by Penny Reid
I shivered as we waited for our ride and Alex stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my shoulders. I allowed myself to lean against him, and he took the opportunity to bury his nose in my neck.
“Are you cold?” The question was a whisper against my ear.
I shivered again. “A little.”
He pressed me closer, hugged me tighter. “It’s late. We should skip the apartment.”
I hated that I agreed with him, but I did.
“Okay. We’ll go there tomorrow.”
“I have something else planned for tomorrow.”
I turned in his arms, issued him a coaxing but firm smile. “Alex. Tomorrow is my turn to choose, and I choose the apartment. I know it’s safe, unbugged, uncamera-ed, and we can be alone together.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line, and I thought I detected a flicker of panic behind his expression. “We should wait.”
“Wait? Wait to go to the apartment, or wait to be alone together?”
“Both.” He breathed, glanced over my head, pointedly not making eye contact.
As I watched him—his arms falling away, his expression growing distant—I had another moment of clarity, where clouds parted and I saw a glimpse of Alex behind them, and not just the part he was willing to share, but a truth about who he was.
And why my heartbeat was the first he’d felt.
I had to ask because I had to know.
“Are you a virgin, Alex?”
His eyes whipped to mine, a lightning flash of emotion reaching out to me. In truth, I felt a bit singed by it, but I held firm.
“What?”
“Are you a virgin? Have you ever engaged in coitus? Futuero?”
He glanced away, backed away, stretched his arms in front of him as though he were anxious for some movement, something to do. “Does it matter?”
“A little.” I nodded, marking his profile with my eyes. “And by a little, I mean—yes, it matters a great deal.”
Alex blew out a loud breath then met my gaze again. His expression was cool and distant; I could tell he was bracing himself against my inevitable reaction. “Yes. I’m a virgin.”
I knew already, but hearing the words emerge from his mouth—in his velvety, lovely voice—sent a small jarring shock down my spine. I wrestled with my immediate instinct to question him to determine the what and why behind his decision to remain a virgin.
Because it was a decision—of that I was certain. This guy could have imbroglio-ed a hundred girls by now if he’d wanted to.
My secondary instinct, after assessing his mental state, was to ask What does this mean for us? Surprisingly, my secondary instinct overtook my initial clinical curiosity, and I may have started to panic a little.
I struggled to find the words to ask my next question, though the oddly prim part of myself—which didn’t make frequent appearances—wouldn’t allow me to say, So, am I going to deflower you? And if so, when?
I settled on, “Do you have any plans to be not a virgin?”
His response was quiet but firm, and to his credit, his gaze was steady. “Maybe. Eventually.”
“Maybe? Eventually?”
He nodded.
“With me?”
He made no response.
In order to buy some time I said, “Okay,” followed by another “okay” and a third “okay,” because I had to say something.
I turned away from him, my movements on autopilot as I processed this information. I think I was still repeating the word okay, but I couldn’t be sure. My thoughts were loud in my head, and I was imagining several scenarios at once, all of them ending with Alex and me no longer together sooner rather than later.
“Sandra.” Alex was suddenly in my path, stopping my pacing by placing his hands on my upper arms. “Talk to me.”
I looked into his dark eyes. “I’m having a bit of a freak-out.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not allowed to ask you certain questions, and I want to ask you questions because I’d like to know where I am.”
“Where you are?”
“Yes. Where am I? What are we doing? What’s going on? Why am I here?”
“Why were you here five minutes ago?”
“Because I like you—you’re funny and interesting and surprising—and I’m attracted to you—mostly your voice and your smarts and your body and lots of other stuff—and I’d hoped you felt similarly about me so that we could have intercourse at some point—and I don’t mean the intelligent, conversational kind.”
“That’s discourse.”
“Intercourse, discourse, that course, your horse—whatever.”
“So what’s changed in the last five minutes?”
“Why haven’t you had sex yet?” It was a risk. Questions about his past were apparently off limits, but I had to know. One does not reach the age of twenty-whatever, looking like he looks, without purposefully avoiding sex.
His eyes danced between mine and he shrugged. “An appropriate opportunity hasn’t presented itself.”
“Um…on a scale from one to ten on the fiction meter, that rates as a raging, ten-story inferno of cow poo. I don’t believe that an opportunity hasn’t presented itself, because girls in the restaurant throw themselves at you daily. You’re the main attraction.”
He didn’t smile; he seemed to be struggling with something. His temple and jaw ticked. At length, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
In my head, I heard a door shut. It was a symbolic door. It represented the possibility of us. He’d closed it. He’d locked it.
And only Alex had the key.
I breathed out an unsteady sigh, glanced at the dark sky; I gave myself a moment to see the door, how impenetrable it was. I could bang on it, get a crowbar and try to pry it open, hire a bulldozer and demolish it; but I knew he’d just find another door, close it, lock it, hide behind it.
“Okay,” I said, because I had to say something, and I met his gaze once more.
He studied me, his brow pulling low. He must not have liked my expression because his hands tightened on my arms and his eyes flashed lightning again. “Okay?” he growled. “What does that mean?”
