Stronger

by Misty Provencher

  "So, it's Lydia," he says.

  "Always."

  "Does your belly button still taste like a mojito?" he asks. It's not like I am surprised by his question. This kind of thing has happened before. I've run into ex-lovers and rarely remember them. I'm a girl who has no problem enjoying my body, enjoying those of various men, and I have a diverse, sexual appetite. Sue me. It's one of the reasons why I don't tie myself down to any of them. The prissy girls would love to categorize me as a whore, but the women who love men's bodies understand me completely. They wouldn't judge me when I can't remember a name or face of a lover. They would just call me forgetful.

  I squint at Aidan and kick myself for not remembering his particularly remarkable body. I can't imagine how I'd let him get away from me before I had maxed out my three-date rule. The rule is that I will date a man no more than three times, since after three it becomes a pattern and that means it's headed toward relationship. I don't need any more of that drama in my life.

  I try again to retrieve a memory of him, but nothing comes. What a crying shame. He's obviously been acquainted with my belly button and knows one of my favorite drinks. He looks like he would've been a great time. I'd love a repeat performance, but it's a lot trickier to pull that off if he's moving in next door. I have enough sense to know that neighbors would make terrible lovers.

  As I'm still contemplating, Aidan rubs his neck warily and confesses.

  "Not that I've tasted it myself," he says. "But we did meet a little over a year ago. A year and a half, actually."

  I wait for him to continue, because a year ago or a year and a half, it all means zero to me. It's not like I sit at home pining for a weekend. I make weekends happen every single day, so the enormous time frame he's giving me doesn't narrow it down in the slightest. He smiles. "It was at Modo's Bar?"

  All I can think is shit...I've met half the damn world at Modo's.

  "You left with a friend of mine? Uhm...Shane?" He looks so hopeful. As if I'll remember a name. I go out of my way to avoid names. It'd be easier if he gave me some identifying details of the guy's body instead, like tats or earrings. Maybe a severely broken nose or obvious scars. Any details that would be useful in a line-up would work for me too.

  I already know that this little discussion is going to go sideways on me. I either hooked up with my new, hottie-neighbor's friend, or I turned him down. That can only mean that my hottie neighbor is about to classify me as either a slut or a bitch.

  I'm disappointed already. With a body like Aidan's, I was hoping he was going to say I'd hooked up with him a year ago, and that he wanted to help me remember. I can think of at least five different positions that might jar my memory. And then, five more, if those didn't work.

  "Sorry," I say. So sorry...and in more ways than one. "I don't remember him."

  "No big deal," Aidan shrugs with a grin. The moment is broken with a ring from my cell, located somewhere inside my apartment...wherever I dropped it last night. I'd ignore it, except that this particular ringtone sounds like glass shattering and the sound is reflected in my spine every time I hear it. I wince.

  "Well, nice talking with you," I say and I duck back into my apartment.

  Before I close the door, I catch his smile. Warm, genuine, incredibly sexy.

  "You too," he says as I shut him out.

  The glass shatters again. I scout the room in a frenzy, overturning couch cushions and looking under the coffee table, before I trace the sound back to the kitchen sink. I pick up the phone as it shatters a third ring inside the basin.

  "You there, Lyddle?" A deep voice asks. The name makes me quiver against my will. It radiates out of my spine and it's hard to tell, even for me, if I hate it or if it totally turns me on. He started calling me Lydie first, and then he switched to Lyddle. It's exactly how he's always made me feel.

  "I'm here," I say. I step over to the coffee pot and refill my cup. "What do you want?"

  "I was wondering if I could see you." His voice is as professional and detached as a physician calling with bad news.

  I swing open my kitchen cupboard and take down the bottle of Jack. Only about an inch of liquor left in this bottle, I slosh it into my cup. Swirl it. Take a burning gulp.

  "I thought we agreed that wasn't a good idea," I say. He chuckles, as if I have no idea about what is good or bad.

  "I never agreed and I think it's a fabulous idea. We just need to talk."

  "We never just talk. And it hasn't even been a week, Desmond."

