Finding North (Naïve Mistakes Series)

by Dunning, Rachel

  Shit.

  I turned back sheepishly. He put his paper down, his piercing blue eyes gazing straight at me... And that smile.

  I melted.

  Way. Out. Of. My. League. (And yet so hot...)

  "Hi!" I said, sounding so fucking much like an idiotic school-girl. My hand even shot up in a stupid reflexive move to wave at him like I was fourteen or something.

  He stood up. "Please, sit. What would you like to drink?"

  "Oh, anything but the Mocca!"

  "Oh, you don't like the Greek drink?"

  I shook my head firmly. "Neither do I. I only think stuck up East Siders drink that concoction."

  "Concoction." My oh my...

  "I'll have a filter coffee," I said.

  Conall walked off and my eyes locked on his ass but I couldn't see much because of his damn coat! (I did, however, scan down his legs, and they seemed athletic enough...) His shoulders were broad, however.

  I crossed my legs and started chewing my nail.

  "Here you go," he said.

  "Thank you." I tried to place his age. Twenty-seven? Twenty-six?

  "Again, I must apologize for my behavior on Friday night. It's just that I don't particularly enjoy loud places such as Cringe. I was entertaining some new clients introduced to me by my brother and, well, they, like my little brother, enjoy the nightlife."

  He sipped his coffee.

  "Your b—brother?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you two look similar?"

  "Well, we should. We're twins. Although he's a little plumpier than me..." He kept on talking but I stopped listening.

  "Leora?" His hand was on my forearm. Oh, damn. Tingles...

  "Um, yeah, sorry. I phased out there for a sec." He moved his hand away. A chill ran up to my shoulder and down my back.

  Soon I was gonna need some water....

  "You do that a lot, don't you? I mean, faze out."

  "Only lately. I don't know... A lot on my mind?" I made it look clear that I was talking bull and Mediterranean-Eyes Conall seemed to get the joke. My eyes worked him up and down once and caught on the two top buttons of his dress shirt. A tiny bit of curly hairs looked up at me. No, called to me!

  Conall had stopped talking, presumably to let me know it was my cue (or maybe he'd figured out that all I needed to "unphase out" was a little bit of time.)

  "Um, I think I saw your brother yesterday," I said, swallowing hard. I came here for a reason. And I damn near wanted to get as much data about that sleaze-crowd as I could.

  Conall's eyes went cold, rigid, as I said it.

  "You...did?"

  "Yeah, um, I thought it was you. We were"—I thought on my feet—"picking up a friend, um, from a party..."

  "A party...with Francis?" Only it came out: Frawnsiss.

  "Francis?"

  "Yes, that's my brother's name. Must've been one hell of a party..." OK, that tone had for sure been condescending. So maybe he didn't approve of his degenerate little brother's idea of gaiety and merrymaking (a.k.a. snorting up the candy-cane up his filthy little olfactory orifices.)

  "Um, yeah, it was. My friend was there. They, um..." OK, I might as well say it. Because this fucking bozo needed to know it! And now I knew why I had come here. Because my best friend had damn near been raped and I was fucking pissed! And I didn't give a fuck if Mr. Duchamp London Sports Jacket here looked more like a model for the same brand than a fucking "Software Consultant," I wanted payback. "Yeah, um, my friend was almost raped at that party. You know, the girl you spoke to on the phone yesterday?"

  Conall went pale. I continued. If I was gonna screw this up I might as well screw it up good. Besides, Kayla was now front and center in my mind. Her, and that phone-call, and that groaning with Brad. Only the image in my mind now was no longer Brad. It was that fat fuck. And Kayla isn't groaning. She was downright screaming.

  "Yeah, and one of the men you were chatting to was also there," I said through clenched teeth. Damn I felt so fuckin bad-ass now. Bring it on, bud.

  I saw Conall's fingers tense up on his cup. He put it down.

  I myself was ready to leave soon.

  "Are you sure?" he asked me.

  "Of course I'm sure! What, you think I'm lying?" I was shaking now. And I knew I was maybe going overboard. But I was riled up.

  Conall eased up. "No, Leora, not at all. But if you are sure, then I am going to call this colleague and cancel my potential half-a-million dollar deal with him, no questions asked. The contract is not signed yet. But I'd hate to throw that amount of money away for nothing. So, are you sure the man you was with me yesterday?"

