“Where were you?” she repeats.
“Malibu.”
“All day?”
“All afternoon.”
For a second she looks confused. Then envious. “How was it?”
“It was...relaxing.”
“How did you get there?”
“I rented a car. How was the conference?”
She somehow manages to look jealous as she watches me force a comb through my knotted hair. “Fine.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“You have a tan.”
“I’ve been told I need one. Ready to eat?”
“Yes. I’m famished.”
“Did you run out of Pop Rocks?”
Susan may be a thirty-four-year-old neurosurgeon, but she still kicks me in the shin hard enough to make me yelp. “I hate you so much,” I groan, limping to the elevator.
“Let that be a lesson to you.” The words aren’t particularly ominous, however, muffled as they are by a yawn she just barely manages to cover.
“Why don’t you sleep in tomorrow?” I suggest as we reach the lobby and check out our dining options. “Blow off the early lectures. We can go to the beach, do some sightseeing.”
“I’m not going to miss a presentation on alien sleep apnea to go look at the ocean, Caitlin. I’ve seen it before. Twice.”
Okay, that’s not exactly what she says, but I stop listening when she starts talking about hearts. “Fine, we’ll skip the ocean. We’ll go shopping. You can get something for Dorrie.”
Susan glances up from the phone that has mysteriously materialized in her palm, a million messages scrolling across the screen. No doubt her hospital spies, keeping her in the loop. “The last thing Dorrie needs is another tacky T-shirt.”
“Would you put that thing away?” I ask, swatting at the phone. “It’s Saturday night and we’re in LA. Let’s do something fun.”
“You know what would be fun?” She holds up her phone. “Norman Klein not being a fuckwit and putting shunts in backward.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
“Can we get this food to go? I need to get back to the room.”
“No. Sus—”
But she’s typing on her phone, a million miles away.
* * *
Susan’s a predictable date: she eats, she drinks, she texts, she sleeps. By nine thirty we’re back in our rooms. I climb into the shower, the water just barely lukewarm, and work conditioner into my hair until it’s finally free of tangles. I step out and towel off, changing into a tank top and panties and lying on top of the covers as I read another one of the books I bought at the beginning of my once-interminable vacation. I’m twelve pages in when my cell phone rings.
I fish it out of my bag before the caller hangs up, biting my lip when I see Eli’s name. It’s nine thirty in LA, which makes it eleven thirty in Chicago. The White Sox are wrapping up their final series in town before heading out on a ten-game road trip, so he’s probably just getting home, buzzed and happy.
“Hey,” I say, settling back against the pillows.
“Hey yourself. How’s LA?”
The sound of his voice makes my toes curl into the white comforter. “It’s nice.”
“Nice as in, He’s a nice guy, I’m never going to fuck him, or nice as in, I like it?”
“I like it.”
“Really? It’s not too hot?”
“It’s nice.”
“What about the people? Aren’t they fake? Bleached teeth, hair and assholes?”
I burst out laughing. “I didn’t check out any assholes, but affirmative on the teeth and hair.”
He laughs, too. “What’d you do today? Work?”
“Not really. I checked out the new office, then I went to Malibu. Did you go to the game tonight?”
“Yeah, they won. I bet Kent fifty bucks they would, so I’m pretty flush right now.”
“Buy yourself something nice.”
“Well, I’ve had my eye on this can of sealant...”
I laugh. “You’re a geek. What else did you do today?”
“Ah, helped out Kent at his place. Worked on his roof. Had some drinks. Went to the ball game. Came home.”
“Sounds productive.”
“It’s the weekend. It doesn’t have to be productive.”
“If you say so.”
“Speaking of which...”
“What?”
“It’s Saturday night.”
“I know.”
“And I’m a young, wealthy, staggeringly handsome man. I should be out picking up women, getting laid.”
“Tell them how modest you are.”
“Lucky for you, I’ve already taken off my pants and I’m too lazy to put them back on, so I’m staying in.”
“I certainly feel lucky.”
His voice deepens a notch. “But I still need to get laid.”
“You—”
“Tell me what you’re wearing.”
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh that erupts. “Eli, don’t be cheesy.”
“I’m not. Tell me.”
I glance down at myself. “I’m wearing a white tank top and a pair of blue panties.”
“A bra?”
“No.”
I hear his breathing roughen and picture him shifting his position on the couch, staring at the blank television screen, stroking his cock through his boxers. “Do you wish you were here?” he asks. “In bed with me?”
My mental picture transfers Eli to his king-size bed, sprawled across the middle of the mattress, legs slightly parted, one hand cupping himself, the other holding the phone to his ear as he stares at the ceiling, imagining me. “No,” I say softly.
A pause. “No?”
“I wish you were here.” It’s more true than he could know. Because in less than a month I’ll be here, and he’ll be there, and it won’t be for three days, it will be permanent.
“Pretend I am.”
I take a deep breath and wet my lips. I know what he wants, but I’ve never done this before. It’s hard enough to concentrate during oral sex—phone sex is a challenge I’ve never tackled. “What do you want me to do?”
