by Claire Woods
Women at school go nuts over me. It doesn't matter if they're fat and fifty, or have boney asses—getting freshly fucked at thirty.
I'm single, successful, and a piece of man candy. At least that's what I've heard from Lisa. She's married to my best friend, Gage. Their son Joey is in second grade here at King's Cross Elementary.
I sigh, downing the bitter liquid in one swallow, knowing it's gonna be another day of co-parenting hell when I hear the click of her heels before she comes into view.
They're cherry red, fire-breathing stilettos. Who wear’s that shit in the beginning of winter?
My ex-wife.
"Hello, Tiff."
She slinks out of her fake fur coat. The smell of strawberry bubblegum fills the air as she snaps and chews. She's trying to quit smoking... for the hundredth time.
"I didn't think you'd come."
She rounds the conference table, ignores the chairs and hoists herself up on the smooth wood, planting her ass down, right in front of me.
She leans forward, trying to impress me with her silicone-enhanced cleavage. Her fire-engine nails lightly scrape across my forearm as she brings her pouty lips towards mine.
“Cut this shit out. We're divorced.”
“But I miss your big dick baby. I need a ride.”
I fling her hand off with disgust, “That’s never gonna happen. You need to focus on Tommy even though it’s hard for you. It’s disgraceful how little time you spend with him."
“Shut up Gianni.”
Her face turns red through her make-up and the muscles in my back tighten. I don't want to go another round with her, especially here.
I wish I didn't even have to see her, much less speak to her. But that's the damn thing about divorce when there are kids involved—I'm stuck with Tiff for life.
I straighten in my seat as the school principal enters the room with a frazzled looking woman trailing behind. She won't look up from the floor.
Strands of her caramel colored hair have pulled loose from her ponytail, and her boots are covered in slush stains. When she finally raises her eyes—I stop breathing. As she unzips her coat and slides it off—my heart stops. All the blood in my body falls south… pumping into my junk that’s suddenly suffocating in my pants.
She has the face of an angel, but she’s packin’ the body of a pole dancer in those formal work clothes.
I'm in lust... possibly love—until Mrs. Jones introduces us.
"Gianni, this is Kate, Luca's mom. Kate this is Gianni and Tiffany DeLuca—Tommy's parents."
Christ, I’m getting hot for the mother of my son’s nemesis.
She looks down clasping her hands together, “I'm very sorry. I'm doing the best I can. Luca’s father isn't really in his life, at least not enough to be any sort of role model. I'm basically, a single mom.” Her bottom lip quivers until she stills it with her teeth. I sigh, feeling my jeans getting tight again. I hear what she's saying. We're living the same damn life, just on opposite sides of the fence.
“I appreciate your apology, Kate.” Her eyes snap to mine, and I can't help grinning when hers widen. I savor the way her name sounded. I hope to be hearing more often. My eyes dip to the V in her chest. Her eyes follow, fingers quickly fastening the buttons she must’ve forgot to do in a rush to get dressed.
“Right. So—given the boys' ages, I think the proper thing to do after I speak to them both separately, is to have them be buddies.”
We all stare at the principal like she's lost her damn mind.
“How in the hell are we going to do that?” I ask.
“Playdates, lots of them. Here at school and at home. The buddy program has been around for a few years now. We pair a kindergartner with an older student for the entire school year. We foster teaching them about kindness, our differences not only in age but in all areas. It's a tremendous success…,” she trails off at the look of disbelief on our faces. “Anyway, I've taken the liberty of emailing you each other's contact information.”
I pick up my phone. I have ten new emails, but Mrs. Jones's has a red flag next to hers. There it is—all of Kate Gilletti’s info—right at my fingertips.
Maybe the principal is onto something. God knows I'll give anything a try if it makes Tommy's life better at school.
“What are your plans tomorrow?”
Kate looks up in surprise.
“I'll text.” With a slow wink for her and a quick one for Mrs. Jones, I waltz out hearing three breathless sighs in my wake.
