by Roxie Noir
“My phone died because I forgot to charge it,” she whispers. “And then I was on an airplane, and you have to turn your phone off when you fly, and...”
An airplane. She was on a fucking airplane, back to New York. She left England and went home, exactly like she said she was going to, but instead I assumed the worst of her.
“So I got drunker and lit your note on fire and apparently I deleted your number from my mobile as well,” I admit. “And then I got even drunker and...”
She waits expectantly.
“I drove to the Winstead Manor, crashed my car into a garden wall and tried to assault Alistair,” I admit.
Her eyes go wide, and she looks at me for a long, long time.
“Did it work?” she finally asks.
“I don’t remember. I think it may have,” I say.
“Dude, do you know where the cake is?” a voice says from just around the corner. “Like, I’ve got the cutting thing for it? But I don’t know where the actual cake is?”
“Shit,” Frankie mutters, then glances around. “C’mon.”
“It’s called a knife, Roderick, and the cake is in the kitchen where it’s supposed to be,” a woman’s voice answers.
Frankie ducks around another corner, into the shadows next to another massive bougainvillea bush, and I follow.
“I’m sorry,” she says, looking up at me with big hazel eyes. “I should have said goodbye or something, it was a total asshole move to just leave a note like that and I didn’t even think about the fact that my phone would be off for like nine hours...”
She takes a deep breath.
“It’s not your fault,” I start.
“I just wanted to go home,” she says, her eyes down, her voice quiet. “I swear it wasn’t you, but I’d just called off a wedding and felt like I was flushing three years of my life down the drain, and then I’d gone and had sex with someone new immediately after and I’ve never done anything like that before, and it was all just... it was a lot. And I just wanted to go home where things at least kind of made sense, and I probably should have woken you up but I was afraid that if I did I’d stay in England longer and things would only get weirder, so I just left while I felt like I could get away with it.”
I just shake my head.
“I handled it the way I’ve handled everything for years, by getting shitfaced and destroying everything I could get my hands on,” I say, taking a step in. “If I hadn’t done that, I could have called the next day and we’d have talked.”
“It was still a shitty thi—”
I reach out and put one thumb over her mouth. I do it without thinking, without really meaning to, but the motion feels like lightning strikes. All I’ve wanted for two months is to touch her.
“I called every costume shop in New York City to look for you,” I say. “I’m banned from Facebook because I contacted every Françoise Strauss I could find, so now I’m probably on some sort of FBI list. I spent two weeks in Brooklyn because I thought I might run into you. This is my mess, Frankie, don’t fucking start trying to take responsibility for it.”
Her lips move under my thumb, so I slide it off slowly, my fingers brushing along her chin.
I’m going to kiss her again. I am. Whatever the fuck she says or does, I’m at least going to do that.
“You were in Brooklyn?” she asks.
I nod.
“For what?”
“I just told you. Trying to find you.”
Frankie just looks at me like I’m slightly mad. To be fair, she’s not wrong.
“That’s all?”
“You could act like it’s terribly romantic and not simply daft.”
I’ve got one hand nestled in her hair, my thumb still on her jaw, and I rest my other on the wall next to her head. Finally, finally, her eyes spark, the corners just barely crinkling.
It’s what I’ve been waiting for. I didn’t know until right now, but it was.
“What if I act like it’s both?” Frankie asks.
I kiss her again.
Two months of yearning and longing and searching and now she’s here, her lips under mine, warm and yielding as she snakes a hand around my neck and pulls me in.
It’s an earthquake, a tidal wave, a lightning storm. It’s a better high than anything else I’ve ever tried, every nerve in my body pure fucking euphoria right now.
I open my mouth against hers. Frankie grunts softly, a barely-there noise, and I can’t help but curl my fingers against her neck, press my body against hers until she’s firmly against the wall.
She moans again, so softly I can barely hear it, and she runs her hands down my torso, her fingers sliding between the buttons on my shirt. I’m hard as a fucking railroad spike now, despite every effort.
I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that if I put my hand down her trousers right now her knickers would be dripping wet, that I’d stroke her delicious clit once and make her gasp, see her eyelids flutter the way they do.
“I admit I tried to forget you,” I murmur into her ear.
She pulls at my shirt, gently.
“Same,” she whispers, teasing me.
“You know what I didn’t forget?”
“Something G-rated, I’m sure.”
I slide my hand down her back and squeeze her ass for that comment, and Frankie just laughs breathlessly in my ear.
“How easy it was to make you come,” I tell her.
I swear her breathing gets faster, her heartbeat quickens. I dip one single finger below the waistband of her black work pants, the temptation to slide my hand between her legs and make her come again right here, right now almost overwhelming.
Even though we’re in public. Even though she’s at work.
“Right now,” I say. “Sixty seconds, give or take. No one around. If you can be quiet enough maybe even twice, since I’ve got a feeling your frustrations are all pent up and your vibrator’s worn out at the moment.”
“Cocky prick,” she breathes.
“Fucking right. How about it?”
I slide another finger underneath her waistband.
