Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  “Amanda?” he asks, sitting up, bed head smashing his hair against one side of his face, eyes squinty with sleep. In bright daylight, this close to him, his eyes are even browner. How is that possible? “What’s wrong?” Warm hands float to my naked back, rising up my shoulders in a gesture that is supposed to comfort me.

  Except I’m in a panic because of my stupid naked-in-public dream.

  And now I’m naked in public.

  For real.

  Sort of.

  Last night floods my memory, how Mr. Flesh Furnace here used that same mouth that is smiling at me to make me arch up and press against it for more, how that tongue made my thighs shiver, how those hands that gently rub my back elicited sounds from me that involved octaves I’m pretty sure the human throat can only access during orgasm.

  Orgasms.

  My whole body goes tingly as I reach for the sheet and pull it up over my breasts.

  “I’m fine. Just a dream.”

  His hand rides down over my chest, jarring the sheet loose from one breast. “Your heart is racing. Must have been some dream.”

  I’m blinking over and over, my face frozen as I try to relax and lower my shoulders. My neck is tight with tension and he’s next to me, sitting up, and oh, yes. He most certainly is naked, too.

  Daylight is a blessing and a curse.

  “It’s the same dream I’ve had almost every night since I was five,” I admit. I’m not sure why I tell him this. Maybe actually being naked makes me feel like it’s safe to talk about dreaming of being naked.

  “Whoa. Same dream almost every night for nearly twenty years?”

  “I know.”

  “That’s intense.”

  I can’t stop looking at him, distracted now. He dips his head down to force me to catch his eyes.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Have I mentioned the fact that I have never, ever spent the night at a man’s house? What am I supposed to do right now? The Walk of Shame never involves the sun. The sun is most certainly out right now, impishly watching as I fumble my way through this morning-after stuff.

  Andrew takes care of the what do I do next? question by kissing me. This is a slow, deep kiss that I start to pull away from because, hello, morning breath?

  And then I don’t care, because I melt into the bed as he doesn’t care, either. I follow his cues. If he wanted me to leave, this would be awkward and weird, right? He’d be up and showered and drinking coffee, and I would rush to get my clothes on. We would pretend the night before had been just one of those things, and I would depart with that blinking sense of confusion that comes from having a one-night stand and not knowing quite where to compartmentalize the emotions attached to the carnal event.

  But that is not happening right now. Not one bit.

  This is the kiss of a man who enjoyed last night thoroughly, of a man who is in no rush to separate from me, and as my hand reaches down to stroke his ass and more, I encounter ample evidence of his intentions.

  I am following his cues, all right, and he is presenting one very big one right now before me.

  “My goodness,” I whisper, hand wrapping around his delightfully awake shaft. “Is this breakfast in bed?”

  “Oh, God,” he sighs as I offer my variation of room service, burrowing under the covers to give him a little of what I got last night. “You are perfect,” he adds in a tight voice, which loosens considerably a few minutes later when he finds his own special, lower octave.

  He starts to return the favor and it occurs to me that this could all happen again. That last night wasn’t an aberration. That he wants more.

  And just then, a buzzer sounds in the apartment.

  “What is that?” I ask as Andrew’s head lifts up from under the sheet with a groan of frustration.

  “That is the building concierge, buzzing me.”

  “A package?”

  “No,” he groans, rolling off the bed and walking to the bathroom. Ah, the view. The view. I didn’t know an ass could have that many muscles in it. He comes out of the bathroom wearing a thin silky robe and saunters over to the bed, planting a kiss on my forehead.

  “Then what?”

  “Someone realized my phone is off and they’ve resorted to this.”

  “Oh,” I say in a small voice. He reaches for his pants and pulls out his phone, turning it on. It buzzes in fits and starts, like a vibrator with a battery that’s dying.

  Not that I, uh, know what that looks or sounds like.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself. “Two hundred and forty-seven texts. My phone can’t keep up with all the notifications.”