“Man candy,” the secretary whispers as I walk through the front office.
My fingers dip into the pocket of my jeans for the mini candy cane I picked up at the bank for Tommy but forgot about.
“Here you go, sugar.” I present it to her with a bow and a smirk. She snatches it with one hand and fans herself with the other.
“I should've never signed those damn divorced papers.” Tiff's high-pitched voice carries across.
I shudder in revulsion.
Getting involved with her was a mistake even though Tommy is anything but one.
I can’t picture my life without him. It all started when I was at the Jersey Shore for Joey's bachelor party. We'd been drinking since dawn. By the time I met Tiff at a club, I was bombed out of my mind. I could barely string two words together, but some things you don’t need words for. Her bleached hair, Jersey Shore tan, and juicy tits were doing wild things to me. She was hot and down to fuck. And we did—a lot.
The first time was in the hot tub. Tiff rode me up and down so forcefully water sloshed over the sides of the tub and through the slatted floor of the rooftop deck. We ignored the onlookers encouraging us to finish. Tiff loved the audience, and I just loved how hot she looked gliding up and down on me.
The street we stayed on had houses stacked on top of one another. Most had been built up high to avoid storm surges. To say many had a bird's eye view—wasn’t a stretch.
After the hot tub, I took her from behind while she rested her arms on the deck railing. I still remember the sound of her cries—ringing out in the humid summer night as she came.
But that was years ago and what I was attracted to then—I run the hell away from now.
I love Tommy so friggin' much that I wouldn't change the past. And my tryst with Tiff has led me here—to a playdate with Kate and Luca, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to it.
THE TIRES ON MY SUV screeched to a stop. I parked in a fire lane, but don't have time to care about a ticket. I grab my laptop bag and sprint through the parking garage praying they waited, but in my gut—I know they didn't.
No matter how friendly and polite their smiles are or how genuinely they always ask about Luca, the CEO and chief of staff have a million things on their plates. Meeting with me was more of a favor than a necessity.
Bypassing the elevator, I fling the door to the stairs open taking them two at a time.
“Kate.” He says in a low snarl.
My spine stiffens, and I shudder.
I know what's coming next.
This was my last chance to prove to Chet that I could do it; pull in the most significant account in the tri-state area.
But I didn't.
I failed.
He won't care why. Or about what's happening with my son.
I suspect he's wanted me off his team for a while now, so he can hire a younger, prettier woman without kids and stretch marks.
I turn to face him not even knowing what to say because I'm toast.
“You embarrassed not only yourself but me and the company. They waited for thirty minutes before they left. They told me not to bother re-scheduling. We're dead in the water Kate. You've blown your chance to wow them with your sales pitch and the custom presentation it took weeks to create. Hours, in which you've been compensated for with no return on investment.” He finishes pointedly.
“My son... the s-school...” I stammer.
“Save it. I've heard it a million times. The excuses. First, it
was your separation, then the flu, a broken wrist—what could possibly be wrong now when I've heard it all?”
I stare at him in disbelief, “I've always been a dedicated member to the team. I mentored the new hire and lectured a seminar at the national sales meeting. I’m never late with my paperwork. You’re a father too, Chet. Come on—you know how things can just happen when it comes to kids.”
“Sure, but it never interferes with my job.”
“Of course not, since your wife doesn’t work and your mother practically lives next door,” I mutter under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“I'm putting you on a 30-day plan. If you fail to pull in two-hundred grand in sales—you're done.”
He turns on his heel entering the elevator. I unlock my phone checking the date, November 27th. Thirty-days from now is the day after Christmas. My shoulders sag. A month is not enough time to turn my life around, never mind my job.
I press my face to cold glass of the hall window. My meeting was scheduled in the conference room on the top floor. From this vantage point—the gray sky stretches for miles over the Hudson River to the towering buildings of New York City.
