Entwined

by Lacey Black

  “What?”

  She sets her fork down dramatically and sighs. “I was just asking if you were going to the Dover’s on Saturday night. Their daughter, Kelly, has moved back home, and I’d love to introduce you two. I believe you would hit it off swimmingly,” she says with a smile.

  Swimmingly? Who says that anyway? Why not just say nicely or easily or well? Why use a term that makes her look like a frickin’ Stepford Wife with a dictionary in her hand?

  And don’t get me started on the casual slip of the set-up. I can see exactly what she’s doing. Mom wants me to date–but on her terms and with her choices. Back when I used to risk bringing a girl home, it never went well. She didn’t like her. She was bordering on rude the entire time, making comments that left my dates feeling uncomfortable. So I stopped bringing them home. I stopped the long-term relationships and stuck with casual hook-ups; things that I could control a bit more.

  Mom has always felt the need to keep me barely out of arm’s length. She hovers, she pries, and she’s nosy as hell. I’ve learned to ignore her less-than-subtle need to know where I am and who I’m with more so now than in the past. In high school, I rebelled. Well, until I learned that the consequences of rebelling were far worse than her constant hovering and smothering.

  Now, I just ignore her.

  “Actually, I have a date Saturday night.” Lie. Though, I could easily secure plans this weekend and call up any one of the numbers I have stored in my phone for those nights I’m feeling a tad lonely.

  Mom’s shocked eyes are riveted to me. It’s as if I told her I was joining a cult who shares wives and am going to strip on the side. “A date? With who?”

  With who? With who? Think, asshole, think. If I just throw a name out there of one of my random hook-ups, she’ll expect to meet this woman as soon as possible. I know, I’ve tried it. If I make one up, she’ll see right through my bluff–she always does. So I do the one thing I can think of when I’m desperately staring down the disapproving eyes of my mother.

  “Sidney.”

  Manicured eyebrows shoot towards the heavens. “Sidney? Sidney who?”

  Blake chokes on his own air across from me. He tries to pass off his laughter as a cough, and quickly averts his attention to cleaning up the imaginary mess his daughter Natalia made on the table. Carly, on the other hand, is captivated with the conversation, watching in fascination as her head volleys back and forth between Mom and me. Get the woman some popcorn.

  “Sidney Rogen.”

  “The neighbor girl? Didn’t she move away years ago when her father’s affairs became public?” Again, with the disapproving tone.

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything? It wasn’t her affairs,” I reply gently. I’m teetering closer to the edge of defiance where my mom is concerned. She doesn’t like to be questioned or challenged–especially by me.

  “She was always so Plain Jane,” Mom says, glancing at Carly. “Always playing in the dirt or running around with the boys in the backyard.”

  “Yes, you are correct. She was a child, therefore tended to act like one.”

  The eyebrow shoots upward, again. This time conveying her displeasure with my sarcasm.

  “She chased the boys around all the time, especially Luke. She didn’t have any of her own friends and hated wearing dresses. She was a tomboy, through and through, much to her mother’s disdain.”

  “I remember her. Sweet girl,” Dad adds with a smile in my direction.

  “Anyway, she’s back in town and agreed to have dinner with me to catch up,” I throw out there casually, even though it’s completely fabricated.

  “Oh,” Mom exclaims, exhaling deeply. “So it’s not a date. It’s old friends catching up. I see.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up at her comment. Why would it be bad if I dated Sidney? She’s grown into an incredibly gorgeous woman with long, lean legs and hips that make me want to mark them with my fingers as I’m gripping her delicate skin while she slides down on my cock.

  I adjust my sudden hard-on in my shorts and sit up a little straighter in my seat. I haven’t had wood at the dinner table since I was nineteen years old and that blonde bombshell stroked me beneath the table. What the hell was her name? Doesn’t matter. It was the best family dinner I’ve ever attended.

