by JR King
I often wondered about the gauzy madness of a mind-blowing orgasm achieved through penetrative sex. Fucking awesome, Sara generally referred to it. I’d mastered the art of faking it. Sex was just never that exciting to me, and I never missed it. Of course there were nights when it felt like every nerve ending in my body was alive, sheets teasing me with each scrap of the fabric. Arcane images of a tall, dark, brooding stranger would manifest itself and, after playing with my nipples, a hand would inevitably travel down to my panties. I would make myself see stars and rainbows before drifting off to sleep.
Over the last months, three times I’d gone out on dates with people Sara had sought out, playing matchmaker. Mostly, I listened to loquacious bores droning on and on about their lives, and panicked about the thought of them seeing me naked. Only Alexander Turner had reawakened a barefaced urge in me within seconds.
I so wanted to kiss that man again.
That’s what I was thinking as I opened the door when Mitchell rang the bell twice.
“Ready to go, babe?” Although he was fine-featured, high cheek-boned, and had sleek dark hair, it was the strength in his eyes that was most striking.
I accepted the box of macarons from Ladurée, quickly discarding it on a verrines coffee table book in the foyer. I adopted a look of sheer excitement. “Ready.”
I’d never been inside the Mandarin Oriental before. Looking back, it seemed kind of strange since I grew up in Boston. I surmised there were lots of places in my home city I’d never seen, and would never see; not the way tourists combed through it all. As I stepped out of the car and walked to the entrance, I resolved to leave my judginess behind. Sara and I had often joked that in this type of cosmopolitan establishment the naively rich drank prettified concoctions at a fourfold times the normal price.
The lounge was ultrachic, and luxurious, frequented mostly by local professionals and foreign businessmen who were paranoid about high prices. The excuse of a ‘client meeting’ made it easy for them to charge the expense to a client account, a bit similar to using town cars that are automatically charged to a client account by the car service.
I couldn’t help but notice the admiring glances Mitchell received as we crossed the room. My smile was huge and made me look every bit like the giddy teenager I felt like.
Mitchell asked, “You’ve never been here before?”
With a pointed-out look, I explained, “I’m not much of an urban dweller. Apart from museums and afternoon tea at Taj Boston, I haven’t been to many touristy spots.”
“Good evening,” a put-out voice said.
Mitchell was quick to get rid of her by ordering martinis.
I teased him, “And all this time, I was under the misimpression that you liked blondes.”
Mitchell met my eyes and worried his lip with his teeth for a moment, then settled his mouth into a thin smile. “I don’t have a type.”
“Everyone has a type.”
He chuckled scornfully. “What’s yours?”
“Go look in a mirror.” My eyelashes were unusually long, and I batted them lazily—for emphasis.
His eyes darkened and his jaw tightened. “That’s it, we’re switching restaurants. L’Espalier next time. Touristy places have a positive influence on you. I won’t even mention how hot you look.”
I could feel a blush starting to creep up my face. One martini and shameless observation of the profligate ways of local patrons and tourists later, I began to relax. I knew this because my tongue felt creamy and swollen, and my entire body felt looser and warm. Regardless of how undisturbed Mitchell looked, I could tell he wasn’t unaffected. He’d licked his lips a few times in between talking and sipping his drink.
The improvised restaurant was another expensive affair on the umpteenth floor of The Pru. Top of the Hub was flooded with soft light, and my ever-questing, sensitive eyes had to blink twice as much to make out multicolored images this high. Within eyeshot were oversized lamps that hung from the ceiling—picture elliptical candelabras covered with domes, checkerboard floor detail, rustic vases that had curly dried willow branches, and centerpieces held just one rose in an atypical shade of red. To finish it off, mahogany panels accented the pillars, beiges, and muted greens.
Unfocused shadows danced back and forth in the background of the walls and reflected off the hanging art. A corps of waiters dressed adequately in nifty suits whirled around, and a tinny rendition of Fly Me To The Moon hummed in the background. Sightseeing from a bird’s-eye view was another kind of wonderful than walking through a warren of overcrowded streets. More than fifty stories closer to sea level, cars moved like centipedes throughout street canyons.