  My center (no, not that frickin "center"! That's such a stupid word for it. I mean, the inside of me, my chest, my middle section—my "center") went cold.

  "Um, come again..."

  "What didn't you understand?"

  "Noth—nothing. No, um, well... Yes, yes I'm sure. I'm positive. It was the red-haired guy. Lots of freckles—"

  "Raymond."

  "Whatever. He was there. And, the reason I know it..." I felt a little embarrassed saying this, but I wanted to get back at these fuckers! "Well, I mean, I was looking over at you guys all night because, well..." I trailed off. "Do you need any clearer explanation?" (I had been looking at them all night as I'd sipped my drink, especially Conall...)

  "No, I'm sorry. I understand." Conall's face had become chiseled and severe. He sighed heavily. "Well, there's no question. I won't do business with someone who condones that sort of thing. I'm repulsed. Leora, please, I just need to step outside and make a call. I need to deal with this now. Help yourself to anything else. I'll only be a few minutes." He left some cash on the table, stepped outside.

  The wind had picked up and his hair flew in sync with his hands (which were now moving about furiously as he spoke into his phone!) He ran his hand through his hair. Put the call down. Then he placed another call. Whatever it was, it was serious.... He shook his head. I didn't make out much of it, but could read from his lips at one stage: No, Raymond. I'm sorry. No. Goodbye. Then he turned and I couldn't see anymore.

  He walked back inside and heaved in a deep breath. He looked, in a way, relieved....

  He sat back down, looked absently away for a little bit, then said, "It's done. Leora, I can't thank you enough for letting me know this. Is your friend OK?"

  I was still a little stunned. (I was also getting more than a little fucking turned on...) But I held my composure together. I didn't want to "faze out" anymore with this guy. "Um, yeah, she's good. We got there in time."

  "Well, I'm very sorry. My brother Francis is... Well, I should have know. Anyway. So, is this Kayla a friend from work, or an old school friend?"

  Er, what?

  Oh, shit. It hit me, like a frickin Boeing 747 on the runway with me underneath it: Friend from "work"? An "old school friend"?

  This guy thinks I'm in my twenties!

  I did what any girl in my position would do. I lied.

  -2-

  "Um, yes, she's an old friend...from work. I mean, she's a friend from work. But we were also friends at school. Yeah, um, years back, yeah." Stop. Talking!

  Conall picked up on my nervousness. "And what line of work would that be?"

  Line of work. Line of work. Think. Think. Think! "Secretary. Yeah, secretary for"—thinking on my feet, nothing to do with financial software, or banks, or New York—"Bloomingdales. I mean, an executive in Bloomingdales."

  "Oh, that must be fun. I thought someone who dresses like you must know about fashion." Did he just rake me up and down with his eyes? And you gotta believe it, it felt like it was his hand on my naked skin!

  "Yeah, I've been there, um, a few years now. Lots of fashion stuff to do. It's not only 'secretarying' but a bunch of other stuff."

  Secretarying? Oh, God. I was so screwing this up.

  "Well, I'm sure it's fascinating."

  Change the subject change the subject change the subject! "And you? You're into that finan
cial software and stuff, right?"

  "Um, yes, I finished up my degree at Oxford, then worked for a big software company for a few years. A friend of mine had been in the business quite long and asked me to consult on a few deals. Well, within six months I was raking in the big money and he kept me on as part of the team. I get a commission for each deal."

  I didn't even ask him how much he'd lost personally as part of this sale... Besides, I was too busy counting up the numbers in my head. Oxford Degree, so that's, what, four years? Then a "few years" at this software company. Let's be generous: three years. No, two. Then six months closing deals. And how long ago had that been? So let's just say another year, at best! So three plus three—no, it was four... No, start again: Oxford, four—

  "Leora?" He chuckled. "You looked like you were doing calculus in your head or something."

  Shit, don't tell me I was moving my lips while I was working that out! (I do that, you know.)

  "Um, should we get out of here?" he asked.

  Oh yes please.

  -2-

  I texted Leroy to move along now and get outta there. I had my own ride.

  We took a cab to, ahem, the frickin Marriot!

