“You’re not?” he finally asks.
And I have to smile again, because yes, there was some disappointment in his voice. Totally unnecessary, though. He’s blind if he hasn’t caught onto how attracted I am to him.
“Not gay,” I say again. “I’m bisexual.”
“Oh.” And then, after a moment, “So, you do like guys?”
He looks at me, and the mixture of conflict and attraction in his eyes is as clear as day. That, plus just a tinge of hopefulness.
I feel like cheering—finally, it got through to him! I almost laugh, out of kindness of course, but I manage to bite it back. It would destroy him right now, and I need to remember that this is all very new for him. Whatever I do, I need to make it very clear where he stands with me.
He matters too much to mess it up.
I look back at him, meeting his conflicted gaze directly. Slow and easy, baby steps.
“Yes, Jack, I like women, and I like men. A lot.”
The shadow of relief washes over his face for just a moment, but before I can celebrate it, like a soap bubble popping, it’s gone. He clamps down hard, just as the food arrives.
“Actually, I’ve gotta get back to the office,” he says to the waiter, avoiding my eyes again. “Would you mind boxing that up for me? Appreciate it much.”
“Sir?” the waiter says, looking at me.
“No, I’m going to stay, thank you,” I say without looking away from Jack. The waiter leaves quickly, and I continue. “Jack, stay. We can have a nice lunch. I’m sure the office won’t miss you for another twenty minutes.”
“Sorry, Dylan,” he says, pushing out of his seat and standing up. “It’s kinda crazy back there right now, and I need to get it all sorted out.”
I don’t bother getting out of my seat, and it takes a lot not to sigh. I felt like we were starting to make progress. But that’s okay, I remind myself. It took me time, too. I need to make sure he knows that I’m committed, solid, a rock. I need him to know that I’m here when he’s ready.
“If you change your mind, I’ll be here finishing my lunch. Otherwise, we still need to talk about the townhouse and what we want to do about it.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t care,” he says harshly.
Oh, Jack. Self-defense, I get it… but you don’t have to defend yourself from me or Cate. You can have it all. But I can’t say that yet, not when he’s like this. Running scared from who he wants to be and who he mistakenly thinks he should be.
“I don’t need the place,” he’s saying, brusque and distant but not fooling me for a minute. “I just wanna get my share and move on with my life. If you two need to stay, fine, no skin off my back, just buy me out and we can close this down altogether.”
I can tell that he’s having to wrestle with every single word. I recognize the cold exterior that he puts on like armor, the repression taking hold again. I feel frustrated, disappointed, but more than anything, I just feel so damn bad for him. Hell of a way to feel like you have to live, especially when there’s really no need.
“We have so many memories in that house, Jack,” I remind him. “All of us. You and me. If those walls could talk, they’d be telling a hell of a happy story.”
I smile up at him, trying to draw him back into happier territory.
Doesn’t work.
“If you want the damn house so bad,” he snaps, “why don’t you get your new rich girlfriend to buy it for you?”
And that’s it. That’s all I can take right now. After having spent a week with Cate, learning about everything that led her to run away from New York, I just can’t let this slide. I like to think I’m an easygoing guy, but even I have limits. All the patience in the world when it comes to getting what I want, but if he still can’t see past his own messed-up ideas about Cate?
I get up slowly from my seat, taking a moment to hit my full height before leaning over the table with my hands pressed flat against it. He pushed too far, and now I can’t help but get in his face and push back a little.
“You’re wrong about her, Jack,” I say, and my voice comes out rough and harsh. “She’s not any of that. She’s never been any of that, and she’s not going to turn into that just because, way the fuck back when, you decided you knew her without ever getting to know her.”
People are looking at us now, and I can feel Jack starting to radiate embarrassment, but I don’t care. I’ve coddled him a lot today, done my best to make him see the good right in front of him, but he needs to hear this right now. I tried the kid gloves, but now it’s time for some old-school tough love.
