Twisted Desire

by M. Mabie

  I was staying at the Harbor while I worked for them that week. If I was lucky, I’d prove to them why they needed me on their team. I’d show management how efficient I could be. How decisive and easy to work with I was. I’d take extra care to learn the existing staff and utilize them, making it a team effort—and therefore someone they’d want to work with, side-by-side going forward.

  Adrenaline coursed through me as I paid the driver and pulled my two giant bags behind me into the lobby.

  It was showtime.

  FIVE

  PAST

  REAGAN—Monday, February 11, 2008

  “Showtime,” I said to Justin as we walked down the glass hall to the conference room.

  The account was already locked down, a sure thing. We’d shared the work on it since the firm preferred having a junior and senior partner working on large scale projects. Precisely like the one we were about to finalize.

  All that was left was signing the papers and sending them off.

  “Are you going to the InformaTrade thing Friday?” he asked as we strolled closer to the Price Room. Justin was only about five years older than me, but he was still young enough to know how I lived. He was a sharp dressed, fit man married to a knock-out woman who was an accountant for Lurie Children’s Hospital.

  He understood what it was like to be in my position, having only been there a few years before me, but I wondered if the partners weren’t also using the project to get a feel for me and my loyalties.

  Justin wasn’t rude or snide but had done what he was told while we worked late on the project. When he’d asked me about my plans for the future, I’d been honest with him. I was excited about the future. Driven to work hard and find success. Make a name for myself.

  I’d considered skipping the party, but I knew the wiser move was to go. The higher-ups were all attending, and since only a select few from Price-McClelland had been invited—myself included—it couldn’t hurt to break bread and have a drink or two with some of the biggest players outside of business hours. Maybe they’d see even though I wasn’t as settled down as some of the other MBAs in our group, I was definitely serious about my job and the future of our company.

  It was an anniversary celebration for one of our firm’s biggest clients—InformaTrade. They were a massive company that dealt globally with fair trade equities. It was a fascinating business model, and they too were growing.

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I haven’t been out in a while,” I answered.

  That was a white lie, but he knew and replied, “Right. Reggie the Recluse.”

  The meeting ran on script. After signing my name on the line under Justin’s, as the second point of contact on their contract, I clicked the pen shut and set it on the table.

  I looked at my watch. Only ten thirty on a Monday, and already it was a good fucking week.

  The afternoon was spent indoor golfing and smoking cigars.

  THE WEEK FLEW BY, AND although it was a work function, I was beginning to look forward to the party Friday night. InformaTrade was one of our biggest accounts. Certainly, the better they did, the better we all did.

  Lately, we’d done well enough that I’d bought a condo in the new Lunar Building, the newest downtown. I’d been a part of the project since it began because one of my clients was the general contractor, and initially, I’d used our relationship to get me on the preliminary list of potential buyers.

  Tuesday that week, I’d closed on the property, and was formally invited to sit on the home owner’s association board as one of the pilot residents. The unit was finished, and, to my liking, it was flawless. Very contemporary. Very minimalistic. Very my taste.

  I was pleased to get one of the larger end units that I’d wanted from the beginning. It had great views, and so far, I was the only tenant on that hall, but I knew it wouldn’t last long, as the building already had plenty of interested buyers and leasers alike.

  Surely, buying a nice piece of property in downtown Chicago would mean something to the shareholders at Price-McClellan.

  It was one way I could show I was committed to staying, or at least that I was able to commit at all. If the subject came up, I’d take full advantage by divulging such personal information.

  I showered and put on a new suit. There was something about the way a custom suit, tailored to perfection, just fit. Then, I fastened the second platinum cufflink—the pair a gift from my father—before I grabbed my wallet and phone to head out and gave myself one last look in the mirror to make sure my tie was straight.

  The older I got, the more and more I looked like my dad had when he was younger.

  Dark hair.

  Dark eyes.

  Tall. Broad shoulders.

  He was a professor and had always pushed me to do well. Not in a way that made me resent him, but in a way that made me proud he had so much confidence in me.

  Being the middle child, it was like I was always trying to keep up with my older brother Shane, or get the attention Blake, my little sister, got. However, I was lucky to have the family I did. I loved them all completely.

  Success had always been something I chased for myself. Still, I knew in part that I chased it for them too. It made me happy to see how my father’s eyes lit up when I would visit. Or how my mom would kiss me about thirty times after I’d been gone for months. Blake still called me about once a week. Shane was a different story, but he knew I was always there.

  Sure, I was the only one who didn’t live near my parents in Seattle, having ventured out on my own, but I think they were proud of me.

  As I walked down the hall of the building where I’d rented for the past few years, I got excited about moving into the new place.

  Some people didn’t like change, and on most accounts that was me. I loved routine and structure. Yet, I plowed ahead, and that meant things were evolving, progressing. That alone was a reason to celebrate.

  The event was at the Harbor, a swanky hotel not far from the Lunar Building, and since I knew I’d be drinking, I’d chosen to take a cab.