  "Oh, you didn't get the Presidential Suite?" I asked as a slur after he let me into the "more modest" Executive Suite. I'd stayed in a few suites myself, of course. But somehow, being here, with an older man... Well, it felt different. It's different when mommy's paying for your suite. It's a whole new world when Mr. Sexy Rich Guy is escorting you into one. (Was he rich?)

  The whole place smelt of "new." A bottle of unopened wine sat on the main table, two glasses next to it. Damn. He was a frickin player!

  "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the settee. Red, of course. They wouldn't put a frigid little blue thing in the Executive Suite, now would they?

  I was so out of my league here. And I knew it. (I also knew that my skin had cooled from the damp sweat which had broken out all over my body. But that wasn't because of nervousness or the temperature...)

  "I'm just going to freshen up," he said.

  Shouldn't that have been my line?

  I did the only thing I could do. I texted Kayla!

  Leora: Help! Dude is like FUCKING hot but about THIRTY!

  Kayla: Nice! Have fun!

  Leora: No, u don't understand! I'm freaked! I'm at his place! I think he wants to...

  Kayla: Finally!

  That wasn't helping much. OK, breathe. Take it easy. Sit back...

  His bathroom door opened. Freshen up indeed... His hair was wet and ruffled. "Wine?" he asked.

  Wine. One glass equals one-hundred-twenty-three calories. Not to mention that I could get this guy arrested for offering me alcohol. Of course, he doesn't know that, because he thinks I'm twenty-three or whatever. "Sure, I'll have a glass," I said nervously.

  He popped the cork open and poured me a glass, sat next to me on the settee.

  "You seem very nervous. Everything OK?"

  "Of course... I just haven't— Never mind."

  "No, please, go ahead." He was turned to me now in that classic "arm on top of the couch while holding the glass" pose, boring into me with his Tanzanite eyes.

  "It's nothing," I whispered, then sucked down my wine like some white trash bimbo downs a beer. Romantic. However, he clearly wasn't trying to get me drunk, because he didn't offer me another. I, however, did help myself.

  "Um, this is not a line, but tell me how you stay in such good shape. Do you compete?"

  "Um, compete in what?"

  "Well, you're very athletic clearly. I wondered if you competed in any physique or fitness competitions."

  "What, like 'bodybuilding'?" I said, unimpressed. Prick. I wasn't "buff."

  "No!" he chuckled. "Of course not! But there are other leagues... Anyway, from your answer, it's clear you don't compete, so never mind."

  "What kinds of leagues?"

  "Well, bodybuilding is well, for the 'buff' types. The physique and fitness contests are more for 'shapely' figures."

  Shapely? Oh, that sounded nice...

  How did he know this stuff? I looked at his dress shirt and tried to see through it like frickin superman. Didn't work. I did see the hollow above his chest, and the tops of his pecs. Not huge, not Brad huge, but definitely firm. Very shapely, like a Calvin Klein model. I was staring at that hollow so much, taking in the few black hairs underneath it and the soft glisten of man-sweat on him, that I completely missed him coming closer to me. Until his lips landed on mine.

  -3-

  His tongue wet my bottom lip gently while his hand rubbed my thigh up and down. I eased back into the couch, letting him get on top of me. I was so mellow, so relaxed, so full of aching pressure down below that I pulled his shirt and ripped two buttons off of it.

  He eased in between my legs, moved his hand under my tee and scraped my back gently with his fingertips. Gooseflesh broke out all over my body and all my muscles tensed. He grabbed the latch of my bra but didn't open it, just tugged at it.

  He slid his tongue over mine and we wrestled back and forth with them. I could feel him breathing his spearmint breath into me. I pushed at his chest. God that was hard and firm... I clutched his butt, pulled it against me; let him rub against me to fill that itch, that ache, that sudden need. I heard my breathing quicken even more. His tongue moved to below my ear, my neck, my shoulder—

  "No! Stop!" I pushed him off me. It was like moving a mountain, not because he wouldn't move, but because every pore, every fiber eerie cell in my body was pulling him into me, deep, deep, all the way! And yet, I couldn't do it. I couldn't.

  I was seventeen fucking years old! And this guy deserved to know it. I know it's legal in New York. But maybe this dude was grossed out by it. And yet, if I told him, maybe he'd lose interest...