  “You should bring her. She grew up in this neighborhood. I’m sure Jacquie Dover would love to have another familiar face at the party. And while she’s visiting with everyone, you can get to know Kelly a little better.”

  Carly’s face is almost comical at Mom’s easy dismissal of Sidney’s potential presence. Blake is busy trying to shovel more food in his mouth, probably so that he doesn’t say something he shouldn’t. That’s been his MO for as far back as I can remember.

  Clearly, Mom has my Saturday night envisioned one way, and I have it another. That ends now.

  “Mom, I won’t be hanging out with Kelly Saturday night.” I give her a pointed look, not backing down.

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be the entire night Saturday. I mean, you could get her number and set up -” she says, but is cut off by her husband.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sure that if Luke wants to spend time with Kelly, he’s more than capable of doing so on his own.” He turns and looks at me, his eyes smiling with knowledge and humor. “And make sure you bring the Rogen girl by to say hello. I always liked little Sidney,” he adds before turning his attention back to his plate of food.

  My food, on the other hand, turned cold, my appetite gone. I’ll never understand why my mom insists of trying to run my life, while leaving Blake to make his own choices. Not that she sits back idly while he makes them, but she doesn’t seem as quick to dispute or direct. She steps in, don’t get me wrong, but it has never been as consistent and as intense as it is with me. I’m guessing it has something to do with being the baby of the family.

  Yay me.

  * * *

  My phone is practically burning a hole in my hand. I’ve been staring at a blank text message for the last five minutes. Hell, who am I kidding? I’ve been staring for the last hour.

  When I got home from my parents’ house, I went to the gym for a quick workout. When my mom gets under my skin, I’ve found it helpful to burn off as much of the tension and anxiety as I can with either running or free weights. Tonight, it was running. My feet pounded four miles on the treadmill in just under twenty-two minutes. It was a great run for me; one of my fastest times yet. But for as fast as my feet moved, my mind moved even faster.

  Memories of a childhood with Sidney replayed through my mind all the way home, too. She accompanied me into the house and eventually into the shower. Those memories were a little bit steamier though. There, in the confines of my tile shower stall, my body remembered every touch of her skin, every glance of those crystal blue-green eyes, every moment I spent with her on my graduation night.

  As those memories often did, it resulted in a fucking hard-on that wouldn’t quit until I was left with no other choice but to take care of it myself. Sure, I could have made a call. There are a few women that would have enjoyed taking care of it, but when memories of Sidney are the cause, the effect can’t be tamed by another woman. I won’t do that to her memory. I won’t let our night together be tainted by another woman trying to satisfy me. I won’t let it happen, because it can’t. When it comes to Sidney, no other woman even comes close to measuring up.

  So now here I sit, staring at a blank screen with only her name typed as the recipient. What is she doing? Is she at home, enjoying a glass of wine? Is she out with friends, or worse–a guy? The thought sends jealousy spiraling through my bloodstream. I’ve never been a jealous man. Shit, there are too many women out there to even waste your time with jealousy. But Sidney? The thought of her sitting across from another man, those big aqua eyes hanging on every word he says, sends blood swooshing through my ears and causes my fists to tighten.

  And let’s not
get me started on the idea of her being married, okay? That thought alone enrages me. Someone else touching her, kissing her, fucking her. Can you say anger issues? The only thing keeping me somewhat sane is when I think of how horrible incarceration would be if I murdered the fucker. Life on the inside for a cop–or former agent–wasn’t anything to write home about.

  The blankness of the message taunts me, mocking my indecision. When have I ever been this uncertain in contacting a woman? Never. Plain and simple. But then again, it hasn’t been Sidney.

  Fine. I’ll do it.

  Me: Hey, it’s Luke. Thanks for having coffee with me today.

  There.

  Sent.

  Casual.

  Keep it light.

  My breathing is erratic as I drop the phone on my bed like it were a severed head, but even though I may not physically be touching the device, my eyes are glued to it. I let out a girly gasp as I watch the little bubbles appear on the screen. She’s writing me back.

