Love [Literally]

by Maria Monroe

His face is cocky now, like this is a game he's going to win. Except I didn't even know we were playing! "The situation," he says, "is that we have a past. You and I, Lia. It was a long time ago, but in case you can't handle…"

  "I can handle anything!"

  "So then there's no problem?" He raises an eyebrow questioningly at me, arrogantly, even.

  "No. The only problem is that you're acting like a complete and total asshole right now."

  "Am I?" The look in his eyes tells me he knows quite well that he is and doesn't care.

  "Seriously, Julian? You are. You're being a total dick. Just go, OK? We're fine. Everything's fine. I'll see you at work tomorrow, where, you'll be pleased to discover, I'm quite capable of doing my job and handling situations."

  His face softens a bit. "Lia, I'm sorry." He shakes his head and runs a rough hand through his hair. "Look. I came here to talk to you about the merger and our new jobs. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Ever. I came here to let you know that if you want to transfer—if you want me to transfer—please tell me. We’ll work it out"

  "As long as you treat me like everyone else, I'll be fine, OK?"

  Julian looks down, running his long fingers up and down the wine glass before he finally drops his hand, shoving it into the front pocket of his jeans. "That," he finally says, "is going to be a problem."

  I go still. The room is suddenly filled with tension; it's thick with feelings, and I can barely breathe. Julian moves into the living room, and I think he's going to come to me, but he doesn't. Instead he walks around, looking at the things in the room. He smiles at the photo of the fall trees. "Reminds me of college," he says.

  "I took that picture on campus. Nowhere is as pretty as Maine."

  He nods, staring now at the book cover poster next to the photo. "Great Gatsby. God, Lia, I'll never forget watching that with you in Film Class."

  "And at your apartment," I whisper.

  "I wasn't watching it, though."

  I hold my breath.

  "It was all I could do to keep my hands off you that night," he continues.

  I nod even though he's not looking at me. He's still staring at the book cover. "Boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past," he mutters.

  "My favorite last line ever," I whisper.

  "I remember." He looks at me now, fierce green eyes focused intently on me. "I remember everything, Lia."

  "I thought we barely knew each other." I use his own words from the other day.

  "That? Was a fucking lie." His words are biting, harsh. "I've never known anyone as well as I knew you. And you," he says, taking one big step toward me, "have never known anyone like you've known me."

  "That's an awfully presumptuous thing to say."

  "And this is a presumptuous thing to do, but I don't give a fuck," he says. He closes in on me, winding my hair through his fingers, pulling my face towards him. He crushes my mouth with his, his lips firm but soft, his tongue rough and forceful.

  A moan escapes my lips and my body grows limp, my breath speeding up. He does taste like he used to, like mint and chocolate, not quite eclipsed by the wine he just drank. In the stairwell, the brief kiss was too unexpected for me to focus on it. But now, here, I can taste him. Explore him. My hand runs through his dark, thick hair.

  "Christ, Lia." Julian pulls away from the kiss, then bites my neck, just hard enough to make me groan, half in pain and half in pleasure. He grasps a fist-full of my tank top, and my nipples harden instantly at the gesture.

  With my fingers I feel along his jaw; it hardens under my touch. His skin is warm, his face rough, and I lean up to him. I want to kiss him again, want to feel his lips on mine once more. It's just like it used to be. It's better than it used to be. I can't get enough.

  This time the kiss is harder, darker, filled with undeniable and inevitable momentum. I know where this is leading. His tongue finding mine, his lips biting my lips, his hard-on pressed against my stomach all say the same thing: this train left the station a long time ago, and there's no jumping off now. Not that I want to. This, here, is the only thing I want. It's the only thing I've wanted since I broke up with him; I just didn't realize it till this instant.

  Julian's hand lifts the bottom of my tank top, touching my skin. His touch awakens my cells, awakens my entire body, and I gasp. Fingers outstretched, he slides his hand up farther, tracing the curved underside of my breast, then moving higher. His fingers whisper over my nipple, and my head falls back in response. He licks my neck as he teases my nipple, gently at first, then mercilessly so all I want is more.

