Me Tarzan, You Jane

by Camelia Miron Skiba

  Lucas comes toward me and I back off until my back is against the doorframe. With arched brow and his signature smirk he stands so close his breath warms my face, his cologne alerting my senses.

  “If I kiss you, does that make us a couple?”

  “I thought I wasn’t your type.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. If I kiss you does it mean we are a couple?”

  Pushing my chin up and praying my voice doesn’t convey how nervous his proximity makes me, I say, “That’s not the same.”

  “How?”

  “You’d kiss me without permission. Madame V, on the other hand, thrives on it.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Oh, please,” I roll my eyes. “You can kiss every single woman in this world, until you have no lips left for all I care.”

  For a long moment Lucas looks at my mouth, and I brace myself for his kiss. In some ways I anticipate it, dying to be kissed by him. The other part of me despises the way my body hungers for that, betraying my mind and heart. I can’t be with another man. I’d stain Evan’s memory, our love, what we had. It’s one man, one woman, one love. Second chances don’t exist, at least not in my world.

  To my relief and disappointment he doesn’t touch me. He returns to his packing.

  “I’ve known Viv since I was little. Mom used to be under her wing when she too modeled. My parents divorced and Mom didn’t know what to do with a rebel like me. She asked Viv for help. Viv brought me here and introduced me to the French vogue, becoming my agent. Later on we became partners. The magazine I told you about—she’s the other owner. And for your peace of mind—” Lucas glances at me, “I don’t sleep with Viv. She’s forty years my senior.”

  Somewhere deep in my heart relief washes over me, but I don’t understand why. I guess in part it’s because I can’t imagine a guy so much younger sleeping with a much older woman. Not that this is my business.

  “Please, don’t go.” My words surprise both of us. Lucas holds a sweater in midair, freezing that way for lengthy time while staring at me. “You said this is your home away from home. I should be the one leaving. I’d hate causing Madame V trouble; after all, she paid for my trip. I’ll move to a hotel as soon as she doesn’t need me, which is in two days. Hopefully we won’t kill each other before then.”

  I turn to leave Lucas’s room, but his words stop me. “Wow! I don’t know what to say.” When I turn to look at him he comes my way, touches my forehead and says, “Hmm. You’re not even feverish.”

  “What?”

  “You know . . . I’m not used to you being nice. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

  I punch his shoulder and walk away. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  Chapter 13

  Words. Words overflowing my mind awake me. I haven’t had this urge to write since before the writers’ conference in Arizona. It’s a mind flood that must be put to paper before I lose the ideas.

  I grab my laptop and tiptoe to the living room. I tend to press too hard on the keyboard and am afraid to wake Ella up. Wrapped in a blanket I sit on the floor close to the fire and type. I promise myself I’ll take a break to start the fire again, but the cinder has to do for now.

  Word after word, page after page, my fingers are hard at work and I love it. Finish one more page then I’ll make the fire. One more page . . . Numbness and pain nag at me, my butt stiff from sitting on the floor, but I can’t stop now . . . I’ll grab a pillow as soon as I finish this paragraph. This scene is the climax of the story . . . I’ll get some water soon, after I write one more dialogue, but not now . . . I keep writing.

  Don’t know how much time passes by, but eventually the room warms again, or I’m so enthralled in my scene, deep in my heroes’ heads, that the excitement takes me to a new level of comfort. I’m so warm now that I swing the blanket away from my legs and push it under my buttocks. So much better. I keep writing.

  Water. I need some water or I’ll shrivel into a raisin. There’s no saliva left in my mouth and licking my lips turns painful. If I could only finish this one pa—

  Flashing lights blind me and instinctively I cover my face. What just happened?

  “Couldn’t resist,” Lucas switches the lights on. He stands on the other side of the fire, a camera in one hand. He comes to show me the camera’s screen, clicking through a few shots of me. “I’ll pay you anything if you let me use them in my magazine. There’s a column called ‘Passion’s Many Faces’. Look at this, your expression is priceless.”

  I try to get the camera from his hands, but he tsk-tsks me. “No, no, no. Can’t touch this. It’s my camera.”