  Ouch. And I thought it was bad when my mother—oh, no.

  My mother.

  “Can you hand me my purse?” I ask. He finds it in the living room and brings it back, eyes glued to his phone screen.

  The magic is definitely over.

  By the time I check my messages and text mom back to assure her I haven’t been chained to a wall in some lair in Mexico and am not sold into sex slavery by a perverted billionaire, I hear the gurgle of a coffee machine.

  It never occurred to me to ask Andrew whether he drinks coffee. Thank God he does, because that would be a showstopper. I can handle a workaholic CEO with a body designed by Crossfit and a tongue that should qualify for the Ironman Triathlon, but if he doesn’t drink coffee I’m outta here, because that’s just not human.

  I also take this chance to snoop.

  I hear him talking out in the living room. It sounds like a tense discussion, so I avoid invading his privacy. Last night he welcomed me into his bed and I welcomed him into my body. This morning it’s time to go back to reality, where boundaries do, indeed, exist—and respecting those is important.

  Even if I really, really need caffeine right now.

  Snooping and respecting boundaries seem like contradictions. But they’re not. Bear with me. I can explain. Everything I know about Andrew is either from him directly, from Shannon, a little from Declan, some from my incessant Google searches, and from my oh-so-careful physical examination of as many nooks and crannies on that hot body as I could reasonably search on Date #2.

  This is a chance to learn more.

  “Damn it!” he shouts from the other room. The coffee machine sighs.

  I am totally not going out there right now. More ammunition for snooping, er...research.

  His closet is bigger than my bedroom. He has an affinity for purples and smoky blues, the heathered colors that come from tailors so exclusive they don’t have retail stores. His suits line up like good little soldiers, and nothing is out of place. This is one of those closets where the shoes aren’t on the floor, or in little cubbies. I reach for a drawer handle and the drawer tips out at a forty-five degree angle, revealing dress shoes in neat lines, three shelves deep.

  I tuck the “drawer” back in and leave.

  I look out the window and see his little balcony. It really is just two chairs, a table, and an umbrella. Unlike all the other balconies, he has no plants. Nothing. Not a single bit of decoration. It stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the apartment, which is carefully designed and color-coordinated, the look and feel textured and nuanced by someone who knows what they’re doing with space.

  Weird.

  His nightstand is a goldmine. There are a few fitness magazines, a tablet computer, and a bottle of lube. I squeeze my eyes shut and close the drawer. Hey, if he ever snooped in my bedroom, he’d find way more than just a bottle of lube in my nightstand drawers. I single-handedly keep the battery industry going during dry spells.

  His dresser drawers are full of rolled socks and underwear, folded t-shirts and jeans. Polo shirts. Workout clothes. Each type of clothing has its own drawer. A hand-carved wooden bowl on one dresser contains an old-fashioned analog watch, some change in various currencies, and a few tie pins. Cuff links.

  And a single photo rests on his dresser.

  It’s him, Declan, Terry, his dad
and his mom, all on a boat somewhere on the ocean. I’m guessing it was taken shortly before his mother died, because Andrew’s around fifteen or sixteen. He’s tall, but not as tall as he is now, and he has the lean look of a teen boy who is just about to fill out as testosterone performs its destiny.

  A breeze flows from the left, shoving all their hair to the side, and they’re laughing. Andrew is looking at his mom, Declan’s staring into the camera, Terry is holding his mom’s shoulder, and she’s not quite looking at whoever took the picture.

  James is just smiling, the grin so bright it’s blinding.

  Tears hit me like I’ve been shot from behind, like an arrow pierced me between ribs and struck my heart, the feeling so sudden and unexpected I gasp, an animal sound filling my raw throat.

  This is what a real family looks like. A happy family. One filled with joy and love.

  And it can all end in seconds.

  We have no pictures like this in my house.

  I doubt they even exist.

