Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  I let out a gasp as he enters me with two fingers. It wasn’t that I wasn’t expecting what was next; it’s how tight I am against them. How unrelenting he is. How he hits all the right spots and ventures deep and then pulls back against my velvety skin, making me labor against him even more.

  He gives a soft laugh, and I’m yearning for him, but he moves just out of reach. Concentrating on me, and I’m helpless to do a thing about it.

  It’s been far too long.

  He’s far too adept.

  I’m too far out on the horizon to come back to shore, and then—

  My vision goes black and I can’t stifle a moan. He gets even harder at the sound—it feels like he’s about to burst against me—and I can’t hold on any longer.

  I’m gone.

  Shocks of pleasure—sweet relief—months’ worth of pent-up tension suddenly release into the muggy atmosphere. Condensation from the heat we emanate mists over the leather seats.

  He grunts too, a low, strained grumble in my ear, and I’m suddenly panicky—scrambling to get to him—to attend to him the way he’s just—when he wraps his arm around me and holds me to him.

  Quaking with an embarrassed laughter. Almost snorting with it.

  “What?” I dig my fingers into his back, totally freaked.

  “That escalated quickly.” He leans back, shirt sticking to him, and glances down, a smirk on his face. “Kind of embarrassing, but it’s been a while.” He meets my gaze, and I look down at his lap.

  My work is done apparently.

  We both lose it with laughter, and I’m so relieved I didn’t do anything weird and he’s the one who’s more out of practice than I am.

  I pull him to me once again, but it’s now stifling in this car. I’m dying to crack a window, the smell of sex thick in the air, but I also want to bask in the moment. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had one like it, and I haven’t been here or felt this relaxed since—I don’t even want to think about that.

  * * *

  The Metro’s as quiet as I’ve seen it as I work my way home. Everything takes on a muted gray sheen as we pass in and out of shadows, the light spilling in from the windows. A few rows up, a cluster of teens is strewn across the seats; toward the front, an elderly black gentleman in a matching tweed hat and jacket snores over the sounds of the night; and nearest me, a mom-and-dad-looking couple who have melted together at the head whisper to each other as the stops go by.

  I stretch out in my seat, a hint of sweat and the smell of Cliff’s hair gel still on my skin. It elicits a smile, but it also awakens a pang of guilt that I allowed this night to happen at all. Cliff is nice enough, and our bodies certainly seem to enjoy each other, but I know I don’t want this to turn into anything.

  What does that make me?

  I let my vision blur as I ponder that. Following the grooves in the tunnel walls, smooth and straight for the most part, but every here and there, a dip. A peak.

  No word from Henry tonight, and I wonder what it is he does in his free time. I guess I’ll be finding that out for Ansley pretty soon.

  The next morning, she’s video-chatting me, and she’s practically breathing into a paper bag.

  “Just look at the notes I gave you.”

  “But I don’t know anything about music festivals. Can you imagine me at one of those things? I’d probably get murdered!”

  I snort. “I hear you. But try to hold on to that. Ask him questions. What’s he gone to? Which festival has been his favorite?”

  She nods, and it seems as though this is calming her.

  “And if he’s way out in left field or you yourself have no idea what the hell he’s talking about, just redirect. What kind of music do you like?”

  She winces. “Death metal?”

  “You are a complex individual. That’ll be great conversational fuel! Just be yourself. And probably try not to move too much. Oh!” I snap my fingers. “And remember—I’m only a text away.”

  I’m feeling highly satisfied with my advice and with myself for the entirety of the afternoon. I’m able to brush up on a few other clients’ matches, fold that pile of clean laundry that’s been judging me all week, and even start reading the new Stephen Colbert book. I’m elbow deep in a bag of BOOMCHICKAPOP when an incessant knock on my door yanks me from my blissful quietude at 5 p.m.

  I’m still holding the popcorn as I creep toward the peephole to find a distorted, very sad-looking Ansley staring back at me on the other side of the door.

  Without a word, I let her in. Her frilly romper is a darker shade of blue than it is when it’s not sopping wet, and it’s clinging to her. Her hair is plastered against her face and neck. She still looks fabulous.

  She takes a few timid steps in, and I watch the trail of water droplets that follow her as she does so. She drips little puddles onto the tile of the entryway, and she just stands there, watching it, as though she’s too traumatized to do anything else.

  “So…how’d it go?”

  * * *

  Gordon’s shoving handfuls of popcorn into his face as I relay Ansley’s story. He doesn’t blink for what seems like two whole minutes after I tell him that, while she had said Kevin was very nice—very down to earth in an Ed Sheeran kind of way—she needed me to cut it off with him.

  “I tried to talk her out of it.” I talk with my hands. “It sounds like he was sweet enough about the whole—paddle boat incident—but she’s just too humiliated.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “We’ve decided to change our approach slightly. I don’t want her to discount Henry, so I think I just need to stave him off for a bit. Hold her hand a little more when she actually does meet him. I’ll figure out what that’s going to look like,” I say.

  He crinkles the bag shut. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t roll in until three thirty, you shifty little minx you.”

  I quirk an eyebrow at him. Shake my head.

