WakingMaggie

by Cindy Jacks

  “I know you did not just…” she mumbled under her breath. But he had. He’d logged off or at least changed his status so that he’d appear to be offline. Her heart fell down to her shoes. Meeting tonight hadn’t even been her idea. Her throat tightened and her eyes watered. Of all the rude, insensitive… What a prick.

  Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of the cool autumn air. She ran a hand across her forehead, her fingers brushing over the carnation pinned over her left ear. Stupid fucking red carnation. She tore the flower from her hair, chucked it onto the ground and stomped on it. A few people witnessed this outburst and shot her wary glances. Maggie didn’t care. She smoothed the bodice of her dress and opened the patio door. The sooner she got back to her table, the sooner she could pay and leave.

  Thoughts far away, she noticed the guitarist coming down the narrow hall in the opposite direction too late to avoid a collision.

  Wham! She smacked into his guitar case, spilling wine down the front of her dress.

  Looking at the stain, she groaned. “Look what you did.”

  “What I did?” He furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, but you ran into me.”

  “This will never come out. This dress is silk. Silk.”

  The young man nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Christ, just perfect.”

  “Really, I’m sorry,” he pleaded.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped.

  Annoyance flashed across his face. “I could tell you the same thing, lady. I said I was sorry.”

  “Kiss my ass. It’s not your dress doused with red wine is it?”

  “Yeah, well bend over and bare it.”

  His response caught Maggie off guard, and though she didn’t want to, she let out a chuckle and then an out-and-out full-bellied laugh. “What did you say?”

  The young man stared at the ground, a half-grin tugging at his lips. “You told me to kiss your ass so I said, ‘Bend over and bare it.’”

  Wiping her eyes, she shook her head and sighed. “You know, I’m not usually so rude. I’m having a bad night.” She motioned to her dress. “This is the last thing I needed.”

  “Join the club.” He exhaled.

  “I was stood up. What happened to you?” She grabbed a cloth napkin from the wait station.

  “I just got fired.”

  “Oh.” She grimaced. “You win.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and met her gaze. His locks fell in feathery layers around his angular face. “Well, it’s not a contest. Fucked up is fucked up, right?”

  “Agreed.”

  He shoved a hand in his pocket. “I can pay you for the dress.”

  “Not necessary. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  “Neither was I. Sorry.”

  She nodded. “Stop apologizing. It’s fine.”

  “I hope your night gets better.” He picked up his guitar case as if he were going to leave, but stayed rooted to the spot. “This might sound crazy, but how about I buy you another drink, to replace the one I spilled?

  “You don’t have to do that either.”

  He licked his lips and pressed them together. “I want to.”

  “Are you even old enough to drink?”

  A shy grin on his face, he said, “I’m twenty-seven.”

  Maggie stopped patting at her dress and looked at him. His hazel eyes sparkled the same way they had on stage. “Well, I’m forty…something, and old enough to know better than to have a drink with a stranger.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Maggie.”

  “I’m Calvin. There. We aren’t strangers anymore.”

  She sucked in her cheeks and squinted at him. “You think you’re cute?”

  “Come on, Maggie. One drink. Maybe we can cheer each other up.”

  “Hmph. You should be so lucky,” she groused, but her resolve had already softened. He was cute. Adorable, in fact. “All right. Let me settle up and I’ll meet you outside.”

  Walking to her table, she fished a couple twenties from her wallet and placed them under the saltshaker. She grabbed a piece of pan con tomate and scarfed it down—no good going for a drink on an empty stomach. One last swig of wine and she was ready to do something even crazier and more ill-advised than going on a date with a guy she met online.

  “One drink, Mags,” she told herself as she exited the bar.

  Calvin waited for her on the sidewalk. “I was afraid you’d duck out on me.”

  She buttoned her coat to hide the stain on her dress. “After what I’ve been through tonight, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Right. I forgot.” He looked around and held up his guitar case. “Could I stow this in your car?”

  “I walked here.”

