Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

  CHAPTER 21

  Michael

  I awoke to the sensation of a finger probing the edges of my lips. My body jerked instinctively, then my eyes opened fully to a vision that made my initial discomfort worthwhile.

  Ana Forrest hovered over me in glorious, naked beauty. I was on my back on an unusually plush mattress with high thread count sheets, straddled by an enthusiastic Ana. She swept some of her shoulder-length blonde hair from her eyes as she slid herself on top of an erection I hadn’t realized I had. “Certain parts of you men always wake up first,” she said, lower lip curling.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I said, then the need for words faded away. I let Ana ride me expertly for several minutes, then slid her to the edge of the bed, where we worked through a progression of positions. From below, behind, atop and side by side, I admired her every curve. Despite nearing thirty and adding maybe a dozen pounds since college, Ana had kept herself in admirable shape. As we traversed the confines of my hotel room, the early morning light seeping in through a partially closed curtain, I marveled at my staying power. There was definitely something to that “practice makes perfect” truism. Just months ago, the thought of getting naked with Ana, a college crush I had always been too shy to act on, would have had me cowering in fear.

  I was no longer that Michael Blake. Though I experienced occasional pangs of mixed emotions, my coached transformation was progressing steadily. Hanging at the Freaky Fridays event a week earlier with Scott’s friends Sally and Char had been fun, especially considering the reaction we got out of Aimee Chase. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Scott’s strategy had worked. The girl looked straight up jealous. I guess Aimee is further proof of the universal axiom: women don’t want a man until he’s with someone else.

  Not only had I turned Aimee’s head with my appearance and Sally’s orchestrated lies about my powerful sexual reputation, it turned out Scott had likely encouraged Char to offer me a pity lay. We hadn’t even made it off the dance floor Friday night before she was pawing me. I took her home, took more care than usual to ensure my condom was on good and tight, and tried to earn the reputation I was slowly developing with my third partner in three weeks.

  I think I handled my business reasonably well–unlike with Camila I was actually sober for the entire escapade, and Char was if nothing else a convincing actress. If I took her at her word, between us we chalked up a total of five orgasms. Except for an awkward moment when I had to convince her that I had yelled “Baby!” instead of “Aimee!” everything was cool.

  Recalling exactly where I was, I reminded myself that for all the momentary joys, I was not really here to see Ana. My natural curiosity, along with specific coaching from Scott and Bobby, had led me on a thirty-six hour personal trip to New York City. I was only a few hours in, but by the end of my time here I intended to settle three questions: What did Beverly Barrister want from me, what could she do for me, and what were we going to do to each other?

  I had flown into JFK airport Wednesday evening in advance of a Thursday lunch meeting with Bev. It was an off-the-books affair, modeled on our Hotel Monaco luncheon in Chicago but set in this case at The W New York on Lexington, safely segregated from her Wall Street office digs. Arriving into midtown, I had settled into my room at The W and decidedly not touched base with Beverly. Better to keep things low-key and intriguing until she and I were face-to-face.

  What I had done was to follow through on a FaceBook exchange with Ana from earlier in the week. We had re-established contact several years earlier through social media, rekindling a friendship that had always been driven more by study groups and small talk than late-night bonding over beers or bongs. As memory served, I had nursed a painful unrequited crush on her as a freshman, stuffing it because she as a junior had a serious boyfriend back at home in Jersey. That was me then, respecting kids “going together” as if they were married. Through the wonders of Mark Zuckerberg’s technology, I had kept up with Ana’s personal life in the years following her divorce from Peter, the Jersey boyfriend with whom she did spend nearly a decade. As she had vaguely indicated via FB messages and shared in great detail late Wednesday night, Peter the baker had ultimately been too threatened by Ana’s escalating career path as a personal financial planner. Apparently she was among the top tier of earners for the American Express Northeast region.

  “So tell me,” she said, patting my chest as we settled back into the bed. I was proud to hear her panting in recovery. “Did you always have that in you?”

