by Claire Adams
“The kiss,” I say. “I totally forgot.”
“Great,” Mike says, sinking into his seat. “If I can’t get you to even remember, I’m in trouble.”
“Why the emphasis?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“If I can’t get you…” I answer.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Well, it’s been what? Ten years since you’ve kissed a guy? I just figured after that long, I could pretty much do anything and still get a good response from you.”
“It has not been that long,” I tell him. “And we’re way too close as friends for you to get a really good response from me.”
“Well, do you have any notes? I mean, if you can’t remember—”
“Yeah, the tongue was way too much. I felt like you were trying to paint the top of my mouth or something and it was just weird.”
“Weird because we’re friends, or weird because—”
“It was weird because it was weird,” I answer. “I don’t know what the whole blowfish thing you were doing with your lips was all about, but you can stop doing that, too.”
“What about when I turned my head so our noses were on the other side, that was a good—”
“I really wasn’t all that impressed,” I tell him. “It was pretty obvious that you were trying to give me an eskimo kiss.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a racially insensitive term,” Mike says, sulking.
“That’s what they call it. I didn’t make up the term.”
“So, was there anything you liked?” he asks.
“Liked is kind of strong for me…”
“Oh, come on!”
We go back and forth a while. I give him some fundamental tips, but make it beyond clear that we’re never kissing like that again.
I rewind the movie, as by the time Mike’s done asking questions, we’ve missed at least half of it, and we spend a quiet evening sitting on the couch.
The only thing that’s starting to bother me is that Dane still hasn’t come home.
It’s not unusual for him to be out late or even all night, but tonight feels different. That look on his face when he saw me and Mike kissing… it looked like he once had a smile, but that it slowly melted and died. I don’t know how to describe it.
It looked like his heart was breaking.
I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into it.
After all, Dane has what’s-her-stupid-name to keep him company.
What does he need me for?
Chapter Twelve
Standard Procedure
Dane
The view of Wrigley’s shapely posterior rising and falling as she works me into her is pleasant enough, but my heart just isn’t into it.
Not that Wrigley minds or even notices. The fact that I’m hard is more than enough for her.
We’re back on the roof, but the people across the street are all tired of the show.
I know how they feel.
I’m lying on the ledge with one foot on each side of it, and Wrigley’s got her back to me. Once I got over the initial fear, this really doesn’t feel like anything exciting or even new.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, slamming her core onto me again and again, “fuck me hard!”
I’m wondering if I were reading a book right now, would she even notice?
It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Things could be worse.
Though I’m not sure how.
I lift my hips as she comes down, burying myself deeper inside, and I may as well be somewhere else entirely. There’s no passion, no thrill.
To stay interested, I fantasize about rolling a little to one side, and wonder if I’d still be inside her when we hit the pavement.
I close my eyes and start to pretend that she’s Leila, but immediately stop. I’m not going to cheapen Leila like that.
Come to think of it, it’s kind of a bad sign that I’m not so concerned about cheapening Wrigley like that.
“Are you about there?” I ask, trying to put enough enthusiasm into my voice to not pull her out of her moment.
She stops riding me, though I’m still inside her.
She moves one leg over the side of the building so now only gravity is holding her in place. Yeah, I’m inside of her, too, but I seriously doubt that would be enough to stop her from going over the edge.
Wrigley lifts her other leg over my body so she’s facing me now, straddling me, and she leans forward, kissing my lips as she says, “I think I want a relationship with you, too, Dane.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I said I want to be in a relationship with you, too, Dane. You were right. There’s more between us than just sex.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. I don’t move, and hardly breathe. This is about the last thing I was expecting from tonight.
“What do you think?” she asks, grinding herself onto me to emphasize the question.
I look at her. She’s already looking at me.
Her eyes are pale blue. They’re not the darker blue of Leila’s, but they’re not without their warmth.
She kisses me and I just stay there, hands hanging down.
I look over the edge of the building and I look back at Wrigley.
And I decide to jump.
“I’d love that,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”
She lets out a glee-filled squee and puts her hands on my cheeks as she kisses me vehemently.
“I’ve never wanted to be with just one man before,” she tells me.
She throws her head back and to the side, letting her hair fall over her left shoulder.
“I don’t see any stars,” I tell her.
She stops moving and the smile slowly fades from her expression.
“What?” she asks.
“The sky,” I tell her. “I don’t see any stars.”
“Oh,” she shrugs. “The city’s too bright.”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
This isn’t a bad thing. Wrigley and I do seem to get each other on a deeper level, even if that particular level is generally strange and somewhat terrifying.
