Making a Scene

by Trudy Doyle

  “Now what?” he asks, switching it off.

  What can I say? I’m a bit rattled. The last thing I want is Josh and Karen in my head while Roark’s on top of me. I smile weakly, shrugging.

  “Oh,” he says, getting it. “You’re having flashbacks.” He looks around him. “Didn’t know your place was this nice.”

  “Please. My place is a hovel next to this.”

  “And what am I next to that asshole fuck?”

  His question throws me. “How can you— There’s no comparison!”

  “My point exactly. So what’s the problem?”

  I sigh, twirl the tie of my robe, swing my legs. “I suppose I don’t have one, then.”

  He pulls me off the sink, tugging me out the doorway. “And I’m just about to prove it.”

  We stop at the side of the bed, the covers already turned down, the lights low and seductive. He unties his robe and lets it fall to the floor, slipping his hands inside mine to send it in the same direction. Then he cups my chin and kisses me, his tongue lacing into mine, my breath drawing its supply from his. After a few moments he pulls back and says, “Forgetting yet?”

  I loll my head back, closing my eyes. “My past is a blank slate… I remember nothing.”

  “Good,” he says, turning me toward the bed. “I always wanted to fuck a virgin.”

  We fall atop it, a tangle of arms and legs as I fight to save my virtue, but in the end, I’m the biggest loser. I end up exactly where I figured, pinned under him, savoring the cotton plush and give of the mattress. And Roark, wonderful Roark. Who’s more than proven what a dope I’ve been. Because there are things worth angsting over, and then there are things beyond disposable. And Josh isn’t even worth… Well, he isn’t even worth finishing the thought.

  But Roark… Good golly. He bends to a nipple, slowly sucking as his other hand kneads my breast, and I kiss his forehead, my fingers threading through his damp hair. This time it’s not about sex, at least it doesn’t feel like it is. It has too much tenderness and none of the urgency, which is exactly what I need right now.

  He arches up, looking down. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, his fingers lightly tracing my hip.

  “So are you, much more than me. And don’t tell me different. It’d only be bullshit.”

  “You’re wrong,” he says, climbing atop me, spreading my legs with his. “As long as I’m in love with you, you could never be anything else. And I can’t help it, Pam, I know it’s so quick, but I am.”

  Funny he should say quick, because it feels like such a long time coming. “Oh Roark,” I say, and I kiss him, just as he slips inside me. And the very fact that I’m here, in this bed, must mean I’m falling too. Or at least well on my way.

  He stays on top of me, kissing me, making love to me slowly, his hips barely swiveling against mine. It’s beyond lovely and so, so sweet, and I have no idea how long we do it as time seems to stop, especially when I begin to climax and there he is joining me, and we just go on and on. After he kisses me, he folds me into his arms and we fall asleep without another word.

  I awake to the soft thump of Roark’s heartbeat against my ear, my arm wrapped around his belly, his own holding me close, and I can’t help but sigh. In all of my life, in all of my alliances, whether the ones I’ve made or the ones I’ve been born into, never have I felt the kind of innate connection I’ve been feeling with Roark. I’ve known the man barely a week and already he seems more in tune with my sensibilities than people who’ve known me all my life. All right, maybe I’m a bit presumptuous, but could he really be the one? Could there already be something growing between us, something still unseen yet inching toward permanence? I don’t know, but one thing’s for certain. I’d sure like him to stick around so I can find out.

  I ease myself from his lazy clutch and crawl out of bed, slinking through the bare morning light to the bathroom. What’s been happening with clockwork regularity since yesterday afternoon is bound to happen again as soon as he opens his eyes, so I’d better refresh. I pop out my diaphragm, wash it and give it a reload, smiling the whole time. Damn, if this piece of latex isn’t becoming a part of my anatomy. In a few minutes, I’m inching out of the bathroom.