  “Hello, tell me everything!”

  Chapter 11

  When Monday rears its head, I’m thankful for the distraction of dayjobbery, as I spent the better part of the evening fielding messages from Kevin about why Ansley can’t go out with him again.

  “Why don’t you just ghost him?” Gordon wants to know.

  “Because I’m not some douche bag—and Ansley isn’t either. And the minute she starts getting a reputation for leaving someone high and dry like that, the harder it will become to place her.”

  “Place her?” He screws up his face.

  “You know what I mean. But there’s no reason not to be a civilized human being, interested or not interested.”

  “Sounds to me like she left him low and wet at the bottom of the Tidal Basin, though…” He pauses, expectant for the laughter that I refuse to give him. I just keep turning out the historical romances in the new spring display.

  “Plus…” He makes a face and slips into the naggy mimicky voice he always defaults to when mocking me. “‘Always get the last word.’”

  “It’s like why do you even have to ask?” I give him a wink.

  It’s not until just after lunchtime that I’m distracted from anything other than inventory.

  But when the phone dings, I’m not sure whom to expect. Maybe even another match for Ans?

  I hop down off the ladder to check.

  Henry.

  Him: Was that just you?

  I scrunch my face.

  Me: Misfire?

  Him: No no no, I think we might have talked on the phone just now…

  When I don’t answer—did he have a few cocktails over lunch?—he continues.

  Him: Someone from The D.C. Daily just called my office, trying to nail down the details of the great tomato caper from the other day. Someone named Ansley. LOL. Was that you?

  I freeze.

  This is stickier than I thought.

  That’s what she said.

  Toggle dots.

  Him: I work for Tim Byrd.

/>   Panic buzzes in my fingertips. I text Ans.

  Me: Hey—did you just talk to a guy named Henry Hughes on the phone?

  There’s no answer.

  What kind of a monster is she? Is she actually working?

  I can’t respond to Henry until I hear from her, and therefore I’m in this weird messaging limbo, but oh well. Maybe Henry needs to cool his jets anyway.

  I try to get my mind off it by tackling a few items from my list for the upcoming Sean Riker event. Although he claims to have total faith in me, Mr. Van de Kamp’s been super stressed about it, and Gordon and I have been up to our eyeballs (and patches) in preparations. So I double-check with the caterer, make sure Gordon ordered more of his stupid book, and get the signs up out front.

  We are good to go!

  I e-mail the boss man, just to give him some extra reassurance.

  When I still haven’t heard from Ansley, the silence on my end after Henry’s last message is too weird, so I offer a playful Maybe to him, and before I know it, half the afternoon is lost. We’re back and forth for the next two hours. He’s talking “off the record,” he says. He tells me I have a sexy voice, and although I know he’s referring to Ansley’s voice—she’s the one he heard today on the phone—even seeing a word as sexually tame as sexy and knowing it’s Henry saying it kicks up a certain heat in me.

  I guess, despite getting mine the other night, thanks to a certain lobbyist, I’m feeling the itch again. It’s like instead of that quelling me for a while, it opened a floodgate.

  Something did.

  Right now, it’s this flirty banter.

  I’m teasing him about Republican things, and he’s letting me have it right back. For every insult I lob over, he tosses me an even better one in return.

  Yes, Ansley’s more middle of the road than this, so I’d probably better tone it down, but there’s just something so…surprising—refreshing—about getting to know Henry that I’m finding myself wanting to push it, to see what I can get him to say.

  I don’t know if I have this kind of banter with Cliff, but it doesn’t matter. He has those hands.

  My mind is wandering again to the backseat of the car, when Henry writes again:

  You’re having quite an effect on me over here…

  I read the message a couple of times, and swallow.

  The simple words, the simple ellipsis he adds to the end of them, are all probably Innocent—innocuous—but they ignite me. I don’t know if I just have sex on the brain, or what. But the thought that Henry could be “over there,” wherever that is—work?—getting hot and bothered, a stir under his desk perhaps, because of this conversation—makes me unable to think of anything else as I sit at mine.

  This is such bad timing, so not appropriate—and that seems to be doing it for me even more.

  What in the hell is wrong with me?

  Still, I press on.

  Me: What does that mean? ☺

  And without pause:

  Him: It means thank you for the stimulating conversation.☺

  I close my eyes tight and let that sink in.

  Ffffff—

  I’ve either got to hit up Cliff or take care of this myself because my sex deprivation is starting to interfere with work. Both forms of it!

  Nervous laughter takes over, and I choke it back with a cough.

  Henry: So there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about your profile. “Accident prone”?

  I cackle even harder now, but I’m thankful for the redirect.

  And then:

  Him: When can I see you? And when can we get off this stupid app and just text?

  I see Ansley’s mascara-smeared face from the other night, and the heat I’ve built up is immediately replaced with panic. She’s not going to be able to pick up from here. I need to change my approach.

  Me: Whoa whoa whoa! I don’t give out my number so easily and I *definitely* don’t make plans to see the guy until I know I actually like him—so, sorry, Charlie.

  Him: Who’s Charlie? I’m Henry. ☺

  I cackle at the lame joke. I can’t help it.

