Please

by Hazel Hughes

  Sebastian picked up the book on Elizabeth’s nightstand and began thumbing through it.

  Naomi kept up a continuous stream of chatter as she dusted and smeared and dabbed at Elizabeth’s face. Elizabeth “hmmed” and “uh-huhed”, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest.

  “There,” Naomi said with triumphant finality. “That’s the best I can do. Take a look. You’re hot, girlfriend!”

  Elizabeth had to admit she did look better, but next to Naomi’s twenty-six-year-old poreless fairy princess beauty, she felt like the troll that lived under the bridge.

  “Wait.” Naomi fished through the tangle of costume jewelry that Gwen had dumped into Elizabeth’s bag, extracting a pair of dangling silver earrings. “You need some bling.”

  Sebastian put down the book. It was Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, one of Elizabeth’s favorites. She was reading it again, for the third time.

  “Let me,” he said, taking the earrings from Naomi. He stood so close to Elizabeth that she could feel the heat radiating from his body as he threaded the silver post through her ear. Naomi buzzed around him like a bee near a flower, laughing and putting a possessive hand on his back.

  “Perfect,” he said, standing back and admiring Elizabeth. Naomi linked her arm through his.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  *

  Elizabeth loved to dance. From the day she had put on her very first pair of pink leather Capezios at the tender age of five, she had been smitten. She just loved the way her Ichabod Crane arms and legs lost their gangly awkwardness and became fluid, elegant, graceful even. She felt the way she imagined a seal must feel when it curved, weightless, underwater. With her height and practical upbringing, dance had never been a career choice, but in her twenties when she was living in Chicago, she and her girlfriends went clubbing every weekend. Funk, house, salsa, electronica, she did it all.

  Of course, all that had petered out after she met Steve. Steve didn’t dance. Period. Then they moved back to Elizabeth’s hometown of Fairfield, where the only clubs were the ones on the golf course. By the time Keenan came along, nightlife had ceased to be an important word in Elizabeth’s vocabulary and dance something she only did at weddings.

  So when she, Sebastian and Naomi walked into the dimly lit space of the Submercer, instantly cocooned in a womb of sound and moving bodies, Elizabeth felt like she was coming home. Well, coming home to a house where all the furniture had been changed and the walls painted strange and unsettling colors. It was a bit like being in a red brick dungeon, the dark windowless space divided by low arches and brick columns and packed with firm young flesh. There was so much writhing skin on display, Elizabeth couldn’t help thinking of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. In her tank top and jeans, she felt as over-dressed as if she were wearing a burkha.

  Trailing the actors past the bar, she looked around the room. Red leather banquets and low glass tables ringed the dance floor. This was where the not-so-young-and-firm sat, sipping micro-brews and martinis and shouting to be heard over the music. Elizabeth tried not to register surprise as she noticed more than a few celebrities. She was horrible at putting names to faces, but Emily the E! junkie would be quietly freaking out if she were here.

  “Drink?” They had stopped at a table, where Cullen, still wearing his turquoise shades despite the minimal lighting, was holding court. A waiter, who had clearly decided she was no one important, all but tapped his foot, waiting for her answer.

  “Martini,” she said, immediately regretting it, but feeling too intimidated to change her mind. She hated martinis. “Dirty,” she added as an afterthought. At least now it wouldn’t taste like she was downing rubbing alcohol.

  Cullen interrupted his monologue to acknowledge their arrival.

  “Naomi,” he purred, kissing her cheek. “Sebastian, my man.” He gave the much taller actor one of those funny handshake half-hugs that were supposed to convey manly affection without creeping into queerness. “Oh, hi!” he said to Elizabeth, obviously surprised she was there and trying to decide how he should play the uninvited interloper. “Welcome, welcome.” He clasped her hand between his. She didn’t qualify for a cheek kiss. “So nice of you to join us.” King Cullen had decided to be magnanimous and let the peasant join his audience of courtiers.

