Kiss Me Tonight: Put A Ring On It

by Luis, Maria

  She nudges me in the shoulder. “You can’t base sex off what you had with Rick the Prick. I mean, look at me. I’m divorced. I’m still hitting the scene. I’m living.”

  “You’re having enough orgasms for all of us.”

  “Don’t hate.” Accepting the drinks from the bartender, who slides them across the bar, Willow takes a hearty sip of her Manhattan through a black straw. Because that’s the type of person my sister is: an EXWIFEY driving, straw-sipping, orgasm-obsessed woman. Quirky as she is, I can’t help but admire her style.

  “You know what your problem is?” she asks, twirling her straw around in her glass.

  “I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me no matter what.”

  Pointing the Manhattan in my direction, she says, “You left your sense of adventure behind the minute you said I do. You’re thirty-seven, Aspen, not ninety-seven. Let’s face it, I know a lot more ninety-seven-year-olds who are living harder than you are.”

  “I went swimming after midnight with the hot football player next door. I’m living, Wills.”

  “Before that. I love you, so I’m just going to come out and say it . . . You’re a little boring, sis.”

  My jaw promptly falls open. “Boring?”

  “Boring,” she confirms after another sip. “Wicked boring.”

  “I coach football!”

  “Which you’ve done for ten years now. Maybe it was exciting and thrilling ten years ago, but at this point . . .” She fakes a yawn that has my eye twitching, I’m so flabbergasted. In a very unlike-Willow move, she swipes the back of her hand over her mouth, chirping, “Sorry, I think I caught some drool there.”

  I don’t even know what to say. Is it true? Am I boring?

  Sure, Dominic swam me out to Frenchman Bay while I rode in the kayak, but I jumped in, didn’t I? And, even before that, didn’t I hump him in a classroom? That’s a risky move, I think. We could have been caught and I could have been fired and—

  “You’re thinking so hard your ears are steaming.”

  I snag Willow’s glass and, pushing her dainty straw aside, take a large gulp of a very strong Manhattan. Spluttering, I cough into my bicep and shove her drink back in her direction. “What do you have in that? An extra shot?”

  “Two,” she says smugly, “because I’m living, Asp. And you should be living it up too. You’re single, you have a great job, you’re back home, and I’ve missed you.”

  I eye her speculatively. “Have you really?”

  “Well, I’ve missed you picking up the tab whenever we go out.”

  At the humor in her gaze, I’m tempted to tug on her hair the way we used to do as kids. Life was so much simpler then. When I took a risk, it affected only me. Now I have Topher to think about. My baby boy means the world to me. In all those years of dealing with Rick, my baby boy saved me. He kept me going, he kept me strong, he kept me from leaping headfirst into a downward spiral of depression.

  Sucking my bottom lip behind my teeth, I release the stiff set to my shoulders. “I know I’m not some wild rulebreaker or anything, but I don’t . . . I won’t regret Topher, even if getting pregnant changed everything for me.”

  I murmur the words low, more for myself than for my sister, but she’s got the ears of a bat and hears me anyway. Settling a hand over mine, she clicks our glasses together in a quasi-toast. “No one said anything about regretting Topher. You’re single-handedly responsible for how well-mannered and caring he is. You did that, not asshole Rick. I mean, I guess that also means it’s your fault for turning him into a brat.” When I shoot her a look that clearly reads as really? she scurries to add, “Kidding! Kidding. He’s a lovable brat, that’s what I meant to say. Obviously. Where is he tonight anyway?”

  “A friend’s house.”

  Bobby’s house, actually. Meredith was all too pleased to have Topher come over and spend the night. It warms my heart to know that my boy is making friends. Visiting London over the years has been something of a rare occurrence. More often than not, my family came to Pittsburgh or we met up in New York City or Boston for some sightseeing. Secretly, I always thought Rick’s aversion to coming back to Maine was because he regretted knocking me up and felt pressured to get hitched and put a ring on my finger. Mistresses may be easily tucked away and hidden from the public eye, but a baby? Not so easy at all.

