“In other words, the usual.”
The two laugh. Mom’s in good spirits today.
“Which movie are you watching?” Mom asks, then turns to look at me. She pulls back in surprise. “Look at you! You’re more beautiful than usual, aside from that nasty cut on your face.” She picks up Spritzy and gives him a kiss. “The cut was worth it. You were quite the hero today!” She gives me a big smile, then asks, “Are you two going out?”
I hold my breath. I’m not sure what to say.
Shannon’s face splits with a huge grin. “Amanda has a date.”
“A date date?” Mom asks, stretching her neck. Her face goes tight with tension. It’s her muscles, and not me, that she finds troubling.
“I think so.”
“You think so?” Her voice goes high and reedy. She’s on edge again.
“It’s with someone I work with, Mom.”
“Not Josh? He’s gay, right? Or is he bisexual? Maybe that new sex thing you kids do.” Mom turns a furious shade of red. She can’t ask for toilet paper, and she just said the word sex.
Shannon and I exchange a look. “New sex thing?”
“Identity. I meant to say identity. I was just on a conference call working on insurance rates for people with nonconforming gender identity,” she says, her voice shifting from nervousness to authority as she talks about work. “And the consultants were explaining that gender and sexuality isn’t black and white like it used to be. It’s all shades of grey.”
“Fifty of them?” Shannon jokes.
Mom’s face goes red again and she won’t meet our eyes. “Not quite like that...that book.”
“Josh is gay, mom. Hard gay. Confirmed gay. Unyieldingly gay, so no, I’m not going on a date with him.”
“Not even a fake date?” Shannon jokes.
“Only if he fake pays.”
Mom’s brow creases, and not in pain. “Then who? Greg?” She bursts out laughing.
“Actually, it’s Andrew McCormick.”
“The closet kisser?”
“Yes.”
“He asked you out?”
“Yes. For dinner.”
“In a closet?” Shannon cracks up.
“At a restaurant.”
“And you...accepted?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he’s treated you so shabbily! He kisses you and doesn’t call.”
She’s got me there.
Her eyes narrow. “You’ve kissed again.”
“Yes.”
“And this time he asked you out?”
“Yes.”
“Why the change of heart?” Her question is directed at Shannon. “You’re engaged to his brother. Do you know something we don’t?”
I bristle at the word we.
“Can we go back to talking about that kinky sex thing you were describing earlier, Pam? I’m still stuck on that,” Shannon says.
“Not kinky!” Mom whispers the word. “Gender fluid. No labels. We were trying to determine life insurance rates and roll in gender and sexuality self-identification patterns for determining premium rates and it’s quite complicated.”
Mom is an actuary for high-risk insurance populations and situations. Take a natural worrywart with a highly analytical mind and find a work-at-home job she can do while suffering from fibromyalgia.
Upshot: it pays well and uses a unique skill set Mom possesses.
Downside: she has some really irrational fears now based on statistics.
“What does gender fluidity have to do with me?”
“You were married to Shannon, after all, honey, for those mortgage evaluations.”
That joke doesn’t get old for everyone but me and Shannon.
I snake my arm around Shannon’s waist. “And she’s the best wife ever,” I say with a laugh as I tip her back and give her a fake kiss, one hand pressed over her mouth, my lips kissing the back of my own hand.
At that exact moment, the silhouette of a man appears at the open screen door.
“Hello?”
It’s Andrew.
I nearly drop Shannon, who begins laughing hysterically.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Just kissing Shannon.”
“And not in a closet,” Mom mutters. I don’t know whether Andrew hears her. Shannon is opening the screen door and giving him a hug right now. An insane cloud of jealousy strikes me, unfolding like Wolverine’s titanium claws sliding out, hidden but deadly.
Where did that come from?
“Hello, Amanda,” Andrew says, eyes combing over me. Fortunately, I’m ready. Not having any idea where he’s taking me, I went for a smart casual, which means a huge upgrade from my normal fashion sense of shabby chic. I’m wearing an all-black suit made from a shiny silk-linen blend that I got from an upscale boutique mystery shop last year. No stockings. Mary Jane patent leather heels. Bright red dot earrings and red beaded necklace. Dark brown hair and red lips.
And a red shiner.
Concern reflects from those warm, brown eyes the second he sees my cheek. “What happened? Who did that to you?” He’s so fierce, his body tensing, that I almost wish I could name someone for him to go avenge me.
Alas...
“A teacup Chihuahua named Muffin.”
He flinches, stepping closer, examining my eye. “I’d say you lost. The dog has quite a right hook.” His fingertips gently brush against my jaw line as he leans in for a closer look. He smells like limes and cardamom, a fresh, slightly mysterious scent.
“You haven’t seen him. I gave him a run for his money.”
He smiles, but his eyes remain filled with worry. His hand drops from my face and I want it back.
“Are you sure you’re fine for dinner? You could have texted me and postponed.” He bends down for a casual hug, his lips brushing against the skin below my cheek, the kiss a formality that makes me quiver.
Like Muffin.
