Unsuitable Men

by Forrester, Nia

“Okay, never mind,” she said, her voice listless. “You don’t have to.”

  Fuck. Now he was going to have to figure out whether there was anything work-related he could accomplish while in Atlanta.

  “When were you planning to come ho . . . back to New York?” he asked, hoping there was a way to stave off a trip that already felt inevitable. On the other hand, if she was going to be back in a couple nights, he could manage that. Piece of cake.

  “Now it looks like the weekend or sometime around there,” Tracy said.

  Another five days?!

  Brendan considered for a moment. Nothing to get all bent out of shape about though, right? He wasn’t some lovesick teenager. He could go ten days without seeing his girlfr . . . without seeing Tracy. In fact, wasn’t he just thinking that the break was what he needed? And he damn sure didn’t have to fly all the way to Atlanta just because she called him pouting about something she didn’t even want to tell him about.

  He sighed. “What time was that shuttle you took out there?”

  “Seven-thirty a.m.,” Tracy said, her voice animated once again.

  “I’m not taking a seven-thirty shuttle,” Brendan said. As if that was taking some kind of stand, he thought bitterly.

  “There’s a nine as well, I think. They leave every couple of hours,” Tracy said. “I’ll book you one. How’s sometime around noon sound?”

  “Fine,” Brendan said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No, not tomorrow. I need more time than that. Time to set up some meetings or something.”

  “Okay, so I’ll go online and find you something as soon as we hang up and email it to you,” Tracy said. “For Wednesday then?”

  All of a sudden she’d turned into a travel agent when it came to getting something she wanted. But how could he get mad when what she wanted was him?

  First night in Atlanta, and Brendan was looking forward to getting the best sleep he’d had in almost a week, Tracy’s butt pressed into his groin right where he liked it. In fact, he was almost asleep, and about to pull her into their usual spooning position when Tracy raised her head from where she’d been resting it on his abdomen and got up, heading for the bathroom, grabbing her dress as she went. Through half-shut eyes, he watched as she smoothed her hair, taking extraordinary care with it—considering it was already past ten p.m.—before pulling her dress over her head.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked sleepily.

  “I have to go home,” she said.

  “Curfew, huh?”

  “Brendan . . .” she sounded exasperated, and let her voice trail off into silence.

  “So what time do you want me tomorrow?”

  “Seven. We always have dinner at seven.”

  “So what’s the set up going to be? Why am I there?”

  She turned away from the mirror to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “What am I? You invite some guy over to your mother’s house, there’s bound to be questions, right?”

  “You’re a friend from New York who’s in town for business,” she said, as though it was obvious.

  Brendan sighed. He didn’t do families and parents. Never had. Particularly not under these ambiguous circumstances. But if he was being the “friend from New York” he wouldn’t be subjected to the same scrutiny as a “boyfriend from New York” so he felt pretty confident he could handle it, as much as he didn’t want to.

  “But why am I going, Tracy? I could meet you afterwa . . .”

  “No,” she said quickly, coming to sit next to him on the bed. “I need you there.”

  Need. She said she needed him there. If she said ‘want’ he might have tried to wriggle his way out of this ill-conceived plan of him having dinner among her family. He might have been able to conjure up some other obligation, like getting together with some local producers or something. But to have her say she needed him; that was difficult to ignore.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you,” she heaved a sigh, and leaned in to kiss him quickly on the lips before sliding her feet back into her shoes.

  Her voice still held an edge that had been there from the moment she met him at the airport. She was different here; more like the Tracy he used to think she was at her very core—pulled together in a way that almost severe; contained, and tightly-wound.

  When they got to his hotel room she didn’t spare a moment before undressing. On her face had been a look of almost solemn determination as she strained against him, relentless in the pursuit of release. Brendan knew she was working something out in their sex, like it brought her comfort somehow. When she reached her goal of sexual exhaustion, he put a hand under her chin, turning her head so she would look at him.

  “I’m right here” he said.