  And while Topher has none of Rick’s bad qualities, he did inherit his father’s charming personality. There’s not a soul my baby boy has met that he hasn’t befriended. Any other kid may have struggled with moving to a small town like London, but Topher . . . Well, he’s always found a way to fit in, even when the odds are clearly stacked against him. I like to think that’s a trait he inherited directly from me. More likely than not, it’s something that is uniquely him.

  When Willow excuses herself to—and I quote—“stalk that guy down before he really leaves,” I check my phone, expecting to see a text from Topher. Okay, hoping to see a text from Topher.

  Nada.

  Figures. He’s been talking about this sleepover all week, ever since Bobby issued the invitation on Tuesday.

  Though I promised that I wouldn’t bug him all night, I shoot off a quick text to him anyway:

  Me: Kick Bobby’s butt in Fortnite, kiddo. After all those charges on my card, I expect you to be an expert.

  I wait only thirty seconds before my phone vibrates with an incoming message, and it’s one that makes me both cringe and laugh out loud.

  Topher: It’s teaching me about credit, Ma. Just think what I’ll be able to do in ten years. #PayUp

  “Brat,” I mutter good-naturedly under my breath.

  Me: Don’t stay up all night. Remember, you’re helping me in the garden tomorrow.

  Topher: I’d never forget

  Me: … I can smell your lie from here.

  Topher: Not a lie, Mom. Just a fabrication of the truth.

  Me: Big words can’t distract me, dear son. Don’t oversleep. I’ll be by to pick you up at nine.

  Topher: 9:30? And can we bring Harry home? His mom can’t pick him up in the morning.

  Me: Sure, and 9:15 is my final offer.

  Topher: I think you hate me.

  Me: I can’t hate you. You’re my favorite kid.

  Topher: Mom, I’m your ONLY kid.

  Me: Exactly.

  Just as I move to pocket my phone, it vibrates again and I peer down at the screen, fully prepared for another incoming text from Topher.

  Dominic.

  My heart squeezes in anticipation.

  Swiping to unlock my cell, I quickly read his message.

  Dominic: I’ve entered hell. Send help.

  Me: I’m surprised you need assistance. I thought you’d be welcomed there with open arms . . .

  Dominic: Har har. You’re hilarious.

  Me: I’ve been told that on a few different occasions.

  Me: Call my curiosity piqued, though. What’s hell like nowadays? I don’t make a habit of visiting regularly. All that soot and brimstone . . . not exactly my thing.

  I glance up at the mirror behind the bar, only to find a huge grin on my face. It’s been less than a week since Dominic kissed me. Ravaged me, more like. And it was . . . delicious, in the best possible way.

  I want to feel his lips on mine again.

  Willow thinks I’m sexphobic or however she put it, or that I’m afraid of commitment, but the truth is that I’m neither. I don’t fear sex. I don’t fear relationships. It’s just that, in my experience, neither has particularly worked out in my favor. Rick never cared about my pleasure—and he certainly never prioritized it when we did sleep together. And commitments fracture. They shatter and they splinter, and if I had a penny for every time Rick promised me that “he’d do better,” I’d be so loaded I could buy myself a private island.

  At the vibration of my phone, I glance down and promptly choke out a laugh.

  Oh, my God.

  He looks miserable.

  Seated at the bar of
the Golden Fleece with his customary baseball cap in place—and with it flipped backward—Dominic scowls at the camera. Sharp jaw line. Slightly crooked nose, no doubt from a football injury at some point. I follow the line of his bulky shoulder to where he’s pointing up above his head to the TV behind the bar.

  The photo has frozen an image of Dominic on the screen, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs, alongside another twelve or thirteen guys who are all dressed in nothing but different forms of underwear. Briefs, boxers, tighty-whities. One guy is even decked out in a G-string, which terrifies me more than it arouses me. Plus, how the hell did he arrange his junk in that thing? Did he push it back?

  You really don’t need to be thinking like that.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Dominic: Shawn’s turned my stint on Put A Ring On It into a betting bracket.

  Another photo comes through, this one depicting a chalkboard posted up on the bar with a bunch of names scrawled in white.