  At least Andrew has this. Had this. Had a world where people looked at each other like that.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I hear Andrew say, his voice loud but controlled. I sniff and turn away. If I keep looking at that picture a part of me will fall apart, and right now, I can’t have anything else inside me vibrate on a different frequency, because too many of those and the dissonance will make me shatter.

  I’m dragging the bedsheet everywhere, covering my nakedness, and I decide it’s time for coffee. As I reach the threshold between Andrew’s bedroom and the living room, I hear:

  “Dec, it’s not like that. Amanda’s not one of those.”

  I freeze.

  Declan? He’s been shouting at Declan?

  About me?

  “Look, I know. I know.” I hide myself, able to watch him pace across the stainless steel and granite kitchen, his body flickering between low-hanging ceiling lights that drape in regular intervals across a breakfast bar.

  “And I won’t. I won’t hurt her this time.” He swipes a frustrated hand through his bedhead hair, leaving locks standing straight up. He’s agitated.

  “I know she’s Shannon’s best friend—”

  A string of loud, angry sounds comes through his phone. Even I can hear them, and my mouth curls up as I realize Declan is playing the part of the protective older brother.

  But for me.

  What did Shannon tell him?

  “And this is not a one-night stand, Dec. She’s still here.”

  The phone goes silent, and then I hear, quite distinctly:

  “What?” The sound of Declan’s voice roars out of Andrew’s phone. “You’ve never had a woman stay over.”

  My whole body goes warm in a flush of radiance.

  It’s true.

  This is a first for both of us.

  “I know. That’s what I mean. This is something different.” Andrew’s voice drops. “Don’t worry.”

  Declan says something. Andrew’s face tightens.

  “Jesus, not this again, Dec. You and I have to agree to disagree. We all have our own risk levels we’re comfortable with.”

  Declan says something I don’t understand, and Andrew laughs.

  “Right. I won’t ruin your wedding. I promise.” The sound of Andrew gets closer and I realize I can’t be found hiding, so I move, acting as if I were just walking out.

  He smiles at me, eyes combing over my body.

  I walk past him to find two hot cups of coffee on the counter. I pick one up, then go to the fridge to find milk.

  No milk.

  The man has three beers, a lime, and a half-gallon of orange juice in a fridge the size of an SUV.

  I close the door and resign myself to drinking black coffee.

  “Gotta go. Okay. Bye.” Andrew ends the call and gives me a look I can’t read.

  “Everything fine?” I ask, blowing on the hot coffee and then taking a sip. I make a face. As much as I need the caffeine, black coffee is bitter.

  “Yeah. Business stuff.”

  Liar.

  “You drink your coffee black?” he asks, surprised.

  “Actually, no. Your fridge looks like a frat boy lives here.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t eat in much. How do you normally take your coffee?”

  I take another sip of coffee. Then a full swallow. It’s not so bad.

  “A latte.”

  “Whole or skim?”

  “I’m learning to like breves, actually.”

  He picks up his phone, types something, and puts it down.

  We stand there.

  Ah. So this is the awkward part.

  “Want to go drink coffee on the balcony?” I ask. “It looks gorgeous outside.”

  A brief moment of panic flashes in his eyes, but he tamps it down so fast I’m not quite sure I ever saw it.

  “You look great in a sheet,” he says as I choke down more black coffee. He picks up his mug and downs half the liquid in one gulp. He doesn’t move toward the balcony, but he doesn’t acknowledge my question, either.

  “It’s my toga look.”

  “You’re prettier without it.”

  I blush. I also just stand there, because I really don’t know what to do next. He doesn’t want to go outside, he’s acting really strangely...

  He decides for me, crossing the room and putting his arms around me. “Last night was amazing.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this morning was...” He lets out a puff of air. “Thank you.” The kiss he gives me removes half the awkwardness.

  But only half.

  “I have a business trip,” he says as he presses his forehead against mine. Coffee breath fills the space between us.

  “Today?”

  He nods. “I’ll be gone for a week.”

