Darker Water

by Lauren Stewart

  “But I have four tickets, and I really wanted to go with another couple. Even if they aren’t actually a couple.”

  “If you weren’t smiling right now, I’d be so pissed at you.” I sighed.

  “Please?” She put her hands together and begged. “Even if you aren’t dating him, you’re spending time with him, right? Then as your best friend and the person you were hiding him from, it’s imperative I make sure whatever you’re giving him is appropriate.”

  “Time. That’s all I’m giving him.”

  “Great. Then give him some time on Wednesday night.”

  “I’ll mention it to him but there’s probably a two-percent chance he’ll go. Or less.”

  The ticket was mine with or without Carson, but eventually I’d have to introduce him to Hillary. Plus, I might need someone to keep me calm at the gallery.

  The next time I saw him was Saturday, for what Carson referred to as his ‘Getting Handy’ class, but which was actually a chance for him to make a huge mess in my shop while I tried to get some work done. He did his part while I spent the entire time distracted by how to bring up the gallery opening.

  I stared at him across the worktable, trying to work out what to say.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me something terrible?” He didn’t look up from the project he was varnishing. He’d given up on brushes and neatness and was now happily finger painting.

  “It’s not terrible, but…”

  “It’s not good, either.”

  “I need to ask you for something that…might be construed as being against our…Code of Conduct. But I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…” I slumped back into my chair in disgust. It was just a gallery opening. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

  “Okay.”

  I felt a sudden wave of courage hit me and sat up straight. “What would you say if I asked you—” Courage gone. Mouth snapped shut.

  He looked up slowly. “I’d probably say yes if the word ‘sex’ was in the last part of that sentence, but if there was mention of other men, hookers, or animals of any kind, I’d say no. And then I’d ask if I could watch.” He paused for a second, studying me. “What are you afraid of?”

  I thought of all sorts of words: ‘rejection,’ ‘humiliation,’ ‘men,’ ‘love.’ But all I could do was shrug. A stupid question had suddenly turned into a need for emotional catharsis.

  He leaned towards me. “Lane, everyone has damage. The trick is learning how to deal with it. When that doesn’t work, you need to figure out how to push it down really deep so you can forget about it. To help you with that, I brought a couple pieces of fruit for my favorite teacher…along with a nice bottle of tequila and some salt.” A bag I hadn’t noticed was near his feet. Amusing since, for whatever reason, he didn’t drink in public.

  “Yeah, that would probably help.”

  “Or…you could just say it. I’m not sure you know this, but I have a lot of money and come from a family some people have heard of. Having a lot of money and coming from a family some people have heard of means that some of those people ask me for shit. Occasionally I say yes, but more often I say no because people ask for very strange things. But no matter how bizarre the request, I’ve never ordered someone’s head chopped off for asking. Not even once.

  “So I’m pretty sure, no matter what you’re about to say, you’ll still be alive five minutes from now.”

  “My roommate Hillary dangled a ticket for a gallery opening in front of me and I really, really want to go.”

  He let out a breath. “I thought you were going to ask me to make an honest woman out of you. Although”—he cocked his head—“that would mean I’d get to make a dishonest woman out of you first. But I don’t get why that was so hard to say.”

  “Because she has four tickets. One for her, one for her boyfriend, one for me, and...” I waited for him to acknowledge he understood. It didn’t take long. But he didn’t look angry, just a bit wary. “Obviously, I’m not seeing anyone, but after she found out about you, she, of course, assumed we’re dating and she wants to go to this thing on, like, a double date.”

  “And you told her...?”

  “That in order to double date, you have to be single dating which we aren’t doing. Now or ever.”

  He nodded. “Good answer. But I’ll go if you want me to.”

  “What?”

  “Not as your date because I don’t do that with anyone, even with you and your roommate.”

  “And her boyfriend.”

  “All the more reason—if it was just the three of us, at least I could pretend the night was going to end really well for me. But if you want me to go somewhere, I will. And I’ll only ask for one thing in return.”

  I laughed, trying to clean up some of the mess he’d created. “You’re evil, you know that? I could just see her face if I told her I slept with you to make her happy.”

  “I’d like to think sleeping with me would make you happy.”

  “I’m sure it would.” Probably too happy.

  “Lane, you know that I’d really like that, right?”

  “Yes, Carson, you’ve been pretty clear about it.”

  “And you know that I get a perverse amount of pleasure reminding and teasing you about it, right?”

  “That’s also clear, yes.”

  “And you know that if it’s ever too much, you should tell me so I can immediately stop, right?” He stood up, putting his project under the worktable and tossing his gloves into the garbage can. “I mean it.”

  “Clear.”

  “So should I?”

  I walked away from him. When he followed I laughed. “I have an incredibly attractive, interesting man literally following me around and telling me how much he wants me. And even though I keep saying no or ignoring him completely, he doesn’t give up. Do you have any idea what a stroke to the ego that is?”

  He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me back against him, his breath warming my neck, his hand resting low on my belly and holding me still. “He doesn’t give up because there’s an incredibly attractive, interesting woman right in front of him who will eventually say yes because she wants me to stroke things besides her ego.”

