by L.H. Cosway
A light bulb went on like a fucking lightning strike, and understanding hit me.
Annie kept herself closed off from people, from relationships, so they couldn’t reject her. It made me wonder if she’d ever allowed herself to be in a relationship at all, which prompted my next question. “When was your last boyfriend?”
“I do believe you’ve had your three questions, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“The second two were follow-ups. Not real questions. Answer me.”
She sighed, pursed her lips to show me she was dissatisfied, but answered anyway, “A little over two years ago. His name was Jamie. We…dated all through college.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I actually felt a bit disappointed with her answer. The possessive side of me wanted her never to have been with anyone. I was the kind of man who needed ownership, and that need had never been satisfied in my relationship with Brona. I never really felt like she was mine; she was sweet and unassuming at first, but soon she felt like an obligation, unable to take care of herself without my constant praise and reassurance. I also sensed she was always on the lookout for the next best thing.
“Follow-up question: Why did you break up with this Jamie person?”
“Follow-up? No, no, no. I fell for that once already.”
“Fine. Then tell me because you want to tell me.”
She considered me for a moment, licking the ice cream off her lips then sighed. “Fine. We weren’t in a very traditional relationship. We were exclusive, but….” She shook her head, frowning.
“What? He wouldn’t commit?”
“No. More like the other way around,” Annie muttered to her ice cream cone. “Anyway, he wanted something more substantial. I wasn’t amenable to his terms. So when I moved to New York, I saw no reason to continue our agreement.”
“Agreement?”
“Uh, relationship.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What was his story? Not very smart?”
“Oh, no. He was in medical school at Penn State and is probably in residency by now at Harvard or someplace equally impressive.”
“Oh, so a troll? Ugly?”
She laughed a little but then caught herself before she could full-on giggle. “No, nothing like that. He was quite handsome.”
I was putting the pieces together. She’d had an emotionless relationship with some good-looking, successful doctor guy, and she’d been the one to break it off after several years. She hadn’t been lying earlier when she said she was a bit of a mess and had severe abandonment issues.
I wanted to ask her more about Jamie, but I didn’t want to push my luck or use my final question. It wasn’t even a very important one; but—maybe it was the horny caveman in me—I wanted to ask her about sex, suss out her likes and dislikes, and this was the perfect opener for that.
“Okay, so, last question. When did you lose your virginity?”
Annie shook her head and turned to stare at me. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Because I’m nosy. Talk.”
We were both finished with our ice creams now. She folded up her napkin and took the end of my cone from me before walking to the bin to dispose of them. There was something surprisingly comfortable and intimate about the gesture. She came back, sat down, and smoothed her dress over her legs. I sat close, my arm resting along the back of the bench. I imagined the paps were getting some good shots of us.
“I was sixteen; he was eighteen. We’d been going out for a week or two, and then he took me to prom. That was the night we did the deed.”
“And,” I probed, “was it good, bad, mediocre?”
She thought on this for a while, mouth drawn into a slanted line. “It wasn’t…good. Mostly it was just sore, and I wanted it to be over with.”
“So he didn’t make it romantic for you? Sounds like a right arsehole to me.”
“Show me a teenage boy who cares about romance. And yeah, he was an asshole, as it happens.”
I grinned down at her, moving my body closer so that our thighs pressed together. Annie froze for a second, so I nodded subtly toward the photographers. “Just making things look right for our audience.”
“Oh, my God! I didn’t even notice they were there.”
I gave her a wide grin. “That’s probably because you’ve been so enamored by my potent manliness.”
This elicited a cute little laugh from her and a sarcastic, “Oh, yeah, that must be why.” She paused and considered me a moment. “So, how about you? When did you lose yours?”
Her question caught me off guard. But still, I didn’t mind answering. “I was fifteen.”
“Wow, that’s young. And who was the lucky girl?”
“It was young, I suppose, but I was a horny little bastard.” I glanced down at her and winked. “Not much has changed there. The lucky girl was Trina. She was just fourteen. We’d been going out for a couple of weeks and decided to take the next step.”
Annie moved closer, curious. “And?”
I shrugged. “And it was good. Well, as good as it can be between two kids who hardly know what they’re doing. We quickly got the hang of it, though, and couldn’t keep our hands off each other. A couple months later, we had a little pregnancy scare. She freaked out while I tried to be the big man and asked her to marry me.” I paused and chuckled. “I was fifteen and ready to sign my life away, thought it was the honorable thing to do. It turned out her period was just late, and my proposal was unnecessary. She was so spooked by the whole thing that she broke up with me. I was heartbroken for a while before I really began dipping my toes into the world of sex again.”
Annie’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I had a bit of a promiscuous phase in my late teens. Sex was a stress reliever for me. I probably over-indulged because my tastes got a little…kinky.”
Annie’s expression was a mixture of surprise and curiosity. I could tell she was about to ask me to elaborate on what I meant by “kinky,” and I wasn’t ready to go there yet; so I quickly changed topics.
“I almost forgot. We need to take a picture for my Instagram account. It’s been left lonely and disused since Gerta opened it for me.”