  When I walked into the party, it was already busy. People mingled with champagne flutes, and servers passed by with hors d’oeuvres. I plucked a bacon wrapped shrimp thing off a shiny silver platter as one of them passed and headed to the bar. One of those little bastards was never enough; I could have eaten a plateful.

  Champagne was all right, but I wanted something I didn’t have to sip. Toasts, sure champagne. I even enjoyed good wine, when I was at home or with a nice meal, but that wasn’t what I wanted either.

  The bartender acknowledged me as I approached, and before I even touched the bar, he looked at me with expectant eyes.

  “I’ll have an ice-cold Heineken.” I rested my side against the mahogany top and looked out over the people. Some faces I knew from work, others I knew from the business section of the newspaper. The crowd was full of wealth, and it was exactly where I wanted to be.

  “Hey, Reggie, congrats on the deal. Hear you and Beckham wrapped it up this week. Good one,” said Craig, another senior partner, as he walked up and offered me his hand to shake.

  “Thanks. I think it will be a profitable partnership.” I was proud, but I wasn’t arrogant. Justin had done as much work as I had. “I think we have a good team in place. If we can keep the momentum going, I think this year will be our best yet.”

  “Yeah, I’ll drink to that,” he said as he lifted an almost empty glass in the air. I reached for the Heineken, and we toasted in agreement.

  “I’ll have another Black Label,” he said to the bartender.

  “Are you here solo, Warren?”

  I nodded.

  “Lucky man. My wife begs me to bring her to these things, then spends the entire night gossiping with the other ladies in the corner. When I get home, I’ll hear about how I didn’t pay enough attention to her. But she likes getting dressed up, and I can’t say I hate it either.” He leaned against the wood top and nodded in the direction of a group of women.


  I read his expression as genuine as opposed to salacious, and I followed his gaze to take stock of them.

  Perfectly done hair, makeup, and nails.

  Designer dresses and shoes.

  All holding crystal flutes. Pinkies out.

  Was that my future?

  My thoughts must have been obvious on my face, and he nudged my arm with his elbow. “It’s not all bad though. She’s actually got me more clients than I can count. Bringing her to these things, having her make friends with their wives, it’s actually great for business.”

  I hadn’t thought about it like that, and I laughed. “That’s an interesting way to look at marriage,” I jested, only half joking.

  He took a sip of his refilled glass, squinted as he swallowed, then added, “It is what it is. Make no mistake, I love that woman, but it costs a lot to keep her in Tiffany and Prada.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “But she knows that, and she loves me, too. It really does all even out. She enjoys the entertaining part a lot. So what’s the harm if she makes friends with a perspective client’s wife and we have them over for dinner?” He looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Not a damn thing. That’s what. She wins. I win. Sometimes even the business wins. We’re partners.”

  He turned and thanked the barman for his drink, then added, “You should think about finding a good woman, Warren. It’s a fine life. You can have it all, but it’s not worth anything alone.” He grinned as he walked away.

  I could have it all.

  He had me thinking.

  It was a booming laugh that knocked me from my thoughts. I refocused my gaze and found the cackle belonged to a woman talking to one of the gentlemen from InformaTrade. Her smile split her face, head tipped back as she laughed at whatever he’d said.

  He and his wife continued to chat with the slender woman. She continued to nod and grin, but I watched as she scanned the room at all times.

  Then, throughout the night, I noticed her more and more. Always that brilliant smile. Always that boisterous, bellowing laugh. It was enthusiastic—I’ll give her that—but it came off a little rehearsed.

  Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and it appeared she wasn’t there with anyone. Not anyone who paid her any attention, to be fair. Yet, she never came over to me, nor had I ventured in her direction.

  I was attracted to her. No doubt about that, but she was definitely not the type I usually gravitated toward. Some men like blondes, some brunettes. Some liked thin women or ones with a bit more to hold on to. Those trivial things didn’t matter much to me. I looked for a hint of shyness. Alluring to me was timid femininity.

  I know. It was a complex. A proclivity. A preference.

  I’m well aware of my tastes in the bedroom. The way I like to orchestrate my moves. Plan their pleasure, often postponing my own. Their willingness to give it over to me was a potent drug.

  The trust. That’s really what got me off.

  I wasn’t cruel or abusive. I wasn’t rude or into humiliation.

  No. I was fueled by control. Power. Patience. It seduced me when a woman put such precious things in my hands on her own free will because she believed I’d take care of her that way.

  And I always did.

  By all accounts, this loud woman didn’t look like someone who would be into that kind of thing. She was more assertive than most of the women I’d dated and half the men I worked with. I could tell that from her body language alone. However, the thought of a woman like her yielding to me unexplainably compelled me to count. Those thoughts surprisingly caused my well-tamed anxiety to flare, which was odd altogether.

  Ten.

  I’d always been comfortable around women. Anxiety usually only came for me during particularly stressful deals at work, which I’d learned to anticipate and manage. Before that, it had been brought on mostly by important papers or tests in college. I took medication for it, but only when I needed it. Only when symptoms started flaring. Like my go-to coping mechanism.

