Boston

by Alexis Alvarez

  I let my finger trace a path up his forearm, wondering if the light graze tickles, because his muscles clench under my touch. “Good answer, right, Romeo?” I ask, making my voice light and easy. This banter could work in one of my erotic books in progress, maybe Hard Candy, and I remind myself to write it down later before I lose the ideas, dandelion puffs in the tornado of my brain.

  His eyes flash and he grabs my arm, pulls me in. He whispers into my ear, “Careful, Abby. You think you’re teasing, but that sounded one hell of a lot like a challenge. And I’m a man who likes a challenge.”

  The feel of his lips against my lobe make me weak and liquid, and I gasp. In this instant, I know that I’m gone. But I step back. “Good. It’s definitely going to be a challenge to get the very best possible pictures for the book. Can you rise to the occasion?”

  “It’ll be hard, but I’ll do my best.” His voice is low, his eyes intense.

  “Oh, I hope so,” I say, smiling back.

  “You hope for which?” His voice is seductive. “Hard, or best?”

  “Both.” I grab at the hovering ball of energy beside me. “This is my best friend, Liesl.”

  Liesl is rapt. “Abby has been talking about you for weeks,” she says. “You and her are going to make a million dollars. You’re fucking hot.”

  He smiles, comfortable with her brash compliment. “Thanks. You too, luv.” He kisses Liesl on the cheek and smiles into her eyes, and a lightning flash of jealousy surprises me.

  Marr is back, swaying and walking like something out of Monty Python meets The Walking Dead. “The teacup in the magnet is a lot of verdant application,” she observes, sinks into a chair, and looks up at me. “Dear, don’t you have work in the morning?”

  “Gibberish,” I mouth to Liesl, and she shrugs, “Ya think?”

  “I think it’s time to go,” I say, as Marr rocks in her chair and hums. Liesl crouches down to help Marr with her other shoe.

  “Is that—your mom?” Boston lowers his voice and gives me a strange look. The teasing sexiness is replaced. I think I read surprise and even horror.

  “No. God, no.” I scowl at him. “Seriously?”

  He shrugs, puts his hands up in a defensive palms-out gesture, and steps back. “Sorry. I’m not judging. Sorry!” when I narrow my eyes. “All I mean is, you know, a lot of girls come here with their bachelorette party, but some come with friends and their friends’ moms, like a ladies’ night out. I was just askin’.”

  “You think she looks like me? I’m like her?”

  “No!” He runs a hand through his hair. “Not at all. I was just, maybe that’s Abby’s adoptive mom, taking her out for a night on the town to see the boys dance, you know? I mean, she’s a bit older and all. Fuck it. Pretend I didn’t say it. How about this: are you a secret bail bondsman, and you’re softening her up with alcohol and men before slappin’ on the cuffs and taking her to jail?”

  “Yes,” I announce. “Her crime is CWJ. Cougaring With a Jumpsuit.”

  Boston’s whole face smiles as he breaks into laughter. “Abby, this club is no strangah to CWJ. We also get some CWD, Cougaring While Drunk. And they usually bring their own cuffs.”

  I giggle and he laughs, and—I like him. He’s funny.

  “Cuffs? Did you say cuffs?” Marr wakes up. “I have always wanted to try that shit. Oh, if you were just a little younger. If I were older. Oh, if I were a happy lamb in a meadow, racing.” She lolls her head back again.

  “Abs, we gotta get her home,” says Liesl. “Hey, Parker, you’re a strong guy. Can you help us get Abby’s mommy dearest to the cah?” She snorts.

  I roll my eyes. “Stop it.”

  Boston picks up Marr in his arms as if she were a stuffed doll. “Lead me to it, ladies,” he says, and Liesl drains the rest of her last margarita before trotting to the door in her heels.

  “Hold it.” Boston stops. “You’re completely wasted, Liesl. Who’s drivin'?”

  “I am,” I sigh. “Like usual. I only had one drink. I’m good.”

  “You sure?” He gives me a long look.

  “Oh, do you want to administer a breathalyzer?” I snap.