  My crotch was fucking throbbing! I was breathing so quickly that I felt like I'd just benched a hundred. I sat forward, tightened my legs, crossed them, took a deep breath.

  "Leora, I'm so sorry, I thought that, by you coming here... And, to be honest, I got a little carried away. I don't normally do this, actually..."

  "Um..." I breathed out, fanned my shirt. "Conall, um... Look, I take it you don't live in New York, do you?"

  "No, but—"

  "When are you going back?"

  "A day or two."

  "For how long?" I kept fanning my shirt. It wasn't helping.

  "Well, I rarely travel here. We had this one deal—"

  "I'll be in London at the end of the year. For, um, work... Let's meet then. I have your card. I saw your website. I'll find you." I got up, walked out.

  Before leaving the hotel I went to the bathroom in the lobby. This could not wait.

  When I was done, sitting on the toilet there and feeling dirty as a skank (I mean, a public toilet!), I emailed my girl.

  Leora: I need your help. Big time!

  -4-

  "You pushed him away?" Kayla's eyes looked like she'd smelled a skunk.

  "I couldn't let him—"

  "Aw, c'mon, Leora. The guy sounds cool."

  "The guy is a player!"

  "Same thing. But, look, don't interrupt me. He sounds like a cool player, a clean player. You know, none of that herpes and shit. I mean, that shit stinks!"

  "Thanks for the picture."

  "Keep it mind. It don't all run like they say in books. I mean that stuff is nasty! You know half your book boyfriends probably have that shit!"

  "Kayla? Can we stay on topic?"

  "Yeah, look, he sounds hot! And decent. You say he canceled a half-a-mil deal? For me? Hell, I'll do him. What's his number?"

  "No, Kayls...."

  Kayla sat back on my pink beanbag. "Whatever. So what help do you need?"

  "I need to go to Europe with you! I'll be eighteen by then..."

  "Wow, one whole year. No, you'll be eighteen in a month. So one whole month older! Shew!" She wiped her forehead mockingly.

  "Older is older. I don't want to risk it
."

  "Girl, you live in a fuckin dream world, do you know that?"

  "Kayla, I like him."

  "Shit, sweetie, you need to get laid! You'll like anything with legs and a tight ass for crissakes. I mean, you're even going nuts for that loser from Bushwick."

  "Who?"

  "Brad! The one you..." She waggled her finger at me and the bed.

  "Stop it!" I threw my pillow at her.

  "Look, Leo, I know you've got this whole romantic notion about 'saving yourself' and 'the one' and all that bull—because trust me, sister—it's bullllllll-shit! So long as two people are semi-compatible (and not riddled with disease) why, let them screw, you know? If it's good it's good. If not, move on! No harm done."

  And when you're fat, you're fat. And no one will want you. So why risk it without love? But I said nothing.

  "Damn it, Europeans don't give a hoot about age. Legal age is sixteen in Britain. Hell, you could even get your rich mom to get one of her boyfriends to fly you over for a weekend and shag him there for all I care. If it makes you feel better. There you'd be two years over legal age."

  "How do you know this stuff?"

  "How do you know the caloric content of every food they sell in the supermarket?"

  "Touché."

  "England: Sixteen (Except Northern Ireland which is seventeen, Like New York.) Croatia: fourteen. Disgusting, but whatever. France: fifteen. Need I go on?"

  "No, please, you're grossing me out."

  "So, anyway, if you're scared of 'hurting him'"—she really did make the air quotes—"then, by all means, go do him in his country estate. Fucker probably even plays polo..."

  "God! Why am I friends with you!?"

  "Because I can rattle off the Age of Consent for every country in Europe?"

  "Urgh!" I stormed off to splash my face.

  "...called Brad..." I heard being said from my room.

  "What?"

  She opened the door, stuck her head inside. "I said, I called Brad."

  "Oh, you did..." I swallowed a dry lump. "An—and?

  "I told him you like him."

  "What?"

  "Nah, fuck that. I told him I wanted to see him again. So he picked me up. We had it on, in his bedroom, several times."

  My mind drifted.

  "Are you listening?"

  "Yeah, yeah, wow. You don't stop, do you?"