  "Julian," I whisper, unsure of what I even want to say, his name a plea on my lips. I can no longer resist; my hand runs down his arm, feeling his corded muscles under my fingers. I touch his chest, then run my hand up under his T-shirt and over his rippling stomach. But I want more. My hand goes lower until I'm caressing his rock hard cock through his jeans. It twitches under my hand, so big and deliciously solid.

  "Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse. In one movement he yanks my tank top up, and I lift my arms so he can pull it off. "You," he growls, lowering his head and touching my nipple with the tip of his tongue, flicking it quickly so it's all but impossible not to buck against him.

  When he sucks my nipple into his mouth I moan, leaning back against the counter to hold me up. "Goddamn, Lia," he growls, and suddenly he picks me up and sits me on the counter, shoving my legs apart so he can stand right up against me. Through my thin yoga pants I feel how hard he is, how big he is. Shamelessly I rub against him, looking for friction to calm the throbbing between my legs. But all it does is make me want him more.

  His hands are flat on the counter on either side of me as he kisses my neck, then moves them to my lower back and slides them into the back of my yoga pants. He splays them against my ass, squeezing, pulling me closer towards his hardness. I can't help pushing my body against his, feeling his giant cock right up against my pussy. If we were naked, he'd be inside me, and that thought is intoxicating.

  "I thought I was over you." His words are half angry, half filled with uncontrollable desire, and his voice is hoarse as though it's a struggle to speak.

  "Me too," I whisper, though it's really a lie. I was almost over him. I was close. But he'd never completely left my thoughts.

  "Lia," he growls into my lips, thrusting his hips so his dick pushes between my legs so hard it almost hurts, "I want nothing more than to rip off these pants and fuck you right now, right here, on this counter."

  Yes. I want that too. I want nothing more. But. And I hear reservation in Julian's voice too. I pull back, trying to catch my breath.

  There is more than space between us now. There is silence too. For a few moments we're both quiet.

  "This," I finally say gesturing back and forth between us. "We can't." Even as I'm saying it, I want him to contradict me, I want him to choose me anyway, despite the million ways we both know this is wrong.

  He stares into my eyes as he runs a finger down my neck, down the side of my breast, down to my bare stomach. I shiver. When he lifts his hand away, my body feels suddenly cold. He takes a step backwards, shaking his head but not speaking. Those eyes, bright even in the darkening room, are filled with regret. He closes his eyes, runs his hand through his hair, and opens his mouth as if to speak. Instead, he changes his mind.

  Without a word he turns, grabs his coat off the hook on the door, and is gone, into the night. For a long time I sit there on my counter, half naked, my mind unable to process whatever it was that just happened.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For work the next morning, I spend half an hour choosing an outfit. I have to look good. For Julian, of course. Because I want him to see how unbearably hot I am, even though we both agreed that nothing should happen between us. But also because I’m sad about our agreement, and I need to feel pumped up and confident. Looking sexy always makes me more confident. I settle on a professional yet sassy suit, black with white pinstripes; both the j
acket and skirt are fitted, showing off my curves. I add a pair of black heels. Then I spend another half hour blow-drying my hair down so it's smooth and shiny and applying makeup, more than I usually wear. I finish off my look with a glossy sheen of lip gloss and a light spritz of the Banana Republic perfume I fell in love with last time I went there.

  At work, Michelle nods appreciatively and Darren gives me a low whistle. As the resident fashion expert, a compliment from Michelle means a lot. Still, though, when Julian arrives he whisks past us with a mere nod. He doesn't even look at me. Deflated, I throw myself into work. Although I tried to call that source who said she had information about Randolph Meyer, every time I only reached a prerecorded voice mail greeting. I didn't leave a message. I pull up the number I programmed into my phone, but decide to check the email again so I can reread exactly what she said. I sip my coffee—from the break room, so it's acidic and bitter—while I scan through my list of emails.

  I can't find it. I have a company email account, and since I'm pretty new here, there aren't hundreds of emails to scroll through yet. But it's not here. The email's gone. I check my spam folder and my trash as well, in the chance that I accidentally deleted it. Nothing.