  Sidney: Hi. It was nice to see you again, even if it was a bit shocking and under unusual circumstances.

  She isn’t joking on the shocking and unusual circumstances. Today was just plain awkward.

  Me: Understatement of the year. But I’m glad I ran into you. Did everything go okay when you got back to work?

  Again, the little bubbles light up my screen.

  Sidney: Yes, it was fine. Mick wasn’t anywhere around, and he didn’t make the appointment I suggested he make. Not surprising there.

  I still can’t believe she married that guy. I want to ask, ‘What in the hell were you thinking?’ but I settle for something a little less stalkerish.

  Me: Good to hear. Any chance you want to grab dinner this week?

  Those little bubbles don’t appear. Why aren’t they appearing?

  I stare at the phone for at least a solid three minutes. I have to touch the screen half a dozen times to keep it from going black with the power save. Finally, when my heart can’t take any more, they appear again.

  Sidney: I have client meetings every night but Thursday. I took it off for court. What about Thursday night? We can celebrate my divorce!

  Yes! That! Let’s fucking throw a big ass party to celebrate the dissolution of her marriage to the Rolling Stones parody. I’d be the first in line to wear a damn party hat and throw the confetti.

  Me: It would be an honor to buy you dinner to celebrate the occasion. Can I pick you up?

  Sidney: I’d better meet you there. Where? When?

  My mind is flipping through idea after idea, but really, any will do. As long as she’s there and I’m there and we’re there together, I’d eat just about anywhere.

  Me: How about Ivory Castle? 7pm?

  Sidney: OMG, yes! I haven’t been there in years. I’ll meet you there at 7.

  Me: Can’t wait. See you then.

  Sidney: Me either. Night, Luke.

  Me: G’night

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief, exhaling the deep breath that I didn’t even know I was holding. Why am I acting so uncool when it comes to Sidney? I’ve always been able to play it straight where she’s concerned. We played together, studied together, and cried together that time I broke my arm. But that was before I saw her naked. That was before I heard her moans of pleasure filling my ears, burning into my memory. That was before I felt how amazing it was to be inside of her body.

  That night changed everything.

  But now I have a chance to see her again, get to know the friend I once lost and have found again. To learn all of her new quirks and see what makes her smile. Ten years is a long time to miss someone you never really had in the first place.

  She was my friend, plain and simple.

  It’s time I got to know my childhood friend again, maybe this time without pulling her hair.

  As I lie back and get comfortable in bed, a smile spreads across my face, and my damn cock springs to life beneath the sheet once more.

  Unless she likes it when I pull her hair…

  Chapter Seven – Bon Voyage, Asshole!

  Sidney

  Finally.

  Nothing offers more relief and peace than when the judge signed the papers to dissolve my short marriage. Even if I do have to pay alimony to the rat bastard, it will be worth it to finally be rid of him. Bye, Felicia.

  Well, at least until we have to work together. Monday through Friday. Eight to five.

  Of course, Mick being the weasel he is also received a large chunk of my inheritance, my pension, and my dignity. But he didn’t get everything he wanted. I know he was ultimately going after The Diamond. Fortunately, the judge read between the lines and denied any request for a piece of my father’s company.

  And honestly, I would have probably given him everything just to be rid of him and the heartache that comes along with being heiress to the fancy hotel.

  Jacobi.

  I did this for Jacobi. He needs a solid foundation. He deserves it, the security of the hotel, even if it’s a constant reminder of my father’s infidelity and the life I will never have.

  I’m supposed to meet Luke in thirty minutes, which means I should be walking out the door in ten. Unfortunately, I’ve never grown accustomed to the life of an heiress. I still prefer jeans and stretch pants to evening gowns and business suits. I never really fit in with the lifestyle my parents always wanted for me–primarily my mother.

