that your focus stays on your wedding,” she continued. She entered the building and marched across the bare concrete floor as if she were on a mission.

  I followed, but right before we stepped over the threshold and into the office that we shared until mine was completed, Sonia paused, turned around, and frowned as if she had a sudden thought. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here.”

  “But it’s”—she glanced at her watch—“not even nine, no where near your normal arriving time of ten, eleven, noon.”

  Pushing past her, I said, “I don’t come in that late.”

  “Yes, you do. So, qué pasa?”

  “Nothing.” As I sat at my desk, she leaned against the edge, staring down at me. But I didn’t look up at her; I grabbed the budget folder and opened it. She waited, saying nothing as I shuffled through papers, trying to ignore her so that she would ignore me.

  It felt like minutes, though it was probably no more than just a few seconds, but she was the one who blinked first when she asked, “What’s really going on, ch
ica?”

  Tossing a page back into the folder, I sighed. “I told you. Nothing.”

  My words didn’t deter her. “So why aren’t you out taking care of last-minute stuff for the wedding?”

  “Because getting married isn’t the only thing I’m doing. I have a business to run, too.”

  She placed her hand across her chest and pouted. “My feelings are hurt. You don’t trust me. I told you to take this week off. I told you I’d handle everything while you were away.”

  “Well, I’m not away yet,” I snapped.

  I guess it was my tone that made her raise one eyebrow.

  “And since Utopia is my life, I need to be here to make sure that everything happens the way I want.”

  This time, I didn’t know if it was my words or my tone that made both of her eyebrows rise high. But she stayed quiet, as if waiting for my rant to continue.

  After a couple silent moments, she shrugged. “Okay,” she said, and walked to her desk on the other side of the room.

  She hadn’t even sat down when I got that tug in my heart. It wasn’t her fault that I was exhausted because I hadn’t slept, nor was it her fault that even though I’d been staring at the budget for the last three minutes, it wasn’t numbers that filled my mind.

  “Sonia . . .” I began.

  She interrupted and finished my statement for me. “You’re sorry.”

  I pushed myself up from my chair, then took steps toward her, that probably looked like I was walking the last mile.

  She waited until I sat and settled into the seat in front of her before she asked, “So, do you want to talk about it or am I going to have to play twenty questions when you know we don’t have that kind of time?”

  I hadn’t come to the office to talk to Sonia, but since working wasn’t working, maybe my best friend would have some wisdom to share. Not only was she the (five years) married one among us, but she knew me best.

  I bit the corner of my lip, trying to come up with the right words. What did I want to say? What did I want her to know? Did I really want to tell her that I’d met a man just yesterday, who, if I’d been given a chance, I would’ve taken into my bed last night?