A hostess took our coats and another one led us to a corner table. We sat down on two-colored leather dining chairs with nailhead trim. Our waiter explained that one of the cellars, the one dividing the room, was made completely of glass to allow a view of each corner. Over 3000 bottles were stocked on the floor, and Riedel stemware was prerequisite for each table.
I’d done all the due diligence by researching the Big Three, reading up on the history and the competition. I needn’t have bothered, because Mitchell was averse to discussing his new job as a Senior-Partner for the best of the best. Between the conference calls, the videoconferencing, the PPT presentations, and working with an Executive Assistant whom he only met once a week in person, he was done in at the end of the week and tried not to work on weekends. With the Cravath system, he didn’t have much of a choice, so when he had time to himself, he refrained from discussing his work.
Tucking in to my filet mignon, I asked him, “Do you come here often?”
“No. My ex-wife comes here at almost each sundown.”
Married? I’d been curious, but now I was agog. I think my jaw dropped a few inches.
“I hope you don’t mind me being honest with you,” he continued in a meek, footling manner while cutting his meat, “I was hoping that bitch would see you here with me.”
I looked up from my plate, put my cutlery down. “Are you all right?” I grabbed his hand to soothe his absentminded stare. His eyes were clouded with pain.
He picked up his wine goblet, took a few measured sips, studying me. “No hissy fit? To bring a date to a restaurant just to spite your ex is an awful thing to do. It’s like being someone’s second choice.”
“Listen, I do my best to stay away from drama and angst. Besides, second isn’t that bad. I thought I was your ninth, or tenth.”
“You’re my first choice, Elena,” he beamed. “There’s no one else.” Closing his eyes, he thought for a while, recalling—I guessed. “God fucking dammit, a girl like you is priceless.”
I waited for him to open his eyes. He had nice lips, gorgeously sculpted.
“It’s complicated,” he went on in a quiet voice that sounded full of animosity, finally opening his eyes. It was only then that I realized just how beautiful they were. Like cat’s eyes, blue-green and gold flecked, mischievous, yet warm, and comforting. They were, I had to admit, very trustworthy eyes, nothing like the dangerousness a certain set of grey irises possessed, haunting me whenever I closed my eyes.
“Why complicated?” I looked at him, uncertain.
He fidgeted in his chair, smiled crookedly. “Enough about my past.”
I waved my hand and swirled my glass of Opus One around. “Just when things were getting interesting.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but offered me one of his smiles, instead.
I sipped my wine and narrowed my eyes at him. “Whatever it is she did to you, I think you should repurpose your hatred and try to move on.”
He grinned a boyish, charming grin. “Concierge therapy? This practice has the potential to make you very rich.” The remarkable color of his eyes held me hostage, sending a scintillating shiver coursing down my spine.
“I like your eyes, Mitchell.”
“Aw.” He grinned widely as he reached for my hand, flipped it over and planted a close-mouthed k
iss on it. His eyes bored into mine. “My, you’re making me lose those acerbic wits.”
I knew he could charge any dinner as an expense. I was happy to see he had the dignity of an honest man when he discarded the itemized bill that was necessary for such a filing.
“How shall we proceed after the lovely meal? A royal or a pedestrian celebration?”
I stared at the sky beyond the top of his shoulder. “Dinner was a little Gatsbyesque, go for simple.”
“Your wish is my command.” He winked at me. “I know just the place.”
The pub on Temple Place was dark, and music played loud enough that conversation had to be carried quite loudly.
“Beer first,” said Mitchell. His grin was wicked.
“Beer first,” I repeated mechanically. I was unable to look away from the busy, tawdry scene. Once I’d spotted an empty booth, amid all the moving distractions, I poked Mitchell in the side with a fingertip. “There,” I stuck out my chin.
It was a pleasant shock to feel him grabbing my hand, threading his fingers through mine as he led me to the booth.
Sitting down, I moved away skittishly from him.
He moved closer along the banquette and looked down at me. “I can’t wait to kiss you. To taste you,” he told me, lowering his voice to a sexy rumble.
