by Stella Noir
She's startled at my sudden outburst and takes another step away from me. I hate it when she does that. She looks at me with an expression that appears pained.
"I'm not asking as a journalist," she says, sounding hurt. "I'm asking as the woman you had sex with last night."
"They are the same woman," I point out. "As far as I'm concerned."
We look at each other as she clutches herself around the middle, elbows pressed to the sides. A million unspoken words fill the room between us.
What now? Was this it? Will I throw her out and never see her again? Was this just a one-night stand for me? For her? I doubt it was that for her, even though she said she's not looking for a new boyfriend. That's a lie. Girls like her always are. She's not built for playing around. She should realize that because I do.
I, however, find myself in a fucking dilemma. I need her to go. I know that would be the best option. I'm not fit for her, and she's not fit for me. I can't date her, and I won't be able to love her. She's the type of woman who should be properly courted and loved. She's made for something – someone – normal, something real, and she can't have that with me. No one can. This was all about lust. I may be broken, but I'm not done with women and lust. I need to fuck. I needed to fuck her.
But I can't have her around now that I'm done with her.
Problem is, I'm not done with her.
I try to tell myself that it's just carnal desire raging inside of me, that I just need to fuck her one more time, maybe two times, maybe three. And then I’ll be done.
But even I can't make myself believe that. It's more than that. It's the way seeing her in my robe makes me feel. It's the fact that I did not hesitate to bring her here, the fact that I fell asleep next to her, the fact that I want to have breakfast with her. Her company feels good, no matter if my cock is inside her or not. I feel oddly close to her, even though we've just met. She has invaded my head constantly since the first time I saw her, and every minute I spent with her only makes it worse.
She's a fucking intruder, and she may just be playing a game. She found me because she was looking for a story, and she's still trying to get that story out of me, even though she denies it.
I feel close to her, but I don't trust her one fucking bit.
And I don't trust myself.
"I think it's best if you leave right now," I tell her.
She looks at me with a slow, disbelieving head shake. "You can't be serious."
"I am."
She looks at me with a tightness in her eyes.
"No," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
I cock an eyebrow, putting my empty glass down before taking a step toward her. "Excuse me?"
"No," she repeats. "I'm not leaving."
For a few moments, we remain like this, staring at each other as if this was a contest to see who could stand the longest without blinking. She still has her arms crossed in front of her chest, and I notice her eyes darting back and forth between mine and my chest. I'm only wearing my silk boxers and I know that my well-sculptured body would be considered desirable by most women. After all, I don't spend all this time at the gym just to please myself.
"Enjoying the view?" I ask her.
She blushes, and it's the cutest thing ever, especially in combination with her angry furl.
"I won't leave before we settle some things," she says.
"Settle some things?"
Now I'm curious to see where this is going.
She thrusts her chest out and exhales audibly.
"I... I don't want to talk like this," she says. "And I need a coffee."
I huff. "I'm not your servant."
Her sassy facade breaks for a moment when she ponders the implications of my words.
"True," she says. "But this is your home and you should –"
"Fine," I interrupt, too smitten by her attempt at taking over control. "You'll get your coffee."
She's in luck because coffee is one of the very few things my kitchen has to offer, and I could use a cup myself. I invite her to sit at the counter while I prepare us a strong brew using my French press. She watches me, but remains quiet for the most part, while I wonder what she meant when she said that she wants to settle some things.
I place a cup of freshly brewed black coffee in front of her, and she doesn’t ask for either milk or sugar before she lifts the cup to her face.
"So?" I ask, leaning on my elbows, opposite her. "You wanted to settle some things?"
She carefully sips on her coffee and nods.
"Yes," she says. "And since you were nice enough not to throw me out, I'll respect your wishes to stay clear of certain subjects."
She clears her throat and rubs the back of her neck.
"Well," she says, not looking at me. Her eyes are fixated on the cup of coffee in front of her. "Actually, it's more of a question I have."
She looks at me, her blue eyes glowing like polished marbles, surrounded by smudged makeup from the night before. Even now, she looks endearing to me.
"Yes?" I ask back, moving my hand in a twirling motion to beckon her to continue.
"What now?" she asks.
"What do you mean?"
I know very well what she means, but I want to hear her say it. I want to hear her say where she stands, what she thinks. I shouldn't worry about that. I should just tell her to leave and then force her to leave.
I never should have brought her here.
I guess it's safe to say that I'm fucked. I made a rash decision to take her home against all better judgment, and now I'm not ready to let her go.
Yes, I am fucked.
"Was this it?" she wants to know. "Because... I don't know about you, but I don't have sex like this every day."
"Neither do I," I say truthfully.
She rolls her eyes at me.
"I don't need to know about your endeavors with others," she says. "I don't even need this to be exclusive. But I'd like to see you again."
She pauses, raising her hand with her palm toward me.
"No dating," she clarifies. "Like... no relationship or whatever. Just having a little fun, as they say."