  Being with him was torture. It was much easier to say no when he was joking around. But when our bodies touched and he spoke with a voice that went straight to my core, it was nearly impossible to keep my hips from pressing against his growing erection. We stayed in that position for a very tense couple of seconds. Or maybe it was hours. Both of us coiled so tightly, if either of us moved, there would be no turning back.

  “I can’t. Not yet.” It was more of a plea than anything else—begging him to release me. After a deep sigh, he did.

  “Until then, he gets to tease her mercilessly and enjoy being incredibly sexually frustrated.” He went into the small storage space connected to the shop area and got a beer out of the mini-fridge/freezer he’d bought me. I mean him. I was allowed to use it as long as I didn’t drink the last beer. If I did, I would be punished in a way he couldn’t discuss but that made him smile in a very wicked way.

  “You’re not sleeping with anyone?” I asked.

  “I don’t have time to. I spend all of it trying to sleep with you.”

  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take a huge burden off my chest. But it was completely unfair, illogical, and irrational to expect him—someone very upfront about his sexual dos and don’ts—to be saving himself for a woman who couldn’t make up her mind.

  I’d assumed he’d been sleeping with people while I’d been trying not to imagine him sleeping with people. But when I actually thought about it, we really were spending a lot of time together. He worked all week, met me for coffee every night, and spent at least one weekend day with me, usually both.

  He sat back down at the worktable. “So are we having this foursome or not?”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be ready. Before we do it, I have to know I won’t fe
el anything. I mean anything emotional because that would really be sad if I didn’t feel anything.”

  “We’re not talking about your roommate anymore, are we?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to be a tease, and I really want to. Like, really want to. But not if it screws me up.” Sex always screwed me up—as if the second the deed was done, my ring finger started itching. And Carson was so amazing, I wasn’t sure I could keep my promise to myself and to him. “So if you want to take a break from trying to get in my pants or if you want to stop completely, I totally understand.”

  He paused. “I’m glad you said that because I think you needed to. It’s good practice for you and was a nice offer. But honestly… I don’t actually give a shit. I am a selfish prick, Lane. If I wanted to be somewhere else with someone else, I would be. If and when I decide I want to, I’ll let you know and then I’ll do it. Because I’m a selfish prick. But for right now, the only pants I want to get into are yours, and the time I choose to devote to the cause is up to me. The only decisions you get to make are when—note I didn’t say ‘if’—when you say yes and when—again notice the absence of the word ‘if’—when you want me to go away.”

  I sighed. “I love your honesty. I really do.”

  “Well, I love your breasts, so we’re even.” His smile disappeared faster than it showed up. “Oh fuck. Does that mean we’re in love?” Amazingly, he kept a straight face until I hit him. “Oww. I need a drink to ease the pain.”

  Before I could stop him, he used one of my very sharp, very expensive chisels to split a lime open.

  “No, Carson, the blade!” I yanked it out of his hand and ran to the sink to rinse the acidic juice off the steel. “Lime juice will dull it.”

  “Wow, speaking of dull… I hope you’re more fun when you’re drunk because, as soon as I find a tool I’m allowed to touch, it’s going to happen. I didn’t bring a shot glass though, so you may have to whittle one.”

  Thankfully, I woke up in my own bed. Alone. Although I really could’ve done without my head feeling like a condemned building being torn down by a huge iron ball. I reeked of tequila and when I wiped my neck, I felt something grainy like sand. Nope, not sand. Salt. I had salt on my neck from where Carson’s…

  Oh shit. His tongue. The heat of his mouth running up my neck, his lips lingering just behind my ear.

  “Yes, that really happened.” Then with a whole new kind of pain in my head, I remembered us staring at each other while I took my time sucking every last grain of salt off his finger.

  Even more vaguely, I remember him getting us a cab and dropping me off here. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have sex. Almost sure. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to forget having sex with someone. If I remembered sucking on his finger, I’d have remembered if any other parts of his body went into mine. Oh god.

  I wondered what he felt like right now. Hopefully worse than I did, seeing how it was totally his fault. After a long, life-sustaining shower and putting on some clean clothes, I’d call Carson. Then I’d have to go find out if my shop looked as bad as I did.

  Hillary came out of the kitchen, smiling and horrifically cheery. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I’ve been working a lot.”

  “All night long?” she smirked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Is it that guy?”

  I brushed hair off my face. “Yes, but it’s not something to goofy-grin about. Really.”

  “When’s the last time you were here?” Hillary followed me through the apartment, stepping over the bag I’d dropped in the middle of the living room at some point. I’d get it later.

  “I’m here every night,” I said.

  “Not when I go to bed.” She totally didn’t believe me. I needed to either stop caring or start sticking to a curfew.

  “What do you mean? I watched TV with you for three hours the other night.”

  “Yeah. On Thursday. Today’s Monday.”

