Love Hacked

by Penny Reid

  “Yes. He’s working.”

  “Oh, okay. Okay. Thanks.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  As I hung up the phone, I wondered why, in matters of the heart, even confident, highly educated professionals are reduced to behaving like awkward adolescents.

  I’d turned down an invitation from one of my friends, Jeff, and his wife, Ellen, so that I could stay in and prepare for my vampy attack. Jeff and I had dated some years ago. After he’d worked through his childhood trauma, he’d met and married the lovely Ellen. They were expecting their first child. I was going to be the Godmother.

  I was ready to pick up the food. I’d spent the last several hours of my Saturday afternoon preparing. The clothes scattered about my bedroom were proof. Wearing something scandalously inappropriate to pick up takeout during a Chicago winter was exceedingly difficult. In the end, I decided my legs were going to have to sell it, so I settled on lace patterned thigh high stockings paired with sleek, black high heels.

  Under the mammoth coat, I wore a baggy long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. Not the sexiest attire, but when I couldn’t decide on anything to wear, I figured the chances of taking off my coat in the restaurant were minimal. Therefore, I might as well be comfortable.

  I waited on my couch, watched the clock, tried to knit. After ten of the longest minutes in the history of the universe, I left for the restaurant.

  I didn’t wear my hood because it wasn’t a windy night, and I’d done my hair. It fell in soft waves around my face; I’d achieved the careless tousled look after hours of careful machinations. My makeup was, if the magazine instructions I’d used as a guide were to be believed, stunningly sensual.

  In truth, I was nervous. I reminded myself of something my mother liked to say, which I believe wholeheartedly: Nervous is a neighbor to worry—and worry is an emotional state that I abhor. It tends to be self-absorbed and shortsighted, and holds no purpose other than to waste energy and distract the mind from what actually matters.

  As I opened the door to the restaurant, I reminded myself of the worst thing that could happen: he would reject me and my vampy advances. It would sting; but the world would continue to spin, I’d wear the Wookie costume with pride, and I’d get over it.

  The place was packed, so I stood by the reception stand as I entered. I was glad that I’d called for takeout instead of trying to dine in. I saw Shirra—the other member of the wait staff—jumping between tables, delivering food, taking orders. A further scan of the space revealed Alex, dressed in all black as usual. His back was to me, and he was talking with a table of women.

  Younger women.

  Like, his age.

  Their faces were rapt, adoring. I didn’t think they could be any more mesmerized if he’d been naked.

  “Sandra?”

  I turned toward the sound of my name and found smiling Shirra with a takeout bag and a check.

  “You’re Sandra, right?”

  I nodded. “Yep, that’s me,” and pulled cash from my pocket.

  She accepted the twenty then began rifling through her apron for change.

  “Nah, don’t worry about it.” I waved her off. “Keep the change.”

  I returned her smile with a genuine one of my own—because I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.

  I cast one last glance at Alex, his back still to the door, and I didn’t even try to contain my bubble of laughter as I left the restaurant without ever being seen.

  I wasn’t completely ridiculous.

  I don’t think people can be completely ridiculous unless they take themselves too seriously. I was only slightly ridiculous. But I knew that already.

  Yes, I was disappointed. Yes, I was a tad embarrassed. But I was also an eternal optimist. Despite my hours of work preparing to pick up takeout and then never being noticed, the evening had several bright spots.

  First, I’d learned how to apply stunningly sensual makeup.

  Second, I now had a great story for my knitting group on Tuesday.

  The best stories, I feel, are those that are self-deprecating and involve some thread of irony. This story had both of these elements. I had high hopes that the ladies would be bent over in laughter if not snorting tequila from their noses when they heard about my ineffectual antics.

  This thought warmed me as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I chuckled to myself as I unlocked the door then admired my legs in the full-length hall mirror. They looked truly fantastic in the stockings. Maybe I would wear my current outfit—baggy shirt, sleep shorts, silky stockings, sleek heels—on Tuesday, so they could get the full effect of my dashed hopes.