“Take your top off. Touch yourself. You know what I’d do if I had your tits in front of me.”
I climb out of bed and double-check that the adjoining door is locked, then do the same at the door to the hall, just in case. I tug my shirt over my head before lying back down, using my left hand to cup my breast, testing its weight, running my fingers over my beaded nipple.
“Are you doing it?”
“Yes. What are you doing?”
“Picturing it.”
Just the sound of his voice, the promise there, makes me wet. “Have you done this a lot?”
“Once or twice. You?”
“Never.”
“Ah.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Trouble concentrating?”
I blush a bit, even though there’s no way for him to see. “That. And the fact that I rarely leave town so it’s not necessary.”
A soft laugh. “Touch yourself over your panties.”
I lower my hand as instructed, feeling the damp heat through the thin cotton fabric. “Are you doing the same?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Are you close?”
Another laugh, this one louder. “This won’t be over for a while, Caitlin. Get comfortable.”
My heart picks up the pace and a throb of arousal beats between my legs. I use a finger to circle my clit, bending one leg to open myself.
“Are you doing it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you getting wet?”
“Yes
. Are you hard?”
“I was hard as soon as you picked up.”
I smile to myself. “Good.”
“Fuck,” he groans. “I need to see you. Does your phone have a camera?”
“Eli!”
“What? Take a picture of your tits and send it to me. You don’t have to show your face—I’ll know it’s you.” There’s a beat, then he adds, “And I’ll know if it’s not,” as a warning.
“I’m not sexting you,” I hiss, even as I feel myself grow wetter at the thought of a permanent image of Eli’s naked body stored on my phone, in my purse, my pocket.
“Wait, what year is this?” he says suddenly. “You have your laptop, don’t you?”
I eyeball it warily, resting on top of the desk, screen dark. “So?”
“Do you have some sort of video chat thing installed? Skype?”
“Eli...” I can hear him moving around now. I know he’s grabbing his laptop, booting it up, recognizing the plea in my protests.
“What’s your screen name?”
I cover my eyes, willing myself to be strong enough not to do this. I trust Eli, but if this got out anyhow, anywhere, I would be ruined. Too ashamed to show my face, knowing that everyone had seen, well, everything.
“It’s too risky,” I whisper, even as I retrieve the laptop and bring it to the bed, covering myself with a pillow as I set it up, just in case something goes awry and this gets broadcast to the whole world.
“It’s just you and me,” Eli promises. “I’m not going to record it. I’m not going to take a picture. I won’t tell anybody. What’s your screen name?”
I swallow and tell him, launching the program on my laptop. I hear clicking on his end, then my screen lights up with an incoming call.
“Pick up,” he orders.
My cursor hovers over the jiggling green phone icon for a long moment before I select it. The screen flickers, then Eli comes into view, face shadowed on one side, lit on the other by the lamp on the nightstand. He smiles. “There you are.” Then he frowns. “What have you got on?”
I shake off my concerns and look down. “It’s a pillow.”
“What the hell for?”
“Just in case.” He’s reclining against his leather headboard, shirtless, broad chest taking up most of the screen. “Turn on another light,” I order. “I can’t see enough.”
“Same here,” he says sternly.
I set the computer down and roll to the other side of the bed to switch on the second lamp, then return. “Better?”
“Lose the pillow. Now.”
I drag in a breath and move the pillow, trying not to notice the tiny insert of myself on the screen, breasts bared to Eli’s hot gaze.
“Show me the rest,” he says, voice low.
I show him my panties, inordinately grateful for the flimsy barrier. “I told you they were blue.”
“Bend your legs,” he orders. “Put a pillow between your feet, and sit the computer on it so I can see everything.”
My breath catches. “Eli.”
“Please.”
That’s the word that does it. Equal parts command and plea, the final notes a painful rasp. I position the computer as instructed. From this distance I’m able to make out the sight of pale thighs split by a swath of blue fabric, my breasts and face visible just beyond.
Eli doesn’t move the computer from his lap so I can’t see his cock, but his right hand is out of sight, biceps flexing rhythmically as he strokes himself. I should complain but I don’t; my imagination is filling in the blanks just fine. “Pinch your nipples,” he says, voice strained.
I don’t think about it, just trail both hands over my inner thighs, up the flat plane of my stomach, nails circling my breasts before gently plucking my nipples between thumb and forefinger.
“Harder,” he grunts. “Like I’d do it.”
I press my breasts together and pinch harder, growing so wet my legs start to tremble.
“Pull your panties to the side. Let me see you.”
One hand continues to play with my breasts as the other follows the new edict. I hook one finger beneath the wet gusset of my panties and pull it aside, exposing my slick center to Eli’s penetrating stare.
“Jesus,” he groans. “Put it closer to the camera.”
“Forget it.” But the words are hard to get out. Instead I trail a finger from my other hand right through my wet slit, stopping to circle my clit.
“Caitlin.”
“Eli.” But this time it’s not a halfhearted protest, it’s a very desperate request.
“Panties off.”