  “I took the Metro.”

  Taking a deep breath, she looked up the street in the direction of her townhouse in Dupont Circle. “Well, if you promise you’re not a psychopath, I’ll let you stash it at my place. That way I can change clothes.”

  He crossed his heart and held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  She gave him a sidelong look as they started to walk. “Fine. But just know I will cut you if you try anything funny.”

  “Wow. I’m so turned-on right now.”

  Arching an eyebrow facetiously, she patted her purse.

  “So, what do you do, Ms. Armed and Dangerous?” he asked.

  “Whatever I want.”

  “Must be nice. You really don’t have to work?”

  “Oh, I’ve worked. As a wife and mother, I worked plenty the twenty-six years I was Mrs. Nathaniel Randolph-Mae, but when he started screwing his personal trainer, then I worked out a big, fat divorce settlement.”

  “I gotta get me one of those.”

  She nudged him. “Play your cards right and maybe you can be the next ex-Mr. Maggie Randolph-Mae.”

  He laughed. “Wait…your name is Maggie May, like the song?”

  “Oh Christ. No. Not you too. And it’s Maggie Randolph-Mae with an ‘e’, not a ‘y’.” She stopped in front of her Victorian brownstone. “I thought you’d be too young to make that association.”

  “Musician, remember?” He jiggled the guitar case at her. “I love that song.”

  “Well, I hate it.” She hurried up the steps and dug her key out of her purse. Fiddling with the sticky lock, she said, “You don’t know what it’s like, people bursting into song when they meet you.”

  But it was too late. He’d already liberated his guitar and started to play the opening notes.

  She rolled her eyes and walked inside without him, closing the door behind her. Out of habit, she dropped her keys in a bowl on the foyer table, switched on a lamp and hung her purse on a hook by the door.

  Calvin peeked inside. “Can I come in?”

  “Only if you leave that song outside.”

  “Fine. But if you hate the name so much, why don’t you change it?”

  Hands on hips, she said, “I have my reasons.”

  After he put his guitar back in its case, he wiped his feet on the mat and came in. He cast his gaze around the entryway and adjoining living room. “Nice digs.”

  “Thanks. I bought it after the divorce. It’s cozy.”

  He craned his neck and pointed to the staircase. “How many floors?”

  “Three. Four, if you count the attic I converted into loft space.”

  “Yeah. Cozy. And I thought that term applied to my efficiency apartment.”

  She patted his cheek and grinned. “No, dear. That’s just small.”

  He scowled at her, but he clearly knew she was joking.

  Chapter Three

  “Would you like a drink?” She hung his overcoat. As she led him through the doorway into the living room, she noticed his hand in the small of her back. The intimate gesture unleashed a smattering of butterflies in her stomach. Hesitant to break contact, she had to force herself to switch on the lights.

  “A beer, thanks.”
His gaze meandered down her body and then, as if he caught himself, it flicked up to meets hers.

  “I have raspberry lambic.”

  He shrugged, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “Sounds fine.”

  Studying the stain on her dress, Maggie knew she had to change before they left for a drink. Not crazy about leaving a stranger alone in her home, she chewed at the inside of her cheek.

  Well, if he wigs out, there’s always Mr. Shock-Shock, she thought of the stun gun in her nightstand.

  Once she’d retrieved his drink from the kitchen, she handed it to him with a glass. “I’ll be back in a jiff. You need another, they’re in the bottom drawer of the fridge.”

  “Thanks.” He stood immobile, a tight grip on the glass and bottle.

  “Relax. Have a seat. I promise, the furniture doesn’t bite.”

  “Right.” He walked over to the leather sofa and sat. Well, more perched than sat.

  Maggie ran upstairs and ducked into the master bedroom. Stripping off the dress and her ruined bra, she looked through her closet. What in the world should she change into? This wasn’t really a date and she had no idea where it might lead. Should she put on another dress? Would that seem as though she thought of their “one drink” as a date? Lord almighty, she had to shut out the little voice in her head that overthought everything.