  “Yeah, but those are photos of me and,” I try again to grab it from him, but he slaps my hand away, “I don’t want to be in your magazine. I told you I don’t like photos.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” I stand and he stands and we fight for the damn camera. He walks to his room and I’m hot on his heels. “You can’t publish the photos without my permission.”

  “I’ll pay you for them.”

  “I don’t want your money.” I stand my ground, my arms beating the air around him to snatch the camera. “I’ve never been in a magazine, don’t care to be in one.”

  “You’re a writer.” Lucas pins a thumb drive into the camera and pushes on its buttons. “I’m doing you a favor. Writers strive to appear in newspapers and magazines. Book signings, conferences, interviews—you’ve done it all, haven’t you?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, my voice somewhat subdued. “No, I haven’t. The Arizona conference was my first writers’ conference.”

  He glances at me, black hair falling over his forehead. “But your books are out there for sale. Don’t you schedule bookstore appearances?”

  My toes feel cold on the wood floor. The pearly white polish shines on my toenails. I should’ve done red, for Christmas. “No . . . My books are not in stores. I haven’t published anything and as it stands I doubt it’ll happen anytime soon.”

  “Why?” Lucas pushes a hand through his rumpled bed-hair and it hits me he’s naked from the waist up. Barefoot and wearing only a pair of black pajama pants with thin red streaks he looks . . . dazzling. There’s the same tremble in my stomach I felt when I first saw him, like a trapped bird. I struggle to focus only on his face. I must only look at his face.

  “I don’t know.” I play with my thumbnail and bite my lower lip. “My agent hasn’t found a publishing house yet.”

  Lucas laughs. “You’re that green at it, huh?”

  I look in bewilderment at him. What’s there to laugh at?

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jane, publishing a book takes about eighteen months after you sign the contract. Edits take at least six months, sometimes more, depending on the length of the novel. Then it goes into a final draft. Coming up with the final cover takes a long time as well. Then the publishing house sends the draft to book clubs and reviewers for reviews. There’s a tedious marketing process you need to have in place and work on with your agent.”

  The camera rests on the nightstand, and I wonder if I dash for it what chance I have to pass by the lion’s gate. As if reading my mind Lucas blocks my view, feet apart and hands on his hips, but not before pushing a hand twice through his hair. Those muscles dance under his skin, inviting to be touched.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a publishing lesson one-on-one in exchange for the photos. I’ll even Photoshop those rags and put some nice PJ’s on you. You’ll look decent, I promise.” There’s not only sarcasm in his voice, he chuckles and winks as well.

  For the second time in forty-eight hours I stand before Lucas dressed, or better said, undressed. What I wear barely beats a scarecrow’s clothing. Aside from the fact that Evan’s tattered undershirt and boxers wouldn’t be good enough for Goodwill, they are flimsy and I’m sure Lucas sees my nipples through the thinning fabric.

  “Here, take this.” He throws a bathrobe at me and I don’t fuss but put it on. He
rolls one of my sleeves up twice then walks ahead of me, grabbing a sweater for himself on the way out. “Come. Let’s eat something and talk.”

  I follow, holding onto the bathrobe, afraid to step on it and sprawl on the floor. “Can we do this tomorrow? I woke up to write, not to eat in the middle of the night.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  * * *

  “Tickle her nose.”

  Resting too comfortably, I refuse to open my eyes, confident the man’s whisper is only a dream. I’m snuggled in a fluffy and good-smelling cover that reminds me of . . . something good.

  “She’s ticklish under her arms.”

  I’m pretty sure this is Ella’s voice, but in my dream I can’t really see her. It’s the first time in my life my dream smells. Aside from the strong scent from my covers—why do my covers smell like a man?—there’s coffee enticing my senses. Weird dream.

  “How about her feet? Can you tickle her feet?”

  There’s that man voice again and it sinks in that: A. that’s Lucas’s voice, and B., my feet aren’t covered. Ella’s muffled laugh travels through my dream and I smile.

  “Look, she must be dreaming something nice. She’s smiling.”

