by Aly Martinez
“I can’t get involved with someone who doesn’t support me. I’ve fucked up enough when it comes to Sarah. I really have to make it right this time.”
“I know,” he says, taking in a resigned breath.
“I mean, look at us. We’re already fighting over her. As much as you hate her, I love her more.”
“I get it. Fuck, Emmy. It sucks, but I get it.” He offers me a sad smile before reaching for my bag again. “Come on. I’ll drop you off at Sarah’s place.”
And just like that, twenty minutes after landing in Chicago, whatever Caleb and I had ends.
THIS. SHIT. Sucks.
I’m not sure if it’s practiced skill or just a God-given ability, but Sarah Erickson always manages to fuck things up. Even when she’s not around, she stills screws with my life. It’s been five long days since I’ve talk to Emma.
It’s funny. I’ve been on my own for a long time, but the last month with Emma has changed me. It might be a stretch, but I might even dare to say that I’ve been happy. It doesn’t even matter that we spent all of that month long distance and on the phone.
I knew it was a dangerous game she and I were playing. One that would eventually blow up on both of us. I just never thought it would be so soon. I figured we’d at least get to hang out for a while, maybe even have some mind-blowing sex before it all crashed and burned. Instead, I got a hug and a fight in the airport parking lot. All courtesy of Sarah.
Let’s be honest here. It’s not like my life is over without Emma or anything. I get along just fine during the days. But it never fails. Every night since I dropped her off, I sit on my couch, staring at my phone. Hell, I haven’t even been out looking for the distracting orgasm, and that says a lot more than I’m even willing to admit at this point. It used to be a nightly occurrence, but even the random encounters don’t fill the void anymore.
I just miss Emma. I miss our time spent talking about anything and everything. We used to laugh for hours. God, it felt so good to laugh again. Worst of all, now she is just a few minutes away but I still can’t see her. It’s pure torture, and judging by the text that just popped up on my phone, I’m not the only one who feels that way.
Emma: Editing pictures and thinking of you.
Attached is a picture of one of the parks downtown. She turned the entire image black, white—and brown. The leaves on the trees are grey, but the trunks remain their natural color. The older woman in the image has been changed to black and white, but the jacket and shoes she is wearing and the bench she sits on are all various shades of brown. It’s an amazing picture alone, but what she did with the color is stunning.
Me: Wow. That’s beautiful.
Emma: I know! Brown is starting to grow on me.
Me: See? I told you.
Emma: I still stand by orange though.
Her response makes me laugh, but that only makes me miss her all the more. I don’t text anything else, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I devise a plan.
The next evening, after a few stops, I drop a gift bag off on Emma’s front porch. She’s staying at Sarah’s, and I’ll admit that it makes my skin crawl to go there, but I’m too excited to leave this for Emma to give it much thought. See, I spent the last few hours putting together an orange feast. I started with a bouquet of orange tulips. Those were the easy part. Then I went to three different restaurants to piece together the rest of my surprise. I ended up with smoked salmon, steamed carrots, and a sweet potato with butter and cinnamon. I even found a restaurant that had orange citrus cake on the menu for dessert. I topped it all off with a bottle of citrus vodka and a gallon of orange juice.
After dropping the bag off on her porch, I went back to my truck and sent her a text.
Me: I just remembered that I still owe you that dinner. Check your front porch. Enjoy.
Me: By the way, orange is starting to grow on me too.
I drive home, not even sure if she got the message. But just as I pull into my driveway, the phone chirps on my lap.
Emma: One, this might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.
Emma: Two, I can’t believe you just dropped this off without saying hi or anything.
Emma: Three, Thank you.
I begin to text her back when it chirps again.
Emma: Four, I just finished an amazing (and a random) dinner and suddenly, I’m in the mood for a drink. Want to join me?