  He laughs. “How about the kind that cops want from bad girls?” He makes his voice into a deep southern drawl. “On your knees, little lady, and put this in your mouth. It’s my test stick to see if you’re drunk.” He sounds like Bill Clinton.

  I punch his arm. “You are gross.”

  He winks. “You should see yah face. Tell me where to deposit this lovely armful now, ladies.” He adjusts Marr, who is drooling onto his shirt. Is it messed up that I’m a little jealous of her sagging head right now, because it’s propped up on his muscular chest? The truth is that I wouldn’t mind—in a very different situation—having his “test stick” available for various kinds of pleasure for the both of us, but he’s just being a raunchy tease.

  We get to my car and Boston carefully arranges Marr in the backseat, where she flops over and snores. It’s not clear whether she’s okay, or if she’s so drunk that we should swing by the ER.

  Liesl stands there with me. She wrinkles her nose. “This is the last time we take. Her. Anywhere. Because now we have to babysit her all night to make sure she doesn’t die.”

  I nod. “Lesson learned. Point taken. Complete agreement granted.”

  Boston touches my arm. “See you tomorrow then, at my studio. Eight a.m., yeah?” He smiles and leans in and I stiffen in eager anticipation, awaiting another tingly kiss on my cheek. But he just looks into my eyes. “I’m glad I said yes to your project,” he says. “We are going to have a hell of a lot of fun.”

  Chapter Two

  “Oh, my God.” Liesl speaks fast and with vehemence. “He was so hitting on you.” It’s six a.m., and she called early to catch me before I shower and leave for my meeting with Parker.

  “No,” I say, yawning and feeling butterflies as I remember the muscles on his arms, his eyelashes.

  “No?” Her voice raises. “He was literally one second away from jumping you.”

  “He was being polite.”

  Liesl snorts. “Polite is me holding the door so Marr’s head doesn’t pop off on the way out of the club. Wait—she didn’t die, right?”

  I laugh. “She slept on my couch for a few hours, then thanked me politely for a nice evening, and went back home next door.”

  “Ah. Good. So, back to the topic at hand. Polite is him saying, see ya later, Liesl. Polite is not eye-fucking your brains out in front of the entire room.”

  “That was just a compliment.”

  “Abby—”

  “No, let me explain. It was like that time in New York after graduation, at that Spanish-Chinese fusion restaurant in The Village? There was this super-hot young waiter. My grandma fell in love. So he kissed her cheek and he pulled her up to dance salsa. He said he’d marry her that day if he wasn’t already moving back to Argentina with his fiancée.”

  Liesl sniffs. “I don’t see the correlation here.”

  “He was a wicked gentleman. He didn’t really mean it, and he knew that she knew he didn’t really mean it, but they both enjoyed it.”

  Liesl makes a strange noise. “You are not your grandma. Boston isn’t a waiter from Argentina.”

  “No, but that’s what Boston was doing. Flirting, yes, but not with intent. He was, you know, complimenting me, safe in the knowledge that I knew that it wasn’t real, and I’d never call it in.”

  “The man wants to call into your body with his dick.” She laughs, then sings to the tune of “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.” “Don’t cry for Boston, dear Abby. The truth is he does want to fuck you!”

  I crack up. “Well, I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think he’s just flirty. He gets plenty of girls.”

  “He is,” she agreed. “He gets plenty of p. And he was not being polite.”

  I’m silent. I want to think that Boston really does want me, but I don’t crave the feeling of crushing stupidity that comes when I thin
k a guy is into me, and later find out that he has zero interest.

  “The question now,” she says, “is what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I mean, even if he meant it, which I don’t think he did, I don’t want to be a quick handyfuck. He’s a player, Liesl. He probably has a pick-a-number dispenser by his front door.”

  “That club was full of women. He came up to you.”

  I sigh. “Because he recognized me. We’re working together, remember? I’m heading to his studio soon. God, I hope he’s serious about this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have no idea whether he’s as dedicated to this as I am.”

  “But I thought you guys had it all worked out.” Liesl sounds confused.