  "But I miss you," he says, a soft hook on the end of his words. He knows I'll come. I hate that. "Don't forget to bring your portfolio."

  I only forgot once, but he's reminded me every single time ever since, like a newspaper on the nose. I take another good slug of my begin-the-buzz breakfast, swallow it down and say, "Alright. Where?"

  "My place."

  "Your place..."

  "Don't be like that," he says, but he drops his voice to a thick and sexy timbre that disguises the reprimand. He really wants me to come. That alone tingles. "We need to talk. Do you need me to insist, Lyddle? Is that what you want?"

  "Alright--I said alright." Tiny grains of hope spin inside me, they always do, no matter how absurd they are. I still frown the response and hang up. If he catches a whiff of my hopes, he'll only smash them. He does it every time.

  I take the last gulp of my straight-black-and-hammered and straighten my shoulders.

  "Alright," I tell myself.

  <<<<>>>>

  There is a knock on my door at the worst possible moment. I can't find my rings.

  I pull on my suit coat and check my pockets, but those damn rings are still missing. I ignore the knock and keep searching, feeling along the shelves, pulling lingerie from my drawers, but there are still no rings.

  There is another knock. Another.

  I finally whip open the door to find my new neighbor, All-Man-Aidan-Neighbor from 2A, standing in the hall. His mouth drops open just a bit when he sees me. I take in his body as he takes in mine, but, unfortunately, I don't have time for him.

  "The laundry room is in the basement and it's free, but it's dark and loaded with spiders," I say as I turn back to check the candy dishes on my shelf that have never held candy. I hope they will magically hold my rings. None of them do. He follows me into my room, silently surveying the pile of lace and heels on my bed, as I comb the top of my dresser for the rings again. "There's also the Suds Station around the corner, on Beech, down by Jack's Liquor store. If you want the grocery store, it's in the opposite direction. Take Elm to Main, turn left. It's right there. There's a Chinese place further down on Main, but there have been rumors of cat shortages, so that's up to you."

  I wait for him to say thank you and leave, but he's still standing in my bedroom door, with a smirk that is so sexy, I want to put my tongue in the corner of it.

  "I was wondering if you had a wrench?" he asks. "Can't seem to put my hands on mine."

  "A wrench? Yeah, right. What kind of girl do you think I am?" I laugh, but I brush past him, continuing my search in the bathroom. I stopper the sink and shovel my make-up into it as I glean for the rings. A wine glass at the edge of the sink tumbles over but doesn't shatter, the little blister of dried red still secure in the bottom. "If there was ever a wrench in my apartment, it would be under the kitchen sink. I know tools have been under there before."

  "This is your apartment, isn't it?" He grins as he heads into the kitchen. I expect to hear him comment on how the living room walls are all painted different colors, or how the fridge door is decoupaged with artsy magazine photos, but he doesn't. He must see it, but he breaks a record by not asking about it, and I don't have the time for a conversation to spring up. I've got things to do.

  I return to my room and overturn what's left in my underwear drawer on my bed, rifling through the mound of thongs and lace panties. Still nothing. I pull out one of the rest of my drawers and do the same.

  "You have a wrench in here," he
calls.

  "Yeah, well, people leave things here," I say. "I don't keep inventory."

  His footsteps hesitate and then tromp back toward my bedroom. I peel off the lid from the coffee can in my closet, open up the cardboard pudding box huddled in with my nighties, and I feel all the way down inside the toes of my thigh-high boots beneath the bed. Still no rings. I'm under the bed, reaching for a purse strap, when I spot Aidan's shoes at the doorway of my room. From where he's standing, he's got a perfect view of my ass, stuck in the air like an offering, while the rest of me is crammed beneath the bed springs.

  The thoughts that race through my head aren't polite. They involve a million things that I'd like my neighbor to do, considering his vantage point, but it's also the last thing I need right now. I've got somewhere else I have to be and being late will only make things worse for me.