  Good golly, I realize as I stand at the foot of the bed. Even in repose, could he be any more stunning? I think of what Malcolm said, of Roark being cast in marble and, looking at him now, it’s easy to imagine. He’s lying on his back, one muscled arm flung idly over his head, the other draped over his taut belly, the ruffled sheet foaming around his hips so tantalizingly, the sight of it almost distracts me from his perfectly molded chest. Almost, but not quite. Like last night, I still feel the urge to scrape my fingers down it, to feel it against my bare breasts. I crawl back into bed, reassume my previous position, and give in to the urge.

  He awakens with a start. “Mmmm…?” he groans lazily, and I answer by lightly biting his nipple. His immediate reaction begins expanding just to the left of my hip.

  “Good morning,” I say, climbing atop him.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he responds as I sink myself down on him.

  Roark’s got ahold of my hips, my hands braced against his hardened pecs as I slowly ease myself up and down. He’s swirling his pelvis to add a little more color to this early morning tryst, and I arch my neck a bit, watching as his prodigious prick impales me. I have to admit, ever since we arrived here, I’m feeling a bit more adventurous. So I push myself up and ease off him, much to his apparent discontent.

  “Where you going?” he asks, his hands reluctant to leave me.

  “Just a bit of a realignment, sweetie,” I say, turning around. Too bad I can’t see him now. Because I’d love to be catching the look on his face when I remount his cock, this time presenting him with my invitingly kneadable backside.

  “Ahhhh…” he groans as I squish into him, this position allowing him maximum access to pinch, squeeze or otherwise fondle my continent-covering posterior. “Damn, you feel good.”

  “Oh, you think,” I say, leaning forward to grab his knees. I lift up, sliding his cock nearly out of me. “Well, I think it’s time we add some heat to this thing.” I slam myself down.

  My bottom hits his pelvis with a thwack! and it’s all the invitation he needs. He latches on to my hips and, drawing his own up, slams me hard enough to send his balls bouncing against my clit.

  “Golly!” I say, little charges shooting through me.

  Thwack! Thwack! “This is—nice,” he grunts, slapping against me, his balls banging my clit until I feel myself taking off.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” he says, grabbing my ass as a climax shoots through me, a much better wake-up than any cup of joe. “You’re not going anywhere until I’m ready.” Then suddenly he is, his toes curling.

  “Look at that—that’s so cute! Your toes curl when you come!”

  “Oh they do not.” I can tell he’s embarrassed, but not enough to keep him from giving my ass a playful pinch.

  I yelp, glaring back at him.

  He grins. “You want me to tell you what you look like when you come?”

  “Probably like this.” I cross my eyes, stick out my tongue.

  “Oh, cuter than that.” He bares his teeth, huffing. “Next time I get you a piece of wood to bite on.” I slap his knees. “Now stop that!” He tugs my arm. “And get over here.”

  I lift off him and— “Ooooh…” It’s all I can do to drag myself over. “Okay. I’m officially sore now.” As though my crotch needs a fire extinguisher.

  “Not surprising,” he says, wincing a bit. “I think I’m whittled down an inch or so myself.”

  “Don’t worry, the maidens will still faint.” I ease myself to the edge of the bed, gently sitting up.

  Roark swings his legs past me. “Come on, I have the perfect solution.”

  And thirty minutes later I’m soaking in it, a marble tub full of bubble bath, complete with the New York Times and a pot of coffee, as well as momentarily, blissfully alone. Not t
hat I don’t crave the man, but we all have our ways to recover. His is to retreat to the hotel’s gym and pump iron for an hour, and when he comes back, isn’t he just deliciously sweaty. But I keep my distance, letting him shower alone. Though I can’t help perching on the sink as he shaves. There’s just something about a man in a towel with foam on his face…

  By one o’clock we’re back in the limo, shooting out of the Lincoln Tunnel for the Turnpike back to New Jersey. “You know?” I say from within the curve of his arm. “I’m so self-absorbed. I never even asked if you won the brew-off.”

  He laughs softly. “Second place.”

  “Well, you were robbed. Mocha Javette’s the best. You should’ve won.”

  He squeezes me. “Who said I didn’t?”

  That’s me, first prize. But why don’t I feel like it? Because I’m about to lose Roark, at least for the duration. I have a date with a blank screen, and there’s no putting it off any longer. Not that I don’t try.

