All He Wants

by Anna Cruise

  I'd come back downstairs and, avoiding the dining room, searched the rest of the main floor. The living room was empty, as was the small office space off the main hallway. I glanced out to the driveway and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the Mini still parked in the driveway. At least he hadn't driven off, abandoning me.

  I walked down the main hallway, past the bathroom and laundry room. The only signs of life were two orange cats curled up in fleece beds, sleeping peacefully. I peeked into the backyard. It was a lush oasis, filled with ferns and flowers and a man-made pond complete with a rocky waterfall that bubbled and gurgled. From inside, I could see brightly-colored koi at the surface, their bodies shining in the early evening light. And off to the right, under a cedar gazebo, parked in a weathered Adirondack chair, was the man I was looking for.

  I opened the glass slider and stepped outside. Stuart didn't turn at the noise.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I said loudly, making sure he heard me.

  He watched me as I approached. “I was done eating.”

  I walked up the two steps to the gazebo and parked myself in the chair next to him. “Bull shit.”

  “My aunt isn't the greatest cook,” he said, keeping his tone light.

  “And you're not the greatest liar.”

  He slouched in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Not lying, Annika.”

  “Who is Marcus?”

  “I already told you. A family friend.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Why? You don't care about that stuff. The minutiae.”

  “Don't tell me what I care about.”

  “You didn't care when I gave my speech,” he pointed out.

  I felt my cheeks flush. “That was then. This is now.”

  He chuckled. “That was a really good book but a pretty awful movie.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  He sighed. I folded my arms across my chest and waited.

  “Marcus Filmore.”

  A name. Was I supposed to know it? “Okay,” I said, waiting for more.

  “He's a family friend.”

  “Yes, that was the one piece of information you gave me.”

  “He was my dad's friend,” he said. “They went to school together. Med school. He went on to be one of the premiere plastic surgeons in San Francisco.” He rolled his eyes. “Not sure you can call that practicing medicine but whatever.”

  “Okay. So he's your primary donor?”

  Stuart nodded. “There are others but he's the main one. He helped get the organization off the ground. He donates a nice chunk of change quarterly. Mostly to keep his taxes in check but also because of his relationship with my dad.”

  “That's a nice thing to do,” I said.

  I tried to imagine Sheridan doing something like that for me. Like, what if I had a kid and then I died—would she look out for my kid for the rest of her life? Probably. I tried to imagine doing the same thing for her. And came up blank. I knew I'd do it for Abby—I'd already decided this when Stuart and I had talked about his upbringing—but a friend? To be saddled with responsibility to someone not blood-related? Yeah, I wasn't sure I had it in me.

  “So why didn't you want to talk about it? About him?” I asked.

  “Who said I didn't?”

  I stared at him. “It was like I was asking you for directions to the Fountain of Youth or something. You weren't saying a word.”

  “I'd take you to the Fountain of Youth if I knew where it was. Deliver you right to it and we could drink it together. Stay young forever.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject.”

  He smiled. “You're the one who brought it up.”

  “Stop. I'm being serious.”

  “You're never serious, sweetheart,” he said, his tone teasing.

  I bristled a little at this. “Well, I am now. Why didn't you want to talk about it back at the dinner table?”

  He rubbed his hand on his thigh, his fingers chafing across the fabric. “I don't know,” he finally said. “It's sort of a sore spot with me.”

  “Why?”

  He pressed his lips together and I thought he wasn't going to answer. I started to protest but he held up a hand to silence me. “Because,” he said. “Because I hate relying on one person. I hate knowing that one person has the power to make or break what I'm doing.”

  “He donates that much?”

  All of the preconceived notions I had about Stuart and his work flew out the window. I'd imagined tons of sponsors, a worldwide conglomerate that kept him and his charity afloat.

  “Half of our operating costs are paid with his donations.” He let out a breath. “Book of Hope would still exist without him. Just not at the same level. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

  A bee buzzed my ear and I swatted it away. “So he's a big donor,” I said. “But you don't have any reason to think he's going to stop, do you?”

  “No.”

  “So things are fine, then. You can keep doing what you're doing.” For some reason, I wanted to be persuaded. I wanted him to tell me that things were okay.

  “For now.”

  “Are you worried about it?”

  “No.” Stuart looked at me and smiled. “And you shouldn't be, either.”

  “The only thing I'm worried about are these stupid spots,” I lied, nodding at my legs. “And my period. I'm worried about getting my period this week. Because I want to keep having sex with you.”

  “I'll worry about that, too,” he said. His eyes danced with amusement. “We can worry about that together. But don't worry about me. The organization is fine. And I'm always looking for new donors.”

  “You'll find some,” I said confidently. “You're good with people. You're likeable. Persuasive. And totally hot.”

  He chuckled. “I don't pimp myself out for donations.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Good,” I said. “Because I would not be cool with that.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I said firmly. I stood up and planted myself in his lap. I threaded my arms around his neck and brought my face within inches of his.

  “Why is that?” he asked, wrapping his arms around my waist.

  “Because,” I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Because you're mine.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Pretty sure that was the worst day of my life.”