And somewhere in the middle of that rat-race is my now ex-husband probably still screwing his PA while raking in millions.
Prick.
I'm over him…have been for quite some time. Tony said he lost interest in me and needed someone with "more energy."
Yeah, sorry asshole. The last thing I wanted to do after finishing emails and paperwork, cooking, bed and bath time—was play with your hairy balls and pepperoni stick.
But now that's Becky's job, and she can gladly have it. I just wish Tony gave a fuck about Luca's problems. It's more convenient for him to blame me—the working mom who wasn't home and sent him off to daycare than admit his own lack of involvement.
We still fight about it all the time, and he still doesn’t understand.
He never even tried to understand that I was losing myself in Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and playdates with "The Real Housewives."
I wanted another baby, but he wouldn’t give me one. He said I was running away to work instead of doing the job I already had at home.
But I could’ve done it; be a wife, a mother and a career woman if he had just been willing to do bed and bath time a few nights a week, or step-up around the house.
But he didn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Tony came from an old-school Italian family where the woman’s job was to bear children and cook meatballs all day.
I also came from an Italian background, but I grew up in Detroit. A place where everyone works and women are raised to bring in an income. Hell, my parents are past retirement age, but still work. They tell me it keeps their minds sharp and from being bored. They come out a few times a year to see Luca, but they hate New York. Maybe they just hated Tony since he always did get on my dad’s nerves.
Tony and I went to a few counseling sessions, but it just dragged out the inevitable.
Shortly after New Year’s, Tony got his bonus.
Becky got new diamond earrings.
And we got divorced.
Luca went from acting out occasionally to being a terror.
I got alimony, the house in Jersey, and a portion of his retirement. But I couldn't just quit my job. Tony would have a frickin’ field day if I did. He'd blame me for our crumbling marriage and for screwing up Luca's life. I just know it.
But, I hate to admit that he looked good when he dropped off Luca last weekend. The mix of his street accent and thickly muscled body used to make me wet in an instant. He also used to take his time enjoying me, but that was in the early days—before stress, bills, a baby, and Becky.
I shudder, not eager to "jump back in" to the dating pool like all my girlfriends suggest. I just need to focus on pulling myself together, get Luca back on track, and shove Chet's 30-day plan up his ass.
I grin... tempted to just tell him to "screw himself" tomorrow. He has no clue how much Tony makes and what my divorce settlement was. I 'd be okay for a while, but I don't want to dip into my "nest egg" yet. But I will if it comes down to it. He thinks he's got me shaking in a corner, scared.
Chet likes to puff his chest out and wear his manager title like a medal on his shirt. He's a nobody, and I’m still kicking myself for not reporting him the first day we worked together.
He touched my face and almost kissed my mouth instead of my cheek, and I've felt his hand graze my ass "by mistake," more than a few times. I wouldn't be the first co-worker he’s tried to make a move on. Rumors are always flying around after the national sales meetings that happen twice a year. They always take place in a large hotel—a convenient place full of liquor and infidelity. But I never drank more than one and went to bed by ten—alone.
Not only was I married—albeit to a prick like Tony, but I'd never be tempted by a greasy man in a suit trading promotions and job security for sexual favors. Something I hear Chet offers the younger girls on our team.
My phone pings in my hand with a new text.
Gianni: Pizza playdate tomorrow after school?
My heart pounds against my rib cage. Women in town call him “man candy” for a reason. Gianni DeLuca is the type of man you want to melt in your mouth and not in your hand.
He's got that classic Italian thing going on. He walks with a hip swagger, has a year-round tan, has more muscles than a lumberjack, a killer smile, and eyes that tell me he's bad. Very, very bad, in every way... that is good.
I sigh remembering how he looked at me, as if I was the only present he wanted to unwrap on Christmas morning and if things were different—maybe I'd let him.
