Dangerous Desires

by Tia Siren

  “My accountant embezzled three million dollars,” I say. “And I think he took my fountain pen, the one from my dad for graduation.”

  “Fucking accountants!”

  We look at each other, and crack up laughing. Boone does a weird little half-howl, half-ruff, that gets us going even harder. I can feel the tension ebbing away.

  “Anyway, he...I mean, we’d been seeing each other about a year, and...I don’t know. It got weird. Not all at once—a little here, a little there. It...snuck up on me.”

  Her lips curl, like she’s got a bad taste in her mouth. “I mean, he’d call me at work, and want to video-chat, want me to pan the camera over the site. I thought he wanted to see what I did. It was flattering. Cute, even. But then, it was like...he wanted to make sure I was at work. And if I didn’t pick up, or I couldn’t talk, he’d find some excuse to drop by—like, hey, looks like rain—have an umbrella! Or, just passing by; let’s get lunch! One time, he dropped off these carrots, just...a huge bunch of carrots, said he’d passed by a produce stand, thought of me.” She rolls her eyes. “Carrots! Who does that?”

  “Maybe he was concerned about your eyesight.” I wink to let her know I’m kidding.

  “Yeah. My eyesight.” She makes a rather cute little huffing sound. “It was so weird. My boss was right there, which was bad enough—but then, the carrots were sitting in the fridge, in our tiny little trailer—did I mention we’re geologists? We’re geologists! Not exactly working out of palaces! There we were, mid-survey, out in the sticks, ten of us sharing this...dorm-sized mini-fridge, and I fill it with carrots. You can imagine how popular that made me.”

  “It’s fish, at my office. My CFO microwaves fish. Everyone hates him.”

  “I hate him, and I’ve never even met him.”

  We share another chuckle at that. I don’t tell her I have my own fridge, my own microwave—my own floor—and only know about the fish disaster through the grapevine. Now doesn’t seem like the time to rub it in.

  “After the carrots...it got bad. He’d grill me about my boss, how well I knew him, if he was single, what our working relationship was like. And, I mean, this guy’s fifty, maybe sixty—think M*A*S*H, the original Colonel. The one with the hat, and the fly-fishing—what was his name?”

  “Blake. Loved that guy.”

  “Me, too. Used to watch that all the time….” She gets a faraway look, for a second, like she’s remembering something pleasant. “Anyway, think Colonel Blake in a suede jacket with elbow patches. And corduroys. Oh—and in case I forget—a salmon shirt. Or a red shirt, with a salmon tie. Or—well, you get the picture.”

  I do. Kind of reminds me of my economics professor. Hadn’t thought about that guy in years. I tell her so.

  “He was a professor. I mean, most of us teach; there’s not enough fieldwork to last the year. And nothing was going on, in case you’re wondering. I think I had dinner with him once. At Denny’s, after a conference, with eight other people.” She frowns. “It all got to be too much, with the stalking, and the third degree, and I told Vince—that’s my ex—I told him we were through.”

  “Didn’t take it so well?”

  “I thought he did. He said he understood, hoped we’d be friends—the usual things you say in a breakup. But on my way home...the texts started.”

  Her frown deepens into an outright grimace. Still kind of cute.

  “Four phones later, dozens of blocked numbers, they haven’t stopped. And last night, I got home from work, and...you know how you walk in a room, and you know something’s different, but you can’t put your finger on what?”

  “He’d been in your house?”

  “Can’t prove it. He didn’t take anything, and everything was pretty much where I left it, but...I don’t know. Something was….” She throws up her hands in frustration. “Something was off. Thought I’d sneak off for a while, hide out with my parents. But, boom, there he was. Waiting in South Deerfield.”

  “He chased you all the way from there?”

  “Right up your driveway. Speaking of which, I might be blocking you in. Didn’t exactly come to the most graceful of stops—oh, and I maybe, definitely...might’ve flattened your mailbox.”

  Not the worst news I’ve heard all day. “Hey, I’d count that as a favor. Dad put that up. It was one of those cow ones.” I curl my lip.

  “My parents have one where the flag’s an old lady bending over, with her bloomers showing.”

