Twisted Desire

by M. Mabie

  Blah. Blah. Blah. It was all the same. I want something I can’t have, or I got something I really wanted. That’s it.

  Couldn’t musicians ever simply be in the moment?

  The news was better background sound for me. Hell, if you watched one of those news channels long enough it was almost like an album playing on a loop anyway. It all repeated. If I was going to listen to something over and over, it might as well be something that made me more informed.

  “Right,” he deadpanned. “Well, you know where I am. You still have my phone number?”

  This time, when he was encouraging me to call, it felt differently and instantly ran through my mind and made sure that I did. “Yes, it’s saved under Sir,” I teased. “Thanks, for the wine.”

  His neck flexed, and he stood taller. I knew that was my cue. I’d hit his threshold in more ways than one for the night. It had been too soon to joke like that.

  Did people like him really get turned on by that? Sir? How cliché.

  I put weight on my foot, testing it out. It was tender, but really it was just that damn toe.

  He came around to me and put his hand on my elbow. “I’ll walk you.”

  “I’m fine,” I retorted and pulled away. I couldn’t handle the feel of him touching me again without making some stupid decision. “Don’t pick me up.”

  I didn’t need reminding of how that felt. I could still feel his arms on me from hours ago.

  Hands in the air, he was surprised by my outburst. “I won’t,” he assured. His questioning look, waited for me to explain or to say something, but I didn’t know what to tell him.

  I limped-slash-waddled to the door. The less time I was there with him. The better. I was drunk and doubting myself.

  He moved faster and got there first, opening it for me with his arm high enough that I could walk under it. I didn’t want to do that. So I moved his arm out of the way, then walked through the doorway.

  When I turned around a few steps outside, I saw him silently making a growling face at something.

  “Um...Goodnight,” I said.

  He recovered, but he’d been caught doing God only knows what.

  His tone were sharp and curt. “Goodnight, Nora.”

  I took a few more steps and then turned around again. He was still there; I knew because I hadn’t heard the door.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “I told you I was helpful.”

  I nodded to myself more than him.

  The manly-man Reagan was back, and I was tired. I walked a few more feet, then I heard him say, “I should have kissed you.”

  My back was to him, but his words were in my face. I both didn’t want to hear more and wanted him to keep saying things. Things that were making me almost change my mind.

  We had so much damn chemistry.

  Still, it was what it was, and we’d agreed.

  “Has anything changed?” I asked, knowing it hadn’t.

  He groaned, but took a few more seconds before quietly saying, “Not on this end of the hall.”

  I was disappointed, even though it was dumb.

  “Me either. You talk too damn much.”

  I walked the rest of the way, feeling his eyes on my back. When I put my key in the lock, I turned to see him.

  He was staring right at me, his one elbow holding his weight from the door frame, his fist holding up his head, as his other arm held onto the trim above. When my door opened, he turned and went inside. He didn’t necessarily slam the door, but it wasn’t gingerly the way he closed it.

  I looked around my new apartment. It was barren, but I knew I could make a dent in the progress in the morning.

  I was a morning person.

  THE BEDROOMS AND BATHROOMS had been easy. I hung my clothes. Rewashed the towels and stacked them where they went. Unpacked my shoes, and happily reunited with my best flats.

  The biggest job would be the kitchen. So, while I still had the energy, I went at it full throttle.

  I liked busy work. It made the time fly, but what it didn’t require was a lot of thought. That left me to think about things I shouldn’t have.

  So he wanted to kiss me?

  I could still hear his voice chasing me down the hall the night before.

  Even despite our differences?

  I didn’t know how I felt about it.

  That was a lie. I knew. I’d felt the same way. I’d wanted him to kiss me. Hell, I wanted to kiss him, but I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do.

  Yet, I still wanted it.

  He’d want more than that, or maybe he’d completely changed his mind. I didn’t like either option.

  I didn’t know many men like him first hand, but I’d been close to people who did. My mother married men like Reagan Warren. Powerful. Well-off. Aggressive. Controlling.

  When Vivian was finished with them, she’d let them go. On to the next.

  Maybe I finally saw the allure of all of it. Maybe I’d been blind to what attracted her to them all these years, simply because I’d done my best to avoid them all together.

  There was no avoiding Reagan Warren. He was too much of a force to ignore.

  I couldn’t deny that his suave aura was sexy, but I’d never be able to handle him.

  He’d want to know what I was doing. Where I was. Who I was with.

  He’d want to make plans with people I didn’t care to meet.

  He’d want to buy me things and expect me to rely on him.

  There was a fat chance—no chance—of that ever happening.

  I liked things my way. Easy come, easy go. No strings attached to me.

  I both debated and cheered myself on, back and forth in my head, for hours as I found homes for my silverware and utensils.

  While I unpacked my glasses and plates, an angel and a devil battled from shoulder to shoulder. Launching stupid argument after lame defense.

  He’ll get sick of you not being a door mat.

  It felt nice to be looked after.

  He just wants a pet.

  I can still feel his chest against mine.

  You can’t handle one man’s undivided attention, and you certainly couldn’t keep it.

  He’s honest, and I think he’s a little lonely.

