“Whoa, whoa, whoa, relax,” he says quickly with his hands up in defense. “I just remember you telling me that he was like the one that got away or some sappy shit like that. So it wouldn’t surprise me if you had taken on the party knowing it was the Aiden.”
“He’s not ‘the one that got away’ for me, Darren.”
“He’s not?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Then what’s the problem? Why are you letting it bother you so much?”
What is the problem exactly?
This is getting ridiculous, even for me. When I’ve run into an ex in the past, I usually do one of two things: say a polite hello or run in the opposite direction. But I never let it bother me to the point of distraction like this. I have to wonder if there is possibly more to my unresolved feelings toward Aiden. Because there has to be more to it at this point.
I picture seeing Aiden at the engagement party again in my mind’s eye. And it hits me … the engagement party. Engaged. He’s engaged … to somebody else. Not me. And that’s okay because he’s a jerk. No, the answer is so simple that I almost want to kick myself for not seeing it sooner. He never had any intention of spending his life with me. I was just a pit stop for him, someone in his probably long line of women whom he strung along like a dog on a leash with empty promises of a future that would never come to fruition.
“Come on, Julia,” Darren says. “Why does it bother you?”
“Because,” I answer.
“That’s a child’s answer, Julia.”
I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes in frustration. “When did you become Dr. Phil? Jeez, psychoanalyze much?”
He’s smiling when I drop my hands from my face, still waiting on my answer. “Okay, fine. He’s not the one. He’s more like the unresolved one.”
“Sounds kind of like the same thing to me,” he says.
“Here’s the thing, Darren,” I say, taking a quick breath and lowering my voice. “He told me he was going to marry me one day, that I was his ‘one.’ Then from one day to the next, literally, he up and left me with not much of an explanation. For the longest time I convinced myself that it was because he was afraid to get married and settle down. And somehow I came to terms with that, or at least I thought I did. But the truth of the matter is that he just didn’t want to marry me.”
Darren nods as if he understands.
“What the hell is so wrong with me that he wouldn’t want to marry me?” I ask more to myself than of my brother. And that’s exactly what’s been really plaguing my thoughts since I saw him the other night all happy and in love with Sophia. Why her and not me?
“Nothing is wrong with you,” Darren says. “Did someone say there was something wrong with you? Because if they did, I’ll kick their ass.”
I roll my eyes at my little brother’s attempt at making me feel better. “Nobody said anything, that’s the problem. Why didn’t he want to be with me? Why doesn’t anyone that I date, for that matter, work out? What is so wrong with me?!”
I look down and pretend to concentrate on the condensation forming on the beer bottle. I can’t believe I just confessed all my relationship issues that I’ve been struggling with for years but have been able to bury under the rug to my little brother, of all people. But thanks to seeing Aiden, it’s all been brought back up to the surface and is turning me into quite the crazy person.
Darren reaches across the table and tilts my chin up to look at him. “Hey,” he says. “There is nothing wrong with you. You are one of the most amazing people I know, and I’m lucky to have you as a sister. You just haven’t met your match yet.”
I smile, and he lets go of my chin. Before taking another sip of his beer, he adds, “Plus, my friends won’t shut up about how hot my sister is, so you’ve got that going for you.”
I chuckle and stand up to empty out the rest of my bottle in the sink. As I move past him, something dawns on me. We’ve been in the kitchen for almost fifteen minutes and haven’t heard a peep out of my parents in the other room. I elbow him in the ribs and bring my finger to my lips to shush him before tiptoeing out of the kitchen with Darren trailing behind me. When we reach the end of the short hallway that opens up to the living room, we find the couch empty. But what we hear next coming from the direction of their bedroom will no doubt scar us mentally for the rest of our natural-born lives.
My mom, my angelic and pure-as-the-driven-snow mother, yells out a muffled, “Harder!” This is followed by a quick succession of pounding, which I soooo don’t want to know what the hell that is and have no intention of sticking around to find out.
“I’m going to be sick,” Darren says as we both bolt for the front door. It’s a race against time when we start our respective cars. He sticks his head out of his window yelling, “Go, go, go!”
I end up pulling out of there so fast that I may have left skid marks in the driveway. And if I didn’t, I’m certain Darren did as he flew past me down the street in his car, easily reaching sixty miles per hour in no time at all.
When I get home, I make a beeline for the fridge and grab a beer before collapsing onto the couch in a daze. There are so many things wrong with what just happened at my parents’ house I don’t even know where to begin. I think the one thing that’s bothering me the most is how my parents are “doing it” on the regular, which is still gross, but at least someone is getting some action. And I’m more than happy that my parents are still in love with each other as well as physically attracted to each other after all this time, but I could have easily lived the rest of my life without ever hearing it.
I kick my feet up and lay my head on the backrest, staring up at the ceiling, and then I hear my cell phone buzzing away in my purse in the foyer. I’m contemplating letting it go to voice mail when it stops ringing and then starts up again. Dammit, whoever it is must really want to talk to me, so I begrudgingly stand back up and rummage through my purse until I find my phone.
Alex.