  “You know?” I say as we roll into town, “I don’t even know where you live.”

  “We’re not far from it. Want to see?” When I say sure, he tells the driver to make a right at that next corner. He does, turning toward the river.

  I know this neighborhood. It’s an enclave of brick colonials, circa 1920s, with wide lawns and river views, built by the local elite. By the eighties they had fallen into disrepair, but within the last few years have been steadily snatched up as Riverboro’s cachet continued to catch on.

  “Stop a second,” he says to the driver. He rolls down the window to a sturdy three-story corner house, an apparent work-in-progress with scaffolding half-covering the facade. “That’s it.”

  I’m impressed. “It’s lovely,” I say, meaning it. “But isn’t it kind of big for just you?” Why did I ask that? Because I know the reason why.

  “We bought it right before I got…” He clears his throat. “Right before I retired. We were going to move here, but then… Well, you know.” He turns to me. “You want to come inside, take a look?”

  Boy, how I want to, almost more than I understand. “I’d love to, but I can’t, Roark, at least not today. I have to—”

  “You sure do. Right now.” And the next thing I know I’m standing on my stoop, Roark dropping my bag at my feet.

  “Want me to come up for a minute?” he asks.

  “Of course I do, for much more than a minute, and that’s why I’m not letting you. I’m pulling an all-nighter, and this time you’ve got no part in it.”

  “Then, baby, I’ll see you over a cup of joe on the other side.” He kisses me and before I know it, he’s walking away and I’m waving goodbye.

  But when I turn to go up, the strangest thing happens. I’m no longer doubting myself. I know I can do this. I know because suddenly, it’s all laid out in my head, start to finish, like a movie. I run up the steps, frantic to get it down, frantic to get it over with, frantic for something I’ve yet to identify to start.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’ve done it.

  End. Over. Finished.

  Yay.

  Or at least I think, barring agent-editor interference.

  I lean back in my chair and look toward the window, watching Monday morning rise over Riverboro. It’s coming on nine o’clock and I’ve been at it off and on for eighteen hours, and for all intents and purposes I should be exhausted, but I’m not. There’s a cocaine kind of exhilaration to finishing a project, and no amount of wanting my pillow could make me nod off now. This moment’s too rare, too satisfying, too plain hard to come by to let it go that easily. I stretch my arms over my head and plop my feet atop the desk, shaking the strain loose, riding the release this long foreplay has wrought.

  I don’t know about other writers but for me, the very act of doing it is almost like sex. I approach it with the same relish and craving, this intensely personal, solitary act of giving legs to my fantasies, and up until now no man has ever been able to displace it. Even with my missing Roark and wanting him so badly, this old-school paper pile of ink-filled pages on my desk still holds me in its thrall, yet this time, there is a difference. This time it isn’t quite enough.

  Now don’t get me wrong; it’ll always be there. Writing is so hardwired in me I think in snappy repartee and picture prose even when making the supermarket list. I know there’s an immutable corner of me that’ll always be the writer, and I’ll go on doing it until I run out of words. But now I sense another space being eked out, one separate and distinct yet more than enough room for two, and bearing down on me with immediacy. I fairly leap from my chair.

  I’m so ready.

  I jump in the shower, wash off the stink of work. Because writing really isn’t that romantic—real writing anyway. It’s not what you see in the movies—the writer hunched over his/her desk, pencil in mouth, cup of coffee or booze at the ready, fingers just pounding the keys, up-tempo music blaring in the background.

  The truth is there’s a lot of idle screens filling the yawns between the genius, many feet atop the desk as we yak on the phone or sink our hands into many a bag of pretzels. Or punching the remote, or shrinking Word to partake in a couple (or three? Four? Just one more?) games of Free Cell, or maybe one quick peek at TMZ.com or CNN, or maybe weather.com because we haven’t been outside in two days, and there’s the distinct possibility we’ll be going out tomorrow. And there’s no loosened collar and tie and no scarf thrown over the shoulder. It’s more like a dirty t-shirt and sweats, or the bathrobe because it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and we still haven’t gotten in the shower.