  As I gaze into my closet filled with designer dresses and fancy business attire, I realize that I’ve become the person I swore I’d never be. And again, I’m reminded of Jacobi. He deserves everything imaginable, and if me wearing business suits on a daily basis instead of playing with numbers all day or messing with something in a lab somewhere will help him achieve that, then it’s settled.

  I’ll settle.

  Grabbing the first black dress I find hanging, I throw it on, only to quickly disqualify it from contention. This one, while sporting a fancy name brand, screams $5 hooker. Not even a $50 hooker. It’s too short, barely hitting mid-thigh, and dips down so low in front, I’m afraid my girls will spill out. Maybe if they were nice girls…

  No. I’d still not want them falling into someone’s plate of pâté at a fundraiser.

  Grabbing the next one, I quickly slip it over my head. This one, while also black and sporting a designer name I can’t even pronounce, is a bit more modest. Cap sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and a flowy skirt that hits just below the knee. I wore this dress to a comedy show fundraiser for the local children’s museum a few months back, but I’m sure no one would remember. It’s not like anyone there was paying me any bit of attention. Especially when Reid Hunter, a local businessman and the sexiest man to ever grace the fine streets of Vegas (as quoted in a recent article), was there with his new wife. Everyone fought to steal a few moments of his time, and therefore paid very little attention to me.

  Which is the way I like it.

  The dress fits like a second skin, and I’ll be honest, accentuates the curve of my hips and the delicate arc of my neck. I love this dress. It makes me feel feminine. Pretty.

  Four minutes until I need to leave, I slip on a pair of open toe sling-back shoes and grab my earrings. Simple solitaire diamonds grace my ears, earrings that my father gave me for my high school graduation. And maybe if he had shown up, he would have seen me open the gift. I grab the matching necklace and slip it around my neck before running a brush through my reddish blond hair (more red than blond, though) and dab some powder over the freckles sprinkled across my cheeks before stopping and staring at my reflection in the mirror.

  Why am I even bothering? It’s not like this is a date or anything. It’s two old friends (sometimes enemies, depending on the day) having dinner to catch up. Sure, we’ll have a drink. Sure, we’ll probably enjoy our dinner. But there will be no flirting and no after dinner drinks. Say hello, catch up, and leave. Alone.

  That’s what will happen tonight.

  I
brush my teeth quickly–because you can never have fresh enough breath when having dinner with an old friend–then run some nude gloss over my lips and fly out the door.

  Only five minutes behind schedule. Not bad.

  I park my car in a garage down the street and head towards Ivory Castle. The atmosphere has a regal vibe with classic, dark tapestries hanging from the ceiling and thick wooden décor. It resembles a castle, hence the name. But the ambiance isn’t what draws me to this place. Their food is out of this world. A tad on the pricey side, but well worth the extra dough paid for your prime steak or fresh seafood.

  “I’m meeting someone,” I tell the hostess as I approach the stand.

  “And the name?” she asks.

  “Luke Thomas.”

  “Ah, yes, your companion has already arrived. Please follow me,” she says pleasantly as she leads me into the dimly lit restaurant.

  I find Luke already seated at a table near the back. His eyes are like lasers piercing into me. I feel the heat and the directness as his gaze follows my advancement towards him.

  When I approach, he stands and comes around the table. It strikes me as odd that Luke is acting so refined, so polite. The Luke I remember would have tripped me and then laughed when I fell to the ground. It definitely wouldn’t have been the first time he’s pulled that trick. I remember once when I was young and invited to join his family for dinner, he tried to act all chivalrous and pull out my chair. Little did I know, it was all a ploy to get the upper hand in our continuous game of who can best the other one. He ripped that chair out from under me before I could catch my balance, and I crashed to the floor, pulling my plate down with me. Funny that my brain chooses this moment to bring up this particular memory; you know, when he has his hand on my chair and I’m lowering myself into the seat.

  I smile at myself and sigh in relief when I actually connect with the seat. I guess it just shows that everyone eventually grows up, right?