by Ellie Rowe
If anything, it feels more like a relationship. I clasp my hand over my mouth. Oh, no, that’s going to look even worse! That I’m suddenly dating a handsome, ultra-wealthy business mogul.
Actually, to hell with it...
Why would it be such a big deal if we just… dated? Make an honest woman outta me. As a matter of fact, it might actually legitimize the whole thing, right? I mean, who would get mad at a normal couple being intimate, if they’re together.
It’s just committed, boring, monogamous, raucous and flexible fucking. My face heats up as I look about the suite and remember each and every corner I’ve been bent over, standing up, or flat on my back.
Sure, it’s a little salacious, but it’s not a scandal! Lots of people have crazy sex. And no one’s knocking down their doors, or skulking on their lunch dates and firing them for no reason!
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door and my heart starts to race. Did I just jinx myself with the knocking down the door thing? What else could they take from me at this point? I have a pair of heels that cost a fortune, but besides that, I’m a pretty smart shopper…
The knock comes again, and I jump. Okay, Natalie, calm down. This is not a horror flick. I smooth my hair and slick it back into a ponytail. If there’s someone shitty on the other side of that door, I’m ready for business.
I fling it open only to find a startled-looking Roger with a giant bag in his hands and a smaller one between his teeth.
“Wha—, wa tha fo?” He muffles and I reach up to pull the little bag out of his mouth. It’s warm and smells like garlicky heaven.
“Thanks,” he grins. “What’s with the dramatic door opening?”
“Oh, I just…” I grow shy. I don’t want him to know I’m afraid of the paparazzi. I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of anything. “I’ve got an interview for a professional door opener, and I’m trying it out.”
Yikes, I internally cringe.
“I see,” Roger gives me a sideways smile. “You sure you weren’t expecting someone else?”
I sigh and move to the side so he can come in, not wanting to talk about it.
“He’s not better looking than I am, right?”
“Oh, shut up,” I laugh as I push him inside and close the door. “To be honest, I was worried some reporter had wandered up to the top floor.”
“I don’t think that’ll happen,” Roger says as he puts the bag down. There’s a little tear near the top, even through such a small vent, the flavors come wafting toward me. It smells amazing.
“Why’s that?” I ask, my mouth damn near watering from the food — and the company.
“The lobby’s under strict orders to check bags of unknown personnel or guests. Anyone found with a camera or recording equipment with no alibi will be escorted off the premises.”
Christ, he’s thought of everything.
“It’s to protect me, too, you know,” he laughs.
“I see. So, what’s all this?” I ask as I gesture to the bags before us.
“Ah, well… given that you’re out of a job, and it’s at least my fault, I thought I’d pick you up a little something for dinner. You know, just to save you the dough,” I stare at him for a moment, before suddenly realizing my mouth is open.
“You what?”
Roger looks terrified for a moment, like he’s about to get yelled at.
“I… I didn’t mean to presume or anything, I just —”
“No, no, you idiot, I’m not mad. I’m just…”
I break off for a moment. The exhaustion of rejection and the constant whirlwind of my life feel like it’s compounding against this wonderful act of kindness. I feel like crying.
“I’m just grateful… is all. Thank you.”
Relief washes over Roger as he moves the bag toward me.
“Well. Uh, bon appétit. I hope you like it —”
He starts to head for the door, and now it’s my turn to look worried.
“Wait, where are you going?”
Roger stops and looks at me, surprised.
“Well, I was gonna head out. I didn’t want to tie up your night, or cramp your style, or anything. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t eat on your own.”
Tying up my night sounds damn near fantastic. I’ll bet we can use his tie, as a matter of fact.
I saunter over to him slowly and let my fingertips walk up his lapel to his chin. “Stay.”
He takes a deep breath and stares at my parted lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he grins and reaches for me.
“Wait,” I put a hand on his chest, and he gives me a suspicious look. I turn around and head to the windows, closing each of the blinds.
“Can’t be too careful, not with all these pictures showing up,” I say bitterly and he nods as he joins me.
“I suppose we don’t want a repeat of last time,” Roger grunts as he pulls the last blind closed. I watch him smirk and catch his eye. “Well, actually much of that night bears repeating, just not the picture-taking —” I press a finger to his lips, and he bites the tip.
“If you’re hungry, let’s eat,” I laugh and walk over to the food. “It smells heavenly.”
Roger’s face lights up with satisfaction as he moves through the kitchen to grab plates and bowls.
It’s utterly endearing. He’s plating everything, and quite beautifully, if I may add. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a chef, not a real estate mogul. He dips a spoon into the paper container of sauce, and drizzles it over the roasted vegetables.
“Are we on Master Chef or something?” I ask as he licks his fingers and decides to sprinkle a touch more salt. What I wouldn’t give to be that sauce.
He won’t allow me to help, but once everything is plated, I’m permitted to take my own to the dining room. Roger pours the wine as I stare hungrily at my feast.
“Afraid you won’t have many leftovers since you asked me to stick around,” he laughs as he sets my glass down.