“How long did you say?” she teases.
“One minute, just ab—”
“Hey, have you seen Frankie?” says a voice around the corner, not ten feet away.
Frankie jumps and gasps, trying to back away from me against the wall.
“Who?” asks a guy’s voice.
“Frankie, I swear she was here and just vanished.”
I kiss her again, hard, for one last second before pulling away.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Frankie
I swear to God, I don’t even care right now that Elena’s a couple feet away and looking for me. I just don’t want this to end, I don’t want Liam’s mouth to leave mine.
I want him to follow through on his offer right here, against this wall, in broad daylight because goddammit, he’s exactly right. About the frustration, about the vibrators, the whole nine yards.
But he steps away. He grins at me. Rakishly. His suit pants don’t exactly hide the huge, hard erection he’s packing, and I can’t help but glance down at it even as I try to shake myself loose from the spell that just overtook me.
Everything I found out about him while we were apart — the heroin, the overdose, the fact that we really met for the first time a year ago, not a few months ago — fades into the background. I know it’s there, but it’s just not important. Not now.
“Did she get lost?” Elena’s saying. “I swear the gardens and terraces at this place are some kind of labyrinth...”
“Right, so you said the loo is back behind me and off to the left?” Liam suddenly asks.
Elena appears around the corner. My heart just about stops.
I smile. Professionally, like I’m answering the question.
“That’s right, just around that corner and then there should be signs. Can’t miss it!”
“Cheers,” Liam says, and winks.
Then he tur
ns, walks away, toward the bathroom I just completely invented.
“Oh, there are you are,” Elena says.
“Sorry, I found a guest wandering around a little lost,” I explain, praying that my face isn’t broadcasting I MADE OUT WITH THAT HOT MAN WHO JUST LEFT.
“Right, can you come help clear the bars out and move them inside? It’s getting a little chillier out here than we anticipated tonight so I think we’re going to move all service into the ballroom...”
From the corner of my eye, I watch Liam’s back until he disappears, and when he does I feel a tiny pang. Of panic, of nerves, of regret that I didn’t decide to say fuck this job and leave with him right then and there.
“Of course,” I tell Elena. “I’m on it.”
Liam doesn’t disappear. My bar’s in a separate room from the wedding reception, and even though I’m busy, he seems to need another club soda with lime every twenty minutes or so.
Not that I mind.
“Do you know how to make an Old-Fashioned?” he asks once.
“Of course,” I say. “I made one for your friend earlier, weren’t you paying attention?”
He grins.
“Naturally, no,” he says. “I was staring at your arse.”
“Well, if you’d stared at the drink maybe you would have learned something,” I tease.
“I did find my method quite inspiring,” he teases back.
I turn pink. Someone steps up behind him, and he winks and leaves.
Twenty minutes later, he’s back.
“What time do you get off?”
“Of work?” I ask, cracking open another club soda.
I’m well aware of the double entendre. Liam just laughs.
“What else could I mean?” he teases.
“About an hour after the wedding ends,” I say.
“How would you like to get off again about half an hour after that?”
“How are you doing on rum?” Elena asks, appearing out of nowhere. I nearly drop Liam’s lime on the floor in surprise.
“Good!” I exclaim, glancing behind myself at the bottle. “Good, it’s fine, I’m good for rum, I think. Great! Good.”
I give the drink over. Liam smirks, winks, leaves, and I try not to cascade into an embarrassed puddle as the next guest orders a lemon drop.
I’m certain that this is the longest wedding on record. It must go for days, weeks, months, but at last, the bride and groom leave, and we begin putting the alcohol away.
“Gavin Lockwood,” Jenny says to me as we’re putting unopened bottles of whiskey away into cases. “Better than some studio head, not as good as Brad and Angelina.”
“Who’s he again?” I ask, as if I don’t know exactly who Gavin Lockwood is.
As if his band’s former drummer hasn’t been talking dirty to me all night.
“The guy from Dirtshine,” she says. “You know, I love you when you’re half awaaaaaaaake...”
“Stick to acting,” I tease her.
She grins, rolls her eyes, and we both lift half-empty cases of booze and carry them through a hallway and to a waiting van. Roderick is there, just hanging out, calling people bro and flexing his muscles or whatever, so Jenny bats her eyelashes at him for a few minutes while I head back inside.
Just as I’m about to get to the bar, a hand grabs my arm, pulls me sideways.
“You’re fucking hard to find alone,” Liam murmurs.
He opens a door and pushes me inside. It’s perfectly dark, smells like garlic, and is probably a pantry, but Liam’s mouth is on mine again before I can get any further with that thought.
“Maybe it’s because I’m at work,” I gasp.
“Well, whatever your problem is, it’s near over, right?”
He brushes one nipple with his thumb, and my whole body shivers.
“It’ll be over sooner if I go pack up the bar,” I point out.
He kisses me again. It’s pitch black, so every time is out of the blue, stolen seconds, his mouth on mine like he’s devouring me.