Boldly, I glanced up at him and flicked my tongue. “You seem overconfident, Mr. Christiansen.”
“And you’re misbehaving, Ms. Anderson.”
“The very young do not always do as they are told,” I used a line from Stargate. Unable to remain unaffected by the carnal appetite in his eyes, I was the first one to break eye contact.
Two girls came up to the booth, glancing at the empty bench opposite the one we hogged. One of them asked, “Is this taken?” She was all curvy-like with huge boobs, making eyes at Mitchell.
Acidly, Mitchell said, “It is. Our friends are at the bar.”
They scampered off toward another booth.
In all honesty, she couldn’t be blamed for the inappropriate eye contact. After seeing a man like Mitchell and not getting a piece of him, many women must have gone back home to fuck fingers or a sex toy as soon as their pitiful boyfriends, or husbands, started snoring.
Mitchell kissed the space between my throat and shoulder. “What are you having, babe?”
I went for a Heineken. I wasn’t a beer drinker, but I figured if James Bond chose to endorse the commercials, it must be up to par. Mitchell took some type of draft beer that looked caramelish and soapy, sloshing on the scarred wooden table.
I held the bottle high up like Gandalf’s staff. “To the good life.”
“How’s your evening so far, Elena?” Mitchell took another large swallow from his pint glass.
Leaning closer, I touched his arm with false urgency. “Run of the mill.”
“True enough. I can do better.”
I took a pull from my drink, realizing I really wasn’t one for beer. “I was being facetious. Sumptuous. Scrumptious. Sexy.”
His smile grew. “Sexy?”
I gave the green bottle a clockwise half turn. “You’re a chick magnet, look.”
The girl staring at him sat perched on a high stool with stiletto-heeled Marciano boots teetering on the slinky silver rod.
Shrugging, he took a pull of his pint and looked at the other end of the bar. “The shots are popular too.”
“Shots work much like an injection.”
“Now there’s a thought.” It came as no surprise for me to hear him ask, “Ready to take a swan dive out the window with me?” He got up. So did I. He went to the bar. I followed. “How do we start this?”
“It’s okay, you choose. I like it this way.”
He sat up at the bar awash with prior alcoholic spills and I watched him order the shots with a mere gesture. A bartender lined up six shot glasses and started pouring tequila into them. I stood stiffly behind Mitchell as he paid, and glanced around. People jostled me as they brushed past me.
“Noob,” one of them hissed.
All at once I knew I could no longer sustain much more of this pretense. Doing shots in this pub horrified me. I couldn’t, in all honesty, admit to myself that I was enjoying this part of the evening. I wanted to go home. I didn’t care if it was rude of me to leave, or if Mitchell wouldn’t want to see me again. I had to be honest about what I was after, admitting to myself that I couldn’t follow through.
“Kisss…herrr!” a drunken voice slurred. “I’d love to get her between the sheets!”
Patrons cheered.
Elena Anderson
The New Boyfriend
I looked at the closest flat screen. The live premiere came as a bit of a shock, a sudden surge of adrenaline making me want to scream desperately. Jealousy clawed at me—jealousy over something I never had—and started shredding my mood to ribbons.
Down at the beginning of the red carpet, bustling with reporters, fans gave the handsome couple a foot’s clearance on either side. People allowed the powerful Alexander Turner his space as he walked down the carpet with Diane Knight, who was the highest paid actress on the big screen. Alexander kept his eyes trained on Diane, and barely looked at the fans and reporters that sought him out. Once again, I was drawn in to a pair of steel grey irises and the black pupils they surrounded. It was a strange sensation to remember them, the gilded illusion they were, so full of danger and lust, their vertigo stunning me into immobility, and yet it all seemed like a dream. Then again, whenever I heard the menacing rasp of his voice echoing around me, I remembered how real it’d been. How Alexander wasn’t a man to be messed with. Would he remember me if he ever saw me again? Would he remember making out with me? Until now I’d only imagined him doing some faceless woman he’d never love, someone I didn’t envy, if she did exist.