“Listen, regardless of whether you stayed or not, I’m still eating more free food than I would’ve had otherwise,” I smile as he finally takes his seat. “Thank you. I mean it.”
Roger waves me off and raises his glass.
Is this turning into something of a tradition for us then? I raise my glass to his. “To professional door openers everywhere.”
I groan and pull my glass away. “How about to dinner?” I say.
Roger nods and we clink our glasses. I try not to laugh as I raise mine to my lips. It’s completely stupid; this cheesy ‘cheers’ thing that we do. Anyway, cheesy or not, it’s nice to have a tradition with someone.
My manners completely abandon me as I dive into the food. Holy fuck, this is delicious. The salmon is perfectly glazed, paired with the light buttery sauce. The vegetables are divine and expertly seasoned (even if Roger took matters into his own hands on the salt front).
I hear Roger snort and turn to find him laughing at me. “Not bad, huh?”
I must have looked like I was orgasming. I can hardly speak, so I just moan as I take another bite. So, not only does Roger Zane have a taste for wine, it seems he also has excellent taste in food.
This is dangerous. He is dangerous.
Wine, sex and food. He’s holding all three keys to my heart.
Sixteen
Roger
Natalie offers to help with the dishes.
“No, no,” I tell her. “I’ve got it. Go and relax. Enjoy the rest of the wine.”
She lingers a moment, giving me a look I can’t quite read. She’s been giving me a lot of those lately, then she heads out of the kitchen. I get to work rinsing off the dishes before putting them in the machine.
It’s been a week. Things have been going great. Well, I think they’re going great. As far as I can tell anyway.
For starters, we’ve had dinner together every night. I’ve surprised her with a new cuisine each time, from a couple of my favorite places. Places that don’t even do take-out. But
that’s one of the privileges I’ve accrued with my money and a generous spirit.
I’ve also stayed over at her place every night this week, with no sex involved. We just kind of crawl into bed and fall asleep, sort of cuddling together. It’s definitely a new experience for me. I’m pretty sure the last time I slept in bed next to a woman I didn’t have sex with was… well… maybe when I was a kid and my mom let me get in bed with her after a nightmare.
What I’m used to is the, to put it crudely, ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ experience. Sex and then bolt. It’s not even always me doing the leaving, either. Trust me, I’ve been with plenty of ladies who’ve barely finished an orgasm before the clothes are on and the car is called to pick them up.
Because, you see, getting out early is the best way to avoid hurt feelings, or any sort of feelings really. Because, frankly, any feelings generally lead to hurt feelings sooner or later.
So, yeah, being in bed with her just to be in bed and go to sleep – no sex – is something else.
I kinda like it.
“You doing okay in there?” Natalie calls from the other room.
“Almost done,” I call back cheerfully.
I’ve only been at it a minute. But that uneasiness is something I’ve felt creeping up on her the last few days. Sometimes, I can almost hear the time bomb ticking inside her. The time limit of our agreement is rapidly drawing to a close. She’s started bringing up the fact in roundabout ways.
“Time’s going by quick, huh?”
“I was looking at my calendar… almost the end of the month…”
That kind of thing.
I get it. She doesn’t want to live in limbo forever. She wants to know what’s going to happen when the ‘terms’ of our deal are up. Is she sticking around? Is she going out on the streets?
She’s been having a devil of a time getting a new job. I imagine her savings are rapidly dwindling, even with her staying here rent-free.
We’ve reached a put-up-or-shut-up moment, I realize. I let the water drip off the last plate, set it in the dishwasher, close it, then turn it on, like a husband or something.
Jesus, I’m fucking domesticated. Buddy would say ‘whipped’. But Buddy’s not here. Natalie is.
So, fuck it.
“Hey,” I say, stepping out of the kitchen as I towel off my hands. She’s sitting on the couch, shoes off, legs up. She’s got a glass of wine in her hands, but she’s clearly been staring into space. Maybe thinking about the same things I’ve been thinking about?
I lean against the doorway into the kitchen, tossing the towel over my shoulder and keeping things casual.
“I’ve been thinking,” I pause for a moment to give her the opportunity to make a jab at my expense. She doesn’t. Things really are approaching a tipping point. “And what I was thinking,” I go on, “is that maybe you should stay.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Maybe?”
“Yeah. No. I mean, definitely. You should stay. Stay on. Like this. Like we’ve been doing.”
Oh, yeah, Roger, super casual.
Natalie looks into her wine glass a moment. I get it. It’s a big deal. People have a hard time being accepted and cared for, so —
“No,” she says.
“No?” I repeat like an idiot.
“No,” she looks at me. “I don’t want charity.”
“It’s not charity.”
“What would you call it then?” Her tone is flat, almost angry. The bomb’s about to go off.
“I’d call it…” I don’t know what to call it, I think. I say, “I just want you around.”
“You want me ‘around’?” Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Yeah.” I take a step toward the couch.
She swings her legs down, sitting up straight. The movement stops me. She sets the wine glass down. Now I know we’re getting into things. I brace myself.
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“It’s pretty clear, I thought.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I want you around. It’s nice having you around. This — this has been nice.”