  How was that possible? There’s no way I spent the last three nights hanging out with Carson. No way. If for no other reason than he probably kept track and had a limit of how many nights he could spend with a woman before he went into estrogen shock.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Hillary said, amused at my obvious expense. “I know how to keep my days straight because I don’t have the kind of job I do seven days a week, and I don’t have the kind of boyfriend I sleep with every night. Because that would be more like living with someone, which I don’t do. I have a normal job with normal hours and a boyfriend who takes me out to dinner every Friday night. Then we go to his house and have sex and go to sleep. Then we spend Saturday together and on Saturday night we have sex again.”

  “I really appreciate you telling me this.” I turned the shower on, praying the water wouldn’t take too long to heat up.

  “Then, like many, many other normal people, Eric and I spend Sunday watching TV and vegging on the couch. On Sunday night I come back here and sleep in my own bed for the next five nights before doing it all over again. But one thing I don’t do is see my roommate anymore. So are you really going to keep telling me this guy isn’t your boyfriend?”

  “No, I’ve given up on you.” I shooed her out of the room. “But he’s not my boyfriend, and I don’t live with him. I live here, with you. And I’m not having sex with either one of you.” I blinked, my hand ready to close the bathroom door. “By the way, you should consider trying to liven things up with Eric because that sounds hellishly boring. People our age shouldn’t already be hellishly boring.” People our age should probably not do shots with someone they’re trying very hard not to sleep with, either.

  I called him as soon as I got out of the shower and felt mildly human again. “Did we have sex last night?”

  “Of course not.”

  Hallelujah.

  “No, last night we made sweet, sweet love.” He didn’t stop laughing for about ten minutes. “I promise, Lane, when we have sex, you will be completely sober, awake, and begging for it.”

  “Has a woman ever actually needed to beg you for sex?”

  “No. But I’m playing hard to get with you, so you’re going to have to beg. On your knees. While you’re—”

  “Shut up! I’m begging you.” Then it was my turn to laugh.

  Chapter 8 - Laney

  Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that my wardrobe was completely unacceptable for the gallery opening until the day of the event. My clothes consisted mainly of jeans and shirts because cute tops aren’t so cute when your bra is filled with sawdust or the sleeves are splattered with varnish. And in a fit of ‘I’m never dating again, so I don’t need going-out clothes’ frustration, I’d tossed a lot of reminders of my old self.

  After Kevin had shown me the error of my loyal and trusting ways and I’d finally wised up, I didn’t want to look sexy—I was purposefully trying not to attract anyone. And every outfit reminded me of a man. It was actually pathetic—I could remember when and with whom I wore every attractive outfit I had.

  They were souvenirs of the delusion I’d lived with since I agreed to go to junior prom with Michael Buckley and he celebrated by sticking his tongue in my mouth. Worst kisser ever, although I didn’t know that at the time because he was my first. My first everything—kiss, love, lover. Worst everything ever, actually. For his sake, I hope he’s gotten better.

  Tonight was special, though. I didn’t need to look sexy but jeans weren’t going to cut it. There would be potential clients for my business and, more importantly, for my art. I needed to go shopping.

  Carson called just as I got to the department store. “What are you doing?”

  “Shopping for a dress I can’t afford. What are you doing?”

  “Leaving work. Are you almost done buying a dress you can’t afford? I thought we could have a drink before you drag me to this horrible thing tonight.”

  I heard the smile in his voice. Doing what he did and being who he was, Carson p
robably went to this kind of thing all the time. Then his offer sunk in—he’d just asked me to have a drink a few hours before an event it would take me hours to get ready for.

  “Oh my god, it’s true—you’ve never gone out on a date, have you?”

  “What’d I miss?”

  “I’m a woman.” I pulled dresses off the racks, cringing every time I saw a price tag. So I stopped looking at them—they were all more than I could afford. Hopefully I wouldn’t discover I could buy the dress I wanted or pay my rent, but couldn’t do both. “I have two hours to find a dress, go home, shower, do my hair and makeup, and get to the gallery. Yet the guy I’m not dating is asking me to meet him for a drink.”

  “And he still doesn’t know why you can’t.”

  “Because I’ve already been to two stores and haven’t found a single dress I like. If Nordstrom doesn’t have anything, I’ll probably have to go in the dress I wore to my high school prom.”

  “Dear god, I hope you’re kidding. Just pick one. You’ll look good in whatever it is. Except your prom dress. Don’t do that to me…unless you went to the prom in a cheerleading uniform.”

  I held the phone between my shoulder and my ear as the stack of dresses grew. “This is important, Carson. I can’t go there looking like crap.” A saleswoman took pity on me and brought the stack to a dressing room.

  “You won’t look like crap. You’ll look great. I’ll make sure of it. See you soon.” He hung up before I could ask him what he meant. I jogged after the big pile of options, crossing my fingers that one of them would work.

  Ten dresses—mostly black, in two different sizes—and I still had nothing. How could I possibly be the only woman in the world to have boobs and a butt? Evidently, I was only allowed to have one or the other. Just as I slipped dress number eleven, i.e. the last one, over my head, a long royal blue dress came sailing over the top of the dressing room door.