What the hell could he want with me, on a weekend, no less? I debate with myself for a second or two over whether I should answer, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“Don’t you have something better to be doing than calling me on a Saturday afternoon?” I ask while making my way back to the couch.
“That depends,” Alex rasps in my ear. “Would you care to enlighten me as to what that something might be?”
My heart drops, my pulse starts to race, and even my freaking palms get clammy. It’s official, I’m a slave to his torment.
“Settle down. I didn’t expect to hear from you on a Saturday.”
His light chuckle sets off another chain reaction in my body, but this kind is far more pleasant. I imagine him relaxed in a pair of black boxer briefs and nothing else, in bed of course. And those dimples—those dimples that can wreak havoc on me while he has a devilish look in his eyes. A look that could easily make me orgasm without him touching any part of my body, no matter how much I begged. God, would I beg. With absolutely no shame, like a dog for a bone.
“I’m glad to know that I can surprise you, but this shouldn’t take long.”
“That’s what she said,” I mutter, trying to bring some levity to the conversation.
“I guarantee that you wouldn’t be saying that,” he says with an unmistakable smile in his voice.
Do you see what I’m dealing with here? This has been the way each conversation of ours ends up going. It’s maddening and frustrating and exhilarating and probably a bunch of other “ings” that I can’t articulate at the moment.
“I was calling,” he goes on to say like I’m not at all in a trance over here, “because I’m ready to cash in on our little deal we made last year.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Are you still game?”
“Of course I am,” I snap. “I never back out of a deal. What exactly did you have in mind?”
“Julia,” he almost purrs, “you really need to stop leaving yourself wide open with some of the things yo
u say.”
“I could say the same about you.”
A short pause follows until he finally speaks up. “How about you come over to my house tomorrow, say one o’clock, and we’ll figure something out?”
“You’re inviting me to your house?” I ask in shock because I’ve never been to his house and I’m convinced it has something to do with it being the Batcave.
“Yes, I’m inviting you to my house. I’ll text you the address in a bit, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure, that’s totally fine.”
“Good,” he says. “Looking forward to it.”
“Me too.”
We say our good-byes, and I hate to admit it, but I kind of miss the being toyed with bit at the end of the conversation. It’s becoming something of a trademark for us.
Oh my God! Did you hear what I just said? A trademark for us!
I get up and walk toward my bedroom, the whole time thinking to myself, I’m not going to sleep with him, over and over again. And to ensure that I won’t, I pull out the rattiest pair of granny period undies from the very bottom of my underwear drawer. You know the ones that you keep for those four to five days every month? Every woman owns at least one pair, and I’m going to be wearing mine, holes and all, tomorrow. If that doesn’t keep me clothed, then I’m fucked—in more ways than one.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex did end up texting me his address last night, and wouldn’t you know it, the guy has been living about twenty minutes away from me this entire time. I’m taking the last winding side street in a ficus-tree-lined Coconut Grove neighborhood, wondering how I didn’t know this and feeling antsy about it. Actually, I’m not sure exactly how I feel about Alex in general now that I know he’s so close to me. Because I can see it now—in a moment of weakness I’ll be at his door, wearing a trench coat (because everyone in Miami has one for no reason at all, but it goes with the fantasy) and nothing underneath except for thigh highs and black stilettos. He’d open the door, and I’d waltz right in with such confidence it would make him confused at first. No words would be exchanged. I would simply command him with a quick snap of my fingers to sit on the couch. Then I’d turn on the music. “Straight On” by Heart would flood our senses as a small smile played on his lips when it dawned on him what was about to happen. I’d perform my best teasing stripper dance for him while he tried to grab a hold of me. But I wouldn’t let him. Not until I ended up on his lap, straddling him, would I allow him to yank the belt of the trench coat open and watch as his eyes feasted on my naked body, splayed open for him like a present on Christmas morning. At that point, I’d be so turned on by his heated gaze that I’d hand the reins over to him by leaning over and whispering in his ear, “I want you to do everything to me … please.” Yeah, I’d add the please bit at the end with a little whimper for effect just to see how he’d react. He’d take the bait, of course, and he’d do everything to me, acts that might even be illegal in some states, and I’d love every single second of it.
I’m still humming the chorus of “Straight On” in my head when I pull into Alex’s driveway a few moments later and stop in mid-hum as soon as I get a good look at his house. Holy crap! It’s freaking huge! I do a double take at the GPS on my dashboard and confirm I’m in the right place before turning off the engine and stepping out of the car.
It’s a Spanish-style-meets-contemporary-revival one-story home that sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of Miami. Like a little getaway vacation home that you would only see in magazines, but not little at all. The exterior looks to be freshly painted in warm beige with accents in light cream and clay-tiled shingles. The solid wood monastery-looking front door is nestled within a large archway, reminiscent of the Spanish-style architecture that is unique to this area.
I approach the front door with trepidation, feeling incredibly underdressed in my worn, hip-hugging jeans and fitted red cardigan, which I paired with a white tank top underneath. I’m wearing black ballet flats and the barest of accessories in the form of plain silver hoop earrings. I’ve decided to wear my hair down today, after much deliberation, in its natural pin-straight state. Why I decided to wear it down I have no clue, since I’m already pushing it off one shoulder so that it doesn’t stick to the back of my neck.