  Elizabeth smiled at everyone seated around the table. She recognized a cameraman, still in his vintage Hendrix t-shirt, greasy curls poking out beneath a pork-pie hat, and another guy from the set, a sound guy or lighting guy, she wasn’t sure. The others she didn’t recognize, but they were all men.

  Cullen continued his story as if there hadn’t been an interruption. Elizabeth tried to listen, but it was impossible over the thumping bass of the music. Sebastian and Naomi were already out on the dance floor. She could just see Sebastian’s head and the odd flash of Naomi’s blond hair through the tangle of limbs. She felt a throb of disappointment. She wanted to dance.

  The man sitting beside her nudged her bare arm to get her attention and held out his hand.

  “Matt Thibeaudeux,” he shouted to be heard over the music. “Scriptwriter.”

  “Oh, hi. Elizabeth ...”

  “Yeah, I know. Your picture’s in the book, right? You have a very distinctive look.” He gestured to her hair. “I spent a month with Habibi Baby. I feel like I know you.” Elizabeth smiled. Short, balding, and paunchy under his starched white dress shirt and sports coat, Matt looked just as out of place here as she felt.

  “I hope it wasn’t too painful for you,” Elizabeth joked. Her novel was classified as chick lit after all. One look at the hot pink cover was all it took for men to dismiss it. Even Steve had demurred.

  Matt smiled. “Actually, you made my job pretty easy. The dialogue is great. I just copied and pasted whole chunks of it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, thank you.” He paused for a minute, a confessional look stealing over his face. “I kinda feel like we should have talked before now. At least emailed, but ...”

  “Yeah, I know,” Elizabeth dropped her voice and leaned in closer. “Can’t mess with Cullen’s process, right?”

  Matt nodded and shrugged. “The price you pay to work with genius, I guess,” he said, with an eye-roll. “Or in my case, to work at all.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Right.” She drew a figure 8 on the glossy tabletop with her finger, thinking of what to say next.

  “I didn’t see you on set, did I?” she asked. Matt would have stuck out among all the hipsters.

  “Ha! Are you kidding? The script is done. What do they need me for? Nah. I live in Queens.” Matt leaned in close, confiding, “Cullen threw me a bone, inviting me out tonight. To make up for the crap money he’s paying me.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the director, fully engaged in his story, loyal subjects hanging on his every word.

  “At least he’s paying you something,” she said, before she could stop herself.

  Matt laughed, his bushy eyebrows shooting up. “He’s not paying you? You’re shitting me?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, smiling. “Not unless you include the dollar that was in the contract that I signed. But as my agent says, the movie will be free publicity for the book, and it’s not like there’s a line of directors begging for the rights.” She shrugged. “He’s putting me up here for a week.”

  Matt mimicked her shrug, taking a sip of his beer. “It’s not cheap, but I’m sure he got a deal. Talk about free publicity, right? And permanent cool status. The setting for a Zweibeker.”

  “Right.” That sinking feeling was back again. Mercifully, the rude waiter arrived with her drink, sliding it in front of her without even a glance in her direction. Elizabeth took a sip and grimaced. Mm, she thought, salty rubbing alcohol.

  “You like it dirty?” Sebastian’s voice was low and suggestive, so close to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath. “I’m not surprised.”

  Elizabeth started, unsettled by his proximity. He leaned over her, his skin sli
ghtly flushed and shiny from dancing, looking at her as if he expected her to say something. But Elizabeth didn’t remember how to play that game. She just flashed him an awkward smile and turned back to Matt.

  God he’s hot, she thought, trying to keep her mind on what Matt was saying as Sebastian sat down beside her, his thigh pressed against hers. But Matt could have been speaking Swahili for all she knew, so conscious was she of Sebastian next to her. Her heart was beating at sprint-speed.

  “Hey,” he said, his lips close to her ear again. He nudged her forearm with his, skin to skin.

  Elizabeth turned to face him, inching her arm away.

  He touched her glass. “May I?” he asked.

  “Uh, go ahead,” she said, taken aback.

  He took a sip, looking at her over the rim. “The taste reminds me of something,” he said with a sly smile. “Now what could that be?”