With a politeness blended with unbridled charm, Andrew gives Mom his full attention. “And you must be Amanda’s mother. I’m so glad to meet you. Andrew McCormick.” He extends his hand, and I hold my breath. Most people think a strong handshake is a sign of good character, but for someone with fibromyalgia it’s a form of torture.
On the other hand, the limp-fish handshake that some men extend to women isn’t exactly an improvement.
By watching Mom’s face, I can see he gets the balance just right. Her eyes comb over him, reading him carefully. Whatever she sees as they make a few sentences of small talk seems to please her while my brain turns into a Vitamix on High that drowns out their words.
He smells so good. An undercurrent of soap and leather fills my senses as he retreats. Mom and Shannon are watching us like television producers on The Bachelor. Every second feels both awkward and settled as I walk across the room to get my purse. I have no idea where we’re going, no sense of his expectations, I’m trying to rid myself of all of mine, and by the time I reach the front door he’s there, holding the screen door open for me, turning back to my mother.
“Nice to meet you, Pam,” he says with a radiant smile that makes her flutter her eyelashes and wave goodbye.
And then we’re stepping out into the twilight night, leaving behind a curious mother, a bemused bestie, and a plastic grocery bag full of what used to be my favorite thing to do on date night.
13
The limo takes up half my driveway and between it and the Tesla, my Turdmobile looks even more ridiculous. I see it’s Lance who is driving tonight, and he’s pulled up next to my pile of steel excrement. I know from Shannon that Lance and Gerald are the two drivers who transport Declan and Andrew the most, and that they’ve been with Anterdec for a long time, largely because of their ability to remain stoic in damn near any situation.
Which is why Lance’s expression of unmitigated disgust is all the more alarming as he pokes his head out the limo’s driver’s window and openly examines my, um—
I realize #poopwat
ch could have another meaning.
“Nice car,” I say to Andrew as he guides me to the back door, his hand hovering over my shoulder. Curiously, he doesn’t touch me, keeping his palm an inch or so above my back. How do I know? I can sense it, the heat of attraction like the pull of gravity.
“Wish I could say the same.”
Lance snorts. Andrew startles, giving him a curious look. Lance’s face goes shockingly blank in a way that makes it clear he’s fighting hard to look impassive.
“I make an extra $200 a month to drive that all over Boston,” I say as I get in the limo. “Plus expenses.”
“I would pay $200 a month not to have to drive it,” Andrew says.
My laughter fills the night and he joins in, the sound so different from our tight conversations, our tense volleys and verbal jabs that walk a tightrope.
“We can’t all be CEOs,” I answer as I step into the limo. The cool leather seats feel like I’m sliding into a spa chair.
“No, we can’t. Declan just learned that the hard way today,” he says as he shuts my door. Within seconds, he’s opened his and is climbing in. The limo is so wide we have more than enough room to share the back without touching.
Which is a shame.
“Funny. Shannon didn’t say a word about that. You told him?”
“Dad and I did. I’m not sure whether she knows yet. Thank you for not telling him—or her. It was important that he hear it from me and Dad. No one likes to hear bad news secondhand. I worked very hard to keep this information under a tight level of secrecy.”
“Of course. How did he take it?”
“Relatively well. I don’t have a shiner like yours.”
“Muffin didn’t like being told I was going to be CEO, either.”
Andrew doesn’t laugh, but he turns to me and crosses his legs, one ankle to knee, his body open to me. I turn and face him as well, matching his body language, though I cross my legs at the ankles, because if I imitated him perfectly this wouldn’t be a date. It would be a peep show.
“Why are you here?” he asks softly.
The limo pulls away and into the night. My mind floats off, as if it were clinging to the back of the vehicle by its fingernails, carried aloft by speed like a stowaway on an airplane.
“What?” There goes my brain’s Vitamix again.
“Why did you agree to dinner?”
“Why did you ask?”
“Because it was about time.”
“Yes.”
“And because I’ve been stupid.”
“Oh, definitely yes.”
“And because you’re loyal.”
Say what?
“You mean, like a dog?”
“No. Like a good friend.”
“Why did you kiss me the first time? That day when I barged into your office?”
Hey, if we’re being blunt, I might as well go for the brass ring.
He nods, eyes looking at everything and nothing, finally settling on my face. “Because you were so passionate about protecting Shannon. You were adorable and irate and you had this energy I wanted to taste.”
I’m holding my breath. I thought we would spend this first date doing the awkward getting-to-know you dance. Andrew’s gone right to the point. Laser focus.
Just like a CEO.
“Taste?”
“Yes. I know what I want. I don’t equivocate. I decide and act. I compartmentalize. I issue orders and execute strategy. You came in that day and started ordering me around and it was cute and exciting and inspiring. Oddly sensual. And when you kissed me—”
“You kissed me!”
“And when we kissed,” he says, eyebrows raised, as if settling this point once and for all, “I got something far more forbidden than I realized I was getting when I went for that simple taste of you.”
Forbidden?
“What’s that?”
He studies me, as if sizing me up, trying to determine whether he should tell me what’s next. Or not. Finally, his face changes through a series of three or four emotions, most of them involving some variation of deliberation.
And then:
“You didn’t fit in a box.”
“I fit in a closet.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“You intrigued me.”