  I sigh and pull my head out from under the bed, along with the purse I was after. Kneeling beside the bed, I meet Aidan's gaze as I dump the contents out on the mattress. He's holding a wrench I've never seen before, and I catch him moving his eyes away from my rear. The smirk is back. I answer with one of my own, as I rifle the purse. The jackpot is at the bottom. I grab all my rings and stand up, sliding them onto my fingers one at a time. Except the last ring. I just hold that one in my palm.

  "It's kind of early for a date, isn't it?" he asks. I pause, resting a hand on my hip.

  "Why would you automatically think I'm going on a date?" I turn in front of him, so he can see my feminine version of a business suit: pearl-buttoned silk shirt, black suit coat tailored to my hourglass, fitted black pencil skirt, pointed-toe stilettos. "How do you know I'm not a doctor or a lawyer?"

  "A lawyer with a black lace bra like that?" he asks, glancing at my chest. I glance down too and button the plunging neckline of my blouse one more button. I shoot him a don't you-wish look, because I don't have time for these fun and games. I step in front of the full length mirror in the corner of my room, doing my ceremonial turns and twists to make sure I have everything in place. I fasten back my dreads. The anxiety builds as I straighten, pull, adjust. I suppose it doesn't matter. Desmond will let me know what he thinks when I get there.

  "And I'm guessing you're not a doctor either," Aidan says. My eyes narrow to slits in my reflection. He's got a lot of nerve to doubt me in my own apartment, holding what must be my wrench. And guessing that I'm not a doctor, in that tone of voice, is unacceptable.

  "Really?" I step away from the mirror, tipping up my chin to him and lowering my tone to a challenging thrum. "And what exactly do you think I am, neighbor?"

  His smile is so damn easy. He stares down into my eyes as if he's dropping an anchor. He doesn't look away, but I do. Damn.

  "I try not to jump to conclusions about people," he says, "but doctors don't usually rush off on the weekends in suits, so you've got me curious."

  I put the back of my hand up to his eye level and spread my fingers wide. He squints at the tattoo on my ring finger, but I drop my last ring over it quickly.

  "What I am," I say, waggling the heavy diamond in his face, "is married. Bet you didn't jump to that conclusion, though, did you?"

  CHAPTER THREE

  A WORKING ARRANGEMENT

  I'm in the back seat of the cab, bumping away from my apartment house, and I feel like a jerk. I replay the way Aidan lifted his brow after I slid on my wedding ring for the entire ride.

  All he said was, "I'm not surprised, actually. Your husband's a very lucky man."

  "I agree," I'd said. I gave Aidan a smile, but I didn't explain anything else. I cracked open my back-up bottle and topped off my travel mug with another healthy splash of Jack. He let himself out and I followed him, grabbing my poster-board-sized portfolio case, which I keep near the door. Aidan was standing at his own door as I locked mine.

  "I apologize," he said, glancing at the huge, rectangular case, "if I offended you."

  "You didn't," I said, but I felt a twinge of guilt at making him believe I was legitimate.

  I don't know why I was so defensive to Aidan. He's just a guy that lives next door. Just a guy. And it's not like other men haven't made the mistake of trying to call me a whore to my face. At least he only lightly insinuated it. I've got to remember that my three-date-max rule is in place to cut down on the whore-calling, but dating my neighbor would probably end with a lot worse names being flung around. I sit back in the cab and watch the city whiz by outside, trying to figure out why Aidan's insinuation feels so much worse.

  The cab jogs over a pothole and I almost spill my cup of hair-of-the-dog in my lap. We pull up in front of the security gate. It is huge and black and prestigious, rising up to a high peak that couldn't be scaled by ninjas and every time I pull up outside it, my stomach turns to lead.

  Desmond is waiting just inside the bars. Even disguised by the layers of his suit, his powerful physique is obvious. The way he moves tells a story about the kind of man he is: demanding, precise, concealed. He steps through a door to the side, instead of opening the gate. He also pays the driver before he opens my door and offers me his hand.

  "You look edible," he says. Once standing, I juggle my travel mug as I slide my huge portfolio out of the back seat.

  "I am," I answer coolly, "but we're not eating. We're just talking, remember?"

  "We could do both."