  My stomach plummets with disappointment, but all I say is, “Okay.”

  “I want to see you when I get back. I wish I could take you with me.”

  “I have to work.” And go out on dates, I think. My face must betray my thoughts, because he gives me a questioning look.

  I stay silent. No point in telling him I’ll be going on six dates while he’s gone, right?

  “Next Saturday, though, you’re mine.”

  His words give me a jolt no caffeine could ever manage.

  “And for the next thirty minutes, too,” he says, taking my hand and slowly walking me back to the bed.

  Twenty minutes later, Andrew’s had breakfast in bed, too. I am a boneless collection of well-satisfied flesh, and the door buzzer buzzes again.

  I groan. Andrew gets up.

  And returns with a breve latte someone must have just delivered.

  “Now that’s what I call breakfast in bed,” I say as I snuggle against him.

  “I liked your version better,” he says, giving me a kiss.

  By the time we shower and part ways, I realize I never did get a chance to go out on that beautiful balcony and take in the ocean air.

  Oh, well.

  There’s always next time.

  20

  “You are sweating more than a woman in her third trimester of pregnancy in Texas in August.”

  “I can’t help it if I’m a stress sweater!” Josh snaps back. “Some of you are stress eaters. I’m a stress perspirer.”

  “It makes you moist,” I say, letting go of his hand. For the sake of this childbirth class mystery shop, we’re supposed to pose as a happy couple. Hard to do that when you’re holding hands with a gay man whose palm feels like a wet diaper.

  “Don’t say ‘moist.’ I hate that word.”

  It took nearly a month, but the childbirth class evaluation is in full force. Josh and I have to attend two of these four-hour classes here at the hospital with a birthing center attached, which means we get the most “natural birth”-oriented class in the city. Andrew is out of town—again—and I haven’t seen him for over a week.

  Again.

  That night he t
urned off his phone was the longest stretch of uninterrupted time I’ve had with him since we started dating. He’s supposed to come home today for some board meeting, but so far I haven’t heard from him since he boarded the company jet this morning.

  Which means I’m cranky.

  “Moist,” I hiss at my fake baby daddy. I am waddling down the hallway to the media room where our hypnotic childbirth class will be held. Josh looks like he’s afraid a giant vagina with teeth is lurking behind every corner, ready to jump out and eat him.

  “Is this the right room?” he asks as we stop in front of the clearly-marked Hypnotic Childbirth Class sign. His hand is over his eyes as he peeks out between fingers.

  “It’s not like we’re watching It Follows or Friday the Thirteenth, for goodness’ sake,” I hiss. “It’s just the miracle of birth. And no one is going to ambush you with a beaver in the hallway.”

  He wipes his inner elbow across his brow. “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he grouses. “We’re not all perfect little mystery shoppers like you. Frankly, this is freaking me out beyond belief and I really wish Greg could have done this with you.”

  “Greg? As the father of my baby?” I caress the baby bump I’m wearing. It’s a weighted pillow underneath a maternity dress, with a layer of loose Spanx between the two. My hips widen as if I’m really pregnant, and I find myself waddling slightly. While I have a few friends from high school who have kids already, for the most part I’m surrounded by twenty-something and early thirty-something friends and colleagues who remain childless so far.

  Other than Jeffrey and Tyler, I don’t spend time with kids. And no babies. So walking into the conference room where we will sit for this four-hour childbirth class catches me off guard, as a giant watercolor painting the size of the entire wall hits me square in the face.

  It’s an enormous, layered labia with a red rose coming out of the vagina.

  “Oooo, Georgia O’Keeffe!” Josh exclaims, stopping short. His hand is on my elbow now. There’s a male possessiveness to the gesture that gives me pause.

  “That’s not a flower,” I whisper. The labia are various shades of beige and mauve, with irregular lines that—

  “Oh, my God,” Josh gasps, his grasp tightening. “Is that a vag? It’s the size of a Transformer.”