  I looked across my chest into her glimmering blue pupils. “Ana, let’s just say I’ve come a long way, baby.”

  She smirked and sat up. “You just always struck me as the marrying type. When I saw your FaceBook friend request, I just knew your page would be full of images of your life with your adoring wife and picture-perfect children.”

  I shrugged. “So what did you think when you realized I was still single and childless? Undesirable loser or secret-agent Stud?”

  She gave me a playful push. “You are so stupid, Michael.” She leaned against me, a bead of sweat from her forehead splashing onto mine. “This has been really fun.” She rolled from the bed and pointed toward the bathroom. “You mind if I get the first shower? I’m running home to get into a new outfit before a client meeting, but I don’t believe in stepping out without looking and smelling decent.”

  I tried not to leer. “You’re crushing both standards right now.”

  She placed a hand to a bare hip. “Oh, you are so not like what I remember.”

  I smiled as she disappeared into the bathroom. That was the idea. This was another milestone in my development. Not only had I seduced a drop-dead beauty, I had achieved it in record time (for me at least) while overcoming Ana’s history-based perception of me as a tepid “friend” type.

  “Don’t spaz out if you fall short on this one, Mikey,” Bobby had said when I mentioned my dinner with Ana to him and Scott. “You trying to pull off some hat trick shit here–a one-night stand with a babe who knows you as the old you? You’ve got some major baggage to overcome with her.”

  “All is never lost,” Scott had said, cutting in as we all circled the pool table in his condo loft. “You’re both single, consenting adults, established professionals in your own right. She wouldn’t be meeting with you if she wasn’t at least curious about whether you’ve changed in a way that makes you more interesting. But you will have to be on your P’s and Q’s. Bobby and I will role play with you some, because your dinner conversation is gonna have to cover all of The Rules in a fell swoop.”

  Sitting there on the W bed, I wanted to exult in just how successfully I had touched all of the “rules” bases in my dinner with Ana. From references to failed and complex relationships and how I had successfully defended myself from paternity suits, to talking openly about my resistance to the idea of getting married anytime soon, to even spinning the fact that I was here in part to deal with “unwelcome” advances from a business peer who found me irresistible, I had reeled Ana in. A woman looking for a life partner might have run screaming from the W, but as I had assessed from our online interactions Ms. Forrest was very much into the post-divorce “adventurous dating” phase. I was glad to be part of her journey, even if only for one night. And early morning.

  When my cell buzzed with a text, I grabbed it to see that it was a message from my mother. Apparently her college roommate and good friend, Sarah Lott, was coming to town that weekend to host one of her big relationship seminars. Sarah, who was Warren’s godmother and had been like a play aunt to both of us as kids, was a Chicago native now hailing from some overpriced Phoenix suburb. While I hadn’t talked to her directly in a few years, I respected the loyalty between her and my mother. Even though Oprah now claimed Sarah among her best friends, I had seen media appearances of Sarah’s where she called my mother out as her “ride or die buddy.”

  'She doesn’t need fellow old fogies like me there,' part two of Mom’s text read, 'bu
t you’re her target market. Go support your auntie.' Like she needed the help; the woman had authored two Oprah Book Club selections.

  As if she could read my mind, my mother followed up one more time: 'You know you’re on the wrong track, Michael. Sarah can help.'

  As only a mother could, she nearly got me. I reflected briefly on my argument with Scott and Bobby the night after my Freaky Fridays victory. I had admitted to feeling a little guilty at the wounded look in Aimee’s eyes. Scott had told me to push past any such emotions. “Some day, when you can effortlessly seduce any woman in any context, you’ll have the luxury of making like Dr. Phil.” When I expressed regret about how many women seemed to fall for “The Rules,” Bobby had placed a hand to my shoulder. “Bro, no time for worrying on that now. You got to stay focused, build that muscle memory or you’ll never win a babe like Aimee in the first place.”

