by Petrova, Em
The Fink and the Valkyrie made their excuses and headed toward the restrooms while me and my besotted sister awaited the next course. The wine was getting to me, the acidic content playing havoc with an ulcer that sprouted wings the minute that first gag of putrid fish oil hit the back of my throat.
I needed to gargle with a single malt and quick because the prospect of wolfing down more cuisine was on the dark side of not in this life.
The Fink had chosen a—to use his term—very special dish that I was pretty sure contained thin slices off calves held in bondage to keep their hide and muscles lax, flaccid, and fork tender.
Veal.
I hated veal.
Other than the mouthful of bloody tenderloin, there was nothing so far to keep me from starving to death. I suspected, after the show, I’d be heading to my favorite watering hole to beg a Reuben and fries from Sally Sweetcheeks, our name for the aging proprietress who treated ‘her boys’ with good humor and motherly affection. If your waistline didn’t strain your jeans, it wasn’t for Sally’s lack of trying.
“So, hon, what do you think?”
That was a landmine waiting for a misstep. Casting the net in the general direction of one-size-fits-all, I allowed that,“It’s all good,” followed by a quick grin and an urgent need to rearrange the dinnerware into my preferred formation: knife, fork. Spoons were for pussies, or ice cream. The extraneous pieces got marshaled into an orthogonal arrangement, ninety degrees to the infantry, out of the way but available for backup just in case.
Cordie knew me well enough to recognize my lack of enthusiasm and prevarication. “Robbie, talk to me.”
Yeah, Robbie, let your older sister carry the weight of your issues like she always did. I said something to the effect of I don’t know what you’re talking about, but she wasn’t buying it.
“Is it Allison? Do you miss her?”
My ex? Oh hell no.
What I missed was getting a regular blow job on Saturday night because I was too whacked out from work, writing, hauling ass to practices, interviewing and kissing up to management. What I missed was a life without a deadline looming over me. And an editor with ice in his veins and a hard on for gossip, whether true or not.
What I missed was waking up with a soft warm body jonesing for morning wood, OJ and promise to do it again sometime.
When I realized she required an answer, I shook my head, freeing up a run at we’d never say it to your face, after all it’s your life and we’d never interfere… but, at which point Dr. Finklestein arrived to take his seat and give my sister a peck on her cheek.
The Fink looked from me to Cordie and asked, “Anything wrong?” From the look on his face, he wasn’t inquiring after my thoughts on the meal so far. The good doctor had his finger on the pulse of relationships which kicked him up a couple of notches on my watch what you say meter but also made me appreciate how good he was going to be for my sister.
I liked the Fink. Enough to indicate that work was a bitch and to give him enough pithy details into the workings of the underbelly of professional sports to have him shaking his head in commiseration with my unfortunate state of affairs.
Cordie listened politely, but since I wasn’t saying the magic words: I’ve met someone special, most of what got said passed in one ear and out the other. My sisters, nieces and cousins had their priorities set to happily ever after. I was good with the next ten minutes.
And then the Valkyrie sauntered back and my internal clock went haywire, like I’d been sucker punched. Until I’d done the innocent, brushing her boob with my chin, I’d been put off by her haughtiness. That was until the cattle prod zapped my gonads and had me fantasizing a set of drills to test her ball handling and my driving for the easy score.
If she hadn’t done the finger thing, I might have stayed at mildly interested. But not now. She’d moved into radar range with the promise of a little one-on-one. But there was more to it than me needing to get laid and her tripping my proximity alert.
My intuition sensed a story, a big one, in an expose sort of way. One side of my brain said I recognized her from somewhere, and not from shooting hoops back when I had zits and hormones and none of the sense that God gave geese.
The other side said— Well, actually what I was feeling wasn’t brain related at all.
Tay-for-Taylor settled onto the chair and Arturo and his army appeared with steaming dishes of veal spiedini. I wasn’t taking credit for knowing that because Miss Finger Fuck explained, “It’s thin slices of veal rolled around a mixture of pine nuts, prosciutto and fresh mozzarella.” She licked her lips and examined the sauce with an eye to peeling it apart, ingredient by ingredient. Looking up at Arturo she asked, “Amogio?”