I stare at my phone for a minute. Of course I want to grab a drink, but I know I shouldn’t. There is no changing the fact that Emma’s last name is Erickson. I don’t blame her for anything, including wanting to finally step up and take care of her sister. However, that doesn’t mean that I should be hanging out with her. I never should have started things with her to begin with. Maybe this is just the way out. One day, I’m going to prove that Sarah was drunk and driving the car that night. It’s probably best for everyone involved that I’m not dating her sister when I do it. But damn it to fucking hell, the idea of hanging out with Emma excites me. Whatever. I’ve made far shittier choices than this, and the truth is, I can’t stop my fingers from typing.
Me: Absolutely.
EMMA AND I decided to meet at a bar in downtown Chicago. I only thought I had fun with Emma on our nightly phone calls. In person, she is even more entertaining. I swear my face hurts from laughing nonstop since we met up about three hours ago. Emma is a people watcher, and holy shit, her commentary is fucking hilarious. She’s not mean about it, but she was very quick to point out the juiced-up bodybuilder who was sporting a fanny pack and the emo guy who paid the bartender with cash from his Care Bears wallet.
I learned that she also has a bleeding heart. When we left the first bar and headed to the second, she gave money to every single homeless man we saw. At one point, she chased a man down the street, only to find out he wasn’t homeless after all. I almost collapsed in hysterics at her face when he refused her money.
Emma and I played pool—or more accurately, she played pool while I stared at her ass while she was leaning over the table. She’s only wearing jeans and a little T-shirt, and her hair is in a ponytail, but I’ve never seen a sexier woman. Yeah, this was a horrible idea coming here tonight. There is no question in my mind that I’m going to end the night inside her. And even though it’s fucked up, I’m going to do my damnedest to get her on the same page. She’s been more than flirty all night. She held my arm as we walked around the city and even squeezed in tight against my back as we weaved through one of the more crowded bars. I don’t exactly think it’s going to be a hard sell.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says, standing up from the high-top table.
I watch her long legs as she stands. She is so fucking tall. I love it. I can’t wait to drag my tongue up those thighs tonight. Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
I, along with every guy in the room, track her perfect ass as she walks across the bar. Just before she disappears around the corner toward the bathrooms, I catch a glimpse of one guy tapping his buddy on the arm and nodding toward her. I don’t blame them. She’s smoking hot.
The best part about Emma is that she’s not some stuck-up snob who expects men to worship her. Hell, the fact that she didn’t get all dressed up to come out tonight is proof. Emma is comfortable in her own skin, and that confidence is sexier than anything she could ever put on. I laugh to myself at the poor guys.
No sooner than Emma clears the corner, both guys both rise to follow her. Yep, that’s my cue. I head back towards the bathrooms just to find her. You can never be too careful. At least that’s what I tell myself. It has nothing to do with the idea of those pricks hitting on what’s mine. Nope, not at all. I’m just making sure she’s safe. Right.
“Savannah,” I hear Emma say as I get close to the corner.
“Oh yeah? What brings you all the way to the Windy City?” Douchebag One says.
I wait for a minute, listening, very aware of how big of a creeper I look like while eavesdropping.
I’m really curious how Emma is going to handle this though.
“I just moved up here last week,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“How are you liking it so far?”
“It’s cold. I’m not going to lie. I’m ready for bathing suit season.”
“I think we are all ready for that, baby,” Douchebag Two says very suggestively. It almost has me turning the corner to interrupt, but Emma’s response keeps rooted.
“Well not everyone. You should probably stick with jeans and a sweatshirt,” she says in such an exaggerated Southern accent that she almost makes it sound sweet.
I bark out a laugh but quickly try to cover it. Luckily Douchebag One also laughs are her catty reply.
“Just ignore him. How about I show you around town? You want to grab some dinner tomorrow night? I’ll give you the grand tour.”
“I don’t know how my guy would feel about that. I can ask though.” She perks up. “Hey, Caleb!” she shouts around the corner.
Fuck! Oh yeah. Emma’s not stupid. She knew I was standing here all along. I shake my head at myself and round the corner to face the group.