“It means okay. You don’t want to talk about it. Okay. I guess that’s that.” I tried to shrug and felt my eyes sting. I wouldn’t cry, but I wanted to.
His frown turned menacing, angry. “You’re breaking up with me. You promised me three months.”
I felt my expression soften as I allowed my eyes to move over his face, committing him to memory. “Are we together?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Because we might not have sex?”
“Yes. No.” I held my breath for a moment then exhaled. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“What’s wrong with just being together? What’s wrong with what we’ve been doing?”
For maybe the first time in my adult life, I had no control over the volume of my voice as my response bellowed forth and I roughly disengaged from his grip. “Because, Alex, I want you! I want to know you, about you, and you don’t trust me enough to answer any of my questions.”
“That’s not true. I do trust you. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”
“You may trust me more than you’ve ever trusted anyone, but that’s not a lot—is it? And I love having intercourse just as much as I like engaging in discourse. I want you, all of you, every inch, and I want to give you all of myself. But you don’t seem to want me the same way. So, tell me, where are we supposed to go from here?”
Our taxi, with impeccable timing, pulled up to the curb just as I finished. Alex held my gaze for a long moment. Waves of barely controlled fury were radiating from him, evident in how he held himself, how his hands were balled into fists.
Then he opened the back door of the taxi and motioned for me to get in.
I slid in first, all the way to the far side. Though the interior of the car was beige
, I saw only black and red.
My despair fog cleared a little—and only by necessity—as I realized both Alex and the driver were waiting for me to speak.
“Sandra,” Alex said, his expression and voice tight, “where is the apartment? What is the address?”
I glared at him. “No thanks. I’m not interested in pushing you into….”
“We need to talk—openly. What is the address?”
I studied him, noticed that he had moved himself to the middle of the back seat. His leg and side were pressed against mine, and his hand was possessive on my thigh.
Heat suffused my chest and neck as I ripped my gaze from his and gave the driver the address. The rest of the short drive was spent in silence.
Well, the cab was silent. But the conversation going on in my head was deafening.
CHAPTER 17
WE PULLED INTO the roundabout for Quinn’s building after an almost comically tense car ride. I had money ready to pay for the cab, but Alex closed his fist over my hand and tossed the driver a bill much too large for the small fare.
He didn’t release me as we exited. Instead, he firmly gripped my fingers—and, therefore, my ten dollar bill—as we entered the building.
I knew the doorman, and Janie had promised to let the staff know that I’d be coming this week to look at the apartment. Thus, I had no need to stop at the concierge and alert him to my presence. We were waved forward to the lifts beyond the impressive lobby.
Even inside the elevator, Alex didn’t slacken his grip. It wasn’t until we reached the door to the apartment, and I needed both hands to unlock the bolt, that he—albeit reluctantly—let me go. I walked inside as soon as the lock was free and made my way to the living room.
The view overlooked Grant Park and Lake Michigan to the left and downtown to the right. Alex and the apartment had a lot in common. It was a magnificent apartment, and I was sure I’d never be able to afford it. In fact, just allowing myself to dream about the possibility was dangerous for my well-being.
But the space would suit for our current purposes.
I turned to find Alex standing in front of the entryway as though blocking any attempt I might make to escape. His arms were at his sides, but his hands were still balled into fists. He was looking at me—half desperation, half determination, half animosity.
That’s right. He was looking at me 150%.
So I paced. I tore off my jacket and flung it to a chair. I put my hands on my hips then swung them away. The burden of his glare seemed lessened while I stayed in motion.
He spoke first. “You promised me three months.”
“Yeah, well, you promised me spending the night.”
“I did spend the night.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
His jaw clenched.
Before my brain could contemplate my mouth’s intent, I blurted, “What do you have to do with bitcoins?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed, and the animosity in his glare trumped the desperation and determination. “Where did…who have you…what do you know?”
“Nothing. I know absolutely nothing, as a matter of fact. My friend Janie did her best to explain the concept, but I admit, the whole thing seems ridiculous. Electronic currency based on mathematical algorithms, what the heck?”
“Why are you asking me about them?”
“Because Agent Bell brought them up.”
“Did she approach you again? She told me she was going to back off. You have to tell me if she contacts you.”
“No.” My response was clipped, impatient, and I didn’t try to soften it. “I haven’t seen Agent Bell for weeks. She mentioned bitcoins the first time, the only time, I met her. And you still haven’t answered the question.”
“Believe me, Sandra,” he answered through gritted teeth, “you’re better off if I tell you nothing about it.”
I stared at him for an indeterminate period, incredulous that he could be so patronizing. “Can you hear yourself? Can you hear the words that are coming out of your mouth?”
“You shouldn’t be involved….”
“So you think I’m better off not knowing why you were imprisoned, and I don’t need to know why you have no plans to sleep with me. In short, just do as you’re told, Sandra, and ask no questions.” I growled, mostly to myself, and spoke, mostly to myself. “It’s not really even about the physical intimacy. It’s about the fact that I don’t even get to know why. Well, it is about the intimacy too, but that involves a great deal of trust….”