  We were sitting in Stuart's rental car, finally back home after a day exploring San Francisco. Actually, it had been a day surviving San Francisco.

  Stuart grinned. “It wasn't that bad.”

  I reached for my purse and opened the car door. “Really? You took me out on the bridge and there was a jumper!”

  “They got him down safely.”

  “But...but...” I sputtered. “We could have seen a guy die today.”

  Stuart got out of the car and joined me in the driveway. “But we didn't.”

  A head popped up from the shrubs. Aunt Barb had a pair of shears in her hand and there was a large straw hat perched on her head. She waved hello at us. I remembered Stuart's comment about her eyesight and wondered if she should be trusted with sharp objects.

  “What about the birds?” I asked as we headed up the sidewalk.

  “What about them?”

  I waited while he pushed open the front door.

  “They attacked me!”

  “They did not attack you,” he informed me. He dropped the car keys on the table in the hallway and kicked off his flip flops. “They...defecated on you.”

  “Well, I hate Fisherman's Wharf,” I told him, making a face. “And I hate San Francisco.”

  It had been that kind of day. It had started out pleasant enough, with a breakfast of pancakes and bacon with his aunt and uncle and a quick walk around his neighborhood before we ventured into the city. But it had all gone downhill from there.

  I thought back to the start of our day tr
ip to the city. Lombard Street had been okay—a beautiful and winding street with breath-taking views of the bridge and the city sprawling below. I'd taken in the exquisite townhouses, most of them looking like doll houses come to life with perfectly landscaped hedges and flowers. It was incredibly picturesque but the winding back and forth on the narrow street made me dizzy and I'd had to close my eyes halfway down, worried I'd actually get sick to my stomach.

  We'd continued on to the Golden Gate Bridge and parked the car so we could walk across. I wasn't sure how Stuart could stroll across a suspension bridge hanging precariously above the Pacific Ocean but not ride a roller coaster; he'd just smiled and said they were two completely different things. We started our walk, the wind tearing through my hair, the air moist and salty, the adrenaline pumping through my veins as we made our way further out on to that iconic red structure. I immediately noticed the blue crisis hotline sign with the yellow box beneath it and made some wisecrack to Stuart. He'd chuckled and told me not to press the button. Ten minutes later, however, we were approached by a uniformed security officer. He turned us around, hustling us and dozens of other pedestrians off the bridge as two motorcycle police officers parked fifty yards away cautiously approached the railing. The Guardians of the Golden Gate Bridge, Stuart called them. One of their primary jobs was to patrol and respond to jumpers on the bridge. I didn't know that jumpers were weekly occurrences and I'd walked back to the parking lot, thoroughly rattled.

  Stuart had tried to lighten things up with a trip to Fisherman's Wharf. It was a bustling place filled with shops and crab shacks, overflowing with what looked like both tourists and locals alike. I'd tried to ignore the stench of fish as Stuart pulled me over to look at the sea lions piled on top of each other on the floating docks in the water. They were noisy, barking at us and splashing in and out of the bay and I'd smiled despite the elbows that jostled me and the kid who'd spit his gum out on my shoe as he screamed in delight over the sea lions. But then a flock of gulls took off above us, depositing shit on me along with an austere-looking German tourist who looked like he was on the verge of pulling out an AK-47 so he could shoot them all to hell. I'd glanced at my shit-soaked shirt and arm and ordered Stuart to take me back to the house.

  He reached for me in the hallway and gathered me in his arms. “You don't ever have to go back. I promise.”

  I pulled away. “Don't get too close. I'm covered in bird poop.” There was a giant glob on my shirt and a wet spot in my hair. The only thing I wanted to do was change clothes and shower. Immediately.

  “Probably better than vomit though, right?” he asked, chuckling.

  I tried not to smile but lost. “A little better,” I admitted.

  “I can't believe you were still willing to talk to me after I barfed all over you,” he said.

  I'd taken Stuart on a roller coaster in San Diego, despite his warning that they made him sick. Sure enough, he'd vomited all over my legs.

  “I didn't just talk to you,” I reminded him. “I had sex with you.”

  He followed me up the stairs. “I'm aware.” He grabbed my ass and I squealed. “Very aware.”

  I walked into his bedroom and rummaged through the bag of clothes I'd brought with. Unlike him, I had not unpacked my stuff. He'd asked me why and I'd told him that he'd come back home. The words I didn't say were there—it was his home, not mine. I was a guest, he was a resident.

  He hadn't pushed.

  “What's on the agenda?” he asked, flopping on the lower bunk.

  I resisted the urge to join him. I'd gotten on top last night—of him, not the upper bunk—and we'd managed a quickie that morning, our bodies pressed tight together, limbs and hair entwined. I'd never slept that close to someone before and I was surprised, and a little unnerved, that it hadn't bothered me. It had actually evoked the complete opposite reaction. Because I'd liked it.

  “A shower,” I said firmly, pulling out a clean pair of panties and a sleeveless, black tube top dress.

  “Nice.” He eyed me. “Want company?”

  “And just how are you gonna explain that?”