  “I think I’ve driven by that a few times!” I absolutely have. It’s an eyesore. “Maybe next time, I’ll, you know, ‘slip’ on some ‘black ice.’” One good turn deserves another….

  “Speaking of ice, ah….” She shifts uncomfortably. “I’m still sort of damp here, and there’s mud drying in some...uh, in some truly unfortunate places. If I’m going to be here a while, would you mind if I used your shower?”

  “Oh, yeah—of course!” Stupid, stupid—should’ve offered! “Just down the hall, on the right. Watch out for the hot faucet—it kind of sticks, and then it comes on all at once and sprays everywhere.”

  “Noted—thanks!”

  Sarah vanishes down the hall. I can’t help but watch her walk away: . sShe has a great figure, long legs, round ass, narrow waist. And I like her. She seems smart. Funny. Into nerds. Might not be a bad idea to whip up some food while she’s in there, try to impress her—or at least dispel any lingering notion I’m some crazy gun-slinging mountain man.

  Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Can’t hurt, right?

  4

  Sarah

  The shower’s nice: not sure what Sam was talking about with the hot water. Comes on fine for me. And it doesn’t run out in five minutes like at home. I take my time, help myself to his surprisingly luxurious shampoo and body soap.

  There’s something familiar about that guy. I noticed it when he started to dry out. That neat black hair; those sun-narrowed brown eyes—and his smile, most of all. I’ve seen that smile before. I’ve admired that smile. It’s warm. Sincere. A memory tries and fails to surface. I fumble for it, but it’s gone.

  This is going to drive me nuts.

  On the positive side, I’m starting to think I might be safe here. It’s been a while, and Vince hasn’t come crashing in. He’s not the outdoors type. Most likely, he trudged up the driveway till the glare from his headlights gave out, fired a pissy little warning shot, and flounced off.

  Most likely.

  Still, even if he decided to go exploring, how far could he have gotten? I had blind panic on my side propelling me up the mountain. He has, what? Injured pride? Couple of beers?

  He’s gone home. He’s definitely gone home.

  Or he’s gone to my parents’ to….

  No.

  I rub conditioner into my hair, and go back to trying to fit Sam into the places I might’ve seen him: . aAt the Whole Foods in Hadley, getting kale and kombucha? Can’t quite picture it: . hHe’s friendly, but he’s got a hard look, wiry, maybe ex-military. In Vince’s office block, waiting for the elevator? Closer: . I can imagine him in a suit, a sharp one—but I’d have run into him more than once if he worked there. I’d remember.

  It’s no use. Something’s missing—some essential piece of the puzzle.

  He wasn’t the sleepy bank manager who helped me open a line of credit: —right hair, wrong everything else.

  I didn’t accidentally left-swipe him on Tinder. I’d have regretted that more.

  We didn’t share an uncomfortably silent elevator ride, down thirty-six floors of a forty-floor building.

  Yeah. Definitely driving me nuts.

  I get out and towel off, pleased to discover my dress has almost entirely dried out. There isn’t even that much mud around the hem. I dig around under the sink till I find a hairdryer: . I can give my clothes a quick blast when I’m done with my hair. That should finish the job.

  On the other side of the wall, Sam’s moving around. Sounds like he’s rooting through pots and pans. Ooh, maybe he’s m
aking hot chocolate! I’d just been thinking how nice that would be when Vince crashed my evening.

  The smell drifting down the hall isn’t hot chocolate, but it’s definitely enticing. I head for the kitchen to investigate. Sam’s prodding something in a frying pan with a spatula. He looks over and smiles.

  “Wasn’t sure if you were a vegetarian, or if you eat eggs, or—well, figured you’d be hungry, so I made a little bit of everything. Uh, a Spanish omelet, this salad—” He gestures at a huge bowl of mixed greens. “—and some stuffed mushrooms, which should be done in about, oh….” He glances at the oven. “Three minutes! Those have bacon, though.”

  “Love bacon.” Suddenly, I’m starving. “It all smells great. Oh—is that what you do? You’re a chef? Wait, no...you can’t work in food, and have a CFO who’d put fish in the microwave.”