“Do we have dinner plans tomorrow night?” she asks with a huge knowing smile. “This friendly Chicago man just asked if he could show me around.” Then she bites her lip to keep in the laugh. Emma is fucking with me right now just as much as she is these guys.
Game on.
I walk over and suddenly pull her hard against my body. I drag my nose up her neck, breathing her fruity scent as I go. I should have left it at that, but I can’t help grazing my teeth across her ear before pulling away.
“No, sweetheart, we don’t have dinner plans. So if you’d like to go out with these guys, that’s fine.” Her lust-filled eyes go wide with surprise. “You want me to give them your number?” I ask, dropping my hand to splay across her ass. I give it a tight squeeze before leaning away to give her a questioning look.
“Yeah, sorry, boys. I’ve got plans tomorrow night,” she says breathlessly.
“Whatever,” Douchebag One says before walking away.
I stand there for a minute before releasing her. I don’t back away. Instead, I take a step forward, forcing her back against the wall. It’s a small hallway right outside the bathrooms. There is a steady flow of traffic around us, but I have a point to prove. Starting at her hips, I slide my hands up her sides. I’m careful to touch the curve of her breasts on my path, but not enough for it to be a full-on grope. I push her hands up over her head, intertwining our fingers as I pin them to the wall.
“Emmy, I don’t play games,” I whisper into her ear. Her breathing quickens, and she lets out small moan as I circle my hips into hers.
“Yes, you do,” she says, tilting her head to the side. I don’t lean in to taste the exposed neck that might as well be screaming my name. But that doesn’t stop her from leaning forward and dragging her tongue up the side of mine. She pauses at my ear. “You play games the same way I do—hard.” And with that, she pushes her breasts against my chest and rolls her hips into mine.
Fucking hell. I’ve met my match. Things just got dangerous for a completely different reason.
“We need to go home,” I say, barely restraining myself from fucking her right here.
“Yes, we do,” she responds, and thank God for that. I don’t have to patience to try to convince her right now.
“I’ll close the tab. You grab our jackets. We’re going back to my place. You good with that?”
“Yep. Sounds like a plan.” She pulls her hands from my grip, straightens her shirt, and walks away seemingly unaffected.
I wish I could say the same, but the raging hard-on threatening to break my zipper keeps me standing here and reciting basketball stats for a few minutes longer.
CALEB AND I ride home in silence, but he holds my hand the entire way. Thankfully the cab ride is short, because there is a very serious chance that I am going to spontaneously combust if I don’t get him naked soon. After that little display at the bar, we both know where this is headed. So when we arrive at his house, it’s all I can do not to sprint to the door.
His house is a ridiculously cute, old brick one-story. The yard is perfectly manicured, even despite the piles of snow that are just now melting. He leads me inside to a surprisingly clean and organized living room. There are a few wooden frames scattered across the walls. The whole place is very well decorated, but there are no knickknacks or mementos filling the area. The only thing that even resembles a knickknack is a clay pot sitting in the corner. I’m assuming it used to hold a flower, but the plant is long since dead and gone.
The furniture is nice, brown leather, and while it does look like a bachelor pad, it also has a warm, homey feel. I look around the room, trying to take in everything that is Caleb Jones. The stripped wood coffee table has a few magazines strewn across the top, but everything else is perfectly in its place.
“Wow. I figured there would be dirty clothes everywhere. I’ve lived with two guys and neither one of them was this neat.” I run my finger over his bookshelf, pretending to check for dust.
“I’m a neat guy, but I also have a cleaning lady who comes once a week.”
“Ah! Makes more sense, although the idea of you with a vacuum and feather duster was really doing something for me.”
He begins to laugh. “I guess I could clean something if that’s what gets you off,” he jokes but begins to roll up his sleeves, revealing some very unexpected tattoos.
“Holy shit!” I say breathlessly as I visually orgasm.