  Dominic’s name is circled twice and boasts the least number of votes.

  I bite down on my thumb, smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt.

  Me: Looks like you’re about to finally find out what it’s like to come in last place after all these years. Are you a sore loser?

  Dominic: Why don’t you come by and find out?

  My pulse quickens, my fingers frozen over the touchscreen keyboard. I could easily hop in my car and be at the Golden Fleece in less than twenty minutes. It’s not like I think Willow will mind—one glance to where she ran off to shows her in heavy conversation with that guy.

  Simply put, Willow is living and I’m . . . going to take a risk.

  Like when I hopped off the kayak and into the water, just to shock Dominic.

  I like surprising him. I particularly like keeping him on his toes.

  And I’m tired of treating sex like it’s something to be distrusted.

  It’s been four years. Four years of resisting Rick whenever he did try to slip into my bed at night and cuddle up beside me. As if he hadn’t spent the previous night banging god-knows-who. As if he hadn’t made me feel inadequate and less than in my own skin.

  Once upon a time, I loved how I looked. Toned muscles that were put to work every day on the field. Short hair that I styled in a cute pixie cut to keep the strands out of my face when I played. Scars earned from scrimmages over the years—on my shins, on my hips, the one on my upper lip from a particularly bad play back in high school.

  You’re as skinny as a fucking boy.

  You look like a dyke with that short hair.

  You really want to test me, Levi? Who are they gonna believe in court when you say I pushed you down? Me . . . or you.

  Rick stole fourteen years of my life. Fifteen if you count the last year, when I stayed in Pittsburgh and tried to be the better parent and allowed Topher easy access to the both of us.

  Fifteen.

  I can’t—I won’t—give my ex-husband another second.

  With straight shoulders, I type out a short response to Dominic and hit SEND before I can chicken out and talk myself out of it.

  Me: I’m in Bar Harbor with Willow. Give me thirty minutes.

  Me: And Dominic?

  His answer is immediate.

  Dominic: Yeah, Coach?

  Me: You better kiss me tonight.

  23

  Dominic

  The Golden Fleece is something else tonight.

  Seated at the bar with my back to the pub, I nurse a Bud Light and check my watch for the second time in twenty minutes. Not that I’m counting or anything.

  Part of me regrets offering Levi the invitation to join me. After all, it’s not every day you invite one woman to hang out while you’re attempting to romance another one on reality TV. Tonight’s Put A Ring On It episode was filmed over six months ago—and this particular snippet recorded even before that—but it’s still uncomfortable.

  Painfully awkward.

  Yeah, that’s a better way to put having to relive me and twelve other dudes sporting nothing but our underwear and drenched skin while Savannah Rose, who’s been blindfolded, plays connect the dots between what set of abs belongs to which contestant.

  Put A Ring On It is nothing if not B-Grade entertainment.

  Like I’m privy to an inevitable train wreck, I watch Savannah feel up my buddy Nick. Her nails barely scrape across his stomach—like she’s too nervous to even consider going for a full fondle—before she turns around and announces, “This is Mario!” Slam the buzzer. Throw up the red flag. Both Nick and Mario, a body builder out of Miami, step out of line and retreat to the “loser’s” bench.

  Savannah presses a hand to the blindfold. “I got it wrong again, didn’t I?”

  The pub erupts with laughter.

  I take a pull of my beer and mentally prepare myself for the moment when Savannah reaches me in the lineup. Based on the fantasy-league board sitting beside the bar, there’s going to be an uproar when I “win” the wet abs contest in approximately . . . oh, four minutes and some change, depending on how the producers edited the footage.

  Fact is, until tonight I had no idea how much money the Golden Fleece was raking in with this new fantasy league Shawn started. The pot alone is worth more than three-thousand dollars with the buy-in at fifty bucks. Which means sixty Londoners have already joined the bracket—with more tagging along every week.

  It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t also absolutely ridiculous.

  Maybe I should ask Levi to meet me somewhere else.

  A heavy hand on my shoulder dissolves my plans for escape. “DaSilva.”