  “You’re half-right,” he says. He starts dishing up the omelet. It looks incredible: , full of tomatoes and chives, just the way I like it. “I was a cook in the Army, way back when. And I worked at my Gramps’ restaurant, summers, as a kid.”

  “My Grandpa was an undertaker,” I say, and instantly regret it. Bit of an overshare.

  He snorts, though. “Now, there would be a summer job to remember!”

  “Seriously! I actually worked reception at my dad’s paving company, though. Less memorable, but...also less smelly.”

  The oven dings, and Sam grabs a ridiculous pair of gingham oven gloves. The kitchen fills with the delicious aroma of bacon and melted Parmesan as he retrieves the stuffed mushrooms. It’s making me weak in the knees...or maybe that’s the excellent view I’m getting of Sam’s rear as he bends over the oven. He’s really quite built. Must be the Army influence.

  I’m being rude. I should probably offer to help.

  “Can I—”

  “There’s a—”

  “Sorry,” he says. “You first.” He’s dishing up the mushrooms with a long pair of tongs. I’d have been burning my fingers, doing the snatch-and-toss thing.

  “Oh, I was just going to ask if you needed help with anything.”

  He looks around, and waves his tongs at one of the cabinets. “You could rinse out a couple of wine glasses. Last time I came up here, it’d been a while, and I ended up enjoying half a glass of dust with my Cabernet.

  “Mmm, dust mites!” I grab the glasses, and set about my chore, while he sets up the kitchen table. I’m charmed by the fact that he puts out a tablecloth, and what looks like some pretty nice silverware. He even lights a candle. It’s homey. Comforting. Can’t remember the last time I had a meal that didn’t come out of a box. Vince didn’t cook, and I’m usually too tired after work.

  Soon, we’re seated across from one another. He raises his glass. “To boring summer jobs!”

  “Boring summer jobs!”

  We clink. I’m about to dig into my omelet, when I remember: “Hey, this might sound weird, but...don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “Forbes magazine, maybe?”

  Maybe? I tilt my head, trying to picture him on the cover of Forbes, surrounded by blurbs and headlines. It’s not a familiar mental image, but…. “Nothing else comes to mind. That must be it. When were you in there?”

  “Few times now. Latest was, hmm...January, I think? They did a little profile.” He swirls his wine around in his glass, looking at me over the rim. “You look sort of familiar, too, though. Do you have a boat?”

  “Nope.”

  “Vacation in Scotland?”

  “Not in the last twenty years.”

  Sam leans forward a little. His eyes go dark and intense, like he’s about to tell a secret. “OK—this might be a bit out there, but...did you ever get tripped over by a guy walking backwards with four flutes of champagne at a Boston Pops concert?”

  I nearly choke on my wine. “No, entertaining as that might’ve been!”

  “I’m going to figure this out,” he says. He prods at the air with his fork. “If I’ve ever so much as stolen your cab at the airport, I’m going to—I’m going to hunt down that memory, and bring you its head for your mantel.” He spears a mushroom. I bite back a snicker.

  “Do you steal cabs at the airport?” I ask.

  “‘Course not!”

  “That’s a relief. Not sure I could break bread with a low-down, dirty cab stealer.”

  “I fly a lot,” he says. “Nothing worse than coming off a long, cramped flight, and having to wait for a cab.”

  “So, you travel a lot, you’ve been in Forbes multiple times, and we’ve established that you’re not a celebrity chef. What do you do?”

  “Professional nerd.” He winks, and takes a bite of his omelet.

  “Guess that makes two of us. Only, I’ve never been in a magazine that wasn’t the dry, academic sort.” I try the omelet, myself. Tastes even better than it looks. I’m starting to think Sam’s missed his calling.

  “Nothing quite so highbrow here,” he says. “We started out making parody games—Final Vantasy, that was ours, the one where you’re saving the world in a VW bus. Call of Booty, too, with the pirates, the...well, you probably wouldn’t have played that. It was pretty stupid. But now, we develop toys and media properties, specifically with an eye to movie tie-ins.”

  “So, you’re the ones flooding Hollywood with alien sharks and flying green gophers?”

  Sam grins, somewhere between sheepish and proud. “That’d be us.”

  “You ever have a cameo in one of those movies?”