  “Mom is gardening,” he pointed out. “It'll take her hours to trim the hedges, her eyesight is so bad. And Dad is at pickleball.”

  “Pickle what?”

  Stuart pulled himself into a sitting position, being careful not to hit his head on the frame of the top bunk. “Pickleball. Sort of like a cross between tennis and ping pong. A friend of his down in San Mateo put a court in his backyard. Converted his tennis court. They have their own private club going.”

  “Do they hit a pickle?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  “Speaking of tennis,” I said, glancing at the trophies on the shelf. “I didn't know you played.”

  He leaned back on his hands. “There are a lot of things you don't know about me.”

  “Will you be playing pickle ball when you're seventy?”

  Stuart laughed. “I don't know. Is my answer to that question gonna be a deal-breaker?”

  I felt a flutter in my stomach and tried to ignore it. A deal breaker to what? I wanted to ask. “Maybe,” I said instead.

  “I don't know what I'm gonna be like when I'm seventy,” he said. He smiled again, that slow, easy smile that melted me. “Not even sure what I'm gonna be like next month.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But I know one thing,” he said, standing up. He crossed the room and reached for my hand. He pulled me toward him and his lips found mine. “I like you right now. And I'm taking a shower with you. Right now.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Stuart!”

  I heard his aunt's voice as soon as he turned off the water. I leaned against the wall, soaked and spent. My breath was coming in heavy gasps, my body thoroughly used by the man slumped against the wall next to me.

  He lifted his head, his eyes still glazed.

  “That's your aunt,” I whispered, my own eyes widening in surprise. “I thought you said she'd be gardening.”

  He pulled open the shower curtain and reached for a towel. He handed it to me, then grabbed another for himself.

  “I guess she's done,” he said. He rubbed the towel over his face, then wrapped it around his mid-section, securing it in place.

  “We have to get out of here!”

  “Relax,” he said. He wiped at the mirror, clearing the fog from it, and inspected his reflection. He pushed his wet hair back off his forehead, mussing it a little.

  “She can't find us in the bathroom together,” I hissed. “We can't explain that away.”

  “She's not coming up here.” He smiled at me through the mirror. “Her knees are bad. She'll just stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell until I come down.”

  “If her knees are bad, why was she kneeling in the yard?”

  “Oh, nothing gets in the way of gardening. But coming after me? She'll wait it out. Trust me.”

  He opened the bathroom door and a rush of steam escaped. I hung back behind the curtain, water still dripping off me, half-convinced Aunt Barb would be standing at the door, wearing a frown and wielding her gardening shears.

  “See?” he said, turning to look at me. “Nada.” He hollered down the stairs. “I'm up here.”

  “You have a visitor, dear!” his aunt called back.

  I saw him stiffen. His back rose and fell like he was taking a deep breath. He spun back around so he was facing me. “Take your time getting ready,” he said.

  He disappeared down the hall, back into the bedroom.

  I stepped out of the shower and dried off. I was clean and I'd just been fucked. I should have been somewhere between relaxed and giddy, that potent mix of emotions Stuart always seemed to bring out in me. Our other shower encounter back at the hotel on the pier in San Diego had been a hell of a lot more intense but the tryst we'd just had wasn't a disappointment by any stretch. He'd taken control and I'd let him, pushing me up against the slick tile, lifting me up and hiking my legs around his waist. He whir
led me around so he was pressed against the shower wall, using it as leverage as he thrust into me, over and over again. I could still feel his hands digging into my back and my ass as he held me in place while he drove into me.

  But something was wrong. Not with the sex we'd just had but with the reaction I'd just witnessed. There was something in the way he'd stopped short in the doorway when his aunt had called up to him. His entire body froze when she said someone was there to see him and I immediately wondered who would elicit such a reaction from him. And his comment to me: take your time getting ready.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Because I knew how I was taking it. There was someone downstairs who he didn't want me to meet.

  I toweled off and stepped into my underwear, wrestling them over my still-damp skin. The mirror had fogged up again and I wiped at it with my towel. I inspected my reflection in the mirror. The make-up I'd caked on had washed off and my spots, although fading, were more visible than ever. I made a face at my reflection. Stupid hives.

  I slipped my dress over my head and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to work out some of the tangles before I attacked it with a comb. I'd need to go back to Stuart's room and grab my toiletries. I didn't know who he didn't want me to meet but there was one thing I was certain of: I wanted to look as Annika-like as possible for the encounter.

  I padded down the hallway, stopping at the top of the stairs to listen for Stuart's voice. The house was silent and I wondered if maybe his visitor had already left. I hurried into the bedroom, found my bag of cosmetics and my comb, and returned to the bathroom. I didn't dry my hair but brushed it out so it lay in damp waves on my shoulders. I dug out my foundation and concealer, dabbing at the spots and doing my best to blend it all in. I still looked like I had a raging case of PMS-acne but it was the best I could do. I ringed my eyes with eyeliner and fished out my lipstick, gliding the soft red color across my lips.

  Finished, I studied my face. It wasn't great but it was good. And it would have to do.