Arturo was in raptures, followed closely by the Fink. It wasn’t red so I asked, “What’s that?” with the tone of one doing his obligation but not really wanting to know the particulars.
Veal was veal, no matter how doctored the meat, or what the chef used to hide it.
Miss Tay nodded for Fink to do the honors.
“It’s a marinade.” The good doctor sniffed appreciatively as Arturo laid the plate in front of him and backed away so as not to impede the aroma. Fink smiled and said, “Ah, olive oil, very light. Lemon. Basil.” Another sniff. “And garlic.”
Great. More lemon.
The gorgeous warrior princess next to me frowned and looked concerned, giving me a quick glance and then motioned to Arturo to approach for a consult. She muttered something in Italian, which sent my spidey sense on high alert.
My fanboy nodded and said, “But of course, signora,” and whisked my plate away before I could voice either an objection or an inquiry.
Muttering to the company at large, “Please, don’t wait on me,” I resigned myself to being singled out as the dunce at the table, the one with no taste, no refinement and no culture. “Three for three,” escaped my lips before I caught myself saying something completely insulting to my host and my sister.
The Valkyrie’s warm hand stroked my thigh as she leaned in with a whispered, “I don’t care for veal either, but I can eat it.”
One of Arturo’s minions interrupted with a plate of chicken Marsala in a wine sauce that looked like heaven and smelled even better. The speed with which it appeared had to mean another customer would be enjoying an additional glass of wine on the house while waiting for their order.
I said, keeping my voice pitched so only she could hear me, “I could kiss you for this.”
That got me another squeeze, high and inside, and suddenly dinner seemed superfluous. Before I could suggest dessert selections, she smiled, withdrew the hand and began digging into her entrée. We spent the next few minutes devouring our meals and mewling small appreciative sounds of gustatory ecstasy. Mostly I picked at my plate, moving the bits of chicken around the brown sauce with mushrooms and wondering what it would take to get Tay’s finger to mop up a generous portion of sauce, stick it in my mouth and let me suck it until she moaned something dirty in Italian.
Actually, I wasn’t fussy. Anything in Italian would be a monumental turn-on right now. My cock was hard enough to tent the damn napkin and the only safeguard I had was the artful drape to the tablecloth.
After eating enough not to rile my eagle-eyed sister, I let Arturo lean over and clear my space. He brushed the tablecloth aside, revealing the joy in my trousers, and burbled something in Italian.
Tay, my goddess, inhaled sharply. Thanks to Arturo I was now in foul trouble.
Disappointment creased our server’s face but he bore up under the failure to entice us with additional calories. The man cheered considerably when the Fink ordered cappuccinos with Kahlua and reminded Arturo we were on the clock. He bowed and scraped and gratefully accepted a very generous gratuity and wished us well and bid us come back again.
The look he gave me could have melted glass and I have to admit, with those smoky, smoldering eyes … get me drunk enough, I might reconsider my preferences.
As we exited
the restaurant, Tay remarked, “I do believe you made a conquest.” She gripped my arm to keep me from turning around and giggled. “Don’t look. If you do, I believe he will follow you home.”
“Shit.”
Cordie asked, “What dear?”
“Uh, nothing, just tripped.”
Fink handed Tay a satchel and asked if she wanted to change.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind Dr. Finkl— uh, Fink. I won’t get far in these things.”
Those ‘things’ were the spike heels. The Amazon whipped out a pair of trainers and slipped them on quickly. I beat her to the punch by kneeling and tying the laces good and snug. That gave me an excuse to move in close as I stood, now nearly eye-to-eye with her.
That made me feel loads more comfortable. Small of me but there you have it.
She smiled and blushed, giving her mocha complexion a tawny glow in the streetlights.
“Did you mean it?”
Uh-oh, mean what?