  And her face had softened a little bit, and he kissed her, because there was still something in her eyes he couldn’t read. Brendan didn’t know why he needed to provide it, just that she craved reassurance. After his kiss, as she looked at him, he felt her relief. A part of him was dancing just on the edge of panic, wondering why he had come all the way to Atlanta where he had little or no business, to be with this complicated and difficult woman who was very quickly—and scarily so— becoming an important part of his world.

  Afterward, Brendan was looking forward to sleeping with her next to him again but that wasn’t in the cards. It worried him that he cared so much, and that it wasn’t just about the sleep but about the fact that he liked having her there, in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest.

  Now fully dressed, Tracy leaned over the bed once again.

  “I love that you came,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, you came too. A couple times,” he said, taking refuge in humor as always.

  Tracy rolled her eyes. “So I’ll see you tomorrow evening?”

  “Yup,” he made a popping noise with his lips as he said the word.

  “Wear something nice,” Tracy said as she shut the door. “Not a tie or anything, but nice.”

  As soon as she was gone, sleep seemed out of the question, so Brendan swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his phone. There had to be some trouble he could get into in Atlanta.

  Tracy needn’t have been so worried about Brendan coming over. He couldn’t have been more perfect had she given him a script. He arrived at her mother’s house ten minutes early, bearing gifts, no less; bouquet of flowers for her mother and a bottle of wine for dinner. The sweater over his shirt was overdoing the choirboy act a little for her taste, but when he winked at her as she greeted him at the door, she knew he was hamming it up a little, making fun of her request that he “wear something nice.” He was always dressed well, he seemed to be saying, but if she needed him to take it up a notch, he could do that too.

  “Mrs. Emerson, you have a lovely home,” he said, as her mother led him into the living room.

  Tracy watched as her aunts and cousins took him in. He was arresting to the eye at first because he was tall, but when you looked closer, you saw that there was more. He had chiseled good looks framed by expertly shaped facial hair lining his jaw and ending at a neatly sculpted goatee. Tracy had watched him from bed on many New York mornings maintaining it with the precision of a surgeon, running his small, electric razor about the perimeter and then down under his chin and over his Adam’s apple. She liked kissing him there, right on that interesting and uniquely masculine bulge at his throat which seemed to be a particularly erogenous zone for him. Tracy shook her head, wondering why she was even thinking about that while standing in her mother’s showpiece living room about to have what was sure to be an uncomfortable meal.

  Looking up, Tracy saw as her cousin, Jocelyn’s eyes lit up at the sight of Brendan and for a moment regretted telling everyone that he was “just a friend from back in New York who’s in town for a little bit.” She even thought she saw Jocelyn stick out her chest a fraction of an inch further as they were introduc
ed. Although she was just behind them, Tracy could tell from her aunts’ and cousin’s reactions that Brendan was turning on his patented panty-dropping smile. Internally, she rolled her eyes.

  Her mother, she noticed, seemed to be somewhat affronted by Brendan’s charm. She called men like him “showy” considering their good looks and easy manner with people to be vulgar in some unspecified way. But Brendan was not that kind of man, Tracy thought, offended by her mother’s unspoken judgment; he was one of the most genuine people she knew, one of the kindest . . .

  “Is Mr. Emerson here?” Brendan asked. “I would love to meet him if . . .”

  “My husband is very ill, I’m sure Tracy may have told you,” her mother broke in. “He’s upstairs and has his meals in his room now. I’m afraid the only visitors he has now are close family and a physical therapist.”

  Tracy tensed, thinking about the uncomfortable fact of Malcolm in his bed upstairs, propped up by pillows, the left side of his face drooping grotesquely, his hand limp on a pillow at his side. She had followed her mother’s directive to spend at least a half hour with him each day since she’d been home, and that time seemed to drag out for an eternity. He could not speak, and only seemed to be vaguely aware that she was there at all. But still her mother insisted, and as always, despite being a thirty-year old woman, independent and assertive in her own life, she felt helpless to refuse anything her mother told her to do. Particularly when in her physical presence. But having Brendan there relaxed her somehow, and she didn’t quite understand why.