“You remember her mother? Remember how we used to joke about putting coal in her ass, ’cause she’d turn it into a diamond overnight? Cate left all that behind, Jack. It’s gone. Cut off. Nothing. Everything she has, everything she ever had, all came from Sully. Sully, and her own hard work, and nothing else.” Normally I wouldn’t point, but I’m pissed—I level a finger at his chest and hold his gaze. “Just. Like. You.”
Jack does his best to put on a fake lawyer smile, clearly burning with embarrassment from the not-so-subtle stares from the diners around us.
“You two just… figure it out between you. Let me know what you decide,” he says, and his voice is strained with false professionalism. “I’ve gotta get back.”
He reaches down, picks up his glass, and drains the gin and tonic.
His hand is shaking.
The sight douses my anger. God. Jack matters, too. If only he’d just let me in. Either of us. Both of us.
“Okay,” I say, my suddenly calm tone of voice clearly startling him. “We’ll do that. And then, we’ll… invite you over for dinner.”
Jack slams the glass down onto the table with a hard smack, and a few diners gasp lightly in the background. His eyes flare up, and there’s an edge to them, something else mixed in with the anger he’s trying so hard to hold onto like a shield. And that something else? It looks a heck of a lot like that old current of excitement, the mix of rage and hunger I saw on his face when I caught him and Cate on the stairs. It’s hot as hell.
“Why?” Jack spits at me, clearly at war with himself. “You want to get off on watching us again?”
I grin, and I can tell that just pushes his buttons even more.
“I was talking about having you over to talk about the house, Jack,” I say, arching an eyebrow as I hold his gaze. “But if watching is on the menu again…” I push in my chair and walk around the table, slowly enough that he could leave if he wanted.
He doesn’t, and we end up face to face, close enough that those hot, hard little breaths I was wondering about tremble over my skin.
Oh God, I want this man.
“I can’t speak for Cate,” I tell him, letting him see everything I’ve got. “But I’d love to do that again. Or, like I said before, to be a part of it next time. An active part.”
We stare at each other for a long, tense moment, a moment where I’m almost positive he’s about to reach out and grab me by the shirt and yank me in for a blistering kiss.
God, yes.
Please.
I can see him struggling, trying to fight past his own fear, his own limitations, a lifetime of being told what he feels is fucked-up and wrong. And he comes so close, so heartbreakingly close that I’m almost reaching out, leaning into a kiss I’m sure is coming. My heart lifts, and I think finally, finally.
I’ve been hoping for this for years.
But he’s not brave enough. Not yet. I see the moment it all floods back in, a tidal wave of conditioned bullshit and self-doubt, and I’ve got a front-row seat to watch as the panic blazes back into his eyes. Jack whips around, grabbing his suit coat and sprinting out of the restaurant.
He doesn’t even wait for his boxed food.
Not that I thought he would, but… damn. The disappointment almost crushes me.
13
Cate
“Cate! Hello, darling!” the voice hollers pleasantly over the other end of the l
ine. I take a quick glance at my phone clock. Saturday at seven o’clock in the morning? Who the hell is so chipper at this time of day? The number was unlisted.
“Good morning,” I say back. “I’m so sorry, but may I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Margaret, dear, you remember.”
I most sincerely don’t, but I’ve spent the entire week putting out feelers for anyone in the area who might be interested in personal training, so I suppose this could be anyone. I did, after all, ask everyone to tell their friends about me.
“Of course, Margaret,” I lie, slipping into my pleasantly professional tone. “It feels like it’s been ages. When’s the last time we spoke?”
“Oh, my,” Margaret responds. High-class, society woman, older. I rack my brains.
“I know, dear,” I respond, matching the tone and timbre of her voice. The wealthy are suckers for kinship, fake or otherwise. “The days move so quickly now, don’t they?”
“You’re so right, you’re so right,” Margaret responds. There’s a beat of silence, and I think maybe I’m going to be found out. “Oh,” she exclaims, and I exhale in relief. “I think it may have been the MacMillan charity event last year, you remember.”