  “All we have worked out is that he liked the sound of the project, agreed to provide me with pictures, and said he’d split the profits... if we do it. But we haven’t created a contract yet. And after his attitude last night, I’m not sure. I mean, no offense to him, but from the way he writes and talks, it’s not like he’s Einstein to begin with. And if he’s just jerking around, being a slutty playboy, planning to give me some half-assed pictures on a lazy schedule, I’ll back out and start talking to other models. I mean, I want this to work. He’s so hot.”

  “You got that right,” Liesl interrupts.

  “Yeah. So it’s important that we have a professional meeting where we can talk business.”

  “So turn him into a business partner with benefits, get the photos for your book, and let him hold you up against the wall while he bangs you. It’s not rocket science. You don’t need Einstein.” I can hear the smile in her voice, but then she adds, “You haven’t been with a man since you broke up with Erik,” and her voice is serious now.

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. “So?”

  “You need a little physical joy, and that man looks like the perfect one to deliver. I’m sure he’s smart enough to multitask both pictures and orgasms for you. And forgive me, but even when you were with Erik, the sex wasn’t blow-the-roof-off, was it?”

  No. It never was, but that’s not something that I can focus on right now. “Lees, be serious.”

  She laughs. “Whatever. Let me know when you pass your breathalyzer.”

  “Shut up.” I hang up and smile. And now there’s the little matter of what to wear.

  ***

  I end up in my usual writer’s uniform: Jeans, a pretty black shirt that hugs my breasts and waist, and funky purple gym shoes. I spray perfume. As I rub one wrist over the other to spread my favorite scent, Light Blue by Dolce and Gabbana, a powerful image snaps into my brain, of Boston’s strong hands grabbing my arms and ordering, “Like this,” as he winds a gauzy scarf over my skin. Stop! I have to focus or else I’ll be a blushing mess when I see him.

  I grab my laptop case and get into my car, eager to start this new chapter. Twenty minutes later, I’m at Boston’s place. Who knew he was so close all along?

  He lives in a South Boston neighborhood; it’s a little rough, but I figure I’m safe enough here. His modeling/photography business is pretty new, and for the first time it occurs to me that maybe he’s not as rich as you’d assume from seeing his pure handsome hotness online. Is it possible that he can have a million fans on social media and not be a millionaire?

  My palms feel sweaty and I wipe them on my jeans before tossing back my shoulders and ringing his bell.

  His presence fills the doorway like light, taking up every square inch, the entire surface of my field of view. He’s in worn blue jeans, riding way low on his lean hips, and he’s not wearing a shirt. I suck in my breath and then force my eyes away from his abs to land on his face.

  “Good morning.” My voice is hoarse and I clear my throat. “Ready for some planning?”

  “Morning.” He puts one arm up on either side of the doorway, shifts his weight to one hip, and smiles down at me. “You have a nice drive? I made coffee.”

  His scruffy jawline is magnetic. Why do I want to reach up and rub his chin with mine? His smile widens and his voice is low. “You like a little sugar, Abby?”

  Damn. He’s doing it again, the teasing thing. Okay, Liesl was right—it’s not polite. My guess is that he likes to establish a position of top dog with everyone, and with women, he just flirts them into submission.

  I speak without thinking. “Show-off. Drop the guns and let me in. We have work to do.” And then I duck under his raised arm, the top of my head brushing his biceps and chest as I London-Bridge on through. Once I’m past, I say over my shoulder, “Sometimes I like it sweet, but today I’m in the mood for something rougher. Leave mine black.” Part of me wants him to arrest my motion with that strong arm, to pull me to that chiseled chest and put his mouth to my ear—but he doesn’t, of course.

  I stop and look around. If I were the type of person who whistled when impressed, I’d be doing a long, low tone right now. His home is his studio, and the front room—which is massive—has a long backdrop and lights on stands along one wall. Shelves hold equipment that I don’t recognize per se but know it has to do with photography stuff. A half-open door leads to the bedroom, where a glimpse of a king-size bed and navy and white décor sends my stomach into a dance.

  He watches my reaction. “You like it?”