Standing directly in front of his door for a few moments, I take a deep breath and fidget for a bit before raising my hand and giving it a couple of quick raps. While I wait, I can’t take it anymore; I fix my wedgie from the anti-sex granny panties I forced myself to wear, just in case I decide to lose all sense of decorum and think about giving in to the carnal urges when I’m around him.
The door unlocks and opens slowly to reveal a little girl, no more than ten, if I had to guess. She has long, curly blond hair with big blue eyes and bears a striking resemblance to Alex. What the hell? He has a kid? How did I not know this? It’s not a huge deal because I’ve dated men who’ve had kids in the past. Granted, it never gets far enough to actually meet the kids because they’re idiots—the dads, not the kids. What the fuck am I saying? I’m not dating Alex, so why should I care if he has a kid or not? It shouldn’t bother me, right? Please, someone tell me I’m not crazy for feeling like I’ve been kept in the dark all this time.
“Can I help you?”
Alex’s daughter’s elf-like voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I slide my aviator sunglasses up to rest on the top of my head, and she smiles brightly. So bright that I can’t help but smile back and stare. She is so freaking pretty, just like her dad. Well, technically Alex isn’t pretty, but whatever, same thing. Come to think of it, he could be pretty, I guess, given the right circumstance and correct lighting and …
“Can I help you?” she asks again, this time with a good-natured giggle.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed that I’ve been caught up again in my thoughts. “I’m looking for your dad.”
“My dad isn’t here.”
Now I’m confused, and I look at my wristwatch to double-check the time. It’s only ten or so minutes past one o’clock, which was the time he wanted me to meet him here.
“Do you mean Uncle Alex?” she asks while smiling again and revealing her braces, which I didn’t notice before. She’s too cute, and did she just say “Uncle Alex”?
“Um, you’re not Alex’s daughter?” I ask nervously.
“No,” she says with a giggle. “I’m his niece, Jocelyn, but everyone calls me Josie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Josie. I’m Julia.”
She extends her small hand out to me, and I take it in mine to give it a firm shake just as Alex appears behind her.
First of all, I have never seen him in anything other than a suit or a variation of a suit before today. I almost wish I hadn’t seen him like this, because now I’m going to have a more difficult time trying to remember that I have granny panties on. Speaking of which, thank God they have a couple of holes in them to get some air in there because I feel an instant rush of heat between my legs over the sight of him.
He’s wearing tan cargo shorts and a white linen button-down shirt that has the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up around his elbows. It’s doing wonders to show off his muscular frame and his perfectly tanned forearms. Personally, I have a thing for forearms on men. It’s kind of my kryptonite, along with them wearing backward baseball hats. So if he pulls out a baseball hat, I might just die and go to heaven right here and now. His hair looks to be slightly wet still from a recent shower, with a few dirty-blond locks falling onto his brow. He’s not wearing shoes, and Jesus, even his feet are perfect. He looks absolutely delicious, like I-want-to-lick-him-from-head-to-toe delicious.
“I see you met Josie already,” he says while putting his hands on her shoulders. She looks up at him with a huge smile on her face, and he bends down to quickly kiss her on her forehead.
“Julia thought I was your daughter,” she says with an innocent laugh.
Alex brings hi
s eyes back to mine and chuckles when I clarify the mix-up. “Honest mistake. She does look a lot like you.”
“I get that a lot when we’re out together,” he answers, then motions with his hand for me to come inside.
The foyer is a small one, but it opens up after a few steps to the rest of the main living area in an open floor plan. The living room has a large, worn-in, and inviting dark brown leather couch with a matching chaise longue that faces an entertainment unit that houses a huge flat-screen TV. To the right of it is an equally big kitchen with oak cabinets and dark granite countertops. Straight across from me are a couple of sets of glass doors that lead to what looks to be a perfectly landscaped backyard with a swimming pool and furnished patio. Everything is in its place, and the accents and decorations are masculine with just a touch of color here and there for effect. And this is what I can see, because just off to the left of the living room there is a long hallway that leads to a few other doors that I’m dying to open.
“I’m going to watch some TV,” Josie announces, and bounces away into the living room.
“Please don’t watch anything that will make your mom upset with me again,” Alex says to her back.
“What did she watch that got you in trouble?” I ask.
He smiles sheepishly and takes his hand to rub the back of his neck. “The ID Channel.”
“You let her watch TV shows about serial killers?”
“Don’t let her fool you,” he says with a laugh. “She can be really sneaky when she wants to be.”
“That, or she has you wrapped around her finger,” I say, taking a guess at the dynamic between the two of them.
“That would probably be a better way of putting it. I know my sister would definitely agree with you on that one.” He grins and puts his hands in his pockets while sneaking a quick glance into the living room. “So …”
“So,” I mimic with a matching grin. “By the way, your house is beautiful, Alex.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you like it,” he says. “Did you have trouble finding it?”
Playing It Safe Page 6