Contractual

by Alice Montalvo-Tribue

“Good. I’m glad you came.”

  “Me, too.” I smile. “Thank you for asking me and for the dress and everything else that came along with it.” I mentally kick myself for rambling on.

  “You’re welcome.” His eyes are on mine. The hues of green and brown draw me in, and the warmth radiating from them does me in, making me feel desired, making me feel safe. “You really are beautiful. I’ve had to fight the urge to punch quite a few men tonight for staring at you.”

  “What?” I laugh at the ridiculousness of his statement. “You’re crazy. No one has been looking at me.”

  “They have.” He gives the entire expanse of the room a once-over before focusing his gaze back on me. “They have, but I love that you don’t notice it, that you’re not so self-centered that you would recognize when all eyes are on you.”

  “Unwanted attention makes me uncomfortable.”

  “It shouldn’t.” He rubs his temple against mine, a simple sign of affection that means more to me than he could ever understand.

  The song comes to an end, and the connection is lost. He pulls back with a quick smile and tugs my hand, leading me in the direction of the table.

  “Wait, I need to use the restroom.” I stop him. “I’ll meet you back at the table.”

  “All right,” he agrees and releases my hand.

  I find the bathroom easily enough, handling my business quickly with a swift glance in the mirror to make sure my hair and make-up have kept up. The bathroom door opens and in walks Victoria, instantly putting me on alert.

  “Sage.” She stops, looking at me through the reflection in the mirror, and I have no doubt that she’s been looking for this opportunity to be alone with me all night.

  “Hi, Victoria.”

  “You told him your real name.” Her arms cross over her chest. Her stance is one of authority; she’s silently reminding me who it is that I work for.

  “No, I didn’t. I hadn’t heard him come into the room one night, and he overheard a phone conversation. I didn’t mean for him to find out. It wasn’t my intention.”

  Her face softens ever so slightly. “I see.”

  She continues, “Are you okay with Jackson? If you’re ever uncomfortable, I can switch you to a new client. I told you that from the start. I know that he can be a bit much.”

  “No.” I shake my head answering quickly, too quickly, confirming her suspicions.

  “I see how you look at him. You have to remember that this is a job, Sage. I chose you for Jackson because I thought you would be good for him, and I’m glad that I was right, but he’s never going to give you anything more.” Her tone is gentle, but her words are firm, and I realize that she’s very good at what she does. So good at manipulating people so they see things her way. “You have to prepare yourself, guard your heart, for a time when he will no longer be a part of your life because Sage, he will walk away.” She drags out the last part annunciating every word for added effect, and I hate her right now—hate her for her relationship with Jackson, for saying these things to me, hate her because deep down, I know that she’s right.

  I do my very best to mask the pain that I’m feeling. I smile brightly and nod my head. “I know.”

  “Good.” She returns my smile, and I can tell it’s as fake as mine is. “I’ll leave you to it then. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  She walks away, taking a piece of my confidence with her. He will walk away—maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually, he will. And if he doesn’t, I will. It’s not as if I’m planning to make a career of being Jackson’s personal hooker. I take one last look in the mirror, resigning myself to the cold, hard truth and rejoin the benefit before Jackson begins to wonder where I am.

  ***

  “I’d like to go home,” I tell Jackson when I notice that we’re heading in the opposite direction of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “You’re not going home; you’re coming home with me.” It’s a definitive statement, yet I still feel the need to dispute.

  “I’d rather go to my home.”

  He leans into me, getting right in my face so that there will be no room for misinterpretation. “No.”

  My hands go to his chest and give a slight shove, needing to get some distance. “Will you quit bossing me around as if you own me? You do not own me, Jackson.”

  “What is all this about, Sage?” His tone is dark, ominous, and his patience with me is slipping. I feel guilty because, Cecily and Victoria aside, I had a great time tonight, and he went out of his way to give me that.

  I take a cleansing breath and focus my attention to the night sky and the illuminated city passing me by. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I’ll go home with you. I was just a little tired is all.”

  He doesn’t speak, but I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, determining whether my statement holds truth or not. I keep my eyes fixated out the window, not wanting for him to see what’s written all over my face—the sadness that lies just below the surface, waiting for the day that this comes to an end.

  We get to his apartment and I immediately tell Jackson that I need a shower because I couldn’t possibly go to bed with all of this hairspray and make-up still on. He doesn’t give me a hard time, and I’m grateful for it. Little does he know that it’s just a stall tactic, a way to give myself more time to get my emotions in check. After spending what is likely more than the acceptable time for a shower, I throw on a T-shirt I got from Jackson’s drawer and finally make my way back into the bedroom.

  Jackson is standing by the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of charcoal gray pajama bottoms. His chest is bare, and I lose all ability to speak at the mere sight of him. Every time… he does this to me. Every. Single. Time. He removes his watch, placing it on the nightstand, and then his eyes are on me. I take a step back, not liking the angry glare that he’s giving me one bit.