  I set the phone down, opened the bathroom door, and accepted Ana’s invitation to join her in the shower.

  CHAPTER 22

  Michael

  A few nights before my trip to New York, I had met Scott and Bobby at a local Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria. High on the agenda were the topics of Aimee and Beverly. Setting aside his beer, Bobby had kicked things off. “So let’s cover the MILF.”

  “You know, even for you that term is pretty crass.”

  “Oh sorry, Precious. What’s her proper fuckin’ name?”

  “Beverly.”

  “You haven’t banged her yet, have you?” Bobby’s grin was a shit-eater.

  Digging into my first thick slice, I recalled the minutes after I pulled back from my near-kiss with Beverly at Hotel Monaco. I had assured her that I was attracted to her, but needed to take things slow because I preferred to keep my work and social lives separated. I had also claimed to be in a rocky relationship I needed to end before getting with her. Two key rules checked off there: Don’t be easy and Be in demand.

  Scott nodded proudly. “By the way, has she shown any more leg behind her claim that she could help you out on the job?”

  I shook my head. “Not really, she’s been pretty coy.” Beverly had clearly still been intrigued by me, but she was too clever a poker player to lay her cards bare while we were still feeling each other out. Before really feeling each other out.

  Scott paused for a second in thought. “You said this lady’s personal friends with your CEO?”

  “That’s right.”

  Scott pounded the table. “Let me ask a couple of my pals at the Chamber of Commerce. I can probably get a taste of what’s afoot. You think Ms. Beverly might be angling to get a big job at Star Studio?”

  “You bet. She’s not just any old Ivy League MBA. Before doing the stock analyst thing she was made partner at one of the big management consultancies and was a CFO for a decent size manufacturing firm. She could run our Investor Relations department with her eyes closed.” Speaking the sentence filled me with a heart-warming vision: Maxwell showing up for work, only to realize that the security card reader no longer recognized his badge. Maxwell being escorted off the premises, a sight I would enjoy with a bucket of popcorn as I sat in his old office with Beverly on my lap.

  Bobby, of all people, took my implication to the next level. “So she could be your next boss? That douche bag you working for now, does he know he’s on shaky ground?”

  I shrugged. “Maxwell’s always kissed her ring, which I always guessed was driven by part fear, part respect. Anytime she seems unhappy, he gets a little upper lip sweat.”

  We had kicked around the odds of my getting a boost up in the IR organization if Beverly came into power there, my excitement about the prospect inducing laughter from my instructors.

  Scott and Bobby had pounded fists, and as they chuckled at my expense Scott spoke. “Big Mike’s ready to sleep his way up the ladder. Never thought I’d see the day.”

  The memory of the guys’ proud laughter rang faintly in my ears as I took a seat at the bar of Heartbeat, The W’s main restaurant. Looking to kill the half hour before Beverly’s scheduled arrival with a beer and a little Sports Center, I grabbed my phone to take another quick run through my work email. Even though I was charging this as a vacation day, I couldn’t afford to miss a step work-wise–I was uncovering more and more signs of troubling financial performance at Star Studio. From increasing rates of product defects and returns among our newest releases, to insufficiently booked levels of bad debt reserves, to an increasingly limp order backlog, I was seeing things that would make the heart of a stock analyst like Beverly go cold. The only question, as I was aware from ongoing meetings with Maxwell and others in our Finance leadership, was when we would start reflecting these concerns in our public earnings guidance.

  When I had addressed the latest couple of emails responding to my financial inquiries, I took a moment to be entertained by a Sports Center breaking news story. “Embattled Commissioner Ian Wallace continues his status as a lightning rod for controversy, this time for personal behavior of his own. The Commissioner’s former head of security, Ray Watkins, going public today with accusations that he was forced to aid, abet and conceal an abusive affair that Wallace conducted with a younger woman whose employment was tied to the league. For more on the story, we go to our own Sajid Perlstein . . .”