He senses my hesitation because the screen bounces around as he takes off his boxers and shows me his straining erection. Biology gives him the advantage here: he can get the head of his cock very close to the camera, letting me see the moisture beading at the tip before he collects it with his thumb and massages it into his shaft.
“Your turn,” he whispers.
I lift my hips and work the panties down my legs, then resume the position, thighs splayed wide, pussy entirely exposed and vulnerable.
“Put a pillow under your hips. Do you have another light?”
I prop up my hips with a pillow, but balk at the light. “I’m not shining a light...down there.”
He smiles. “Worth a shot. Touch yourself again.”
I continue my earlier ministrations, heeding some of Eli’s orders, ignoring others. It’s crude and hot and explicit, and I can’t believe how much it’s turning me on. When he tells me to lift my hips so my pussy’s level with the camera set in the top of the monitor and hold my lips open, my legs shake so hard I can only do it for a few seconds.
“Push a finger in,” he orders, voice hoarse. His arm jerks violently, and I know he’s close.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I slip two fingers inside my slick channel. I’ve never done this for Eli before; he’s never asked for it, and even with two thousand miles between us, I feel so dangerously vulnerable I almost refuse. But the need to come is so great it overrides any good sense. The feel of my stroking fingers, the sound of Eli’s shuddering breaths, my stomach muscles tensing at the promise of overwhelming pleasure...it’s almost too much.
I don’t wait for the next order, using two fingers from my other hand to massage my slippery clit, rubbing it harder and harder in time to Eli’s guttural chant of “Yeah, yeah, fuck, yeah.” I come with a long, sobbing moan, hips pumping into my own hand as I try to watch Eli’s reaction on the screen through slitted eyes. His head flops back and the camera jerks for a second, then I hear his low groan as he comes, the sound as familiar as my own reflection. He uses his briefs to clean his hand and shakes his head as though to clear it, eyes refocusing on the screen as he straightens.
With the arousal temporarily sated, I feel terribly bare and cover my chest with a corner of the blanket, snatching up the computer so it sits on my stomach. “Don’t be shy,” Eli mumbles. If I was there I’d rest my hand on his chest so I could feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, proof positive he’s as shaken as I am.
I stare past the screen at the door separating my room from Susan’s, wondering if she’d heard anything. Common sense rears its smug, ugly head and points out the absolute foolishness of what I’ve just done, spreading my legs on camera, giving a man I’ve known a few weeks a lifetime of ammunition if he chose to use it.
But despite what my brain is trying to tell me, common sense has no role in these proceedings. Common sense has been ejected from the game, replaced by dreadful, debilitating emotion. Naked pictures on the internet will be replaced by someone else’s naked pictures in twenty minutes, but these feelings that are welling up inside me? I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know how to make them stop or slow down. I’ve never even had phone sex—t
here’s no way I can do a long-distance relationship. And in a few short weeks, that’s all we’ll have between us. Distance.
“Caitlin.” Eli’s sharp voice brings me back. “What are you doing right now?”
“You can see what I’m doing.”
“What’s going on in that head? Don’t overanalyze.” Sometimes it drives me nuts that he can read me like this, but other times, like now, it’s nice not to have to voice my thoughts, knowing he understands, even if he doesn’t like it.
“I can’t help it.”
“You can.”
I sigh and look away, eyes landing on my flip-flops, sand clinging to the soles. The girl who drove to Malibu would do this. The girl who didn’t have a career and a reputation to uphold. The girl who had no cares. That girl could do this. This one...probably shouldn’t have. But she did. I try to explain it to Eli, a jumbled, nonsensical rambling about tangled hair and suntans.
“I like that girl,” he replies when I’ve finished.
“That’s not who I am.”
“It is. I also like the hell-on-heels lawyer that storms into the place every day like she’s going to take it over. I like the woman who sits next to me to watch a baseball game, and the one who hangs out on the bleachers when I’m coaching softball. I like the woman who carried my groceries and sanded the crown molding, and the one who wore that gorgeous fucking dress and turned every head when we walked into Mache 42.”
“You make me sound like I’m schizophrenic.”
“Or human. A person who’s, God forbid, three-dimensional.” He covers his mouth like he’s just blasphemed, and his plan works, because I smile.
“Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“I like you, Caitlin. I like all the women living in your head. And I’m not going to fuck you over. You don’t have to hide from me. I know you’re messed up. You’re still hot.”
“Jesus, Eli. I think you might be more messed up than me.”
He laughs. “Maybe. You busy tomorrow night?”
Chapter Sixteen
I spend Sunday looking at a week’s worth of apartments in a single day. Prior to coming out here Cole gave me the name of his Realtor, Laurie, and she set up a series of viewings all over the city. There are high-rises in the downtown core, bungalows by the beach, larger units a little farther out and family homes on sprawling lots. I’d told her ahead of time that I wanted something similar to what I already had: spacious, new, high and close to the office. But when we tour apartments just like mine, they don’t feel right. They feel cold and aloof, and no amount of imported Italian marble makes a difference.
In Her Defense Page 19