And so the tiny voice in the back of my head that had been telling me to run in the elevator started whispering new suggestions in my ear.
Break his fucking heart.
I could do it. I know I could. I knew I could the second he looked at me. Sometimes a man will look at you a certain way and you just know he wants to fuck you. I’m seldom wrong about gauging a man’s intentions towards me. And when I walked into his office, Aidan Callahan was giving me the kind of look normally reserved for someone you’ve already been frighteningly intimate with.
It felt wrong. It felt horrifying. Mostly because of the way my body reacted to that kind of attention from such an incredibly beautiful man. For a microsecond, one minute fraction of a heartbeat, my mind went somewhere it shouldn’t have. I imagined what it would be like to kiss him. I could see him thinking it, too. He glanced at my mouth, and my whole body lit up. I could barely breathe.
Of course he’d expect me to throw myself at him; I’m sure he thinks he can have any woman he wants.
But not me.
He may think he can have me. I may try and convince him that’s the case.
No fucking way.
I’m not going to let that happen.
******
For our dinner date, I decide to wear a low cut, tight-fitting black dress. I rummage through my lingerie before settling on a red lace bra and a pair of matching French lace panties. I don’t wear lingerie every day, but every once in a while it can be a good confidence booster.
I never wear underwear I’ve worn to sleep with a man in again. The red lace I slide over my skin will be going in the trash tomorrow morning, no doubt. Shame, because it’s one of my favorite sets. My little ruse with Aidan is worth it, though.
I have a somewhat complicated relationship with sex and that’s putting it mildly. I’ve never actually been with someone I love. I’ve been quite cut throat about my sexual partners, in fact. If a guy’s hot and my self-esteem is through the floor, I’ll hook up with a potential suitor and kick him out the next morning, not caring if I ever see him again.
I’m always careful. I’m never drunk enough or high enough or sad enough to screw a guy without protection. And yes, I screw them. I’m not a lay-back-and-take-it girl. I know what I want and I go after it when I’m with a guy.
See, if you’re a woman, you can usually expect to command less power than a man. I’ve witnessed that endlessly at work, sure enough. For example, Alicia gets paid seventeen thousand dollars less than Andrew Richter, another junior associate at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter, and they do the same fucking job. They went to equally excellent Ivy League colleges, both achieved equally as well, and each have the same amount of on-the-job experience. And yet Andrew, who also happens to be a grade-A motherfucking sleaze ball, breaks six figures and Alicia doesn’t. Even gets a bigger bonus.
So yeah, I can be dominant in bed, and guys aren’t used to it. Sometimes they don’t like it, don’t like handing over the power. Because sex is power. And if you’re a woman, and you want power, using sex can be one of the best ways to get it. It’s so cliché. I’m probably setting the women’s rights movement back decades somehow, but hell…I can barely fight my own personal battles, let alone the battles of an entire gender.
At the height of climax, a man is vulnerable. You can ask him for anything and he’d say yes. You can arouse him to a certain point and then not let him climax and he’ll be begging for you to keep going.
I remember the years Vaughn and I were in and out of shelters. I remember being terrified to go to sleep at night, even when Vaughn was right next to me, because I didn’t want to leave myself open to any kind of unwanted attention. There were all sorts of people at the shelter. Most were kind, down on their luck, trying to overcome the insurmountable things that life had thrown at them, but there were some who preyed on people, who were in such pain that they wanted to make everyone else around them hurt like they did. One night—I must’ve been fifteen, maybe sixteen—Vaughn had to pull a double shift at the convenience store he was working at, so I went to bed at the shelter by myself. It must have been much later when I awoke, because almost everyone else was asleep. I felt someone next to me, and at first I thought it was Vaughn until I swam up through the levels of consciousness and realized that whoever was next to me had their hand underneath my shirt. The hand hadn’t reached my breasts yet; it was fumbling near my stomach but inching higher and higher. I froze in place. I couldn’t move. It was like one of those awful dreams where you’re fully conscious but your limbs don’t work, your voice doesn’t work. All you can do is feel every single thing that is happening to you, and do nothing about it. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, certain that it would stop. The hand inched higher and cupped my breast. The smell of alcohol was heavy around me, even though no one who stayed at the shelter was supposed to drink. The hand moved from one breast to the next, and still, I couldn’t move. A thousand thoughts ran through my mind—I could’ve screamed, I could’ve jumped up, I could’ve reached out and slapped whoever was touching me—but I did none of those things. It only lasted maybe another minute—the hand stopped suddenly, was gone, and I was alone, lying in my bed again.
The next time it happened, I opened my eyes a slit. It was a boy, probably only a few years older than me, twenty at the most. It wasn’t the lecherous old man that I’d imagined. It was a boy, like any boy I might pass on the street or go to school with. His hand was up my shirt again, but this time, I reacted.