  "Hey," I say to Michelle and Darren. "Have you ever had a problem with emails disappearing?"

  "Huh?" Darren spins his chair around and looks at me.

  "I had an email that's gone now," I explain. "It was in my in-box yesterday, I didn't delete it, and now it's gone."

  Darren shrugs. "Maybe you accidentally deleted it?"

  I shake my head. "It's not in my trash folder. And I'm sure I didn't delete it."

  He shrugs again and turns back to his desk. "I don't know," he says over his shoulder. "Was it important? Maybe call tech support?"

  Michelle takes my question as an opportunity to slide her chair over by mine for a chat. She completely ignores my question about email, focusing instead on issues she finds more important. "Ben," she says.

  "What about him?"

  "Have you talked to him since the gala?" She looks at me sternly. "Also, why are you so sexified today?"

  "Sexified? Is that even a word?"

  "I just used it, didn't I? And I think I heard it on America’s Next Top Model once. Anyway, you know what it means so it’s clearly a real word."

  I laugh. "I don't know why I'm so sexified, Michelle."

  "Bull. Shit."

  I roll my eyes. "Stop! OK. Maybe I am dressed up a little."

  "A little?"

  "A lot, then. Can you blame me?"

  She looks at me evenly for a few seconds, then shakes her head. "Julian. It's him, isn't it?"

  "How could it not be, Michelle? I went from almost being over him to having him as my boss in just a few days. That's a lot to process!"

  "You're right," she concedes. "That kind of pressure does call for looking your hottest."

  "He came over last night," I whisper, looking around to make sure nobody else, specifically Julian, is in earshot.

  "Who? Julian?" Michelle pulls even closer, her long dangly silver earrings shaking as she does. She picks up her to-go coffee cup delicately and sips as her eyes widen and meet mine in disbelief.

  I nod.

  "Shut. Up. What did he want? Do I even have to ask?"

  "He wanted to talk about the situation. About being my boss. To see if I was OK with it."

  She raises her eyebrows at me like I'm stupid. "Really? That's why he came over? You're not that naive, are you?"

  "I probably am," I say, shaking my head.

  "So, what happened? And if you say nothing I'll never believe a word you say ever again."

  I'm about to answer her when my cell phone rings. I glance at it and see it's from my contact, the one whose email disappeared. "Hold on," I say to Michelle. "I have to take this." I get up quickly and walk into the hallway as I answer. "Hello?"

  "Is this Lia?" It's a woman, but she's speaking quietly, and it's hard for me to glean much from her voice alone. I can barely make it out as it is.

  "Yes. Thanks for calling me back. Is this a good time to talk?"

  "I can meet you somewhere."

  "Sure. Where?"

  "Harold Washington Library. Outside the practice rooms. Half an hour." Then the phone goes dead.

  I rush back to my desk and grab my bag. "I'll be back," I breathlessly announce to Darren and Michelle. "Getting an interview."

  Then I hurry outside and hail a cab.

  The cold air whisks around me as I hurry to the door of the library. It's a huge red brick building, both beautiful and intimidating, guarded by blue-gray gargoyles perched atop its soaring roof. The inside is just as imposing as outside, and I have no idea where I'm going so I consult a map on the wall. It's a surprise to me that the library has music practice rooms, but I quickly locate them on the map, then take the elevator to the 8th floor. I have no idea who I'm looking for, so as I exit the elevator, I glance around me. There's a reference desk with a young man working behind it, and he looks up and waves at me as I enter. I wave casually and look away so he doesn't try to talk to me. At a table is a man who looks homeless, head down, sleeping. I don't think he's who I'm looking for, but I can't rule anything out, either.

  A rush of excitement fills me. In college, studying about journalism was all so abstract. Even working on the school newspaper and news site never held the element of intrigue that this does. Right now? I'm actually in a public place. In a big city. About to meet a real contact who has some information for me. I'm involved in this whole covert meeting, like in a movie or something. If I really think about it, it's big-deal information too, about a rich and powerful man. Nerves start to creep in, but I take a deep breath and steel myself. I can totally do this.