She’s not a bad person. She’s into some weird shit, but that’s not a crime. Well, what we’re doing right now technically is, but you know what I mean.
Her muscles tighten around my cock, and she slides herself up and down my shaft slowly.
“I’ve been practicing,” she says.
“What?” I ask, still looking for even a single glimmering point of light in the sky.
“Kegels,” she says. “It helps me grip. See?”
She flexes herself around me again.
“You like?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I smile. “I like.”
“It’s getting cold,” she says. “Wanna go inside? We can always pick this up on the bed or…” she kisses me. “The couch or…” she kisses me again. “The floor or…” she presses her whole body into mine and breathes in deeply as she kisses me once again. “Wherever.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Okay.”
She grips me again as she slips herself off of me, and a moment later, I’m just lying there on the ledge atop this building, still trying in vain to spot a single star in the sky.
* * *
It’s 7 in the morning, and I haven’t slept yet.
Wrigley’s feathered breath is warm on my bare chest as she sleeps peacefully in my arms.
What I’m worried about right now is that I’ve never known this woman outside of a strictly sexual context.
Yeah, we’ve gone places and we’ve talked, but we’re always on our way to a new place to have sex. We’re always talking about what we’re going to do with each other when we get there.
I know there’s more to her than that, but I just don’t know if I’m ever going to see it.
I’ve spent so much of my life treating women like the flavor of the hour that I’ve completely forgotten what it’s like to be that guy, to ask those questions and really get t
o know someone.
“Are you awake?” the whisper comes as a slow rush of air, barely audible.
“Yeah,” I whisper back.
I can feel the muscles in her face pulling back, and when she lifts her head to turn and look at me, she’s smiling.
“Good morning,” she says.
I can’t help but smile back.
“Good morning. How’d you sleep?” I ask.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept so peacefully.”
“I’m glad,” I tell her. “Hey, it occurs to me that we don’t really know that much about each other.”
“Yeah,” she says, and waits for me to continue. “Oh, that was your point.”
I scoff. “Okay,” I tell her and start to sit up. “I get it.”
“No, no, no,” she says, with a bit of a chortle as she pushes me back down. “We don’t know that much about each other. I guess I just figured that maybe we could start on that today. Do you have to work?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Later, though. I don’t have to be in until noon.”
“That’s right,” she says, patting my chest. “You’re a chef.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
I’m trying to estimate how bad the fallout is going to be if I tell her that I have no idea what she does for a living, but she catches on before I’ve got any hard figures.
“I’m a social worker,” she says. “I mostly work with kids and teenagers.”
“Yeah? That’s got to be pretty rewarding.”
“It is,” she says. “It’s one of those few things in my life where I really feel like I’m making a difference for someone, you know? It’s not all Polaroids and hugs, though. I deal with a lot of bad shit on a day-to-day basis.”
“I bet.”
“That said,” she continues, “every once in a while, I’ll come across someone who’s just in that receptive place, and you wouldn’t believe how even a child can turn things around when they want to.”
“You know—maybe this is going to sound rude, but—”
“That’s not what you expected?” she asks. “It’s not what a lot of people expect, but it’s what I do. I love it.”
“Yeah, but you’re—I don’t know how to say this without being a dick,” I say.
She laughs. “It’s all right. I’m pretty sure whatever you’re going to say, I’ve heard a lot worse.”
“You’re into some pretty kinky shit.”
She lets out a gut laugh.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound, and it paints her as a completely different person than the nymphomaniac that I’ve been fucking for the past month or so. The laugh softens her.
“I am,” she says, “but I don’t take that to work with me.”
“Yeah, but—I don’t know, aren’t you ever nervous that you’re going to be doing it in one of the paddle boats in Central Park and have one of the kids you work with see you?”
“That’s why I don’t go to Central Park,” she says.
“Yeah, but what about the top of the building?” I ask. “We’ve been up there a few times now, and except for last night, every time, we’ve had an audience.”
“Parents keep their kids away from the windows in the city,” she says, “especially in this neighborhood. You never know what you’re going to see or who’s going to catch you looking at them.”
“You’ve really put a lot of thought into all this, haven’t you?”
She laughs again, and my trepidation starts to thaw.
“I guess you could say that. Look,” she continues, “there’s a way for me to get all the, in your words, kinky shit out of my system without putting my job or any young eyes in jeopardy. Sometimes it takes a bit of creativity, like last night at the stadium. It actually made me pretty nervous being out in the middle of everything like that, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Seriously,” she says. “Did you ever bother noticing how I was making sure that you were covered at all times from an outside viewpoint? I mean, sure, someone might have walked up and saw my head in your lap, but I’m sure you would’ve noticed before they saw too much of anything.”