“What?” he asks, staring at me like I’m crazy.
“You have ink!”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
Sweet Mother of Hotness. “No. I love them.” Are there seriously woman out there who have issues with tattoos? Because they shouldn’t be allowed to run loose in society.
“That’s probably a good thing. I’ve got a few.”
“You have more? Let me see!”
He laughs at my excitement but confidently pulls off his shirt, revealing more mouthwatering art.
The tattoos on his forearms are actually full sleeves. They are made of different shapes and patterns all pieced together to form one perfectly flowing design. Over his heart, he has the name Manda. The top of the “M” is broken off and appears to be a bird flying away. There are eight other birds flying up toward his shoulder, growing increasingly larger as they drift up his sculpted chest.
Above and beyond the spectacular designs, his body is to die for. Caleb is gorgeous, no denying that. He’s tall and lean, but every inch of his body is covered in hard muscle. I have no idea what the hell those muscles are called just above his pants, but they make me want to trace them down to the sure-to-be-amazing package below. I struggle to keep in the moan that is desperately trying to escape my throat. Shit, he’s hot. He remains still while I ogle his body, but a barely there smile tips his lips.
“You want a beer?” He reaches to put his shirt back on.
“Don’t do that!” I yell, exposing my sopping-wet panties. Real smooth, Emma. I never was any good at playing coy.
“Well, well, well. Does someone have a thing for tattoos?” He struts over to me in a way so ridiculously sexy that only Caleb could pull it off. It’s also annoying as shit because he so obviously has the upper hand here—something I don’t share very well.
“Are we going to do this or what? We have been dancing around this for weeks on the phone. Now that I’ve seen you without a shirt, I won’t need the foreplay you were probably going to skip anyway,” I blurt out then offer him a sarcastic smile.
“Of course we are going to do this, Emmy.” He reaches forward, pulling my ponytail down to force my eyes to connect with his. “But you’re wrong about that whole skipping-the-foreplay thing. I’ve been waiting for weeks now to taste you. I have a seven-course meal planned for this evening. If you’re lucky, I might even let you taste too.” He drags one quick swipe of his t
ongue across my parted lips. I’m unable to move as my head swirls with thoughts of this so-called feast. “So I’ll keep the shirt off if you want me to. I would have sent you shirtless pictures weeks ago if I’d known it would have had this effect on you.” He brushes his fingers over my hardened nipples. They have probably been showing through my shirt all night. Note to self, wear padded bras when hanging out with sex-personified Caleb Jones.
Unable to keep it in any longer, I moan and sway forward to finally connect with his mouth. He dodges my kiss and instead licks up my neck and whispers, “Patience,” into my ear.
A tidal wave of chills spreads across my body.
“So, was that a yes to the beer?” he asks before taking a step away.
It takes me a few seconds before I’m actually able to clear my lust-filled head enough to form a coherent response.
“Yes, and I agree. You should have sent me shirtless pictures weeks ago. The tattoos are hot. And who knows? I might have reciprocated by sending a few topless pictures of my own.” I smile, knowing that I just took back control of this situation—Caleb’s groan confirms it.
He lets out a sigh and scrubs his hands back and forth over his face. “Okay, beer,” he reminds himself. Taking another step away, he gives me a wicked smirk. “Just so you know, I’m not responsible if you melt into a puddle,” he says oddly, causing me to tilt my head in confusion.
“Huh?”
Without another word, he turns and walks away, revealing the pièce de résistance. His back is covered completely from the base of his neck to the just above his waistband with the body of a blackbird. It’s created from the same patterns and shapes his sleeves are done in. It’s so beautiful that it’s staggering. The head of the bird is turned so you can only see one menacing emerald-green eye—the only bit of color on Caleb’s entire body. Its body is placed so that Caleb’s arms appear to be the wings of the massive bird. If he spread them to the side, I have no doubt it could take flight.
“Fuck,” I hiss as he walks away laughing.