  “I did hear he was ill,” Brendan confirmed. “I was sorry to hear that.”

  But it was a lie. Tracy had only told him that she had to go home, and had carefully omitted why. She hardly talked about Malcolm with anyone, and certainly hadn’t gotten into it with Brendan.

  “Well thank you,” her mother responded. “We’re taking good care of him. Now everyone, if we could . . .” She gestured in the direction of the dining room.

  Tracy’s mother led the way, followed by her Aunts Rose and Kay. When Brendan hung back to let them go first, Jocelyn fell into step next to him. Tracy tried not to eavesdrop, but heard as Jocelyn asked him if he’d had a chance to see any of the city, and Brendan replying that he’d been out with friends the previous evening.

  What the hell? Out with friends? Tracy recalled only that she had left him in the hotel looking like he was moments away from slumber. And then she caught herself. Why shouldn’t he go out? He was in “Hot-lanta” and it hadn’t even been midnight when she left, primetime for a young, single man of means.

  “I could show you a little more of the city if you’re interested,” Jocelyn said. “Maybe later this evening?”

  “Brendan has business in town, Jocelyn,” Tracy said, her voice snippier than she intended. “He’s not here to hang out with you and your girlfriends.”

  “Oh there’d be no girlfriends,” Jocelyn said without missing a beat. “Just me.”

  Tracy glared at her. Jocelyn had been a thorn in her side since they were thirteen, and the sharp elbows that typified their relationship had not dulled with the passing of the years. While Tracy was of the cool, aloof beauty, Jocelyn had more obvious, openly sexual good looks, all hips and boobs and big, Southern hair. She wore—for Tracy’s taste—colors that were way too loud, and bright lipstick shades that only called attention to what was a full-lipped, almost lascivious mouth. But men seemed to like that, and Jocelyn had never wanted for admirers, even when in Tracy’s company. Because of it, they had grown up in a constant state of competition and one-upmanship.

  Now, Jocelyn almost aggressively claimed the seat beside Brendan’s at the table and Tracy sat near the end, next to her mother. At the other end, Aunt Rose had taken a seat as the eldest of the three sisters. She tended to want her recognition for that, much as her daughter Jocelyn seemed to crave attention for just about everything she did.

  The meal began with a prayer, offered solemnly, as only Southern Baptists can. Tracy kept her eyes open, wondering at her mother’s insistence on long prayers when she never set foot in a church unless someone had died or was getting married. Across the table, Jocelyn had a small smile on her face and Tracy wondered what she was up to other than plotting to get her claws into Brendan.

  “So Brendan, what’s your line of work?” Aunt Kay asked, as the food was passed around.

  Aunt Kay was the sweetest of the sisters and was probably just making conversation, but Tracy cursed her for bringing up Brendan’s profession. Her mother was sure to have a raised eyebrow at his answer.

  “I’m a music executive,” he responded.

  Tracy did not look up, but out of the corner of her eye saw that her mother did.

  “That must be very interesting work,” Jocelyn said. “So I assume you know Tracy’s best friend’s husband, K Smooth.”

  “Yes. Very well,” Brendan said. “Used to be his manager, in fact.”

  Next to her, Tracy could feel her mother visibly tense.

  “Really? Oh, so that’s how you and Tracy . . .”

  “Jocelyn, could we not interrogate him about his work and the music business?” Tracy interrupted. “Let’s talk about something where everyone can participate.”

  “And heaven knows, I have nothing to contribute in a conversation about the music young people are listening to these days,” her mother said, her voice dry.

  “I don’t know,” Brendan said amiably. “It’s not all club music and hip-hop anymore, Mrs. Emerson. We’re seeing a lot of new artists who have interesting similarities to a lot of names you’d recognize. Just last month, I signed a young man who, if your eyes were closed, you’d think was Otis Redding. Young kid out of Philadelphia. Big talent.”