  I nod. “Amazing.”

  Something relaxes in his posture; it’s like my approval means something to him. He smiles.

  “So this is where you take all of those pictures you sell on your website?” I nod toward the setup.

  “Some.” He gestures at the backdrop. “I have about ten different backgrounds I can use, but a lot of time I prefer natural light.” He points to a the large plate glass window with an ornate armchair in front. “My very own Rembrandt light. Some shots I do outside in the back, by the wall, or downtown.”

  I brush a light stand with my fingers. The equipment is black and industrial, at odds with the ethereal or gritty photographs he produces. Those look like magic, like they sprang out of someone’s mind. And dark, like they came from a rough, hard daydream.

  “So who takes the pictures of you, if you’re the photographer?” I examine an arrangement of glass frames on the wall that feature his work. I love the photograph of him that’s side lit, his face half in shadow. I also love the one of Annalise, a close-up of her face in black and white. It looks like a Vogue cover, but artsier, sexier.

  He laughs. “My business partner, Chelle, is also a photographer. We’re a good team.” He grabs a white T-shirt from a wooden crate that seems to function as an end table and tugs it over his head. “Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I had my shirt off to do some test shots, make sure there weren’t hot spots on my skin.”

  “Hot spots? And—why would I mind?”

  “Areas where the light is too concentrated and leaves a spot that’s too bright. It’s distracting and amateur and hard as hell to fix in Photoshop. It’s best to set things up right the first time.” He shrugs. “And… we don’t usually wear a lot of clothes while we’re modeling, Abby. I figured you guessed that already, since we talked about the kinds of shots I’m going to do. But just to let you know.”

  I feel my face burn. “Yeah, most of the important scenes in my book, the ones we’re duplicating, are the scantily clad ones.”

  He laughs. “I’ve never acted out a romance book before. This is going to be different.” He walks out of the room and calls, “Come on in the kitchen.”

  I drop my laptop case near the crate and follow. It’s an older house, and the kitchen is 1950s retro that’s never been remodeled, but it smells like freshly ground coffee. He pushes a cup across the table to me and smiles. “Black.”

  I bite my lip. “Actually, do you have cream?”

  “Fridge. Feel free.” He slouches back in his chair and watches me, a smile on his face. I hesitate, then check. Basically, it’s full of vegetables and bottles of water, but there’s a small glass bottle of organi
c creamer. I grab it.

  “I guess I should make myself at home, is that right?” I pour.

  He chuckles. “I’m not a real fancy guy, so it’s better if you just make yourself comfortable.”

  I think about that. “You want some cream?” I push the bottle across the table and sit down.

  “Oh, I like a little cream sometimes.” His fingers graze mine as he accepts the offering, and wild sparks dart through my pelvis. His voice is casual, but his eyes are intense, and a small, knowing smile plays on his lips. Something in my body melts, because I’m thinking some pretty seriously dirty thoughts right now involving his tongue, and I need to stop it. He needs to stop it, this flirting, or else I’m going to be a sloppy mess. Or maybe it can work. If I’m turned on, I write sexier, because that tension works its way into my words.

  “So did you read through my proposal?” My voice is light. “You want to do this with me?”

  He nods and turns, grabs a pile of papers from the counter. “Twice.”

  I gulp my coffee. “Tw—what?”

  “I read your proposal… twice.” He raises one eyebrow and I feel my face burning. He continues, “I estimate we’re going to need about one hundred unique pictures. You said most of them should be me. So I broke it down: Seventy percent of them just me, twenty percent me and Annalise, and ten percent just Annalise. Okay?”

  I’m impressed and grateful that he’s taken it to this level of detail, and I need to stop thinking about what I want to do—twice—with him. “Yes.”

  “Good, because that’s what I figured you needed.” He clears his throat and reads aloud. I flush, recognizing my words from an email I sent him during our initial exchange. “I think my readers will prefer pictures of you alone to fantasize about, but yes, we need some of you as a couple to mimic scenes from the book. They need to think of themselves in that pose with you. And the ones of her by herself? They can imagine that they’re her.”