  As she changed into a fresh bra, she inspected her wardrobe. She selected a black pencil skirt and an emerald-colored turtleneck…and just in case, she’d leave on her naughty-girl undies. A pair of black calf-high boots completed the ensemble.

  A quick inspection of her hair and makeup revealed everything still in place. She freshened her red lipstick and blotted her lips. Throwing herself a wink in the mirror, she turned to join her guest downstairs.

  She found Calvin still seated on the edge of the sofa. He’d poured the lambic but hadn’t drunk much of it. Aw, and he’d put coasters under the bottle and glass. His momma brought him up right.

  “You don’t like it? I know fruit and beer isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.” She furrowed her brow at the analogy. “Well, whatever. You know what I mean.”

  “I like it. It’s good.” He took a sip. “Damn… You look great.”

  “Thank you.” Her hand strayed to the barrette holding her hair back. “Really, you don’t have to drink that if you don’t like it.”

  “I like it.” Judging from the flash of heat in his eyes, he wasn’t talking about the lambic.

  “Good. Then I’ll get one for myself.”

  “Sit. I’ll get it.” He jumped up. “Bottom drawer, you said?”

  “Uh huh. Thanks. And I don’t need a glass.”

  Maggie settled into the other corner of the sofa, crossing her legs.

  When he returned, he’d undone his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. He sat down and handed her the drink. From what she could see, his chest was smooth. His heartbeat vibrated the soft spot at the base of his neck. A small burst of electricity coursed through her. She looked away and opened her bottle, chucking the cap onto the coffee table. Sneaking another glance at him, she noticed he didn’t seem to know where to settle his gaze either.

  He cleared his throat. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. There are a lot of places. We could just walk up the block and duck into the first place that looks good.”

  “Okay. Or…nah, never mind.”

  “What?”

  “I was just going to say we could stay here, but that sounds wrong. I don’t want you to think…you know.” He combed his bangs out of his eyes.

  “It’s up to you. I’m perfectly comfy here, but if you’d like to go out, that’s fine too.”

  “I’m comfortable here too.” He took a sip from his glass. “And we have this tasty raspberry beer, so why leave, right?”

  She chuckled. “You hate the lambic, don’t you?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “I hate the lambic. I’m so sorry. I tried to drink it.”

  Taking it from him, she said, “I told you, you didn’t have to.”

  “I didn’t want to be rude.”

  “You’re sweet.” She shook her head and got up to dispose of the offending beer.

  “I have wine or vodka. Gin? Whiskey?” she called from the kitchen.

  “Nah. I’m fine.”

  She snagged a bottle of water and headed into the living room again. Settling onto the couch, she set the bottle in front of him. “In case you get thirsty.”

  “Thanks.” He picked up the water, scooted deeper into the sofa and looked a little more at ease. Twisting open the cap, he said, “Here’s to a better night.”

  “Cheers.” She tipped her drink toward him then took a swig.

  Their gazes locked, Maggie noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his fingers gently cradling the bottle, his exquisite bone structure. She longed to inch closer to him. Should she? What would he do? Only one way to find out…

  She edged closer. “So, if I may ask, why’d you get fired?”

  He didn’t move away, in fact, he leaned closer and raised one shoulder, an unconvincing half-shrug. “Dunno.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it. I get it.”

  “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Gotcha. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was stood up by a guy I met online. That’s embarrassing.”

  “Aw, that’s nothing. Nowadays, who hasn’t been stood up by someone they met online?” He grazed his hand over hers.

  The tiny touch sent a jolt of excitement through her, her heartbeat picking up speed. She struggled to keep her voice even. “I suppose. I’m new to this Facebook thing. I got an account after the divorce.”

  “Well, just so you know, what’s-his-name’s an idiot.”

  This close to him, she could smell his spicy cologne mingled with his natural scent. Breathing him in, her mouth ran dry. The dim lamplight seemed to grow brighter.

  “Yeah,” she replied, “that’s what I keep telling myself. Frank’s an idiot.”