  Me: And with regard to my profile, I’m glad you asked, actually. Because, yes. I am kind of accident prone. And I need a guy who can handle that.

  I lean back in the desk chair and glance up at the fluorescent lights.

  I know—honesty!

  Sort of?

  Me: You know that girl who’s banned from the Smithsonian?

  Him: No. Way.

  Me: Guilty!

  * * *

  I’m impressed by how well Henry took my answers about why I can’t see him for a week—I don’t meet people until I’ve established a rapport with them. A lot of them make a deal about that one. I’m not looking for a pen pal.

  And I feel them. I really do.

  But in this line of work, there’s no way I can establish a connection with a person without messaging for at least a few days. If it moves straight to texting and phone calls, we’re sunk because I don’t want to get into the business of switching phones, and—hello—I can’t fake someone’s voice!

  So I always appreciate those who aren’t in a crazy hurry—and I take them to also not be the ones with the kind of emotional baggage that makes them think waiting a week to meet means their match is an automatic catfish.

  Or a black widow murderer.

  Or over ninety-eight pounds or something.

  “How’s your recovery coming?” I ask Ansley when she finally gets back to me about the call with Henry.

  “It’s—I don’t know if a week is long enough.” Her voice is thick.

  “This is a good one. I promise. He comes from a good family—”

  I’m about to say more, but I don’t really want to go there. I’ve kept Ansley’s questions about how Henry and I know each other to a minimum, but I’m afraid with all this sex on my mind lately, I’m going to let it slip and she’s really going to hate me for being a liar.

  Redirect.

  “Look, you’re a pretty organized girl, right? Let’s just get ourselves a plan. We’ll figure it out and you won’t have to worry one iota about meeting him. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely. How was he on the phone? I assume that really was you who called him then?”

  “It was.” There’s a smile in her tone. “And he was…very helpful.”

  * * *

  When I get to Graham and Isla’s on Friday, they’re beaming like newlyweds.

  “Thank you so so so much for doing this.” Graham wheels their luggage out front and plants a big wet one on my cheek.

  “Of course! And look what I brought!”

  “More books?” Olivia shouts from the living room.

  “More books!” I hand Ella the bag and she starts digging through it. In ten seconds flat, she’s in the center of a pile of chapter books, nail polish bottles, and my PJ set smack dab in the middle of the foyer.

  “Did you bring wine? You’re gonna need it!” Isla’s radiant in high-waisted cropped jeans and a striped tee.

  “We’re going to have a full-on slumber party weekend. It’ll be a great time.” I nudge them both toward the door.

  “Do we have to go to bed at seven thirty?” Ella juts out that fat bottom lip of hers, her tone whiny.

  “That’s up to Auntie B.” Isla squats down to her and smooches her good-bye.

  “Seven thirty?” I scrunch my face. “The pizza and boys won’t even be here yet!”

  Both girls’ eyes go giant.

  “Pizza!” Livvy’s jumping up and down.

  “Boys?” Graham lifts an eyebrow, and I wink.

  “Juuuuuust joshing.”

  Over the next two hours, they’ve already braided my hair—and I use that term loosely—at various intervals all over my head. I look like I’m channeling my inner Coolio, another blast-from-the-past Cliff brought up during drinks the other night. Between the eye patch and the new hairstyle, I’m a
sight to behold, but the girls are nonstop giggles and so am I. It’s on to a nail salon party while we await the big ol’ meaty pizza I ordered, and who knows where we’ll go from there. Frozen? Ratatouille?

  We’re halfway done with our manicures—I smoothed the sweetest little lilac color over Ella’s teensy nails and now it’s Livvy’s turn. I’m impressed by her ability to stay within the lines, or on my fingers, as it were. It’s on the gloopy side, but she’s having the time of her life. So is Ella, even if she’s turning my toes into a red mess of death.

  The doorbell rings, and they begin a steady chant “pizza pizza” in the background. I’m tripping over the bottoms of my Hello Kitty pajama pants and trying not to get nail polish everywhere as I make my way to the door.

  This poor delivery boy isn’t going to know what hit him, and I decide I’m totally going to be as goofy as possible to crack them up even more. My material is killing with the three-to-five-year-old crowd tonight, so I might as well make the most of it.

  I strike a pose at the door and throw it open. “Why helloooooooo—” Do a slow turn as I face not the delivery boy.

  But Henry.

  “Holy—” is all he can eke out apparently. He yanks back, shock similar to what I’m feeling spreading over his whole face, an exclamation point of surprise.

  “Hey, you’re not the pizza man!” Ella barks up at him.

  “No, I am not.” He gives way to raucous laughter as he greets his nieces and simultaneously enjoys my humiliation.

  I mean, probably.

  “So what are we up to, ladies? Pirates of the Caribbean House of Horrors?”

  “Never gets old,” I say, and I swipe at his arm.

  The knot in his bicep is not lost on me.

  “We’re having a girls’ weekend while Mom and Dad are off to the big city. Right, ladies?”

  They cheer.

  “And sadly, we aren’t playing dress-up, but you’ve already seen the patch so har har.”