“Not enough to call me after that kiss, though.”
He shakes his head. My heart plummets.
“No, Amanda. The opposite. You intrigued me too much.”
I get the sense that the word ‘intrigued’ means something else.
“You mean I scared you.”
His eyes flash with emotion I can’t read.
“Yes.”
Men like Andrew McCormick don’t do this. They don’t lay their emotions out on the table like this. Why is he doing this?
“Then why did you kiss me again? And again. And again again—”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon.” The driver takes us onto the Mass Pike, lights flying by like spaceships. Little orbs shooting past us, filled with people oblivious to the quantum shift taking place inside this tiny space. “You always know. You’re a CEO. You compartmentalize. You execute. You decide. You act. You can’t tell me that the great wunderkind Andrew Mc—”
He’s on me before I can take a breath to continue speaking, his body so big and bold, so impulsive and unrelenting. The limo becomes its own dimension, his hands seeking to hold all of me as we tumble into some new plane of awareness that doesn’t factor into any life we’ve known until this moment. His mouth finds mine, hands under my suit jacket, palm cupping the lines of my breasts, my waist, my hips, and he’s tasting me again, this time with an urgent need that comes from an honesty I don’t think he’s felt permission to express in a very long time.
If ever.
I break the kiss. His breath is hot against my lips, my chest pushing up as I inhale, trying to synthesize the tactile feel of him in my personal space as the rate of intimacy between us increases at the speed of light.
“What are we doing?” I ask, buying a moment of clarity as I inhale, shaky and shocked. I have never wanted anyone more than I want him right now. This sensation is wholly foreign and delightfully enchanting.
“Whatever it is, let’s do more of it.”
The reconnection of his mouth against mine, of the sensual weight of him on me in this small space as my legs pull up, closing all gaps between us, feels simultaneously pure and naughty, innocent and illicit, virginal and promiscuous. Once the boundary between our bodies is breached, we navigate every inch with negotiations brokered in sighs and bites, in tongue strokes and caresses, with touch and without words.
My skin rises an inch above my body with a pounding flush that can only be satisfied by no remedy other than his hands, his mouth, his skin, his attentiveness.
More of his skin.
The limo slows, the driver painstaking in his glide to a spot on a city street that is both familiar and daunting.
And then the limo halts entirely.
Andrew sighs, the sound like a churning ocean before a sea storm. His mouth kisses my ear and he murmurs. “We’re here. Dinner.”
Oh. Right. Dinner.
Date. Public. Food. Single words are all I can muster in my mind. Words like hair. Lipstick. Legs. Skirt.
Throb.
Pulse.
Desire.
Ache.
Andrew.
If he asked me, right now, to skip dinner, I would. One offer. One question is all it would take. I’m past the point of worrying about what he thinks of me. Long gone are the days of sobbing over ice cream and Thai food at Shannon and Amy’s apartment back in the suburbs. I’m here to get something out of this whateveryoucallit between us, and it’s dawning on me that he is, too.
And it’s not just kisses in closets.
This is not “just” anything.
14
Andrew sits up and adjusts all sorts of parts of himself, from his shirttails to his jacket to other
pieces that need to be put in place in order to make a public appearance. His hand stays on my knee, like a claiming.
And those eyes watch me.
“Hungry?” he asks, dimples firmly in place as he smiles.
I bite my lips and exhale, a little sound of frustration making the back of my throat vibrate.
“You could say that.”
We’re in front of a series of brick buildings that look like converted lofts and businesses. As Andrew opens his door, a blast of warm night air fills the limo. April in Boston is a crapshoot. You never know if you’ll get a balmy breeze or need your down winter coat.
Salty air, carrying the ocean on it, fills the small space. Aha. I know where we are.
The Seaport district. Congress Street.
I look outside and my eyes adjust. We’re just at the curb, not even in a parking spot or an underground garage. The driver simply pulled over and we’re blocking traffic.
My door opens. I reach up to touch my hair, then my lips. I must look frightfully disheveled, bright red lipstick smeared across my lips, hair thoroughly mussed.
The second I climb out of this limo it’ll be obvious what Andrew and I have been doing. The thought makes me smile.
Andrew reaches one strong hand for me and I take it, lifting up into the dark night, his palm splayed at the small of my back without interruption. He seems incapable of not touching me now.
“Is my lipstick smeared?” I whisper, the intimacy of such a simple question feeling both natural and out of place. I’m living in two different realities right now, second by second, as time flows and I am with him.
There is this dream world, where Andrew McCormick is kissing me. And then there’s reality, where I am waiting sorrowfully to wake up.
“Does it matter?”
The limo takes off like a silent jet, disappearing down Congress Street as Andrew guides me up a set of stairs. There is no sign. No obvious door. We might as well be headed into a nondescript, restored historical building that houses tech start-ups rather than a restaurant.
“Where are we?” I ask as I fumble around in my purse, looking for a hand mirror or a compact.
“You’ll see.”
As he holds open a door, I see a small brass plaque, so subtle I would never have noticed it if I weren’t on guard, nerves firing at random intervals as every cell in my body is alert and ripe.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 178