  “Frank?” He lolled his head backward and pretended to gag. “You don’t want to date a guy named Frank anyway. What’s that short for—Francis?”

  She laughed. “I think so.”

  “And what if it had worked out? Francis and Maggie. Sounds like a lesbian couple.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. God, I dodged a bullet tonight. Not that there’s anything wrong with lesbian couples.”

  “Of course not.” He nudged her gently. “I love lesbians.”

  “Most guys do.”

  She covered his hand with hers and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks for making me feel better.”

  The physical connection, the warmth of his skin emboldened her. A throbbing ache built between her legs. She wanted more.

  He scooted to face her, drumming his fingers beneath hers. “It’s the least I could do after I tossed a glass of wine on you.”

  “I think we’re even. I did force-feed you raspberry lambic.”

  Edging closer until their shoulders touched, he said, “Now that you mention it, I’m not sure the punishment fit the crime.”

  Maggie fell quiet. She could smell the fruity beer on his breath. What if he kissed her? What if she kissed him first? Swallowing hard, she moved her hand away, pretending to smooth her skirt, but he caught it again. He interlaced his fingers with hers and she stared at his hands. Those hands that moved over his guitar as if it were his lover. She wondered what those hands would feel like on her body. The thought incited a burst of excitement, the pulse between her thighs pounding harder.

  “When did you start playing guitar?” she asked, clearing her throat.

  “I was eight or nine, I think. My dad gave me one for Christmas. He plays and taught me how.”

  “You’re very good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Was the restaurant your only gig?” She scooted closer, pressing her shoulder against his hard chest.

  “No. I have other places
I play and I teach at a couple community centers too. My dad gave me the best gift—any time I’m down or frustrated or confused about how I feel, I pull out my guitar and I make music. It quiets my mind and everything’s all right again. I like paying that forward, teaching someone else.”

  “That’s wonderful, very sweet.”

  “Argh, no. Not sweet, anything but sweet.” He feigned hurt.

  “No? What adjective would you accept then?”

  “How about ’crazy sexy’?” He eased an arm around her. Heat surged from her pussy outward, warming her thighs. Squeezing her legs together, she noticed her panties felt sticky.

  She dipped her head in concession. “Well, of course you’re that. You’re a guitar player. Isn’t that in the job description?”

  “It is. You totally get me.” A crooked grin tugged at his lips.

  She spread out his hand and compared it to hers. It was huge. “I like your hands.”

  “I like you, Maggie.” He toyed with her fingers.

  Rubbing her palm against his, she said, “I like you too.”

  “Can I kiss you?”

  She shot him an amused look. “If you promise next time to just do it instead of asking me.”

  “Right.” He leaned nearer and tilted his head, looking from her eyes to her mouth and then back again. She closed her eyes and touched her nose to his.

  The kiss started out soft and uncertain, still more of a question than a kiss, as if he expected her to rebuff him. But then he snaked an arm around her and drew her closer, parting her lips with his. His tongue was gentle and playful; he tasted like raspberry. She nipped and sucked at his bottom lip. As the kiss tapered off, he pulled back slowly, finishing with a couple delicate pecks.

  She laid the back of her hand against his cheek. His skin was like whipped cream or a rose petal, all velvety smooth. She liked touching him. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand traveled down his neck and she found herself running a couple fingers over his thick collarbone. Still, uncertainty seemed to plague him.

  Too late to turn back, Maggie took control, unbuttoning his shirt. He lay back on the sofa and pulled his shirttails out of his pants. The fabric fell open and she scrambled to her knees, poised over him. She slid a hand over his carved abdomen, muscle tensing beneath her fingers. So gorgeous. She couldn’t help herself, she swooped down and planted little kisses on his torso. Already hard, the tip of his cock peeked out of the waistband of his low-cut slacks and she ran her tongue over it. He sucked in a sharp breath. Excited by his reaction, she unfastened his pants and pulled them off along with his underwear.