  “Um, olives?” she said, smiling innocently. She couldn’t do this, whatever this was. “Take it. I think I prefer it sweet and fruity. I’m going to the bar.” She stood up, pretending to be fascinated by something happening across the room while he stepped aside.

  Standing at the bar waiting for someone to notice her, Elizabeth contemplated going back to her room. She didn’t belong here. Besides, if she didn’t get her eight hours of sleep, she’d look like something that had crawled out of a crypt. She wasn’t twenty anymore, or even thirty. She could feel the hot breath of forty on her neck. And its hand on her shoulder. She looked behind her, half-expecting it to be Sebastian. She felt a mixture of disappointment and relief when she saw it was the scriptwriter.

  “Can we get something sweet and fruity for the lady?” Matt called to the bartender. “A lemon drop?” He looked at her for confirmation. She nodded her head.

  “Thanks,” she said. Of course, she thought. She and Matt were the outsiders, the only two people in the club who didn’t have the mark of coolness stamped on their hands, visible only under the black light of the gaze of the truly hip.

  Elizabeth took a long swallow of the drink the bartender handed her. She raised her glass to Matt and smiled.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “So much!” she said, her voice too loud. She hadn’t eaten in hours, she realized, and the alcohol was going straight to her head. Suddenly, she felt giddy and talkative. “You know, I was just about ready to pack it in. This isn’t really my scene.” That was an understatement. Her scene was the farmer’s market on a Saturday morning.

  “Really?” Matt asked, “You look like you fit right in with the rest of the beautiful people.”

  “Are you being facetious?” she asked, squinting at the scriptwriter.

  “No,” he said, leaning closer, wiggling his eyebrows comically. “I’m trying to be flirtatious.”

  Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Well, I suck at flirting, so don’t bother.”

  “Yeah, me too, apparently. Out of practice.” He shrugged and held up his left hand to show her his wedding band. She laughed, raising hers too.

  “Hey, do you want to dance?” Matt asked. “You’ve been doing this,” he shimmied his shoulders, “pretty much since you came in.”

  Elizabeth laughed. She hadn’t noticed it, but now that he mentioned it, she realized he was right. She tossed back the rest of her drink and put the glass down on the bar. “Why not?” she said. So she had a good ten or fifteen years on most of the women on the dance floor? She didn’t know any of them, or anyone else in this bar for that matter. And after her week as so-called consultant, she was positive she wouldn’t see Cullen or any of his crew again. What did she care what they thought, anyhow?

  Elizabeth strode onto the dance floor, letting the sound of the music wash over her. She didn’t recognize the song, but that had never mattered to her. She started to move with the beat, shaking her shoulders and twisting her hips while Matt did the white man’s shuffle across from her. She closed her eyes and danced like she was alone, letting the music dictate how she moved her body.

  Feeling someone pressing up against her back, Elizabeth opened her eyes. She hadn’t given Matt the wrong idea, had she? No, he was still biting his lower lip and moving side to side across from her, concentrating.

  “I like the way you move,” Sebastian whispered along with the song, running his hands down her arms. He clasped her hands and spun her around to face him, pulling her in close. “But I can tell you’re used to dancing alone.”

  She tried to take a step back, but he held her, his hands warm and firm on her waist. He was so close she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, feel the firm muscles beneath his t-shirt. She didn’t know where to put her hands. She rested them tentatively on his shoulders, wedging a bit of space between them with her elbows.

  “I like dancing alone,” she said.

  “But you like dancing with me more.”

  Elizabeth had to admit that she did. A little too much. Perhaps it was because she was a touch tipsy, but it felt like they were moving as one, the music pulsing through them in time with the blood in their veins. Until she stepped on Sebastian’s foot.

  “Oh, God. Sorry.” Elizabeth stepped away from him.

  Sebastian laughed and pulled her back, turning her around so she was facing away from him. “See what I mean? You’re not used to dancing with a partner. But I can teach you.” He was speaking with his lips touching Elizabeth’s ear, sending little thrills down her spine with each word.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I can teach you a lot of things. And I bet you can teach me a few things, too.” The whole length of his torso was pressed tight against her back. She was facing Matt, who was still bobbing to the music like an automaton. He lifted his eyebrows, questioning. She shook her head. Sebastian spun her around to face him again.