  My eyelids pop open as if propelled by springs. I stare into Ella’s face and right above her, Lucas’s. I’m on the sofa in the living room, clad in his bathrobe, my neck stiff from the armrest. Don’t recall how late it was, but I do remember chatting in the kitchen, eating then moving into the living room for more talking. And wine. We had a bottle of Chardonnay. Not sure how much I drank, and not sure when I fell asleep either.

  Ella’s dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, her hair pulled into two pigtails, one higher than the other. She never lets me comb her hair, let alone tie it up.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” she bounces on her feet, “look at my hair. Does it look nice?”

  I slowly move into a sitting position, pain shooting into my brain. I’m sluggish to say the least, and I can’t even blame the alcohol. The stiffness and aches all over my body don’t go away with stretching and rubbing my muscles to jumpstart my circulation.

  “That’s beautiful, sugar pea. Where did you get the rubber bands?”

  “I got another doll from Santa. It came with makeup and a mirror and earrings. Look.” Ella shows me a bunch of tiny things. “I can change her clothes and paint her nails in the same color as her dress. There’s lip gloss and a brush for her hair. I luuuub it. Lucas didn’t know how to braid my hair like the doll’s, but he knew how to make pigtails. Can you braid my hair?”

  “I can try.” I mouth, “Thank you” to Lucas over Ella’s head and he winks then walks away. She stands next to me, preoccupied with undressing her doll. When I reach for her pigtails to undo them she shakes her head and slouches next to the sofa.

  “Not now, Mommy, I’m playing. Later.”

  I let my daughter play and go to the kitchen.

  Lucas hands me a cup of coffee. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. You just made my day.” My fingers wrap around the hot cup. If I can make it through the first coffee without my neck and head exploding I should be fine for the rest of the day. The question is: can I?

  “How long until you’re ready?” Lucas butters a croissant and hands it to me, but the sight of it makes me nauseous. He shrugs and shoves half of it into his mouth. How he manages to look so good on only a few hours of sleep bewilders me. Shaved, with a gleam in his wet hair, dark jeans and a snug green fitted sweater, Lucas looks as if he just stepped out of a magazine, as always. I wonder if he ever looks terrible . . .

  His voice tunnels back into my fuzzy brain. “I’ll drive you and Ella to Simone, Viv’s niece. Then I’ll go to work. I’ve slacked these days, thanks to you.”

  “I’d like to go for a run,” I rub my neck. Damn pain.

  “Not a good idea. It snowed all night. Still is.”

  I look out the window. There’s a mass of fresh white as far as I can see: white trees, white ground, white sky . . . snowflakes race down. I probably won’t make it around the house.

  “Well, then. Let me take a shower. Do you mind keeping an eye on Ella?”

  Lucas nods and waves me away, already on his phone, which rings at the same time I ask the question.

  I rush to my room, close the doors and strip off the bathrobe—but not before sniffing Lucas’s scent once more. The hot water feels like a balm on my neck and I let the jets hit my body with full blow.

  When I return to the living room Lucas and Ella are playing Go Fish, him with a small pile and Ella winning by the amount of cards in front of her.

  “I’m ready.”

  “We’re not going,” Ella announces, drawing another card. “Dominique is sick.”

  I assume Dominique is one of Viv’s nieces, but for confirmation I look at Lucas who glances at his watch. I can tell he’s in a hurry and say, “That’s too bad. How about we let Lucas leave and I play with you?”

  He stands and taps Ella’s nose. Handing me his cards he says, “Simone called and said the little one has fever. I gotta go, but will pick you up for the party tonight.”

  “Party? What party?”

  “Viv’s party for her staff. Did you forget?”

  “No one told me anything about any party. I have yet to get a hold of Bernard. Not one word from him since I got here.”

  Lucas swings on his black leather jacket and wraps a knitted white and gray scarf around his neck. “Bernard is in the hospital. Car accident.”

  “Car accident? When? How?”

  Lucas stops at the door, hand on the knob. “Driving too fast.” Then he mouths, “Drinking and driving,” looking over at Ella. I’m grateful he didn’t say that out loud. She’s too young to hear these things.

  “Do I have to go to the party?” Ella taps my hand and I return my attention to the game, but continue to talk with Lucas. “I didn’t bring anything but jeans and sweaters. Besides, I’ve Ella to worry about. I can’t have her stay up late. You go and enjoy the party. I’m sure no one will miss me. I don’t know Madame V’s staff anyway.”