Annie looked up and bit her lip. “Oh, right, you want me in the picture with you?”
“Of course. We’re a couple now,” I said and pulled her close as I found the camera function on my phone.
“Yes, but there are quotation marks around ‘couple,’ remember?”
I gave her a fake scowl. “Like you’d let me forget.” Raising the camera in front of us, I quickly turned in and laid a kiss on her cheek as I was taking the shot. She squealed when I did it, but it was already taken.
“That was sneaky!”
“I’m just trying to make us seem genuine, Annie dearest.” I smirked and brought up the picture. “Wow, we look good together. And look at you,” I went on, nudging her playfully. “Absolute stunner. Those eyes. Fuck.”
“It’s a nice picture,” Annie admitted, grudgingly.
A naughty idea came into my head, and I couldn’t help but vocalize it. I ducked down and brought my mouth close to her ear, my voice low and husky. “Yeah, and imagine how good we’ll look when I’m inside you.”
Annie’s eyes met mine, and I saw her pupils dilate. A little breath escaped her, and her throat moved as she swallowed. Our gazes remained locked for a long moment before she drew away and tried to compose herself. I could practically feel her withdrawing.
“Please know this, Mr. Fitzpatrick, the only reason I’m not walking away right now is because there are photographers watching.”
“Don’t like the idea of my penetrating those walls you’ve built?”
She swallowed thickly, her hands balling into fists. “You like to make things hard, don’t you?”
“No. You make things hard, Annie.”
Her face flamed red and hot, and her breathing was uneven. “Please stop.” Annie’s eyes lifted to mine, and they held a desperate edge. “You think you’re being cute, that y
ou can be aggressive and flirt shamelessly and that it doesn’t mean anything, that your words don’t…affect me. But they do. You need to stop pushing—you need to be respectful of my wishes.”
Shit, she was kind of sexy when she was scolding me.
With that, she stood and gestured for me to follow her. I did. But I also grabbed her hand and held it as we walked. We made our way back to my car in silence, and the return drive to the city was similarly conversation-free. I should have been pissed off at myself for ruining things, but I wasn’t.
What I’d said had more than interested her. I’d seen it in her face and the way she’d clenched her thighs together. She’d even admitted that I affected her. She’d practically been humming with arousal. Yeah, she wanted me bad, and the challenge would be respectfully encouraging her to let go of her inhibitions.
I was determined to make it happen. I could be respectful…and still aggressive.
When we reached her apartment building, Annie was all business as she organized for us to go running together in the morning. It would save us both time, she said, as it meant we could be seen together and also get our daily exercise in. She barely gave me a second glance as she exited the car. I was back at my building, parking the car, when I noticed she’d forgotten her phone. It must have fallen from her handbag because it was lying on the floor.
Picking it up, I was about to tuck it in my pocket when it buzzed.
Yeah, I could have ignored the buzz, but I didn’t. Instead I glanced at the screen and saw that it was a notification from her Twitter account. Except it wasn’t her Twitter account. And I nearly dropped the phone because the handle in the notification wasn’t @AnnieCat.
The handle was @Socialmedialite.
Chapter Eleven
New York’s Finest
Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*
March 17
It’s always sad when someone forgets to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. So, imagine how depressing it was for me to see Dara Evans this morning wearing a ghastly gray trench coat. I’m not sure who told her Disney was holding auditions for Cruella De Vil in the East Village, but a memo must’ve gotten lost someplace (or maybe she doesn’t know how to read…?). Why else would she be wearing an ankle-length, baby seal fur coat on a warm March day? She might as well take out a billboard in Times Square to announce her supervillain status.
At this point, I think I’d be surprised if she allowed one of her henchmen to club the baby seals. You know how much she loathes those ostentatious baby animals, spreading joy and happiness everywhere they go. The little cute bastards. Who do they think they are???
Hide your puppies and kittens, New York. Cruella, aka Dara Evans, is looking for a new sweater, and your little Fido is the perfect shade of innocent to match her baby koala mittens.
<3 The Socialmedialite
*Annie*
I took a cold shower when I got home. Then I took another cold shower in the middle of the night after having a wonderful and frustrating dream about éclairs and fellatio and Ronan and a bed with a mirrored ceiling.
I would never look at an éclair the same way again.
I was losing my mind, and it was all because I wanted him. I wanted him very, very badly. My desire felt like a vise around my heart, a ball and chain around my ankle. It weighed me down, made it hard to breathe. I was having hot flashes.
Hot flashes!
I was a mess.
Things went from bad to worse when Gerta emailed me early in the morning to tell me that Ronan had canceled our appointment to go running in the park. He’d emailed Gerta, not me. He didn’t even cc me on the message.
Nor had he texted me; at least, I hadn’t heard my phone chime. Feeling adrift and depressed that I wouldn’t be seeing Ronan at all that day and, therefore, disoriented by my disappointment, I searched for my phone—just to make sure he hadn’t texted me.
I couldn’t find my phone. It wasn’t in my bag, in the basket by the front door, or next to my workstation. I couldn’t find it anywhere. After a half hour of frantic searching, I forced myself to stop, pause, and think.