  He is stubborn and won’t back down.

  He tried every single thing I offered him last night. Maybe he would eventually have an open mind about trying other things.

  Round and round they went until I was dizzy. Never the less, I ended exactly where I’d started.

  We’d be friends.

  Friends who knew better than to cross a line that neither could be happy on the other side of.

  Even if he did consider trying—what if he wasn’t into it? Then what?

  We wanted different things, and we both deserved what we wanted.

  Friends it was.

  I didn’t see him, even though I kind of hoped I’d run into him in the building when I went out for groceries.

  I wasn’t proud of it, but I walked past the gym to see if he was in there. I’d been given a tour, but the building was still very much under construction. I knew our floor had been one of the first to be totally finished.

  Wait.

  Maybe that was why we’re neighbors. Maybe he didn’t rig anything.

  I’d told them I needed a place rather quickly.

  He was helpful. Maybe he was sincere, too.

  While I was out, I made the taxi swing by a liquor store so I could replace the wonderful wine he’d shared. It was a nice way to say thank you to a someone who lent a hand. A real friend-like gesture.

  I felt pretty good about it really.

  I only got the necessities, maybe a few bottles for myself, and as I unpacked everything, I thought about how I’d give it to him.

  Could I just walk down there? Of course, I could.

  I’d already been invited there before; it wasn’t weird to hand deliver a thank you. Not to a neighbor.

  My phone buzzed from inside my
purse. A new text.

  JANEL: What are your plans for Thursday?

  I looked at my calendar. Thursday was July third.

  ME: No plans.

  JANEL: Some friends are having a party on their boat. No one has to work the next day. Feel like getting together?

  It sounded exactly like what I needed.

  ME: A bunch of people?

  JANEL: No, it’s just us and three others.

  Small. Intimate. That sounded like heaven. I knew when she said friends, what she really meant was people like us. Call them swingers. Call them poly. Call them whatever you like. People with our preferences found other people who liked the same things, and if Janel and Ives were comfortable with them, I had no reservations.

  ME: Sounds fun.

  JANEL: Ok. We’ll pick you up around six Thursday evening. Bring a swimming suit.

  JANEL: No don’t. lol

  Yeah. Exactly what I needed. That text had me feeling like myself. After my dad, and moving, and this whole Reagan thing, I finally felt like me for a minute.

  It was just what my bravado needed to march down the hall and give him the wine.

  We were friends.

  I was still me.

  I dropped my phone on the counter and decided I’d only take my key, and pocketed it. When I began to walk toward the opposite end of the hall, I realized he was walking toward me.

  He looked good. Really good.

  Jeans. Cubs t-shirt.

  Was that the kind of thing he wore when he wasn’t working?

  He looked so casual. Approachable.

  Then I realized I was only wearing jeans, flats, and a tank top. I hadn’t thought this through enough.

  He smiled. “How’s the toe?”

  “Recovering. I should be back in heels by the weekend, but it was touch and go.” I smiled back.

  I’d found a new pair while unpacking. Maybe I’d wear them on the boat with Janel and Ives.

  He hadn’t shaved, and there was a perfect smattering of growth. Short enough it didn’t look messy, but long enough to cause a dark shadow on his cheeks and jaw. He scratched it as we got closer.

  He said, “I didn’t know if you were back yet? I came down to see you a little while ago, but you were gone.”

  “I went out for a few things.” I lifted the wine in the gift bag I’d purchased with it. “To replace the one from last night.”

  He tucked what he was carrying under his arm, took the bag from my hands and pulled the bottle out to read that it was the same as what we’d drank.

  He nodded, genuinely pleased. Possibly impressed. “Thank you.”

  Warmth spread across me, and I smiled but kept it tame. Instantly realizing that I liked how it felt to please him, then I banished the thought.

  I swung my arm at him, “What’s that?”

  His attention was torn from the bottle, and he handed me the package. It was kind of heavy.

  “What is it?” It felt like something liquid as I shook it for no other reason than that’s what you do with an unopened gift box.

  “It’s not much. Actually,” he said and paused as he tried to grab it back from me, but I was quick enough to keep it.

  “Don’t. I want it.” Then, I turned around and headed back to my apartment to get away.

  “Stop,” he ordered, then followed. “Listen. It’s not really anything. Stop!”

  I already had my key in the door and the box in my other hand. I was inside fast and just kept walking. He followed me straight into my apartment.

  “Stop. Damn it. Don’t open it. I made a mistake.”

  “Nope,” I said striding, with a minor limp—I’d been on my feet all day—straight into my kitchen for the scissors. I’d dedicated a drawer to them that morning. I pulled them right out and pressed the open blade to the piece of tape on the black package.

  Wait. I’d purchased things that came in a black package before. I had many of them in another especially dedicated drawer. In my dresser. In the back.

  He wouldn’t have bought me something like that. Right?

  I slowed my roll.

  “I’m going to open this,” I warned.

  “I wish you wouldn’t. Really, I didn’t know you were buying me wine.” He wasn’t arguing, not like he usually did anyway.