  As I set the takeout bag on my coffee table and removed the contents, I considered that they wouldn’t get the full effect because there was no way I was going to do my hair again.

  I flipped on my TV then the TiVo, and pressed the button for Netflix. I then divided my attention between the food on the table and browsing for just the right movie to suit my mood.

  The fact that I saw the white piece of paper was something of a miracle. It snagged my attention—an eight-and-a-half by eleven-inch sheet folded into neat fourths and stuffed between layers of naan.

  I frowned at it, plucked it from the bread, blinked, and said aloud to the empty room, “Hmm. What’s this?”

  It was a little greasy, but the words were perfectly legible.

  Sandra,

  Meet me back here at 11:15. Wear the red dress. All other clothing is optional.

  Alex

  CHAPTER 8

  I PUT A KIBOSH on overanalyzing the situation.

  This was what I’d wanted. I was going to go get him…and it. So I changed into the red dress at eleven o’clock, left on the stockings and shoes, and lightened my makeup. I figured the fish was already caught; no use looking like a makeup-smudged heroin addict after the illicit act.

  I focused on the thoughts that encouraged: I can do this. I can do no strings. I can copulate without comeuppance. If I’m efficient about it, I might even make it home in time for the second half of Saturday Night Live.

  And ignored the ones that didn’t: You like him too much; your heart is already involved; this is going to cause you pain at some point; he has a Tuesday woman.

  I walked into Taj’s at exactly 11:17 and, though the bell jingled, found the restaurant dark. A quick scan revealed Alex walking toward me. He placed a large container of salt on a seemingly random table—he must’ve been refilling saltshakers—and never broke his stride.

  When his eyes were at last close enough to be visible, he reached around me and twisted the bolt on the door behind me, and then he turned a second lock at waist level.

  My knees felt a bit weak; not because I was having regrets, but because of the intensity of his gaze and because he smelled fantastic—like cologne and soap and shaving cream. The combined scent enveloped me and carried away any second thoughts I might have had.

  “Hi.” His tone was dark, low, intimate. That single word reminded me why I loved his voice.

  “Hi.”

  I expected to find him as openly lust-craved as I was. Instead, I found his expression guarded and a bit uncertain. As soon as I made this observation, it occurred to me that it might not have been uncertainty. I couldn’t be sure. I was never sure with Alex.

  Even without the scent of shaving cream, I would have noticed at once that he’d shaved. His omnipresent black stubble was gone, and the scar on his chin was clearly visible against the smoothness of his jaw.

  I thought about how he’d gotten the scar. The thought made me frown.

  “What are you thinking about?” He asked. His voice and eyes were steady, but I perceived subtle hints of hesitation in his expression. I briefly wondered if the indecision I saw in him was merely a reflection of my own belated unease.

  “You shaved.” Unthinkingly, I brought my hand to his face, but then hesitated when I realized the intimacy of the movement. He grabbed my hovering hand and
pressed it to his cheek. My knees weakened further.

  “Yes. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

  “I liked your stubble.”

  “Thank you.” Alex’s voice was just above a whisper; he responded with an air of quiet thoughtfulness. Apparently, he’d given the matter a great deal of consideration. “I’ll grow it back for you if you want me to. But, tonight, it would have felt like sandpaper between your thighs.”

  Good lord!

  And…

  ZING!

  My eyes bulged as they darted between his. “I….”

  “Come on.” He threaded his fingers through mine as he pulled my hand from his face and turned. Alex tugged me unceremoniously toward the back alcove where we’d had our first kisses, and then to the stairs beyond.

  My attention was fastened to the back of his head, and I noticed without registering the fact that his hair was wet. It wasn’t until we’d mounted the second floor landing that I connected the soap smell with the wet hair. He must’ve taken a shower.

  That was strange, right?

  Men didn’t typically fancy up for booty calls, right?