“I ought to be out there making a good impression as well,” he says. “I think I’ve blown several minds tonight by staying sober despite an open bar. Who knows, maybe I’ve got a future somewhere that isn’t Shelton.”
Another kiss, long and hard, his tongue in my mouth, his thick erection rock-hard against my hips and practically all I can think about besides his lips desperately on mine is being bent over his kitchen table as he slid in and nearly short-circuited my brain.
No, my vibrator has not been a good replacement.
“Where the hell did Frankie go?” a voice asks, right outside the door.
“You’re gonna get me fired,” I tease.
“I think that’s only fair,” my murmurs in my ear. “And this is for a much better reason.”
I slide my hand down, past the buckle on his pants, and right along the thick ridge of his cock. Liam gasps in my ear, one hand squeezing my ass as hard as he can.
“Feels as if you’d like to be fired,” he growls.
“I’m looking for your phone,” I tease.
“That’s not it.”
“No?”
“I can demonstrate what that is if you’d like,” he says. “And make no mistake, you will like it.”
“She walked through here,” Jenny says, still right outside the door.
“She’s probably in the bathroom,” Elena’s voice says.
“Keep rubbing my cock like that and I’ll happily fuck you standing right here against this wall,” Liam whispers. “Though if you like it half as much as the last time we fucked I’m quite sure your boss will find out.”
I want to take him up on it. I want to get these pants off, turn around, bend over, and let Liam pound me unprotected until I’m screaming his name. Which — let’s face it — wouldn’t be very long, as he’s pointed out time and again.
But then I imagine Elena and Jenny bursting into this pantry and finding us, and it’s kind of a boner-killer. So instead I slide my hand into his pocket, grab his phone, pull it out. He watches as I put my number into it, then call my own phone.
It buzzes in my pocket.
“You don’t trust me?” he teases.
“I’m saving you a visit to Brooklyn,” I tease back, putting his phone into his pocket.
It sounds like Jenny and Elena are gone, so I put one hand on the inside knob of the pantry. Liam grabs me, pulls me back again, crushes his lips against mine before he lets me leave.
“Call me, and try not to fuck it up,” I say, opening the door.
I swear I can hear his grin.
What the hell are you doing?
Liam lied to me. He lied about his band, about his former life, about his problems. He lied about having met me before, and if maybe some of those things weren’t exactly lies, they were lies of omission. Gaping holes where the truth should have been instead.
And yet, here I am, making out with him in the cupboard. A former junkie who failed to mention that fact while we were getting drunk and smoking pot at his house, two activities I’m pretty sure sober people don’t participate in.
He calls before I even leave work. He calls every twenty minutes until I have to turn my phone to silent, packing up food and booze for what seems like an eternity.
We drive back to the catering headquarters. Unload. Jenny tries to get Roderick to invite her to some party that he mentions ‘checking out,’ and he somehow seems totally oblivious to her feminine wiles.
Or maybe he’s gay. I’ve got my money on oblivious, though.
Then I’m finally back in the pre-2000 Honda Accord that I bought when I got here. The AC’s busted, there’s no power windows or doors, and the paint job looks like it’s got a skin disease, but it runs despite its 200,000 miles.
Liam’s left me no less than five voicemails.
Don’t do it, the smart voice buried in the back of my brain says. Look what happened last time.
You’re bad for him. He’s bad for you. He lied an
d you dragged him down, how does this get worse?
“Cheers, Frankie,” the first voicemail one says. “Here I am, not fucking it up. I’ve heard a rumor that establishments in Los Angeles are often open past eleven p.m., so I’m going to take you to one tonight. I’m afraid you’ll have to drive. You’ve got my number.”
I smile to myself, put the phone on speaker, and start the car.
“It’s me again, not fucking it up, but you’ve just bent over the bar to grab something from the other side, and I thought I ought to call you to tell you that your arse is even more spectacular than I remember. We’re still going out tonight, naturally.”
They’re all a bit like that, and every message erodes the reasons that I shouldn’t go out with Liam.
At least give him a chance to explain.
I call him with my phone on speaker as I speed down the 101 toward Studio City.
“I’m taking you out,” he says by way of answer.
“I’m showering first.”
“Did you want company?”
“I thought you were taking me out.”
“I can fuck you in the shower and then take you out. It doesn’t need to be an either-or situation, Frankie.”
I turn down the volume on my phone a click, even though I’m alone in the car with my windows up. What if a stranger on the freeway hears me? Awkward.
“You do have high expectations for someone who didn’t call for two months,” I tease.
“If going out is a bit much we can skip that part,” he teases right back. “But either way you ought to tell me where you live.”
I check my blind spot, change lanes, and try very hard not to think about Liam’s face between my thighs as I speed down the freeway at eighty miles an hour. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. It’s what I’ve been fantasizing about for the past two months, and now he’s here, on my phone, telling me in that accent what he’s going to do to me.
“The Oak Crest apartments, number three-oh-five,” I say, and give him the address. “If I’m still in the shower, be nice to my roommate. She calls herself a model-slash-actress, and they’re delicate.”
“Because nice is my specialty,” he says, sarcastically.