“It’s not about you.”
“It is.” I stopped pacing, pointed to myself. “In a relationship, that’s how it works. It’s never about one person. It’s always about both. If we’re together, like you claim we are, then it’s about both of us. You don’t get to reserve giant parts of yourself. You wouldn’t want me to do that to you.”
Alex stared at me, his knuckles white. “I promise you, you don’t want to know the truth.”
“Were you molested? Raped in prison?” Words that others might have tripped over came easily to me, occupational immunization. However, after I said them, the thought that they might be applied to Alex made my heart seize with painful and intense misery.
“No. Nothing like that,” he said, his expression abruptly sad. “Sandra, I….” He breathed out, a heavy rasping sigh that was loud and frustrated. Then he cursed. Several times.
Alex crossed to the couch and sat down as though exhausted; his elbows were on his knees, his face in his hands. I hesitated for a long moment, then decided to brave sitting on the couch. Although, since I didn’t trust myself to sit within his reach, I opted for leaning against the wide sofa arm.
“Alex, you need to give me something. I need to know that we have a future that includes normal adult intimacy.”
“Sandra….” He sucked in a breath, held it, then said; “I’ve been watching you for months, over a year, and not just at the restaurant. When you’d leave late from your dates, I’d follow you home to make sure you arrived at your building safely.”
This gave me pause, but explained how he knew where I lived.
I could either be distressed by this confession and build myself a seven-layer cake of freak-outs, or prompt him for more information. I chose the latter.
“Well, now I feel like my privacy has been violated,” I deadpanned.
He sighed a laugh at my joke, and I was glad he appreciated my sarcasm.
“Seriously, why? Why would you do that? Why not just talk to me?”
“Because you were too perfect. Every week—or every other week—you’d come in on Friday, order exactly the same thing, and make your date cry.”
“And this made me perfect?”
“At first it was very disorienting. You were so….” His shoulders and back rose with a deep, unsteady intake of air.
I was breathless with anticipation. “I was so…?”
“Distressing to watch.”
“Um….”
What the what?
I wrinkled my nose. “Okay.”
“What I mean is….” He let his hands drop, leaned back into the couch, and turned to face me. “The first time I saw you, you stunned me. I don’t think you noticed me, but I couldn’t stop staring at you. You were….” His eyes lost focus with the memory.
He shook his head but didn’t continue the thought. Instead, he said, “It was summer. You wore a yellow dress, your hair was a little shorter, and you were gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful. Then, when you finally looked at me to order, you were polite, removed, and you felt untouchable, invulnerable. And then, a few minutes after I left the table, your date started to cry.”
Untouchable. Invulnerable.
Seeing myself through Alex’s eyes was disconcerting.
“And then the same thing happened the next time you came in. You were exquisite, and you were making these grown men cry, every time. At first, I kind of hated you for it, and thought you were one of those physically att
ractive women with no soul, who use people. But it was so bizarre that I started listening.”
“You mean eavesdropping?”
“Yes. Then it was hilarious.”
“It was hilarious?”
“Yes.”
“Pray tell, how so?”
“Well, with me, when I’d come to take your order, you were controlled, distant, cold. It made me feel like shit.”
“Oh, Alex.” I slipped onto the couch and reached for his hand, squeezed it.
“No, no. It’s fine.” He squeezed my hand back. “It’s like you flipped a switch before looking up, and then you put on a mask, or maybe you took it off. I didn’t know. But with the men, at first, you were friendly. You were funny. You made me laugh just listening to you. But these idiots just stared at you, not laughing. These were the parts of the dates I’d listen to, the very beginning, where you’d try to engage them.”
“And I was hilarious?”
“Yes. However, as the dates progressed and they began to tell their stories, you’d slip on a mask of detachment, and then they would cry. It never occurred to me that these were dates. Most of them even thanked you afterward. It got to the point where I didn’t know which was the mask, and which was the real you.”
“And what do you think now, after the power of my red dress compelled you to talk to me?”
“I was compelled. Never underestimate the power of the red dress.”
“I’m glad I bought it.”
“Me too.”
We shared a smile, but then I remembered my original question. It was an important one, so I asked it again. “What do you think now? Who do you think I really am?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he tugged me forward, reached for my legs, encouraged me to straddle his lap. Like a marionette whose strings had been pulled, I obeyed.
When I was settled, my arms around his shoulders, his hands on my hips, he released what sounded like a relieved sigh. He forced himself to continue, but my nearness apparently relaxed him.
“I think they’re both you. Or rather, you are both people. You are hilarious, sweet, smart, friendly Sandra. But, you’re also untouchable, invulnerable, formal, clinically cold, detached Dr. Fielding.” His eyes captured mine, and I saw wisdom and weariness in them beyond his years. “I know it’s only a matter of time before Dr. Fielding realizes that I’m a disaster. When that happens, I’m afraid I’ll never get to see you again.”