  "No, we can't," I say. I always start off so solidly.

  He chuckles, but doesn't offer to carry the portfolio or the travel mug. Instead, he slips an arm through my free one and we stroll back through the small gate door and up the drive, toward the house.

  "I want to ask you something," he says.

  "I assumed that was the talking you wanted to do."

  "Such a smart ass today." He flashes me a wicked glimpse of a grin. "You know, we could disappear in among the trees..."

  "Except that I'm sure the help would never believe that your trees needed decorating," I tell him. "I'm here and I'm on the clock, so talk."

  "You definitely are." He chuckles again, running his gaze over my attire, but he doesn't break our stride. "We'll talk about that, but I have another question. I'm curious."

  "About?"

  "Why do you come when I call, Lyddle?"

  His voice drops to that low timbre that kicks up clouds of winged creatures in my stomach. What they are is hard to distinguish--dark moths or blood-thirsty bats. He rubs his knuckles and I anticipate what he will say next, like his words are actually mine and just waiting to be spoken. When I'm with him, I am nothing more than a sophisticated marionette, waiting for him to move me for his pleasure; waiting for his words to fill me, so I can say exactly what he wants to hear.

  But today, I won't give in so easy.

  I tell myself this every time, but I hope that today I will stick with it.

  "I think you know why I come," I say.

  "Oh, I know exactly why you come," he murmurs so softly, the words tangle in my hair, as if they are his fingers. The burn inside me begins to smolder and spread, low in my stomach. This is how it always begins and I need to fight it, but real fighting would've meant that I'd never have come here to begin with. His grin finds its way in and spreads me open. "I like to believe you don't come for the money, Lyddle, but that you come because you love me."

  "Less and less each time," I say, juggling my things so I can take a healthy gulp of my spiked coffee. "I come because you pay me to do it. I need the money to survive."

  "Yes, you really can't live without me, can you? But you're saying that you still expect to gain immunity to me one day and end all of this?"

  "Of course. Don't you? You know we can't keep going like this..."

  "That's where you're wrong, Lyddle. As usual. There's nothing to stop us, besides us. I still feel the same way about you that I always have. The more I see you, the more I have to have you."

  "Then you should tell your wife," I say. He stops and takes my hand then, removing the coffee cup and rubbing his thumb over the en
ormous ring he gave me, when we began this whole affair.

  "I am," he says, pulling up the ring and rubbing the skin beneath. The tattoo there is the real wedding ring he gave me, only a few days after we got married. Des had gotten me drunk to do it, then took me to a hack tattoo shop, and had his last name embedded in my skin. We fought the next morning, when I realized he didn't reciprocate with my name on his own ring finger.

  "I meant, your illegal wife," I say, pulling my hand away. I wave a finger between us. "This doesn't mean anything anymore. I might still be your legal wife, but you married Claudia too and she's the one you're with. Call it what it is, Des. You're just fucking with both of us."

  "Oh now. Keep your voice down, Lyddle," he growls, pulling my hand through his arm again. He brushes his thumb intimately in my palm. It's humiliating when a few more strokes make my legs quiver, but why wouldn't they? He's still my husband and his hold on me is solid. I can't blow him off like the guys at the bar. Des knows how to get under my skin, how to manipulate it and massage my ego until I open up my point of view, my heart, my legs for him. I struggle to hang onto my resolve, just this once, but he's making my palms sweat. "Tell me why you are still wearing my ring, if it doesn't mean anything to you?"

  I take a drink from my mug, looking off toward the mansion beyond the trees, trying to remind myself that he's not truly a husband. Not a good one at least, and it doesn't matter how long or how well he knows me.

  "I wear it because you asked me to." I jut my chin and add, "We both want what's under it to stay covered up so we can forget about it."

  "So, it's going to be one of those days," he grumbles, stepping away.

  "You bet."

  "Maybe you were right. Seeing each other isn't such a good idea."

  "The only right thing to do is get a divorce."

  "You know I can't," he says, stepping closer and pulling me to him, right in the middle of the driveway. I'm an idiot to even be here.