I spun around and grabbed his balls in my hand through his grubby shorts. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as they locked onto mine: surprise, quickly developing into overwhelming lust. He actually thought I was going to jerk him off for a second, I’m sure of it. He let out a stuttering sigh and pressed his hips forward, grinding his erection against my arm, and that was when I snapped. I started squeezing, slowly at first. Then, as I increased the pressure, I began digging my nails in. At first he enjoyed it. He groaned. His hand was still up my shirt, and he began fumbling for my breast again.
The feeling of his hands on my skin made me want to throw up. I squeezed harder. And harder. And harder. Eventually, the motherfucker got the idea that I was less pleased about being groped in my sleep than he’d first thought.
He started to squirm, trying to get away, but I held on as tightly as I could, pressing my nails into the soft, delicate skin, until my hand had formed a fist around one of his balls and it felt like it was going to pop. I had him screaming by the end. He had to punch me in the side of the head to make me let go.
By the time Vaughn got back from his shift, both of our belongings were packed up and I was sitting on the shelter steps with the center manager, who told my brother I’d assaulted another resident during the night and I was lucky the young man in question didn’t want to press charges.
I didn’t tell the center manager why I’d nearly castrated the guy who’d climbed into bed with me. Admitting that I’d been violated like that somehow seemed like an admission of weakness. Vaughn never questioned me about it. He must have been able to tell from the look on my face that there was more to the story. That the guy must have gotten what was coming to him.
Vaughn didn’t work nightshifts after that, though. I was never alone overnight in another shelter by myself again. And I’ve never since let a man touch me without my permission.
I could give a fuck about a guy’s sexual gratification. I’ve gotten down on my knees and given more than one blow job and ended it before ejaculation; I’ve climbed off a guy’s lap once I’ve come, irrespective of whether or not he has. You’d think this would incense most men, fill them with a sort of rage, make them swear they never wanted to see me again for as long as they lived, but for some reason, the opposite happens. It makes me mysterious, enigmatic, perhaps, or tantalizingly frustrating. Or perhaps someone they just wanted to conquer. Except they never can, because I won’t let them. Even during my most intense orgasm, I never lose myself the way a man does. I
’m always fully aware, so I can maintain the correct dynamic between me and my bedfellow. I own them. They never own me.
I’m planning on doing the exact same thing with Aidan. I’m experienced enough by now to know that I’ll be able to pull it off, and what could be more satisfying than ruining a man’s business, taking the roof from over his head, the clothes from his back?
Crushing his spirit, of course.
I know just how good that is going to feel.
THIRTEEN
AIDAN
I decide to walk to the restaurant. I have a car, but it’s a pain in the ass to drive in the city. I have a driver because it’s basically expected of me, but I hate using him. Ray’s not a bad guy, actually. I use him more than I’d like, only because going out in public has become more of a chore every single year. Oh, if my friends in Hawaii could see me now.
It’s not that I don’t want to go out, but it’s so fucking awful to be recognized all the time. I know there are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t mind fame and fortune, but living with it every day is crippling. Those people who crave attention don’t realize what a gift it is to be able to go out and not have anyone follow you, or try to take your picture. Yes, once in a while it might be nice to be recognized or admired, but when it happens every single day, when you can’t even go across the street and grab a coffee without complete and utter chaos developing around you, it quickly loses its novelty. In fact, it’s enough to make you want to disappear forever.
So, that’s why I use Ray sometimes. At least the darkly tinted windows of the Lincoln get me from one place to another without being manhandled by half of the city.
Tonight, though, I wear an old Nixon baseball cap pulled down low. It’s faded out and beaten up from the hours and days I used to wear it spun around, peak backward at the beach in Hawaii. Now, it’s my favorite hat to wear when I need to go out and need to be unrecognized—hasn’t failed me yet. Perhaps it’s because I can hide behind the brim, my nose and my mouth the only real visible parts of my face. If I keep my head down, I could be anyone walking down the street.
It is nice to be out walking, to be anonymous, to be able to overhear people’s conversations, conversations that have nothing to do with me, about people I don’t know and will probably never meet. I’m basically an auditory voyeur. The discussions I overhear are formed around the most mundane things:
“Tell Jen I’m running five minutes late.”
“Will you get more baby wipes while you’re out?”
“I’m going to pick up a pizza for dinner.”
These little snippets bleed into the air around me as I walk on by. It seems so strange to think that all over the world, this very second, billions of people are busy acting out the plays of their lives. I am walking to a restaurant to meet a woman that I’ve had my eye on for almost five years now, though she doesn’t know it. That woman in the green dress is on her way home from work. Those two guys are going to a Cubs game, even though they’re certain the Cubs won’t make it to the playoffs this year. Somewhere in the city, someone is giving birth. Someone is dying. Someone’s fucking a hooker. Someone’s tucking their infant daughter into bed. It’s so strange to think of all the things people are out doing. As I walk, I wonder what Essie is thinking, what she’s doing.
She’s probably getting ready. She’s probably getting ready and maybe she’s feeling a little nervous. I don’t want her to feel nervous; if anything, I want to put her at ease, though I’m also still a bit confused as to why all this is happening now. Did she really just email me out of the blue about going on a date?