A flush creeps across her cheeks and she averts her eyes. It's so fucking alluring to see her trapped in this dilemma between cool exterior and her obvious turmoil on the inside. She's trying to be someone she's not. I know she's not the kind of girl who wants to have a simple fling, and this would be a first for her.
"Not exclusive, huh?" I address the most sensitive aspect of her proposal.
She nods. "Yeah."
Well, I fucking want this to be exclusive. Why the hell would I go back to that empty shell of a sex life I had before when I have her. If I have to choose between a dolled-up Candice with her fake attentiveness and the honest to God passion of Lily, I don't have to waste a lot of time thinking.
But, of course, I can't tell her that.
Also, the thought of her under another man's touch makes my stomach turn. I'll approach the topic from that angle.
"What if I want you to myself?" I ask.
Her eyes widen.
"I don't want to share you," I add. "And there's no need for me to play the field. I'm content with one good girl."
She smiles. "All right. If that deal is on the table, I'm all for it."
It's cute that she calls it a deal, but if that's the word she chooses, I want to make sure to add my demands to it.
"I have one condition, though," I say, catching her eyes as she sips on her coffee. "No more questions. No interview. No story."
She sighs and puts the mug down, contemplating. If she doesn't agree on this, it would make things a lot easier for me. It would show her true intentions and prove that I was right to mistrust her.
"All right," she says eventually. "No interview, no story."
She pauses and forms her hands into a steeple, lifting her chin as she says, "But I won't let go of all my questions. Just some. For now."
I offer her a bemu
sed smile. "We'll see about that."
She winks at me. It's such a casual expression, nothing about it seems practiced and fake. She has such a natural and expressive way of behaving once she lets her guard down.
Just like her.
The memory drills deep into my heart. Also, it explains a lot. It explains why Lily got stuck in my head after that first meeting, it explains why she scares me and it explains why I swore to stay away from her.
She reminds me of her. They may look different, but they resemble each other in so many ways. Their mannerisms, their eyes, the way Lily speaks to me. I've fallen for all of that before.
And it was taken from me in the most cruel way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lily
"What do you mean, you can't use him?" Sara asks, tilting her head to the side. "I thought you'd let go of that guy a long time ago? Why are we still talking about him?"
Because I'm sort of dating him now. Well, not really. We're not calling it that, but essentially that is what it is.
I think.
"I met him again," I say. "At the bar where we first met."
"Oh?"
Sara cocks her eyebrows and leans forward.
"He agreed to meet you again?" she asks. "But you don't want to use him for your story now that you've talked to him?"
"Not exactly," I admit. "I kind of ambushed him and waited for him at the bar, because I knew that he goes there a lot..."
"Oh, Lily," Sara exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. "Like a true reporter, huh?"
I shrug. "In any case, he showed up and he talked to me, but he still won't agree to an interview, and now... it's kind of gotten to the point where I really can't use him."
"How so?" Sara asks.
I feel my cheeks and ears burning and hope to God that she doesn't notice. If she does, she's nice enough not to say anything about it, for which I'm very grateful.
"It's just... I can't," I stutter, realizing that I don't have the guts to spill the truth in front of her. "And I'm kind of angry about that because I feel like I've messed up."
Sara tilts her head to the side again and purses her lips.
"Girl, you need to be a bit more clear if you want me to help you," she says.
I nod because I understand where she's coming from. I spare her the intimate details, but tell her about how Jed and I have been secretly seeing each other. Of course, I leave out the juicy parts because they are none of her business, especially considering we work together, but I tell her enough to let her come to the conclusion that I'm dating Jed Lozano.
"So, he’s your boyfriend now?" she asks, giving me a mischievious wink.
"I wouldn't call it that," I disagree.
"Well, how do you feel about him?" she wants to know, smirking.
Her questions remind me that there are cuter – and more traditional – ways to get intimate with someone. It was the only way I've known so far. Peter and I met as friends during college, and when we started dating, we didn't have sex until more than a month in. We had proper dates before, we took long walks, he invited me to dinner, we went to the movies – things like that.
It's been two weeks and Jed and I have not shared one single meal together. Not once. We’ve never seen the other eat. As far as we know, we just live on Scotch and sex.
"That doesn't matter," I tell Sara. "It's not about feelings, it's just...."
What is it?
And why am I telling her all of this? It's like a weird part of me wants to tell the whole world about what happened two weeks ago and has been happening ever since.
Despite our deal not to call this a relationship, Jed and I have seen each other almost every other day since then. My body is dotted with bruises and bite marks, and I'm sure he's sporting quite a few scratch marks himself.
I've never felt like this before. I've never had sex like this. We're attacking each other like starving animals, even when it's only been a day since our last meeting. It's insane, wild, hungry and freaking exhausting. Every time I leave him, I do it on wobbly knees, my mind dazed and body trembling from the trauma. I crave food and sleep like I never have before. My encounters with Jed leave me refreshed and mentally satisfied, but they wreak havoc on me physically. I'm not seeing him today solely to give my body a rest. Fucking is all we do – like maniacs.