“About kissing me.”
Oh hell, yeah.
The Fink called back, “Which way, Rob?”
I thought ‘shit’ but answered with another question, “Which theater?”
The Fink moved under the light pole and peered myopically at a piece of paper folded into quarters. “It’s the Ambassador.”
Tay had moved away and joined my sister to talk girl talk while I mulled over her question. I’d been worried about staying awake during the performance and not dozing off and ruining Cordie’s evening out with great honking snores.
I didn’t think that was going to be an issue now.
“Rob?”
“Uh, sorry, it’s two blocks that way,” waving in the direction we needed to go, “and then two up.”
We arrived with five minutes to spare.
Cordie gushed, it’s what she did. If you capitalized and bolded every word coming out of her mouth, that would be only a faint indication at how thrilled she was about our evening, what a success, a veritable triumph of the human spirit. The Fink smiled and gently led my sister away as Tay and I waved weak goodbyes.
I loved my sister dearly but a little Cordie went a long way.
That left me alone with a woman who was slowly getting under my skin and for the life of me I had no clue why.
Initially standoffish, she’d given me glimpses of a woman who knew how to play and play hard. She also had a belly laugh that tickled my soul and drew me in so that I laughed along with her, even when I didn’t get the joke.
I hadn’t planned on it but I said, “Should I get us a cab?” Us, not her, not me, us.
“I, uh, I can get home just fine. Thanks.”
She held out her hand and I let it hang for a heartbeat, then I drew her close and whispered into her mouth, “I owe you a kiss. And I always pay my debts.”
Anchoring her head with my palms pressed against her ears, I explored her mouth, keeping it soft and undemanding even though every nerve cell imploded at the taste … wine and smooth creamy butter and the bitter sharpness of the cappuccino. Going rigid, she slammed a wall between us and I backed away, respecting her space.
“Now, where do you live?”
She managed to look relieved and disappointed at the same time, and I could have pressed her to come to my place and she might have, she had that aura of indecision. I saw it in the set to her shoulders that belied regret.
“I’m not a stalker, Taylor, you can trust me to take you home. And that’ll be it. Okay?”
Nodding, she let me take her hand as I flagged a cab. When she told the cabbie where she lived, I cringed with understanding. To say it was a bad neighborhood wasn’t putting too fine a point on it.
“You could come to my place. Go home in the morning.” I added quickly, “I have a fold up cot for when my cousins visit.”
“I’ll be fine, Rob. Thanks anyway. It’s best…”
Yes, it was best.
That’s why I didn’t like it. But I kept my mouth shut and held onto her hand.
She waved me and the cabbie off and bolted into the three story walkup. I watched until she disappeared and then settled back for the ride home through darkened, ugly streets.
In the morning, I had research to do for an article I was writing on recruiting. It would give me a chance to hit the stacks at NYU, maybe do a little poking around.
Taylor O’Brien had secrets.
There was no logical reason for me to want to know more about her.
No logical reason at all…
Chapter Six
Tay
Four days. Four. Long. Days.
Belly grumbling in time to the four-four beat, I side-stepped the makeshift kitchen and curled up on the couch, ruing eating so much the night before.
Should have known better, girl. A full belly thinks it deserves to be full all the time.
Trying to distract myself with the remembered scents and flavors of Meal Extraordinaire, instead I ended up with the savory whisper of soft lips and a hint of tongue in a lingering blend of wish fulfillment and remorse.
Robert van Horn kissed like he meant it, in a sensitive, honest, real way. Surprising me. So much so I let the wall fall, kersplat. Any other guy would have taken it as a not in this lifetime sucker, but Rob didn’t, and there was no way for me to figure how I knew that to be true. I just did.
Respect.
That’s what it was. Respect wrapped around the condition that it wasn’t the end of the matter. His hand gripping mine the whole ride back to my place, the way he watched me get out of the cab, staring out the window to make sure I got inside in one piece.
Like he knew me. And he cared.