“What’re we doing here, Roger?”
“I thought we were enjoying ourselves,” I tell her honestly.
“Sure. Roger Zane loves to enjoy himself; everyone knows that.”
You’re in deep shit when someone you’ve been intimate with uses your full name. Even I know that.
“But what happens,” Natalie says, “when he stops enjoying himself?”
That one goes over my head. “Natalie… I don’t know what you want from me.”
“What are we? What is this?”
“Are you asking me if this is a…”
“A…?”
“A…”
“Go on, Roger, say the word.”
“If this is a relationship?”
“Is it?”
Boom. There’s the bomb. This is going to be a fight. Why should it be? I hate fights. I don’t mind it in business. Business is a battle. But, personally… I’ve never been good at it. It’s why I usually leave. That way, a fight can’t rear its ugly head.
“I don’t know if it’s a relationship,” I backtrack.
“Great, what would you call it?”
“I’m – I don’t – I wouldn’t call it anything right now,” I blather.
“So, it’s nothing?” she digs.
“No, it’s — it’s been a week. I don’t know what that makes us. But I know I look forward to our dinners and, our, whatever.” I want to say sleeping beside you and waking up beside you, but for some reason, I can’t. ‘Whatever’ has to do.
Except, of course it doesn’t.
“Our ‘whatever’?”
“Why does this have to be a big thing?” I burst out. “What’s wrong with me helping you out because I feel good whenever we’re together?”
“Because what happens if your feelings change?” she stands up, defiantly. “What happens to me then?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t thought that far ahead!”
“Well, I have! Because I have to. I don’t have your luxury, so, I need to know what this is.”
I stay silent. This argument is not what I want. I don’t want to fight. Someone will inevitably say something they’ll regret. If we haven’t already. I toss the towel aside and grab my coat from where I flung it over a chair when I arrived.
“Where are you going?” she demands.
“I don’t want to fight,” I mutter.
“So, you’re gonna take your fancy ass upstairs and just avoid it altogether?”
“Exactly. One of the ‘luxuries’ of having a ‘fancy ass’ to begin with.”
I’m out the door. I try to take out my frustration on the elevator button. Every second it takes for the elevator to arrive is another second one of us might continue the fight. Finally, it rescues me from her floor, and in seconds, deposits me to mine.
I hop in the shower. I’m seething and I hope this does the trick. I let the water wash down my bare back. Down my front. I stick my face in the stream. I still feel the rage and confusion.
In addition to the shower head, there are six other spouts. I turn them all to the highest setting and let the water blast me. It stings, but it manages to lessen the sting of our confrontation.
I step out of the shower and vigorously dry my hair. My phone, on the sink counter, buzzes. I can see Natalie’s number come up on the screen. I ignore it and she doesn’t message. One glance tells me she’s already left one and also sent about five other texts. I don’t read them. If I do, I might be tempted to respond.
Any calming effect the shower had are quickly undone.
I wrap the towel around my waist and stomp into my study. Forget the whiskey. It’s a scotch night. I pour a healthy glass of aged-twenty-three-years single malt. Immediately, I toss it back. The smoky, peaty flavor fills my mouth and burns just the right amount going down.
I settle on a couch, still in my towel, bottle and glass both in
hand. I pour myself another. Then another. And another.
By the time I stumble naked into bed, I am good and pissed. I let my head sink deep into my pillow as the world spins around me, and the inevitable drunken doubts parade through my mind.
Why did I run away?
“Ha,” I exclaim out loud to my dark, empty, spinning room. Then I mutter, slurring the words, “Maybe because you’re afraid you’re falling in love with her.”
The idea hangs in the air.
I pass out.
Seventeen
Natalie
Well, I feel like a fucking idiot.
It’s only been a couple of days, but I haven’t seen Roger at all. I mean, we live in the same building for God’s sake, and I still can’t catch the guy?
What is he? The Phantom of the Opera? Maybe if I croak out an opera number, he’ll come swinging down from the lobby chandelier. It’s worth a shot, right?
Maybe I should accept that I’ve been ghosted or whatever we wanna call it here, but it doesn’t feel right. I have to talk to him. But if the opera route doesn’t work, maybe I could casually ask my favorite lobby man to shoot me a message when he’s near?
“Argh, I sound psychotic,” I groan as I grab my phone for the thousandth time to see if I’ve missed anything. Nope, nothing. No work emails, no follow-up phone calls, and no new messages. I’m unemployed, after all.
Hmm. I am unemployed, which means I have ample time to wait for the return of the phantom. After all, with all the nights he’s brought over dinner, I’ve got a rough idea of when he gets off work.
The more I think about this plan, the more I like it. I hate wallowing. I’ve always been an ‘action’ kind of person and this feels good. Besides, when was the last time I got to wear this ‘incognito’ trench coat?
I finally make my way to the lobby for the sting operation, and decide to position myself by the front desk, flipping through a magazine that doesn’t have my face on it.
Ah-hah! Just in the sweet spot of my surmised timeline, Roger walks through the door. As soon as he sees me, his eyes go bug-eyed and he starts to bolt. That little bastard!