  Nursing my beer, I sat transfixed for a second by what looked to be the latest slow burn public comeuppance of a man in power. While I had no delusions of ever holding a position comparable to Ian Wallace’s, I certainly aspired to reach two to three more rungs up the ladder from where I found myself. While my playboy transformation might help in that regard, a story like Wallace’s reminded me that the habits I was forming should probably be temporary ones.

  As Sports Center moved on to actual coverage of sports, a petite, pretty woman around my age took the seat next to me. Her fiery red hair styled into a bob, she wore a creme-colored, double-breasted business suit that made me guess she worked at an investment bank or a consulting firm. She was clearly alone, for the moment at least, and bore no rings on her left hand. She exchanged nods with me, ordered herself a glass of Riesling, then took great interest in a tablet she removed from her purse. Glancing at the digital clock over the television and realizing I had another fifteen minutes before Beverly was due, I assessed my new neighbor more fully. Sleek, self-assured, and radiating an aura of pure peace, this woman was the type who had once given me pause–someone attainable but promising enough to be intimidating. A woman like this could be my future wife, mother of my children. It was hard not to feel pressure in a situation like that; to think that a wrong word or gesture could rob me of the woman I was meant to spend the rest of my life with.

  That was the old Michael Blake, of course. It hit me that fifteen minutes was plenty of time to continue “Killing Michael” and further thicken my skin against rejection. Keeping my eyes straight ahead but tipping my head toward the beauty, I spoke crisply and easily. “You doing any good work there?”

  She glanced over, the twinkle in her eyes accentuating her racially ambiguous resemblance to the actress Juliana Margulies. “You trying to draw me into a conversation about my line of work?”

  I turned to face her, smiling innocently. “That’ll work.”

  She smirked–not smiled–and crossed her legs while turning further toward me. “If I chose to make conversation with you, what would your first topic be?” It was less an invitation than a skeptical test.

  I tried transparency, which my training had taught me worked with half of all women in pick-up situations. “How about, what boxes does a guy at a bar have to check to get your number?”

  She replied with a skeptical glare. “Really.” She turned back toward the television. “That’s a little much for me to share with a stranger.” She glanced over, looking more amused now. “Why don’t you go first? What does an accountant from Ohio look for in women?”

  Ooh damn. So it was going to be like that. Nearly caught dead to rights–although Chicago was like no city in Ohio
, and my role in IR was far more interesting than that performed by most CPAs, this uppity wench wouldn’t care–I channeled Bobby for a minute.

  “It’s probably that smart mouth that’s kept your ring finger undressed all these years,” I said, laying down a twenty to cover her drink and mine.

  She turned toward me with eyes narrowed, voice increasingly fiery. “You clearly wanted this smart mouth a minute ago,” she said. “You know what? Fuck off. Don’t come at me in the first place if you don’t have the balls to take a joke–”

  I was assessing whether this was her idea of sexual chemistry when I heard Beverly’s voice from over my shoulder. “Is there a problem?”

  I turned to face her, feeling something between embarrassment and excitement. “None at all,” I said before looking over my shoulder and winking at the still-smoldering redhead.

  As we were ushered to our table, Beverly chuckled at my explanation of what she had overheard. “You young bucks,” she said, “you can’t help but try your charms on every pretty little thing. The one who will say ‘yes’ is always around the next bend, right?”

  Holding a chair out for her and admiring the way her pants suit hugged her long legs and cradled her considerable breasts, I shrugged. “Place a young man in the middle of NYC, give him a little money and a nice suit, and his head fills with fantasies I guess.”

  Beverly toyed with her menu as she sized me up. “Well, I won’t be holding it against you. I expect nothing less from my men–whether in the bedroom or the board room, the most successful of you are cavemen at heart.”

  I saw no point in arguing.

  She hailed a waitress and ordered her own beer before hitting me with a hardening stare. “What’s your company hiding from me these days, Michael?”

  I drummed the table lightly, trying to convince myself I wasn’t chock full of answers to that question. “How would that make us any different from your other companies?”