  He shakes his head. “Not me.”

  Damn. That’s not it either, then.

  Our late supper goes by in a slightly winey haze. Sam’s got a wry sense of humor that keeps sneaking up on me, making me laugh louder than might be strictly ladylike. He keeps suggesting sillier and sillier ways we might’ve met, and while the truth stays a mystery, we’re both practically falling out of our chairs by the time we’ve cleaned our plates. We drift back to the living room, nudging each other, still giggling. Boone’s scampering around our feet. I’m torn between hoping we don’t trip over him, and hoping we do, so we end up tangled together on the floor.

  Instead, we wind up on one of the pillowy couches I noticed earlier. It’s every bit as comfortable as it looks. I sink into it. It’s like being cuddled by a cloud.

  “This is the best couch I’ve ever sat on.”

  “It better be, after the fun I had hauling it up the mountain.” He gazes at the rain streaking down the window. “I lived here for a while after college. Made my first game on that laptop—” He gestures at an ancient, chunky laptop, perched on a footstool. “—sitting on this couch. Boone was about this big.” Sam holds his hands about a breadbox-width apart.

  I look at Boone, really taking him in. He’s definitely not a puppy anymore. Can’t have been for a while. “How old is he now?”

  “Thirteen.” Sam leans down to give Boone’s head a fond tousle. “You’re an old man, aren’t you? So old! So old!”

  Boone snuffles.

  I sink even deeper into the couch, closing my eyes. When I open them, Sam’s looking at me like he’s just answered the $64,000 Question.

  “I know where I know you from,” he says.

  5

  Sam

  It hits me like a ton of bricks. One minute, I’m rubbing Boone’s gray muzzle, wondering where the years went, and the next—

  “I know where I know you from.”

  Sarah blinks. “Oh?” Her forehead crinkles. “Not anywhere bad, I hope?”

  “No. I mean, yeah—but nothing you did.”

  She sits up straighter. “This I’ve got to hear.”

  “Wow. It’s—this is pretty out there. Where to start?” I reach into my pocket, and pull out a Milk Bone. Boone lets me balance it on his snout, and waits till I give him the thumbs-up, before he flips it into the air and catches it in his mouth. I scritch at his chest. “Let’s see—it was three days before Christmas, two years ago. You probably don’t remember, but you gave me a pack of Kleenex in
front of a huge wall of jellyfish.”

  “What?”

  “OK—let me start at the beginning. I was having the worst day, just...unbelievably bad. It was….” I pinch the bridge of my nose. This isn’t the best memory.

  “Right from the get-go, nothing went right. I ripped my sleeve on a door handle. Only had enough butter for half a slice of toast. And then, I checked the traffic report, and the guy was like...don’t even bother. So I ended up getting on the bus with Boone. And...when we got off at the dog park, some ass on a bike mowed him down.”

  “Shit! Sorry—that’s awful!”

  “Yeah.” I slip Boone another treat. He offers a paw to shake. “Poor little guy—he had a broken leg, and I had no idea what else might be wrong. I was holding him, trying to flag down a cab, but, well, you can imagine how thrilled the average cabbie is at the thought of a bloody, crying dog in his back seat.”

  “Like the backs of cabs don’t see worse.”

  “Right? So, I finally snag a ride, and he drives me halfway across town, pretending he only knows this one vet—and I don’t even care about the money; I just need to get there, already!”

  Boone puts his chin on my knee. He hates when I get upset. I scratch behind his ears: it’s cool, buddy. I’m cool.

  “Anyway, the vet’s very nice, very reassuring—Boone’s going to be fine, but I’ve got a few hours to kill while he’s in surgery. I don’t want to go home, so I see the aquarium’s nearby, and think, why not?”

  “Oh, yeah!” I can practically see the lightbulb blink on over Sarah’s head. “I do remember that day! You’re the guy who spilled coffee down his front, in front of the jellyfish tank!”

  “The lid came off!”

  “Hate that so much.”

  “Worst possible timing for it, too. I mean, there I was thinking, yeah; this is good—check me out, holding it together!—and, whoosh. Coffee geyser.” I pat her hand. “Then, you were there, holding out a pack of tissues, saying—”