Oh. That Margaret. Now I remember. Margaret St. John, the Manhattan socialite. She’s the rail-thin, overly cloying woman who is just chock-full of nitpicky opinions about how she finds the modern design movement to be utterly gauche. The last time I saw her, she was six champagnes deep and comparing the charity event’s design work to a common beach brothel. Where the hell had she seen a beach brothel before? What does that even mean?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, thankful this isn’t a video call. It’s absolutely too early for this.
“Right. Of course,” I say, doing my best to not sound as grumpy as I am. “It was Designs on the Dock if I’m not mistaken. I’m so sorry that you had such a negative experience.”
“Oh, darling, don’t dwell on it,” she responds with thick, chipper venom. “There’s a learning curve for everyone, is there not?”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say through gritted teeth. “I view all criticism as stepping stones on the path of perfection. Is there anything I can do to help you this morning, Ms. St. John?
“Yes, actually,” she started. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I summer in Cape Cod these days. I understand you’ve recently made a grand return to Boston, is that right?”
“That’s right,” I respond. “About two weeks ago now, I think? The days have gone by so fast, it’s hard to tell.”
“Well, that’s just positively lovely. I always say that a young woman should travel while they still have their looks, and those years do start to dwindle fast, don’t they?”
Fuck you, I scream inside my head. Fuck you and the whole army of horses you rode in on.
“They certainly do,” I reply, biting back that other voice. “Forgive me for cutting to the chase, but I assume someone let you know that I’m now offering personalized fitness sessions?”
“Yes, they did.”
Finally. A bite. I force a smile, hoping it will improve my attitude about the prospect. Truth is, I need this. After shopping for necessities, my savings have started to dwindle a lot faster than I anticipated they would. Not that last week’s dinner table fling wasn’t ten different types of lovely, but I do not plan on getting caught without panties again.
“That’s wonderful,” I say, and my forced smile must have worked, because even I can hear that my voice sounds a bit more cheerful.
Of course, that could also be due to memories of dinner with Jack and Dylan.
I yank my thoughts back to Margaret. This isn’t the time to get distracted, and she’s the sort of person who thinks milk at the grocery store costs fifty dollars. I can probably get away with a very generous rate for my troubles, and the thought cheers me up even more. Maybe this move to Boston really will work out.
“If you’d like to discuss the types of services I offer, I can give you a free consultation,” I tell Margaret, and now the pleasure in my voice is genuine. Things are looking up all around. “There are many options that I specialize in.”
“Oh, darling,” Margaret says, cutting me off. “No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I may have gotten your hopes up. Unfortunately, I will not be availing myself of your services this summer.”
And just as fast as my mood had risen, it now free falls right into the toilet. What the hell is she calling for? And at 7am?
“You… won’t be using my services?”
“No,” she says flatly. “I had considered it, of course, but imagine my luck when I was presented with a more sensible alternative, someone who is the picture of fitness. I was calling merely to express my sympathy about your late grandfather, and to encourage you to keep at your new little business. It’s always so difficult to transition between two completely different fields, isn’t it?”
I’m honestly surprised that I can even form words right now. I’m seeing blood-red. What a bitch.
“Yes, it certainly is,” I grit out, politeness too ingrained for me to say what I really think. “Well, if that’s all, I’m afraid I have an appointment to get to.”
Okay, maybe that last line slipped over the edge into rude, but I have no regrets. As bad as this conversation is making me feel, it doesn’t even feel like a lie: I’d say I’m totally justified in making myself an appointment to bury myself back under the covers and never come out.
Either that, or setting one up with a hitman who specializes in wealthy socialites.
“Of course, I don’t want to keep you,” Margaret replies, saccharine sweet. “Perhaps I can provide a recommendation. A sort of train-the-trainer arrangement? I hear that the professional I’ll be working with is amazing at getting all of those hard-to-reach spots.”