  I was confused.

  His pulling didn’t stop until we were inside his apartment. Then he pushed me against the door as he kicked it closed. His lips moved against mine and I felt the greed, lust, and eagerness in his kiss that had been missing earlier from his guarded expression. Faintly, as I was wonderfully dazed by everything about him, I detected that he tasted like minty mouthwash.

  His hands made quick work of unbuttoning my coat, and as soon as he peeled it off my shoulders, he tossed it aside. His fingers dug into my hips and bottom over my dress, bringing my pelvis forcefully against his; I instinctively arched my back, my body clamoring for his touch.

  “Sandra.” He whispered my name as he briefly broke our kiss; one of his hands moved from first base to second base. “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful….” Alex kneaded me through the thin red fabric with the enthusiasm of a man who enjoyed breasts. His thumb traced a circle around my already erect nipple. I moaned and he groaned, giving me reason to suspect he was a boob man.

  His mouth trailed hungry kisses over my jaw, down my neck, and behind my ear, and my knees started to shake. His other hand, the one not currently exposing my breast for his waiting tongue to taste, skimmed under the hem of my dress, hiking the fabric as he explored, felt the edge of my thigh-highs, and grabbed my bare bottom.

  He cursed—three times. It sounded both appreciative and angry. I assumed it was because I wasn’t wearing underwear.

  “I’ve waited so long.” He murmured the words against my exposed skin, so low I almost didn’t catch them. “So long….” he repeated, and then he brought his wet tongue against the peak of my breast and very deliberately licked.

  So long?

  “Ughah…” I pressed against him, goose bumps claiming every inch of my skin even as I struggled to make sense of his words.

  “Touch me.” His voice was abrupt, hard, commanding.

  Dumbly I realized that, to this point, my own hands had been passively resting on his shoulders. I rectified my oversight by lowering my fingers to the hem of his black shirt. I treated myself to his stomach and back; loved how hot and smooth and masculine he felt; loved how I made his breath hitch and his muscles tense with my exploration.

  “Mine.” I thought I heard him whisper just before he bit the side of my breast. Both of his hands that had moved to my legs and were rapidly inching up the hem of my dress.

  Once again, his voice was commanding as he said, “Say you’re mine.”

  “You’re mine.”

  Alex pulled slightly away, and his hands stalled over the back of my thighs. He snared my gaze with his—and my breath caught when I saw in his eyes a strange but potent combination of savage and vulnerable. “Say it.”

  “Why?” I panted, shifted restlessly against him.

  “Because it’s true.”

  “What?” I blinked at him, certain I’d misheard him, and tried to find my way out of the seduction-laced web-fog he’d woven with his hands and mouth and sexy voice.

  “Well, after tonight it’ll be true.” His fingers flexed, but he made no other movement to continue our tryst.

  I stared at him for a very long moment until I was sure that this wasn’t a dream and that I hadn’t misheard or misunderstood the not-so-subtle undertone of his words.

  “Alex….” I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it, then repeated. “Alex.”

  “I like how you say my name.” His eyes half closed, darkened with unmistakable desire, and his mouth lowered to mine. “I can’t wait to hear you scream it.”

  Wait…did he mean scream it as in yeah-baby-more-of-that-sexy-stuff, or scream it as in please-stop-murdering-me?

  I turned my face to the left and braced my hands against the solid wall of his chest. “Whoa, wait....”

  Seemingly unfazed by my withdrawal, he kissed my cheek then jaw then neck then bit my collarbone. His fingers gripped my bare bottom, and he rocked against my nearly exposed center.

  “Damn,” I whispered, because his hot hands felt like heaven.

  His mouth licked and suckled a path to my exposed nipple.

  “Wait, Alex. Stop.” I said the words even though my body, which didn’t seem to understand English or wasn’t currently accepting any new requests other than hot monkey sex with growly Alex, rejected their meaning.