  “Are you okay?” I question feebly.

  “What do you think?”

  “Jackson, I…”

  “You have been avoiding me since the moment we left the benefit tonight. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or am I going to have to fuck it out of you, Sage?”

  My breath catches and my eyes go wide at his threat.

  “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t want to hurt you again, but you know how I get when I’m pissed at you, Sage, so I suggest you start talking.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Victoria?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters. It matters because you’re more than a client to her. If something went wrong between us, she would have your back not mine.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No? How do you know her then, huh?”

  “We went to college together. I’ve known her for a long time.”

  “So, you’re friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “Close friends?”

  “Yes, Sage. Jesus, we’re friends, that’s it.”

  “Friends like you and Cecily?”

  His jaw ticks when he glares my way, but he doesn’t say a word, not one fucking word. But then again, he doesn’t really have to say anything at all. I already have my answer.

  “Shit,” I say on a shuttered breath.

  “I do not have to explain myself to you.”

  “When?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When. When, Jackson, when was the last time you fucked Victoria?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Have you been with her since I met you?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Fuck you. Don’t you tell me to be careful. I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  I’m acting like a crazed maniac, and he knows it. He knows there’s no hiding from it now, but I refuse to admit what’s really going on. I refuse to admit that I’m in a fit of jealous rage. I look around the room for my discarded dress. I spot it on the chair in the corner of the room and lunge for it. I’m w
inded when Jackson’s strong arms wrap around me from behind and pull me back into him.

  “Not so fucking fast.” His arms around me go tighter, his shirt on me riding up my torso, leaving me feeling even more vulnerable and exposed. “Why do you care that I’ve fucked Victoria?”

  “I don’t, asshole.”

  “Watch your mouth, Sage. Do not test me.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Not until you answer my question.” He backs us up, sitting down when he reaches the bed, keeping me firmly planted on his lap.

  “What was the question?”

  “Don’t be cute.”

  “I’m anything but.”

  “Why do you care about me and Victoria, Sage?”

  “It’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Sage.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, all right,” I scream, no longer able to hide the tears, the onslaught of pure emotion that’s been bubbling for months. He loosens his grip on me, tries to maneuver me so that he can give me comfort, but I want none of it. I take the opportunity to break free, whirl around on him, and yell, “I quit. Do you understand me?”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Yes, I don’t give a fuck anymore. I can’t keep doing this. I hate this,” I shriek. “I hate this, and I hate it. I hate Victoria for taking advantage of my desperation, and I hate you. I am not a cheap whore, this isn’t who I am, and I was stupid to think that I could ever do it.”

  I’m hysterical by the time Jackson pulls me in his arms.

  “Shh, it’s okay. I know this isn’t who you are. You never had to tell me that.”

  “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “You have to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not.”

  “Because it doesn’t make a difference.”

  “Try me. What is it that you want from me, Sage, huh? What do you expect?”

  “Nothing. I want nothing from you, I expect nothing,” I say, swiping the tears away.

  “You’re lying. There’s something between us, and you’re scared to say it. You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel it? But I don’t know how to handle that, I don’t know if I’m capable of more.”

  His admission stuns me. I really don’t know what to make of it, but I tramp down the automatic feeling of hope that fights to creep up. “Do you want to be?”

  He runs a hand through his hair before leveling me with his beautiful eyes. “When I’m with you, I want to be.”

  For some reason, it’s enough. Enough for right now, enough to keep me tethered to him, keep me in this waltz that we’re dancing, waiting to see where it will all end. “You don’t have to decide now. We can just wait and see how it goes, see if anything changes.”

  “You would do that?”

  “If there’s any chance, if there’s even the slightest chance that you could give me you then yes, I would do that.”

  He’s on me in a flash—arms around me, lifting me, forcing my legs around his waist, and his mouth is on mine. He kisses me with a fervor that he hasn’t shown me before. There’s an unspoken promise in this kiss. It’s not written in stone or sealed by fate, but it’s better than nothing. It’s all he can give, and for now, I’ll take it.

  We tumble to the bed with Jackson on top of me, hands brushing the hair out of my face, eyes focusing intently on mine.

  “This doesn’t mean that I don’t want you, all right, that I don’t want more. I just need time. I do not give myself very easily, and I don’t think I’d be very good at this.”

  “You give of yourself all the time.” I place my hand on his face using my thumb to stroke his cheek. “Even on your worst day, you’ve given me more than anybody else ever has.”

  “Well, that’s just sad then.”

  I smile a sad smile. “Yes, but it only means that I take nothing for granted.” I make an impulse decision, asking him for even more, pushing this breakthrough as far as I possibly can.

  “Thanksgiving is next week. Do you have plans?”

  There’s a light in his eyes, a flicker of lust and humor. “No, Sage, I have no plans.”