That settles it. Hitman it is.
I pinch the bridge of my nose again, willing myself not to get a stress headache, and I’m suddenly very thankful that I have the house to myself for most of the day. Dylan took an overnight event job with a catering company up in New Hampshire, and said he won’t be back until much later today.
“I’ll keep it in mind, Ms. St. John. Goodbye,” I manage.
“Yes, we’ll be in tou—”
I hang up. I can’t help it. I’ve been awake for not even ten minutes, and I’ve already hit my limit for the day. I swing my legs out of bed and take a moment to enjoy the cool hardwood on my soles, then I walk over to the dresser and remove my oldest set of underwear: a white bralette and a pair of faded yellow boyshorts.
No wires, no lace, all comfort.
Since I get the whole day alone, I’m going to enjoy it.
I head toward the bedroom door, then stop. So far, every time Jack has shown up unannounced, he’s caught me in my underwear. My body reacts to the thought immediately, but that’s silly. There’s no reason to think he’d show up today. Dylan told me about Jack pushing him away when they’d gone out to lunch, and neither one of us has heard from him since.
It’s been more than a week.
I’ve tried not to be hurt by that—not only had the sex been amazing, but I’d really felt connected to him. And… yeah. I’d had to fight my own sense of having gone too far after it was all over, but honestly, it hadn’t taken me long to shut down those voices. Maybe some might have called it kinky, and I know for sure some would call it wrong. All I know is it was the hottest sex I’d ever had, an orgasm that had nearly wrecked me, and that—with Dylan there, and even Jack, for all our history—I’d never felt more okay with anything in my life.
Obviously we’d have to hear from Jack at some point. Grandpa Sully had made sure of that when he’d tied us all together with this townhouse, but when that would happen? With Jack, I had no idea.
Still, for today, I turn back to my room and grab my comfortable plush white robe. I’m not in the mood for more surprises. Margaret St. John was more than enough of one for today, thank you very much.
; I walk downstairs and fill the coffeepot, pouring the water into the reservoir and setting it down on the warmer. I flip the switch and spend the entire time it brews marveling at the nerve of Margaret to call me up like that.
Was this a morning ritual for her? Bump a little cocaine, flip through the Rolodex, pick out the poorest people she knows, then ridicule them in order to get through her day?
I scowl, staring blindly at the coffeepot. I hope she chokes on her overpriced cereal.
I get a little lost in my revenge-fantasy reverie, so it takes me a little too long to notice that I forgot to put coffee grounds in the filter.
“Shit,” I mutter aloud, staring at the half-full pot of water. It looks like seawater, light brown and unappealing. I shake my head and flip off the switch, then grab the coffeepot and turn for the sink. So much for salvaging the morning.
I grab the coffeepot to try again, but I spin too fast, splashing incredibly hot water all over my robe.
“No, goddammit,” I wail, reflexively dropping the coffeepot.
It falls into the sink, shattering, but I barely have time to notice that as I tear my robe off and brush frantically at my chest. Just red, thankfully, versus the harsher burns it felt like I’d just given myself. Still hurts like a bitch, though. I can feel hot, angry tears starting to well up in my eyes, and I blink them back as hard as I can.
“Not today,” I say out loud to nobody. “I refuse to spend my day like this.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself as I pick up my robe and examine it. Perfect fluffy fabric everywhere except a big patch of damp, brown discoloration from the coffee water. I sigh and drop my head, then trudge off to the laundry room. I need to get a load going anyway, and this is as good a reason as any to avoid putting it off, I guess.
I can’t deny I’m starting to feel like I should have gone with the pull-the-covers-back-over-my-head option. I’m not usually a negative person, but while I don’t regret my spontaneous decision to uproot my life, I have to admit that it’s come with a lot of uncertainty. If I’m honest, it’s been eating me up inside, slowly but surely, and it’s also come with more of an emotional rollercoaster than I’d counted on.
Mine: MMF Bisexual Menage Romance Page 16