  Spinning on my bar stool, I eye the unfamiliar guy in front of me. Might be a football parent. I force a big smile, hoping it’ll get the job done. “Hey.” I put out my hand for him to shake. “Is your kid on the Wildcats?”

  He grips my hand tight enough to cut off blood circulation, pumping it up and down two times over. “Me? Have a kid? Not a chance, man.” His laugh is as boisterous and terrifying as his handshake. “Nah, I came over here because me and the guys”—he jerks his thumb over one shoulder—“are taking this Put A Ring On It thing to the next level. Fantasy-league intel.” Like he’s a bookie in need of information, he whips out his phone and types, types, types. Glances up at me, then swings his gaze over to the TV. “I’m trying to wrangle enough of my buddies to join that I can walk away from this thing with a new paint job for my sailboat. Anyway, since you’re sitting here . . . gonna guess you didn’t win.”

  We have a new Sherlock in town, ladies and gents.

  Biting back a stinging retort, I drop one arm to the bar, my beer dangling from my index finger and thumb. “Sorry to disappoint . . .”

  “Oliver,” he supplies eagerly.

  “Oliver.” I force his name out from between gritted teeth. “But I signed an NDA when I got on the show. Much as I’d love to give you a leg up, I’m not looking to be sued.” I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him critically. “You feel me?”

  Oliver shakes his head, his longish hair flopping every which way. “C’mon, man, all I need is a hint. That’s it.” He holds up his phone, wiggling it side to side. “My bets are on that Greek guy.”

  Nick would have a field day with this conversation. I make a mental note to bring it up to him next weekend, when he’s in town to help with some of my house’s much-needed renovation.

  Slowly, I drawl, “Stamos is a solid choice.”

  “Yeah? You think?” Oliver’s expression brightens. “Everyone else at the table is convinced it’s gonna go to that investment broker out of Kansas.” Almost sheepishly, he amends, “I mean, some of them think you pulled the big win. Hey, could I get your autograph for the wife? She’s a big fan.”

  That investment broker out of Kansas didn’t make it past eight ring ceremonies.

  Not that it’s my business to divulge that information—I’m not lying about the NDA. The producers may have been selfish idiots in many other respects, but they knew their job inside
and out.

  Then again, they still managed to let the biggest reality-show scandal hit the media long before airing even began.

  It’s always a hot topic when your star bachelorette walks away, single, on a show designed to end with a proposal and a ring.

  Grabbing a napkin from the plastic dispenser and a pen from the forgotten receipt, over to my right, I sign my name as I always do: Dom DaSilva. Never settle for the mundane.

  Oliver thanks me profusely then scurries off to his table.

  Ten bucks says he’s as single as a doorknob and seconds away from bartering off my signature to the highest bidder.

  Sure enough, I see wallets coming free of pockets moments later.

  “Fucking typical.”

  “Hello to you too?” comes a breathless feminine voice off to my right, followed by the thud of weight hitting the bar stool a second later. I catch the delicate aroma of her perfume before I see her face: subtle lavender, and a deeper note of some herb I’ll never know how to pronounce. I’m a football player—not a member of Mensa.

  To my surprise, Levi leans in, her nostrils puffing with three successive inhalations. “No brimstone that I can detect.” She lifts her chin, inhaling deeply like she’s starved for me. “I’m almost disappointed.”

  Based on how quickly a smirk finds its way onto my face, Levi might as well be the antidote to my pissy mood. “Disappointed?” I tap my beer bottle to my chest. “Don’t worry, Coach, I’m more than willing to bring you to the Underworld for a spin.”

  She pats my forearm, her fingers lingering noticeably before she splays her fingers over the bar. “My very own Charon,” she purrs with subtle sarcasm, “how very generous of you.”

  “I can be generous when I want to be.” I shift on the stool, angling myself to get a good look at her. Whereas her blue eyes are almost always tinged with sadness, today they’re on fire. Needy. Absolutely present. My cock thickens behind my zipper, the relentless bastard. “Didn’t I swim you and that kayak out into the bay?”

  The curve of her bottom lip deepens. “I rowed myself, thank you very much.”