The shock of this news left me feeling sick and hollow. It was more than that; I almost felt bereft. He belonged to Diane Knight and apparently had for some time now. Christ, I sounded like an obsessed teen over a man who was much older and wiser than me. Adrenaline fizzled in my veins like the beer fizzling in pilsner glasses. I looked away from the screen, banishing the images from my mind.
“Elena? ELENA!” Mitchell was gesturing at the stool beside him. “Or do you want to go home?”
Having mused on all of that crap, “I ain’t a party pooper. Let’s do shots,” I yelled, suddenly excited. I’d been lost in my scrutiny and it was rude. If Mitchell had treated me this way, I might have walked out on him. By the time I sat down, I watched him throw back a shot.
“Lick salt, drink, bite lemon,” he screamed above the noise. Without looking at me, he held one out to me.
Now that I’d abandoned the silly fantasies I espoused since I met Alexander, I felt liberated. No more Ms. Havisham. Daintily, I took the glass between my thumb and middle finger, and held out my free wrist at him. I clutched the lemon wedge and watched him sprinkle a small pinch of salt onto the skin between my thumb and forefinger.
“Go on. Just like I did, baby.”
Breathing out, I followed suit. I licked the salt, downed the tequila with an amateurish toss of the head, and bit into the lemon wedge. It tasted awful, unrefined. The alcohol was too harsh and it bit as it warmed on the way down. I sat straight up and put the shot glass down.
“Second one!” I heard a scream.
Mitchell slid another shot glass toward me. I hesitated, but went for it nonetheless, shuddering as the alcohol entered my mouth. “It tastes awful,” I said out loud this time, and laughed.
He grinned at me. He took the third shot, shoved a lemon wedge in his mouth, and ordered four more. “I know. It’s the cheap stuff. But it does what it’s supposed to do.”
I dropped the juiceless wedge into my empty glass. “What’s the good stuff?”
“Casa Dragones and Gran Patrón Platinum. They don’t have ‘em.”
“Fair warning, I’m going to be sick in a short while,” I toasted him, and took my third shot. Things looked a tad
blurry, so I wasn’t sure if the bartender looked oddly at Mitchell, then at me, and told him to slow down.
Mitchell ignored him and looked at me dryly. “Babe, would you like to stop?”
I slumped on the barstool and spun around, putting my hands up in surrender. “I think not, I’m already knee-deep in this mess.” It seemed I became more verbose with each shot.
“Are you at last enjoying yourself, Elena?” Mitchell inquired after the fourth shot. Even in the dim light of the bar, and in spite of my compromised eye view, his eyes seemed to glow.
“N-not really, that’s why I’m seated beside you,” I teased wryly, slamming my shot glass on the bar to celebrate yet another triumph. “There, now I only have one left. I already took four for the team, can we go home after t-the fifth?”
“In your state…I could easily kidnap you.”
“And why would you do t-t-t-that?” I stuttered and slurred. I tamped down a shiver of excitement and took the last shot. It’s not like I was actually worried he’d kidnap me. Mitchell seemed like a good, spontaneous guy, not someone who calculated his moves in order to manipulate.
He leaned in closer than before and, lowering his voice, he said, “Because you’re gorgeous and mysterious. Kinda like the perfect keepsake.”
The attempt I made to sound sexy went transparent and it all became a cross between a half-snort of a pig and a half-bray of a donkey: “K-k-keepsake. Jus-jus-just wrong. A human is not a thing.”
“Perhaps we should stop while you can still articulate,” he laughed.
“Bad Mitchell, making fun of me!”
“Only a little,” he told me, grinning. I drew back slightly as he raised his hand to my cheek. Inexplicably, he maneuvered it to cover the lower half of my face, looking into my eyes that he left exposed.
“What…what are you doing?” I felt perplexed—or some such sentiment.
“When you smile, your eyes stay put. You look injured, as if missing a part of yourself. What happened to you? Who ruined your self-respect?”
I flinched back from his touch. This wasn’t a subject of conversation I expected after doing shots, nor was it one I was going to wade into. I knew I was missing something unfairly precious that was never mine to begin with, and I had to live with this veracity.