  Yet when we’re looking at the camera in our jacket photos we can still manage to remain artsy and smug. Because after all that we know we have the best job in the world, no matter how painful and wall-punch-worthy it can get at times. I turn off the water and flip my hair back, savoring it, hearing my phone ring as I wrap the towel around me. I run for it.

  “Hiya, Pammy.”

  Bright and early. “Hello, Renee.”

  “Hello yourself. So sweetie, did you happen to finish—”

  “Allow me. Yes, Renee, it’s done.”

  “Really.” She sounds surprised. “Even with…?”

  I know who she means but instinctively, I glance toward my bedroom, nearly untouched from that day. “Especially with.”

  She laughs. “No kidding. The man’s a charm. So we’re both in a good mood today?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Well, here’s something to make you feel even better. You know that pesky little problem you sent up to me?”

  I hold my breath. “Yes?”

  “Looks like it’ll never see the light of day. I just had a chat with your former boy toy’s MFA coordinator. Says there’s nothing in the thesis research he’s submitted so far that remotely contains what he’s referring to in the complaint, and if he continues with this suit he’s going to have to produce not only the contested material, but independent research substantiating it, or he’ll be tossed out of the program.”

  I fall back on the sofa. “Renee, that’s wonderful. How did you do it?”

  She laughs. “While I’ll agree with the wonderful part, it wasn’t completely up to me. Seems Dr. Ross is a big fan of yours, and he can’t wait for the next book. And he wants me to tell you they’d be thrilled to have you adjunct there anytime.”

  “So theoretically I could fail Josh myself?”

  “Sweetie, the skinny I got was they’d welcome it.”

  I do a little couch dance right there on the cushions. “Oh Renee, you’ve absolutely made my day. Thank you.”

  “Now make mine and send those pages up pronto.”

  I trot over to my computer. “I’m already attaching the file. Bear in mind, though, they may be a little rough.”

  “It’ll give Consuelo something to do today besides getting her nails Frenched. Now why don’t you go out and do something celebratory like kick back a couple of ’tinis. You earned it.”

  “I don�
��t know, Renee, I’m thinking more like coffee.” Lots more. And something else I’ve the discretion not to mention at the moment.

  “Whatever gasses your tank, sweetie. Kiss, kiss.”

  I hit send and zip! there it goes, flying away from me with all the angst of a mother shipping her five-year-old to kindergarten. I stand back. So it’s done. And now…

  And now I do get to celebrate. I hurry and dress, hitting the sidewalk in twenty minutes flat, poofed and preened and ready for anything.

  Could it be any more gorgeous out? It’s almost April and nature’s gearing up. There are buds on the forsythia and dogwood and the crocus have long since bloomed, their purple heads making room for the daffodils and tulips. The robins have come out of the woods and are tugging for worms in the grass, the squirrels, thick into their mating race, are chasing each other from tree to budding tree. Spring has sprung and life is once again renewed, expectations once more revived. I trail my hand across an iron fence, my pinky ring tinking each bar and I smile, feeling lighter than air. I turn the corner, fairly floating into Serious Joe.

  I’m greeted before I reach the counter. “Ms. Flynn?”

  It’s the same young woman who has intercepted me before. “Yes?”

  “Roark should be back in just a little bit. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get you breakfast?” She sweeps her hand toward the tables. “What would you like?”

  “Thanks,” I glance at her nametag, “Ashley.” Also seeing for the first time she’s an assistant manager. “Just pick anything. As long as it contains coffee I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

  She seems thrilled to do it, chirping, “Be back in a sec!” as she bounces away.

  I can’t help laughing as I slide into my usual squat. See what happens when you’re a big celeb like me? People fawn all over you, address you courteously and bring you food even without asking. Or paying, it seems lately. This keeps up, I’m going to have to start wearing shades all the time plus learn how to pelt my personal assistant with a cell phone. First I would have to get an assistant, though Ashley would make a good stand-in. The cell I already have. Which is ringing.