A part of me wants to tell her I’ve kept track of her all these years. I think it would be hard for her to understand, though. She’ll automatically assume I did so in a creepy way. I prefer to think it was more a guardian angel type thing. Arturo thought I was mad to even bother. When Essie didn’t file a lawsuit against the Callahan Corporation, he wanted me to stay the hell away from her and, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ He definitely didn’t want to have her working at the law firm. The grouchy old bastard sweetened to her as time went by, though. Before he died, he actually asked me to continue watching over her since he wouldn’t be around to do it himself anymore.
My mind drifts as I walk. For a moment, I’m laying on my back on my surf board, staring up at the faded out denim blue of a sky far away, the sound of the ocean filling my ears, the motion of the vast body of water rocking me gently.
And then I’m back.
Perhaps it’s not that strange that Essie emailed me. Working at the law firm, of course she would have seen me, and though the idea still seems baffling to me. I have somehow become one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago. Girls talk about me. Plenty have tried various tactics to get me to take them out on a date. Really, Essie’s approach has been the most straightforward.
Not that being so admired has been terrible one hundred percent of the time. I’m a guy, after all. I’ve always been sexually charged. I like to fuck. I have certain criteria that has to be met by a woman before I allow her into my bed. One: she’s gotta have curves. None of this anorexic bullshit, where I can count their goddamn ribs. Two: She’s got to have a brain. Who wants to spend time with a chick if she’s just going to nod dumbly whenever you ask her a question. And three: She has to love sex. She’s got to want it like I want it. She’s got to need it every five seconds of the day…so badly that she’ll be climbing up on my dick moments after I’ve just made her scream my name, because she just can’t get enough of me. She’s got to be free. She’s got to love herself, and her body. If a woman doesn’t meet these criteria, I’d rather have no sex at all. I’ll go weeks and months without, jerking off to porn when I feel like it, if I can’t get what I need from a girl. I mean, I’d literally rather have no sex at all than have an experience with a woman where she’s not letting herself go with me, because she’s worried about whether her stomach isn’t perfectly flat while she’s got her legs up around her ears and I’m pounding myself inside her.
Jesus. These are bad thoughts to be having right now.
It’s a little before seven, and I want to get to Electra before Essie does. I quicken my pace. The hostess, Martine, gives me a big smile and leads me to the table, which is toward the back of the restaurant, near the fountain.
“Party of two tonight?” she asks.
“Yes. She should be arriving shortly.”
Martine winks. “Lucky girl. I’ll bring her right over when she gets here. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
I ask for a glass of water. Maybe I’d like something a little stronger, but at the same time, I want to keep a clear head. I want to be able to think straight. And if I start in on the vodka tonics now, well…that won’t happen.
It isn’t until Martine comes back over, with a silver carafe of water to refill my glass, that I realize considerable time has gone by and I’m still sitting there by myself. I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at the time. 7:14. Fashionably late. If this were a business meeting, my client would have just fucked any chance they might have had at working with me. With a date, it’s different, though. These are the rules of engagement, ridiculous though they are. Martine looks concerned. “Is there anything else I can get you while you wait?”
“No, thank you.” I shake my head and she stands there for a moment, like she wants to say something, but then decides better before walking away. I don’t watch her leave. I don’t watch the minutes ticking by on my Breitling, and I sure as fuck don’t watch the door.
From the outside, I am a study of relaxed patience, sipping on my water, mildly observing my surroundings without actually seeing any of it or making eye contact with anyone. It’s seven thirty when I find with some amusement that I might have actually been stood up. How entertaining. I decide to wait another ten minutes before leaving.
The whole time I find myself wondering what Essie Floyd is playing at.
Fine. If this is how she’s going to be
have, then perhaps I will too. I wonder if she’ll be able to handle me playing a few games along with her.
FOURTEEN
ESSIE
I’m leaving my apartment when I hear someone calling my name. It’s a guy, and for a second I think it’s Aidan. I think that he’s somehow found out where I lived and come to pick me up, but when I turn I see Matt Campbell hurrying toward me.
“Fuck.”
“Essie!” He looks excited. Relieved. “Thank god I caught you. Why haven’t you been returning my calls or texts? Did you get them?” He looks me up and down. “You look amazing. Big plans?”
“Something like that. What are you doing here?”
He takes a step closer. “Ahh, come on now, sweetheart. I had to see you. I’ve missed you. Haven’t you missed me?”
I take a deep breath. “No.” Matt flinches. “I haven’t.”
He shakes his head, like he really can’t comprehend what I’m saying right now. “Why not? Why are you being so pissy?”
“I haven’t missed you because you’re a mediocre lay, Matt. Oh, and my pissy mood might have something to do with the fact that your wife paid me a visit actually. You know, the wife you told me you were separated from?”
His face blanches. Yeeeaahhhhh, this is what a guy looks like when he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Okay. You’re right,” he admits. “I should never have told you I was separated. But I’m unhappily married,” he says, as though this makes any difference. “If I were happily married—if my wife were giving it up the way you do—I wouldn’t need to do this. I wouldn’t have strayed.”
Heart Breaker Page 8