  Counting. Backward from ten. Repeatedly.

  As a child I’d used it to calm myself, never knowing what the compulsion was—just that I’d seen people count backward when they were freaking out in movies.

  Turns out, to an extent, it works.

  But if I’m honest, sometimes I ticked down the minutes on my watch, too. I never left my house without one on for that reason. Time somehow provided me a security that eased the panic when I felt the pressure in my head escalate. I’d count down minutes on my watch, or slow, steady seconds in my head, until I found composure.

  Sex, or being with a woman in general, was one place I’d always felt truly relaxed. I don’t think I’d ever felt anxiety around a woman. I’d certainly never been nervous about my attraction to one.

  No.

  Sex was something else for me. I wasn’t there just to get off. I enjoyed the work that came with being a masterful lover. Masterful, in general, at anything I set my mind to. And when it came to a woman, the rush of victory pulsed through my veins only when they fell apart. It wasn’t ever about me.

  Still, as I stood there at the party, I could feel the muscles in my back tighten, and my breathing started to quicken.

  Was she even there alone?

  Fuck.

  Nine.

  Only one time did she catch me looking at her, and when she did she smiled brightly, just as she had to everyone else.

  I hated it.

  I was already familiar with that brand of smile from her. It was a work smile. A performance smile. A mask. I didn’t want that from her, so I didn’t smile back.

  I made my way around the room, shaking hands and making small talk with people I knew. I exchanged business cards with a handful of men and women who were also using the party as an opportunity to market themselves and their specialties.

  What was her specialty?

  Eight.

  The drinks went down at a responsible pace, and as the night began to quiet, and the band began to play music targeting couples to dance. I spent most of my time near the bar.

  Surprisingly—or not, as it turned out—most everyone was paired off.

  Seven.

  I thought about loosening my tie as I leaned against the bar waiting for another beer, but didn’t bother.

  Does she really know all these people? Why don’t I have a clue who she is?

  Six.

  “You’ve been staring at me all night,” a woman said from behind me. “So are you going to introduce yourself or not?”

  Her voice is better up close.

  Five.

  My shoulders shifted back, and I slowly turned to see her. The woman who I knew belonged to that timbre.

  Collect yourself. Stand up straight.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  First impressions are everything. Hers told me, loud and clear, she wasn’t what I was after. Then again, I thrived when challenged.

  I took my time looking over my shoulder into her fiery, annoyed eyes and saw a glimpse of more than what she offered others.

  I need to know everything about her.

  I could have it all.

  One.

  Challenge accepted. “My name is Reagan Warren.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Nora.” She stood tall and proud, like a statue under my observant eye. She wore a slim, body-hugging skirt and a white, silk top that parted ever so slightly as she leaned against the bar beside me. It was tastefully transparent. Provocative, yet classy.

  Every dark brown, precisely shoulder length hair in place. Stormy, grey eyes. Her lipstick applied to perfection. Skin pure like fresh cream.

  Nora was pristine.

  I wanted to start back at ten, but at that point, I knew there was no going back.

  I offered her my hand, and she shook it—professionally. Firm. Deliberate. Intentional.

  Immediately, I took stock of how her skin felt against mine. Her temperature just slightly warmer than my own. Her long fingers holding her palm tightly
against my introductive grip.

  Her presence made me stand straighter, despite the on-setting mild panic I was experiencing.

  Hell, maybe it wasn’t her causing it. I’d had a crazy week. Maybe it was all catching up to me. It picked a supremely shitty time to do it though.

  Regardless, she made me taller by inches, I’m sure.

  She made Reggie into Reagan, so much so, that I’d introduced myself to her that way. To everyone I knew, outside of the formal signature on my email, I was Reggie.

  Not to her though. To her, I wanted to be Reagan. More than just myself. The official me.

  Never had there been a moment where I felt more feeble and dominant at the same time. It took everything in me to steady my breathing and talk to her, learning that I was able to do so fueled me. All the while, my stomach knotted, and I fought the urge to excuse myself.

  No. Do this. You can do this.

  “What do you do, Nora?” I asked before I took another drink.

  It surprised me when she quickly fired back, “Don’t play that shit with me. I’ve seen you staring. What the hell is that all about?”

  I’d watched her saccharine smiles all night. Heard her laugh from across the room. We were a group of business people talking shop. Informative? Interesting? Maybe. Funny? The odds of that many things being funny in that room were slim.

  Her tone was completely indifferent with me though, and it took me back. I sat down my drink.

  “Whoa, I don’t know what just happened. I was making small talk,” I said defensively before I had a chance to work up an offense instead.

  “Small talk? You’ve been watching me like a maniac all night. I’m not interested. I’m here working, and if that’s not good enough. I’m here with friends.”

  Working? Friends? Maybe she was there with someone after all.

  “So you’re with InformaTrade, then?”

  I was eager to garner as much data as I could about the fair Nora, who had been commanding my full attention all night when I should have been concentrating on industry people. I wasn’t a misogynist; I was well aware she might be one of the industry people. Only, I was optimistic she wasn’t.