  No. He was trying to sell me on giving it back, while cajoling me with his big brown eyes. It was almost laughable. Reagan was a shitty bluffer.

  I asked, “Will it make me mad?”

  He balked. “Mad? No.” He looked at me oddly, as if he was trying to think of something that would make me mad. “Why would you be—never mind. Yes, you’ll be mad. I don’t want to make you mad. I’ll take it back.” He was backtracking.

  I wasn’t sure what to do, but I really wanted to know what it was.

  “No. It’s mine.” I cut the tape and tore the paper the rest of the way. I started to open the lid and heard him groan.

  He sounded defeated.

  There was a moment when I thought about not looking down and seeing what it was. Somehow undo it. I didn’t like the way he looked with his head hung like that.

  He was a proud man and deservingly so.

  I was still making up my mind whether to look or not when he began speaking.

  “If you do it again—and I’m not around—I thought you should have your own. Here.”

  I looked down, and there were two unfrozen ice packs like the ones he had. It stole my breath.

  It was so thoughtful. I wasn’t a stranger to gifts, but this was different.

  “You bought me ice packs?” I asked, shocked.

  Something somewhere inside me chipped away in that moment. He bought me ice packs. Five dollar, blue, pharmacy brand ice packs.

  My present was more expensive, but his was... it was a real gift.

  I understood why he freaked. In comparison, the wine hurt his pride. That didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t want to injure him. The wine was supposed to be a nice gesture.

  “I’m going to need that back,” I demanded and held out my arm.

  I had to fix it. I hated the way he looked. He didn’t deserve embarrassment.

  “What?” he probed, his mood soured.

  “I’d like my wine back. You misunderstood me. It wasn’t a gift. I was coming down to drink it. It’s my wine.”

  He called me a liar with his eyes.

  “You shared. We drank it. It was a good bottle, so I thought I’d share one with you.” I laughed loudly. “What? You thought I bought that for you? All for you?” I laughed again and, in my nervousness, I think it was even louder than the one before.

  “You were going to share it? It wasn’t a gift?” He was suspicious, but I could tell he was hopeful, too.

  “Nope. I don’t give wine like that to a friend I’ve only had for one day.”

  I was a terrible liar, but even if he didn’t believe me, it was a way I could let him know I understood.

  I don’t care who you are, when a man buys you ice packs—just in case he’s not there to help you—you think more of him. You make allowances.

  Because I cared that teeny, tiny sliver of a bit, I lied.

  Reagan mulled it over, let it sink in. The man was always thinking. He gave me a sideways glance but let me off, placing the wine on the counter. Then, he said, “Your place looks nice. You got a lot done.”

  I looked around at my kitchen and the rooms it opened up to.

  There were still a lot of boxes, but most them were empty. Shelves, albeit also empty, hung on the walls. I had my table and chairs in their place, and I’d hung a few paintings in the dining room.

  I wasn’t a stranger to a drill. I read do-it-yourself books about as often as cookbooks, and read cookbooks like some women read Cosmo. I even had a toolbox. It was candy apple red, my favorite color.

  Don’t get me wrong, I read Cosmo too, but that was an entirely different ritual. A monthly, full-night, take-out and Cosmo, first to last page ritual. I never took the stupid quizze
s. I didn’t read it for the articles, but for the ads and pictures.

  So many times, I’d fallen in love with a designer perfume when I was growing up reading my mother’s, prying the lightly glued sample tabs up and running them over my wrists. I would smell it on myself all day and pretended like I was a grown up. When I could do whatever I wanted. When I could leave and never come back. Live my own life.

  I collected perfume like some women collect shoes and had most of the ones I’d coveted as a child. Mostly from the eighties and nineties.

  One bottle was a vintage Guerlain Apres L’Ondee from 1960, I’d never even worn it. Some bottles, like that one, I’d never spray because they were so rare. I couldn’t think of anywhere that special I’d have to be.

  I’d been itching to get them on display again, and he was right, my apartment looked nice—compared to the disarray yesterday.

  Before I could thank him for the compliment, he busted me.

  “I think you’re lying to me, and you did buy the wine for me.”

  Well, there went that plan.

  I picked up the wrapping paper and the box my ice packs came in, check that there was nothing else inside, and tossed them into the trash, feigning ignorance. “Why would I do that? I bought it to share.”

  He leaned against my bar top, palms down and swayed as he deliberated. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  “Well, I’ll take a glass then,” he challenged, glancing at his watch, something he did a lot.

  Did he have somewhere to be? Was he going to a ballgame?

  “Were you on your way out? I can wait. I didn’t even get it chilled.”

  Before the words were even completely out of my mouth, I knew I’d given myself away. Who comes to share a bottle that’s not chilled?

  He stared me down, and his jaw ticked. I was caught, but he wasn’t rubbing my nose in it. His voice was controlled and even, “I don’t have plans. Chill it, then come down.”

  No one ever talked to me like that. I didn’t respond.

  “Please,” he said annoyed, then added gentler, “I’d like to have a glass of wine with you, if you’re really sharing. Please.”

  There it was again. He yielded to me.

  He never pushed me too hard after I resisted. Even though he’d admitted he wanted to. Even when I knew he could.