  “Oh is that right?” Aunt Rose asked. “I always loved Otis Redding. What’s this new artist’s name? I may have to look for him.”

  “When we release his CD, I’d be happy to send you one,” Brendan offered. “His name is Sam Gaston. I guarantee you’re going to be hearing about him.”

  “Well I suppose even I know something about Otis Redding,” Tracy’s mother acknowledged, something reluctantly.

  Tracy smothered a smile and resolved to let Brendan look out for himself since clearly he was more than capable of doing so. Even with her mother sniffing for blood.

  After dinner, she played the role of the dutiful daughter, helping to clear the table and putting away leftovers while her aunts and Jocelyn entertained Brendan and stuffed him with Aunt Rose’s rum Bundt cake. From the kitchen, as she and her mother worked, Tracy could hear his voice and Jocelyn laughing a little too enthusiastically at something he said. She hurried with her task, going out to join them before her mother could ask her to do anything else.

  When she entered the living room, Jocelyn was sitting next to Brendan on the sofa—a little too close—and listening to something on his phone. Brendan looked up and smiled at her.

  “Could I have a minute?” she asked him, her voice perfectly even.

  “Sure.”

  Brendan stood and she walked him out to the foyer, turning to look up at him, arms crossed. They looked at each other for a moment until he shrugged, waiting for her to speak.

  “Don’t flirt with her,” she said. “I swear she has a personality disorder or something. If anything with a penis is within ten feet she turns into the Black Marilyn Monroe. Don’t encourage it.”

  Brendan looked amused. “Was that what I was doing?” he asked.

  “Were you?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well are you going out with her tonight?” Tracy challenged.

  Brendan closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  “Tracy . . .”

  “It would be well within your rights to go out with her if you find her attractive,” she babbled on. “And for some reason, which escapes me, lots of men seem to.”

  Brendan waited for her to finish then sighed. “You’re doing it again,” he said.
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  “Doing what?” Tracy snapped. She could feel her nerves beginning to fray.

  “Trippin’,” Brendan responded matter-of-factly.

  “Am I?” she asked. “You went out last night after I left, with Lord knows who, so maybe you want to hang out tonight too. And if Jocelyn, Ms. 38 double-DDs in there is offering to . . .”

  Brendan looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was within sight and wrenched open the front door, pulling her outside with him by her forearm. Once he’d shut the door again he pushed her back against it and caged her in with his arms.

  “Goddamn it, Tracy!” he said, losing his patience for the first time. “I’m not interested in your fucking cousin. While I’m in Atlanta, I’m not interested in anyone. Anyone but you. Is that what you want to hear?”

  Tracy looked up at him, strangely aroused by his anger, and perversely pleased that she was the only person she knew of who could—without fail—make Brendan lose his cool.

  Then she realized what he said.

  “Only while you’re in Atlanta?”

  “What?”

  “You said you were only interested in me. While you’re in Atlanta.”

  Brendan leaned in closer. His face was almost touching hers.

  “We’re going by your playbook, sweetheart. Are you telling me you want to change the rules? Because if you do, we can have that conversation.”

  His voice held the hint of a challenge. Tracy swallowed hard. Was he telling her that he was open to a conversation about being exclusive? And what if he was? Her heartbeat suddenly accelerated. She didn’t even know if that was what she wanted, did she? All she knew was that when she thought about him touching someone else, it made her want to throw a screaming shit-fit.

  “Thought so,” Brendan said, quietly, nodding. “So let’s just go back inside and finish the evening with a minimum of bullshit.”

  She pulled in her lower lip and her shoulders sagged, all of the fight gone out of her.

  “You’re something else, y’know that?” he said shaking his head, smiling.

  And then before she could respond he was kissing her, an open-mouthed, full-on, usually reserved-for-love-making type of kiss, his hand spanning her neck, making her feel tiny. Then he replaced his hand with his lips and pressed himself against her. She could feel the beginnings of his arousal against her stomach.