  He leaned his forehead against hers, still holding her close, his hips grinding against hers.

  “Lesson number one,” he whispered. “Dancing is like fucking. It’s so much better when you do it with a partner.”

  A thousand thoughts flitted through Elizabeth’s mind: Oh, God this feels good. He is hot! Shit. I shouldn’t be doing this. Steve. No. We’re just dancing! Completely innocent. Did I put on enough deodorant? Emily and Nina will die when I tell them! Oh, my God, does he have a ...?”

  With a funny thrill, half panic, half exultation, she realized that, beneath his low-slung Levis, Sebastian was hard as a rolling pin.

  Chapter 4

  Elizabeth lay on her bed, still fully dressed, her head spinning – and not just from the hastily downed lemon drop. Had this night really happened to her, Elizabeth Holmes, wife, mother and fledgling writer from small-town Iowa? She felt like she was in a Stanley Kubrick movie.

  Seconds after she had felt Sebastian’s erection pressed against her, she felt someone else grinding into her from behind. Someone small, soft and smelling of lemon. “Mmm,” Naomi purred, “I am so feeling this song, aren’t you guys?” The filling in a movie star sandwich, Elizabeth didn’t even know if she was moving in time with the music anymore. She panicked.

  “Actually, I’m a bit ... whoo!” She disentangled herself from the two actors, flapping her hand in front of her face, and started walking backwards off the dance floor. “I’m just going to ...” Elizabeth pointed in the direction of the bar. She didn’t think they could hear her over the music anyway.

  Elizabeth walked straight past the bar to the exit. After a quick glance at the elevator, she headed for the emergency stairs, taking them two at a time until she was out of breath. She slumped down onto the stairs and, leaning against the wall, put her head in her hands and laughed, silently. Oh, she was cool, alright.

  Elizabeth heard the click of the emergency door below and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They were getting closer. Definitely a man. Sebastian. He slowed down as he rounded the bend and saw her sitting on the landing. He stopped, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall facing her, one foot propped against it. A lazy smile playe
d over his face as he gazed at her.

  “Why did you leave?” he asked. “Was it getting too touchy-feeling for you?”

  She laughed. “You could say that.”

  “Yeah, Naomi can be a little over-enthusiastic.”

  “Right,” Elizabeth said, looking down at her toes. She couldn’t look him in the eye, not after what had happened on the dance floor. If she had been disgusted, it would have been one thing. But she had been aroused. Intensely.

  “You didn’t leave because of me, did you?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts.

  “No, no,” she lied.

  He walked up the stairs toward her, slowly. “I don’t make you uncomfortable, do I? Nervous?” He sat down beside her, his hip touching hers.

  “Maybe a little.” Elizabeth was finding it hard to breathe, despite having recovered from her ill-advised sprint up the steps.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Elizabeth could feel his eyes on her. He reached over and touched a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Now, why is that?”

  She glanced over at him, quickly. His mouth was curved in a knowing smile.

  “I think you know why,” she said, pushing herself up to standing by leaning against the wall, away from Sebastian. He stood up too, putting one hand on the wall on either side of her. She turned her head away from him, looking at the door on the landing, so close.

  “Is it because I want you?” he whispered. Elizabeth felt electric tingles running through her nerves. “No,” he said. “That’s not it.” He leaned in closer, his cheek touching hers. “It’s because you want me.”

  “Sebastian, I’m married.” She said it for herself as much as him.

  “I know.” He pressed his body against her, grabbing her hair, his elbows against the wall. He ran the tip of his tongue along her jawbone, chin to ear, with deliberate slowness. A wave of lust washed over Elizabeth. She closed her eyes.

  “No,” she whispered, but she didn’t move, didn’t resist. She felt Sebastian step away from her and opened her eyes. He was leaning against the railing just looking at her, his expression unreadable. They both heard the click of the door at the same time.