My skin felt hot when I caught him checking out my cleavage. He's that guy—the one women drive themselves nuts over and fantasize about when using their toys (myself included). But Gianni has all the same physical characteristics as Tony. I've been to that rodeo, stayed past closing time, and got thrown off the bull.
I won't be riding one anytime soon.
I need to focus on Luca and my career. I don’t want or need the headache of adding dating to the mix. I need to make sure I don’t send any mixed signals. If we get together—it’s strictly going to be about the boys, even if he gives me looks hot enough to melt the polar ice caps.
Sighing, I text him back.
Me: Sorry, we can't. Luca's spending the weekend with his father in the city.
Gianni: Bummer. I was looking forward to seeing you...
I feel the heat in my face as I scan his reply.
Me: It's a playdate, not a “date.”
Gianni: Why can’t it be both? I saw how you looked at me.
My cheeks are on fire. I type: I was not checking you out. You were the one ogling my breasts!
Gianni: Ogling? Do people actually use that word? LMAO
I can help myself he's funny, my lips curl into a smile, and I giggle typing back two words.
Me: Man candy.
My eyes take in the same bleak gray sky, but I feel a million times better than I did five minutes ago as I wait for his response.
Gianni: I was totally ogling.
Smiling, I slide my phone back into my bag and press the elevator button. I'm not in a rush to get anywhere anymore. I check my watch... 10:15. There’s plenty of time to grab another coffee at Starbucks and brainstorm how I'm going to hit the new goal Chet just set for me, before driving to my lunch appointment in Queens.
I’m tempted to say “fuck it,” but I’m a fighter. I might come out of this bruised and bloody, but I’ve sacrificed too much to just let it all go without a fight.
I FINALLY PULL INTO MY office with a grin on my face instead of the grimace I had since leaving the school. Tiff chased after me, almost breaking her goddamn neck when her high heels hit a patch of ice. I was forced to save her, and now her smell is on me. I was sick of wearing it years ago. I’d go home to change and shower, but I don’t have the time.
“Good morning Carla,” winking I pick up the messages she scribbled for me on an office pad.
“That man candy shit doesn’t work on me.”
“I know. That’s why I hired you. Lord knows, you can’t brew a decent pot of coffee.”
She ignores me as the tips of her very long acrylic nails peck away on the keyboard. Today they are striped like candy canes with a glittery star in the middle of each nail. Her hair is dyed a weird shade of crazy orange, and her eyes are lined with heavy black liner. She’s a middle-aged version of Tiff but with a completely different personality. Carla's known me for years since she’s my mother’s second cousin. I trust her completely, and she runs my office like Fort Knox. The billing and payroll are always correct, and she manages to keep me on schedule—most of the time.
“Jesus it’s blazing in here,” I grumble removing my coat and loosening the collar of my shirt.
“I’m freezing my bony ass off. We all don’t have pounds of muscle like you to keep us warm.”
I wriggle my eyebrows at her, and she shakes her head. “You are terrible Gianni. Teasing women like you do…”
“It’s a tough job… ”
“As much of a man you’ve become—I still see the hell-raiser you were at eighteen.”
“Thanks, Carla, but those days are gone for good. My only priority is Tommy.”
“Thank God, he has a father like you. His mother still thinking she’s gonna get her big break?”
“Yep.”
She snorts.
It’s been Tiff’s dream for years to be a soap opera actress. I paid for years worth of acting classes trying to keep her happy after having Tommy. She wanted to cut and run from the start, saying a baby was something she couldn’t handle.
Thankfully, my ma moved from Staten Island to the neighborhood and helped me raise Tommy when Tiff flaked out—which was often.
I was around but needed to get my renovation business off the ground. I took on more jobs than I should have, but Tiff didn't even blink when I asked for sole physical custody during our divorce with unlimited visitation for her. But when she realized that meant I wouldn't have to pay her child support, crocodile tears rolled down her face in court, and I'll admit she's not a half-bad actress. The judge bought her sobs and granted her physical custody, giving me visitation.