  My phone vibrates suddenly with a text, and I'm so startled I almost jump. I check it out. It's from my contact. Practice Room 5. I follow the signs to the hallway leading to the practice rooms, then find door 5. My mind starts to run away from me, wishing I'd told someone where I was going, so in case I don't come back the police will know where to look for clues. Or my dead body.

  Stop it, I tell myself with a small nervous laugh. You're being completely idiotic. It's not like a movie, where the pretty young heroine starts investigating a dangerous story, risking her life to do so. This isn’t an episode of Veronica Mars.

  Still, my heart is beating like a drum as I peek through the small window in the door.

  A woman sits on the piano bench, facing the piano and away from the door. She has a long black coat on, and her black hair is done in fine braids that have been swept up into a tight bun at the back of her head. She's not playing—just sitting there. Waiting for me. I knock quickly and lightly on the door.

  She doesn't answer and doesn't turn around, but she nods, and I take that as my cue to enter. I open the door and slip inside, closing the door again behind me. The practice room is small, just enough space for a worn brown Baldwin upright piano and bench, and a folding chair next to it. I sit on the chair, and now I can see the woman better. She's in her thirties I think—I'm horrible at guessing ages. She looks professional, wearing black pants and a patterned black and white silk blouse under her open puffy coat. Her brown skin is flawless, like she's wearing makeup, and there's a hint of pink on her cheeks. The expression on her face is the only thing that detracts from her otherwise perfect business-woman look. Fear is the best word I can think of to describe it.

  "Hi," I say, clearing my throat. Then I lower my voice, because everything about this situation makes me feel like I should be whispering. "I'm Lia."

  "I know." Her voice is also lowered. She stares into my eyes for a few seconds, like she's trying to read me or figure me out.

  "Thanks for meeting me." I smile at her.

  She doesn't smile back. "I shouldn't be here," she says, her voice calm but her eyes fearful. "This is dangerous. For both of us."

  The urge to laugh comes out of nowhere, and I have to fight it down. I feel like I'm
in some bad movie, where the naive young reporter finds herself in the center of a dangerous intrigue. Surely she's overreacting. I want to roll my eyes.

  "What can you tell me?" I ask. "Can I record this?"

  She shakes her head.

  "I'll just take notes, then," I say, reaching into my bag for my notebook and pen.

  "That's fine. I have some papers for you too." She fumbles around in her purse and pulls out a stapled stack of papers folded in half. She holds them in her lap, like she's not ready to give them to me just yet.

  "So tell me what you know," I say. This is harder than I thought it would be. She seems both so eager and reluctant at the same time, and I'm not sure what the best way is to proceed.

  "What I know," she responds, "is that Randolph Meyer has been using substantial amounts of money from the Hope International foundation and transferring it to his personal account."

  "How do you know that?" I cross one leg over the other, pen poised, ready to write down whatever she says. “And what constitutes a substantial amount of money?”

  Her expression is sharp and assessing. “Is over ten million dollars substantial enough for you?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I stutter. “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t asking…”

  She waves her hand in the air as if erasing the bad vibes as quickly as they popped up. “It’s fine,” she continues. "I used to be one of the bookkeepers at Hope International."

  Now we're getting somewhere!

  She takes a deep breath and explains the intricacies of some unusual transfers she had started to notice. I take detailed notes, because the accounting itself is difficult to understand, but I know if I write down enough I can go over it later with someone who understands finances better than I do.

  “For a few months,” she continues, “I let it go, figuring I was new and not wanting to ask too many questions. After a while, though, I started to worry. I didn't want someone to see it later and wonder why I never said anything about it before. Maybe it was a mistake. I wasn't sure. I was in on a Saturday, so most of the other employees weren't around. I wanted to talk to my manager, but she wasn't there. But I happened to notice the head of the Accounting department was in. I was feeling uncharacteristically brave, so I decided to just go talk to her about it." She looks down at her hands, and I notice her fingernails are bitten down to the quick. "That was when things got weird."