  But Alex heard them. And he stopped. Or, rather, he stopped moving.

  He was bent over me and was utterly still, his breath panting, hot, fevered against my exposed skin. The only sound for several seconds was our labored breathing.

  Then his hands fell away and he slowly straightened; his eyes were closed.

  Startled into movement by the removal of his body, I quickly righted myself, tugged the hem of my skirt, and sheathed my boob.

  Now that my body was no longer calling the shots, my mind scrambled to recall all the things he’d said since we’d entered his apartment.

  He called me beautiful, which was good.

  Then he said he’d waited so long, which could have meant any number of things. For example, he could have meant since Thursday. Or, he could have meant the two years he’d been waiting on my table. Or he could have meant any period of time in between. This was less clearly a good thing, and might possibly have been a weird, creepy thing.

  Then he’d ordered me to touch him. That made complete sense in the context—so, that was good.

  Then he’d said the word mine and commanded me to tell him that I was his—which, honestly, could only be taken one way. He considered me his and wanted me to admit that as well. I thought about that then realized I didn’t know what to think about that and therefore moved on.

  Taken all together, his words could be harmless bedroom talk or something altogether different and completely alarming.

  I talked a good game. I enjoyed using crude language, telling crude jokes, and making even cruder hand gestures—like most Texans. Nevertheless, when it comes down to brass tacks time, and unless I’m a fool in love, I am levelheaded, and I excel—to a fault—at mind over matter, no matter what and no matter who.

  He hovered just six or so inches from me, his hands now on his hips, his head bowed, his shoulders tense. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was heavy but measured. He radiated an energy—not quite fury; more like a man who was struggling to find and maintain control.

  I licked my lips, tasted him on them, told myself not to lick my lips again, and for the first time since we’d entered the apartment, I glanced at my surroundings.

  The first thing I noticed was that all the lights were off and that he’d lit candles—lots and lots of candles. My heart flip-flopped even as a ripple of concern shivered down my back.

  The next thing I noticed was that the apartment was orderly but messy. Stacks of papers were placed in tidy piles on almost every surface but the couch. Books—big, thick, colorfully bound books�
��littered the floor. These were not stacked, but rather haphazardly strewn about. I squinted to discern the title of one: Applied Quantum Currency: What the nature of quarks can teach us about the future of global currency and economics.

  Uhh…what? I didn’t know what to think about that, so I moved on in my perusal of his personal space.

  No television, no computer, no electronics; however, a record player was present, and it appeared to be at least three decades old. Even his lamps looked ancient.

  I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. When I lifted my eyes to his, I found him watching me. The savagery and vulnerability were gone from his eyes. In their place was fortified detachment and something like acceptance.

  “So….” I breathed the word, cleared my throat, pressed my lips together, and cleared my throat again. “Perhaps we could, um, clarify what you meant earlier.”

  He slow-blinked at me, and I noted his jaw tick once, twice, three times. Abruptly he shook his head and walked clear across the room. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, usually I wouldn’t. But, you see, I’m not so experienced with this type of interaction, and therefore….”

  “What type of interaction would that be?” Alex turned to face me, now at the opposite wall. He sounded almost bored.

  “This kind.” I motioned between us with a double finger point.

  “You mean the kind that doesn’t end with the man crying?” He sounded angry, and his words made me flinch.

  “Yes—that kind. But more specifically, the booty call kind.”

  I saw a flash of temper behind his eyes. He took a breath before responding, “Is that what this is?”

  “Or are you an axe murderer?”

  Alex’s eyes widened; genuine surprise flickered over his features, and he sounded torn between hurt and annoyance when he said, “That’s what you think? I’m either one or the other?”

  “No,” I answered. If I thought he was actually an axe murderer, I wouldn’t have been in his apartment with no underwear, or even with underwear. In fact, for reasons only my intuition and subconscious could explain, I knew he wasn’t a physical threat. He just seemed a little looney. “Not an axe murderer.”