"Okay, let's put it this way," Sara says, interrupting my train of thought. "You're intimate with this guy, and you're obviously interested in him. Don't you think this could actually help? If you're getting this close to him, you might get him to talk eventually."
My eyes widen in disbelief.
"Are you saying I should take advantage of him?" I ask, gasping. "Betray him? Secretly ask my questions and use his answers without him knowing?"
Sara shakes her head slowly. "I'm not suggesting that. Just, you know, maybe he'll warm up to the idea if you ask him again. I mean, you've been seeing each other for a while now."
Seeing each other. That's an interesting way of putting it.
"You know, you get acquainted, intimate, close – people are more likely to talk about themselves then," Sara adds optimistically. "And he might also warm up to the idea of you using some of his quotes in your article."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable at the idea.
"I don't know...," I mumble.
"Well, another question is if any of that will happen soon enough for you to finish your article," Sara says, referring to the calendar on her wall. "You know they'll want the story ahead of or around Veteran's Day."
"I know," I say. "I’m worried I might have to ask them for an extension now that I have to start over from scratch."
Sara nods. "Do that. But do it now, otherwise it won't look good. And you don't have that much time left to begin with."
I nod, say my goodbyes and leave her office. Concentrating on work has become so hard lately, and this story has me backed up against the wall. I was so dead set on telling his story – the story it seems like I’m never going to hear – from the protagonist who has turned my mind – my life – upside down.
He has become such an essential part of my everyday life, even though I can’t really call him my boyfriend.
We've created our own little ritual. He waits for me at the bar in the evening, we might share a Scotch together, but we never stay longer than a few minutes before he calls us a car and we leave to go to his place to fuck each other’s brains out.
There's one big difference from that very first night with him, though: I never stay overnight. It was another condition that he wanted me to agree on, and I did. I prefer sleeping at home in my own bed by far anyway, especially on worknights, but I can't deny that I have been wishing that he’d invite me to stay. I liked sleeping next to him, and I hope we will eventually get to that point. There have been times when I regretted our decision to keep things so businesslike, especially since our sex life is so intimate and special.
I noticed that he put away the photographs. I haven't seen them since that first day and I’ve never asked about them again. We speak very little in general. Due to our no-interview deal, I feel very constrained when it comes to asking him anything. We've talked about work, and he's told me about his business on a very generic level. I accused him of being a geek because I could hardly understand what his company does, and he has called me a silly dreamer for thinking I could actually make it in the harsh world of journalism because no one reads newspapers anymore. We got into a playful banter over that, and that's the deepest our conversation has ever gone.
Other than that, we hardly talk about anything but everyday occurrences and make flirty comments – mostly his doing – that eventually lead to sex. One evening he didn't wait for me inside the bar, but outside. He pulled me into a black limousine and started ripping my clothes off as soon as the doors were closed and the driver was concealed from us behind a black shade. I don't think we exchanged more than two sentences that night, but the sex was incredible
. I'd never sat on a hard cock in the backseat of an expensive ride while being chauffered around town. The exclusivity and taboo nature of what we were doing was such a turn-on that I felt drunk with desire. My nerve endings still stir and tingle when I remember that evening.
I'm tempted to message him and ask if he wants to see me tonight, even though I had told him no before. Sara's suggestion unsettled me, but I can't dismiss it completely. After all, she might have a point. He could still talk to me, if he trusted me, but he can only learn to trust me if he gets to know me better.
I'm holding the phone in my hand, thinking, when it beeps. My eyes rush down to the screen, hoping it's a message from him, but sadly, it's not. Peter just won't let go. After repeatedly telling him not to contact me anymore, I've now gone to ignoring his messages altogether. However, that doesn't stop him from sending them. I get at least one every day, sometimes two. It's gotten to a point where I'm beginning to fear he’s stalking me. He knows where I live and work.
I delete his latest message and put my phone away. I shouldn't be daydreaming anyway. Regardless of how important my editorial is, and regardless if Jed is interview material or not, there's work to do on other, smaller but more urgent news items.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jed
Not this guy again. I thought his pathetic threats had ended a long time ago, but weeks and months of silence led me to have a false sense of security.
Titus Miller was one of my closest buddies after I left the Marines, or so I thought. We met while we were deployed together and we both left at the same time. He knows more about me than almost any other person, and he actually was assigned to the same counseling program as me after we were both diagnosed as being wrong in the head. Of course we were – we had to do some fucked up stuff and we saw some pretty fucked up stuff happening to other people, too. It's an experience I don’t wish on anybody, but unlike what all those experts think, this is not what caused me to drown myself in booze and drugs causing myself to get kicked out.
Yeah, I lied to Lily about that part. I didn't decide not to reenlist, I got discharged, diagnosed as too sick to serve. Initially, that's how I ended up here, and ironically, I'm not sure if I would have ended up here if all that shit hadn't happened to me.