  “Spend it with me? I know that I’m asking for a lot, but I can cook. It’ll be fun. We can pretend to be normal just for once. Just for one day, it’ll be Jackson and Sage, no contract, no boundaries.”

  “Try us on for size?”

  “Yeah, I like the sound of that.”

  “Me, too. All right, but we’ll do it here. You’ll have more room to maneuver in my kitchen.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  “Jackson.”

  “Hmm?”

  I roll my hips, thrusting them up. “I need you now.”

  “You’ve become awfully demanding, Miss Turner.”

  “I’ve learned from the best, Mr. Stone.” His kiss is gentle this time, slower, less demanding, as if he’s trying to show me how he feels without saying the words, but each kiss adds fuel to the flame, setting me ablaze. Time. Time is what he needs and I can give him that—with the hope that every day is a day closer to burning the bridge that keeps his heart at bay.

  Jackson-

  These last few days with her have been eye opening for me. I had no idea that it could be like this. Sage makes this non-relationship thing we have going on easy. I’ll be the first to admit that I was worried, worried after that night that the dynamic of our relationship would take a strange turn, and would make things awkward or intolerable, but she hasn’t made it that way.

  She hasn’t changed at all, really, except perhaps her comfort level with me has increased. She phones and texts me a few times a day now, just to say hello or to see how my day is going. I thought I would find that tedious, but the truth is that I like it, I like how she checks in with me. It’s refreshing, cute even. She’s spent every night in my bed, and if it’s possible, the sex has gotten even better. She’s more open, wilder, freer, maybe because she knows she’s in my bed because I want her there, not because I expect her there. Or maybe the emotions that we’ve both been hiding for so long have finally been unmasked, making it unnecessary to pretend that we don’t care about each other on a personal level.

  She showed up on my doorstep with bags and bags of groceries last night, Gregory the doorman carrying half of them up for her, and she went straight to work in my kitchen preparing food for today. Thanksgiving was never something that my family celebrated; my mother was not big on family gatherings or traditions. And let’s not even discuss her inability to give thanks for anything. I don’t think she’s ever been grateful or felt gratitude for anything. Certainly not the family that she threw away.

  When I asked Sage if Thanksgiving was an important holiday for her family, she admitted that though they ate a meal together, they too never gave it much importance. There’s a story there, her relationship with her family… from what I can tell, it’s almost as precarious as mine is with my mother, and I want to know why, only I can’t push it because I have no desire to share.

  “How’s it going in here?” I probe when I walk into the kitchen.

  “Just about done. I was about to set the table.”

  “I can do that,” I say, moving to cabinets that hold the dinnerware. I set the table and grab a bottle of chilled wine, allowing her time to finish what she’s doing. “What are we having?” I ask, noting that there’s probably enough food to feed ten people when she begins to place dishes on the table.

  “There’s turkey and gravy, stuffing, sweet potatoes, double cranberry sauce, and dinner rolls.”

  “Is that all?” I ask sarcastically, looking from the dinner spread on the table and back to her. I don’t even know where to begin with all of this food.

  “No, there’s pumpkin pie and apple pie for dessert.” I can’t hold it in anymore. I grab hold of her, throwing my arm around her waist and pulling her into me as I let out a laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?” she questions with
a smile.

  “Sage, it’s just the two of us. How many people are you trying to feed?”

  “I know, but we can sample everything.”

  “What do we do with the rest of it?”

  “Leftovers.”

  “Sure, we can make turkey sandwiches and turkey soup.” And I laugh again. I honestly can’t help it, she’s absolutely adorable. “I look forward to it, baby.”

  “You want to carve this thing?” She picks up the knife, pointing it at the turkey, and then hands it to me.

  “I guess I’m going to carve this thing,” I say with another chuckle before getting to work.

  I have to say that I’m truly impressed with how she put together this meal in such a short time, and I’m equally impressed at how good everything tastes. She tells me about Thanksgivings past in the Turner household, how her mother always burned the turkey, and how one year Sage wanted to get it out of the oven before her mother had the chance to ruin it, but it was too heavy for her and she dropped it.

  I picture her as a little girl, precocious, getting her hands dirty and letting her sassy mouth get her into trouble at every turn. Even still, I’d imagine that a girl like Sage would be her parents’ pride and joy. How could she not be, with her sweet, loving nature and her innocence.

  The unexpected sound of my doorbell ringing in the middle of dinner puts me on high alert. Who the fuck would knock on my door during dinnertime on Thanksgiving day? The possibilities are limited, but none of them are good.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Sage furrows her brows at me in obvious confusion, but she nods her head anyway. The bell rings again just as I reach the front door. I open it up and when I see my mother standing there with a smile plastered on her face and a bottle of wine in her hand, I think to myself that my building is in immediate need of a new doorman.

  “How did you get in the building?”

  “It’s Thanksgiving; aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Your doorman was asleep. Must be a slow day.”

  “What do you want, Camille?”

  “I thought I could spend Thanksgiving with my son.”