  Ella has another winning hand and folds more cards in her pile. “I don’t hab a dress for the party either.” My daughter, her worries, and her sense of fashion. If I’m not careful, one day she’ll turn into Madame V.

  “That’s it.” Lucas walks into the living room and scoops Ella up in one arm, her purple boots in the other. He sets her on the coffee table. “Put these on.”

  “Where are you taking her?” I’m alarmed by his demand.

  “Shopping. You, too. Hurry up. We don’t have a full century for this.”

  While Ella squeaks in delight and runs to gather her coat, I don’t move. My butt is glued to the sofa. “Shopping? You said you’ve work to do.” Can’t tell what aggravates me more—the lack of control over my time, or him not even consulting me if I want to go shopping. Maybe I have other plans. Maybe I just want to wail in my own misery for being sleep deprived, someone’s guest, and incapable of enjoying my stay in France. I came with many expectations of roaming streets, museums, and the trip is halfway over and I’ve yet to do anything other than wait to be told what I am and am not allowed to do. That’s what you get when someone else pays the bill.

  “I’ve ten people waiting for me,” Lucas says the words slowly but there’s a lot of weight behind each one of them, like a pressure cooker about to pop its lid. He drags me off the sofa and pushes me down the hallway toward my room. “Get your coat.”

  I oppose his pushing. “You don’t understand. I—”

  “No.” Lucas’s right index is up in the air, right in front of my nose. “You don’t understand. Get. Your. Coat.”

  I’m ready to put up a fight, but Ella is by my side, pulling at my jeans. “Look, Mommy, I dressed all by myself.”

  In unison we both look down at her. Aside from her boots being swapped left for right, she even put on her mittens and buttoned her coat—wrongly, but at leas
t she tried.

  “Good girl,” Lucas says and scoops her up, turning his back to me. “We’ll wait for Mommy in the car.”

  I debate if I should let him wait for a full century, as he put it, and then some. But then I also trust him to leave with Ella and let me soak in my own bitterness until I turn to vinegar. I get in the car and chitchat with Ella, avoiding addressing Lucas at all. The longer we drive the more I wonder: why am I so pissed at him?

  Yes, Lucas handles me like a brute, dragging me, pushing me—I bet a potato sack gets better treatment than I do. And yes, he talks nicer to my daughter than he talks to me—no ‘please do this or that,’ or ‘do you mind,’ or as simple as a ‘thank you,’ but rather ‘do this,’ ‘get this,’ ‘make that.’ Not to mention his cockiness and arrogance, which at any given moment spews from every pore of his body.

  But the truth is . . . I enjoyed spending last night with him. Lucas’s insight into the publishing industry blows me away. He knows the ins and outs of it as if he were an author. As it turns out, the closest to writing he’s ever come to is signing checks and autographs. And he hated school with a passion. Not once did he use his antics, but rather seemed eager to help me understand what I am up against—a jungle when it comes to publishing. I found myself absorbing every word he said, every suggestion he made. If someone would’ve ever told me I’d consider Lucas Oliver a nice person I would’ve died—literally, died laughing.

  My whole life I’ve loved one man, Evan. I don’t know how to handle attraction to someone else, or how to conduct myself around a man. It’s different when I’m around men in my family, friends or co-workers, who are just regular people and nothing else. But what do I do with a man I feel more and more attracted to in the worst possible way—physically? How is this even possible? And why is my own body betraying my mind and heart, which belong to Evan forever and ever until the day I’ll die. How can I stop the attraction?

  I’ve been alone for so many years now I feel rusty and self-conscious. Is the guilt I feel for being attracted to Lucas turning me into a chronic complainer? My tortured mind doesn’t come up with an explanation and, when we arrive at the same location he took me yesterday, I still haven’t said a word to him. He ignored me the whole drive also, either talking to Ella or on the phone, once with Cameron and once with Raven. This woman, whoever she is, is very persistent. She calls him a lot and, from the cryptic and cold answers he gives her, I’ve a feeling they used to be together.