“You know, I was kind of worried about this,” I laugh, “but I think this just might be the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“Take it easy there, Tonto,” she says. “We’re dating exclusively, but that doesn’t mean we’re married. Pull it back a bit, will you?”
She’s smiling.
This is the first time I’ve ever really seen her smile in the daylight.
The woman I went to bed with isn’t the woman I woke up with, and for once, that’s not a bad thing.
“So, you wanna fuck and get some coffee?”
Or, you know, maybe she’s the same woman and I’m just getting to know her better. That’s probably closer to the truth.
She kisses my chest, and I feel something that I’d completely forgotten.
I feel cared for.
She lifts her head, asking, “Or do you want to do the coffee thing first?”
I chuckle.
“Maybe some coffee,” I tell her. “Otherwise, I don’t know that I’m going to make a good showing.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?” she asks.
I’m about to tell her the truth, but the look in her eyes is so innocent, so—what’s the word?—concerned, and I can’t bear to hurt her feelings.
“I slept all right,” I lie. “I think I’m just getting used to having another person in bed with me.”
“I’m in bed with you all the time,” she teases.
“Not sleeping,” I tease back.
“All right, I’ll go get some coffee on,” she says, actually going as far as to cover herself as she reaches over the side of the bed for her bathrobe.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s cold,” she says. “I’m used to your body heat. I’ve been sleeping with it all night.”
This is what a relationship feels like. I almost can’t remember feeling it before.
It’s not a bad feeling.
Wrigley’s hair is disheveled and hilarious as she walks out the door on her way to the kitchen, and I’m starting to wonder what I thought was so scary about settling down for a while.
I don’t know if things are going to work out or not, but this is probably the best morning I’ve had in a few years.
“So,” I call through the open doorway, “what time do you go to work today?”
“I’m off today,” she calls back. “And will you get your lazy ass out here? I’m freezing.”
I smile to myself. This is quite the turnaround from last night.
Last night, she was storming out of my rental car because I’d only suggested that we go out on a real date, and when she got in that cab… I guess I don’t really need to go back over that right now.
Last night was a very different world with very different people in it.
I’m up and out of bed, morning wood kicking in, though I haven’t slept, so I don’t bother with pants. I just check the top drawer of her dresser for a towel. We tend to go through quite a few of them on any given occasion.
Wrapped up, but hardly hiding anything, I walk out of the bedroom and find Wrigley putting bread in her toaster.
“Hey there,” I say as I walk up, wrapping my arms around her.
“Well good morning to both of you,” she laughs. “Did you change your mind on coffee?”
“Nah,” I answer.
“So, there is something I think we should probably talk about,” she says. “I don’t want to put it all on the line or anything, but I just want to know where you stand.”
“Okay.”
“Your roommate,” she says, “what is the deal with the two of you?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, the first night we got together, you shouted her name as you were coming. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging or anythi
ng.”
“Yeah, didn’t you shout your name about that same time?”
“Yeah, but whatever,” she says, leaning back into me. “I just need to know what kind of relationship the two of you have. Like, are you just roommates, are you roommates that fuck, are you hung up on her, what?”
“We’re just roommates,” I tell her. “We’ve had a near miss or two—actually, now that I think about it, just the one, but it was kind of drawn out—but no, nothing’s ever happened.”
We’re in a relationship, and people in relationships are supposed to be honest with each other, right?
“Okay,” she says. “You’re being totally honest, right? I’m not going to impale you with a meat thermometer if you tell me the two of you have bumped uglies.”
“You know, that’s one of my least favorite terms for it,” I laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says. “This is the free pass for both of us. You can say pretty much whatever here, and as long as it’s not way too fucking overboard, it’ll slide.”
“Really,” I tell her, “nothing’s happened.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I heard you the first time, but are there feelings there or what? Guys don’t usually call out the name of their roommate when they’re slogging someone else’s snatch.”
“Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?”
“Answer the question,” she says, pulling away from me to butter the toast she pulls from the toaster.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I thought there might have been something there, but she’s with some other guy now. It doesn’t matter.”
“So if she weren’t single…?”
“Nothing happened when she was,” I answer, starting to get a little tired of this particular line of questioning. I understand where Wrigley’s coming from, but I wasn’t prepared for it this morning.
“But if she weren’t single now, would you be here with me?”
“What does it even matter?” I snap. “I’m not there, I’m here. Can we just drop it?”
“No,” she answers calmly. “I think you should be honest with yourself before you really decide to jump into something with me. Am I the woman that you really want to be with, or am I just a decent second choice? You’re really not going to hurt my feelings unless you lie to me.”