The last place I remembered checking my phone was in my office, after the meeting, before Ronan had come to find me. Just that realization was enough to throw me for a loop. I’d gone over twelve hours without looking at my phone, checking in with my Socialmedialite blog. It had to be a new record.
Deciding that the phone must be at the office, I emailed Gerta back and asked her to check my desk for the cell.
Then I took another cold shower.
When I was finished but before I was dressed, I checked my Socialmedialite email account from my desktop PC, hopeful that Ronan had sent The Socialmedialite a message. I wasn’t disappointed. He’d sent two.
The first was composed early in the day on Monday, just five hours or so after I’d sent my message warning him about Brona’s claims of abuse. It read:
March 17
6:12 a.m.
Thank you for the heads-up.
You’re right. I’d like to do something crazy; I’d love to retaliate, but I won’t. Instead I’ll do something completely out of character and let my “publicity people” deal with this shite.
Just so you know, because I feel like I need to defend myself to someone (even if it’s some dude with a mermaid tat), she pissed me off any number of times; and she’d lash out during our rages and hit me all the time, but I never reciprocated. I would never hit a woman in a violent way. I would never do that. That would make me scum.
I’m used to fists against my face. You haven’t played a match of rugby if you aren’t bleeding by the end of it. When she hit me, it didn’t faze me. But her lies and dishonesty sure as fuck made a dent.
My heart constricted, and I pressed my fingers against my sternum, trying to massage away the uncomfortable, leaden heaviness that had settled in my chest. If I ever came face to face with Brona O’Shea, I was going to…well, I didn’t know what I would do. Part of me wanted to make her suffer for what she was doing to Ronan, what she was putting him through.
The other part of me really wanted her to suffer. So, if you’re keeping score, all of me was in favor of making Brona suffer.
I also thought about how sadly ironic his email was because I was, right this minute, lying to Ronan.
I wanted him but not enough to change. That was the truth…mostly.
If I could be guaranteed that he wouldn’t leave me, if I could be certain that I wouldn’t be abandoned, I would have jumped through hoops lit with fire to have a chance with him. Basically, if Ronan was a member of a boy band, say One Direction, he’d be the Harry Styles. He was far too gorgeous and lusted after to be trusted to stay faithful, not to be stolen or have his head turned by the next sexy young thing who came along. I saw it happen all the time in my line of work.
But really, it wasn’t just the lust and the intangible chemistry between us. Although, at present, the lust had a lot to do with it.
Really, it was him. His aggressive teasing and shocking suggestiveness; how assertive he was; how dedicated he was to his family; how smart and strong and capable he was; how focused he was on his profession, how driven and ambitious. I understood his drive and ambition, and I lauded him for it…even though I wanted to see him eat ice cream and lose some of his puritan control. Secretly, I wanted to be the one he broke his own rules for. I’ll admit, it made me feel special, like I mattered.
And I knew that line of thinking was twisted and wrong and unhealthy. I mattered independently of whether Ronan Fitzpatrick desired me. I mattered regardless of whether he wanted me enough to settle down and give me stability and security and ice cream.
I kept Jamie at arm’s length, and he didn’t seem to mind. Well, he didn’t mind at first. And when he did mind, when he wanted intimacy beyond the physical, I ended things. I ended things because life came without guarantees. Jamie had broken his own rules for me, but that hadn’t mattered. Yes, Jamie was smart and handsome, but he lacked some
intangible spark that Ronan had in spades. Maybe it was passion that Jamie lacked. Whatever it was, I was never in any danger of falling for him.
Not like Ronan. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe Ronan would stick around long enough for me to lose myself in the promise of something concrete and lasting.
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, and rubbed my forehead. Just considering this—a real relationship with Ronan Fitzpatrick—was madness. We’d known each other for such a short time. Granted, I’d let him in closer than anybody. I’d volunteered details about my past; I’d never done that with anyone before.
Ronan could no more promise me forever than my adoptive parents could. Maybe he’d last longer than the six months they’d given me before they got pregnant with their real child and returned me to the state.
I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth—because my eyes were stinging, and I refused to cry about a distant memory that no longer mattered, about people who wanted me because of how adorable I was as a seven-year-old but loved me no deeper than the surface of my skin.
I cleared my throat and blinked away the moisture in my eyes, clicking on Ronan’s second email. It was sent late Monday night, after I’d gone to sleep but before my second cold shower. It read:
March 17
11:47 p.m.
Funny thing about lies, lying, and liars—the truth always has a way of coming out. I wanted to thank you again for all your help. I do wonder, why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?
-Ronan
I frowned because the message was strange. I read it back several times then read his first email again. I searched for some clue as to why his second email was so terse, his tone truncated. I knew better than to read emotion into written words, so I tried my best not to fret over the note.
I tried and failed.
The words looked angry.
I went back to my room and changed, contemplated how to answer his message as I dressed. I spent the rest of the day—between work and eating my feelings and trying not to think about Ronan—periodically clicking back to his emails and studying them, working myself up into ball of stress. In the end, I decided that honesty was the best policy.