He had no reason to: I was the plus-one, fulfilling an obligation to his sister, it was over and done. It had nothing to do with me.
But his lips hadn’t said that.
“Don’t be needy, dipshit. Not now.” Flicking my wrist, I murmured, “Think about Tony and the whisk and that bit of sin…” and the hiss of breath as Rob’s eyes went molten, sable-to-gold-to-flaming-heat.
I could kiss you for that…
Standing with a jerk, I stated categorically for the walls’ benefit, “I’m so far from his type it’s laughable and I need to think about holding on for four more days, and not about him turning to watch me out the rear window of the cab.”
With a penetrating stare. Curious.
But about what?
“Not you jerk-off.”
No, not me. With my stupid cornrows and body gone to mush and self-esteem buried in a sub-basement so low down neither me, myself nor I was ever going to resurrect it.
He was being a gentleman, the son raised to do right by the women in his family. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Besides, he never asked if he could call, never said one word, just fingered my hand like he owned it, like he had a right to it.
Self-assured asshat. Prick.
The cell jingle-jangled and I saw it was local but not a number I recognized. My heart skipped a beat, then two.
“Hello?” It came out a whiny rasp so I tried again, then collapsed back onto the couch, disappointment like ice water in my veins.
“Hi, Cordie.You’re up early.” For Cordie, eight in the frigging morning happened only for a sale at Nordstrom or a pending call to her divorce attorney. Since I was neither, I listened as she reminded me that the Fink was off doing Fink things and Cordie was alone and needing girl talk. Did I want to join her for breakfast?
Pregnant pause.
The Fink and my best friend had already ponied up rescue airfare from Italy and a week’s stay at a Holiday Inn while I got my proverbial shit together and developed a game plan. After that I was shuffled from one cousin to another for short hauls while Sam and Marie waved magic wands at NYU. That whole crew had fast-tracked me onto the road-to-recovery so fast my head was still spinning.
The least I could do was take her to breakfast.
Except that wasn’t happening. Not for four more days. Sam had offered to fill i
n the gap but … well, I wore big girl panties and if going without made me an adult, then so be it.
She said the magic words, “My treat, dearest,” and the empty fridge and even emptier shelves receded for the time being.
Such was the life of the graduate assistant. Far from complaining, I was thankful for the faith put in me, a has been, a lackluster student in my prime with few qualifications other than a good eye and big brass ones on the court. So tuition got covered, leaving me to exist in one of the most expensive cities in the country with a small stipend. Small being the operative term.
The money covered rent. Rent that was due on Monday so I’d have to silver tongue my way around the fact I was good for it, a dance I did every single month and damn it just never got old.
Grimacing, I mumbled, “Thanks,” and made arrangements to meet Cordie in an hour at the Milennium. I couldn’t recall if they had a restaurant and if they did, was there an all-you-can-eat buffet? Because I was loading up on calories, filling that hollow leg to capacity and beyond.
The black wool trousers were all I had in the fit-to-be-seen, perfect for a brunch date, not so much for shooting hoops on a basketball court. I didn’t want to have to trudge all the way home to change and then hit the streets again. That left a reasonably fashionable lightweight exercise outfit, a clinging nylon piece with a racing stripe that never wrinkled, no matter what I did to it. I threw shorts and a tank top into the oversized duffel that seconded as a purse, fumbled around for my transit pass and discovered a five dollar bill stuffed into a wrinkle in the lining.
Feeling flush, I headed out with a spring in my step.
“This is like old times, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I smiled apologetically, a habit I’d developed since coming back home with my tail between my legs.
Cordie wasn’t buying it and said with an edge to her voice bordering on motherly, “It’s done and over with, do you hear me? Put it behind you, Tay.”
Shrugging, I dug deep for the bit of me I used to assure everyone who cared that I was okay, doing fine, handling it, movin’ on… Instead, I got a napkin and a ‘there there’ as Cordie grasped my hand so tightly it hurt, but in a good way. A way that said ‘I love you’ as only women friends can.