by Penny Reid
Lucy Fitzpatrick was my drug of choice, and has quickly become a necessity. I had no desire to contemplate rehab.
***
“You smell good,” she said, gifting me a warm, lazy smile.
She was warm—or was I warm?—and we were laying together on the bed, liberally touching each other’s bodies.
“So do you,” I said, stroking her bottom before I squeezed it.
Her arse drove me crazy. How could I want to brutally bite it and reverently caress it all at once?
“But you smell like sandalwood. I just smell like my shampoo.” She leaned forward and sniffed me, her hand smoothing over my bicep, lingering there. “Even after sweaty sex, you still smell fantastic. It’s witchcraft.”
“Not witchcraft. Merely the power of sandalwood essential oil in cosmetic-grade jojoba.”
Lucy snorted. “Did you just say jojoba?”
“That’s right.”
She lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “You are a cosmetics snob, but I kind of love how you speak sometimes. You’re very…wordy.”
“I am a cosmetics snob. And I speak as I think. I was raised in South Dublin. I’m an everything snob and my vocabulary is a result of the most expensive education money can buy,” I sighed, shrugging, sliding my hand up to her breast. Christ, I loved her body.
“Why are you such a snob?”
“I was raised to be a snob.”
“Were you?”
“Yes. I was allowed to do anything I wanted, so long as I was a snob.”
Lucy studied me, her mouth tugging to the side with a sad smile. “What about being a good person?”
“Frowned upon.”
“That sounds bloody awful.”
I chuckled. “It was. It was awful.”
“Why are you laughing then?”
“Because that’s how snobs deal with uncomfortable subjects. We belittle their importance, laugh at them, and change the subject to weather or sport.”
Lucy murmured, “You make me glad I don’t know my grandparents.”
I thought for a moment, then realized who she meant. “The Fitzpatricks?”
My attention caught on a thick bundle of Lucy’s magnificently colored hair lying across her neck. I shuddered to think how different she might be had she been embraced by that cold family. She might have grown up like me.
They would have ruined you.
The idea of a cold, haughty snobbish Lucy Fitzpatrick was as unnatural to me as it was abhorrent.
“What?” she asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“What?”
Lucy was giving me a hesitant grin. “You said something like, ‘They would have ruined you.’”
“Oh.” I blinked at her. “Did I say that out loud?”
Her grin blossomed into a gigantic smile. “You’re too cute sometimes. I mean, seriously too cute.”
“I’m not cute. I’m aloof and manly.” I lifted a disdainful eyebrow at the idea of me as cute. Ridiculous.
“You are cute. You can’t change what you are,” she teased, her voice adopting a melodic sing-song quality as she touched my nose with her index finger, her attention snagging on my mouth.
I caught her hand, held it on the bed between us. “You said earlier that I’m a snob.”
“But you’re not a snob with me.”
“That’s because I like you.”
Her eyes widened, refocusing on mine, and she gave me an impish smile. “You like me?”
“You know I do.” I rubbed my thumb over the back of her knuckles, enjoying the exquisite softness of her skin.
Lucy’s gaze sharpened, this time with obvious suspicion. “Is this you trying to flirt? Practicing your new skills?”
“No, lovely Lucy.” I kissed her palm, sighed against her wrist when I detected a delicious hint of her perfume. “This is me being honest.”
We watched each other, residual traces of our earlier smiles fading with each passing second. Her breathing had changed, and something about her eyes was different. They’d grown a darker shade of blue.
“What are you doing, Sean?” Her voice held an edge of anxiety. I didn’t like it.
I brought her hand to my chest, cradled it there as a hostage. I didn’t want her leaving, not yet. Maybe never.
I responded honestly, because with her, honesty was a compulsion. “I don’t know, Lucy.”
Two wrinkles of worry appeared between her eyebrows. I wanted to kiss them away. Instead I held her gaze because the moment was an important one.
“You’re mad,” she whispered. “You’ve known me for a week.”
“I’ve known you much longer than that.”
“Fine, a few weeks. It’s the sex.”
“It’s not the sex. You know it’s not.” My hand reflexively tightened on hers, pressing her palm over my heart.
She shook her head, rejecting my words. “It is. You said yourself. You’ve only been with women when you’re drunk. Sloppy and quick. I’m just the first girl you’ve taken your time with, sober, mindful of what you’re doing.”
“We’re not having sex now,” I said through clenched teeth. Her words stung despite—or perhaps because of—their veracity.
“No. But don’t mistake deeper feelings for a good time in the sack.”
“Lucy—”
“No.” She wrested her hand away, squaring her jaw with resolve. She rose to a sitting position on the bed and wrapped her arms around her legs, a physical manifestation of the wall between us. “I like you. I do. You’re witty and funny when you allow yourself to be. You’re fun to be with. You have depth even if you won’t admit it. But I’m not fooling myself here. You hate my brother and we both know the feeling is mutual. These things you think you’re feeling? They’ll pass. Give it a week, a month at maximum. You’ll forget my name.”
Anger and its partner frustration had me growling before she’d finished. “You underestimate yourself if you think you’re so forgettable.”
“You know what I mean.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m sure you’ll always think of me fondly—me and my blow jobs. But what are you giving up? Nothing, that’s what. And when you grow tired of the novelty, you’ll just move on. Meanwhile, I’d be giving up my brother, and that’s like asking me to give up my arms and legs. He’s the only one, the only one, who has ever been there for me. My whole life, he was the only person who cared about me. He loves me. And I love him. And I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”
She didn’t finish because her features crumpled with sorrow and tears strangled the words. My anger immediately deflated in the face of her distress and I reached for her, not allowing her to push me away.
Some instinctual need to calm her, ease her fears, take away her burdens had me holding her tightly and rubbing her back, had me promising to do whatever she needed, be whatever she needed.
“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Please, stop crying.” I didn’t know what I was saying; really, I would have said anything to put an end to her sorrow. It panicked me.
Lying against my side, I felt her chest rise and fall with several bracing inhales, as though she were doing breathing exercises to stem the tears.
“I’m not crying,” she said defiantly, her voice still watery.
“Oh?” I squeezed her, needing her to be happy. “I apologize for my hasty assumption. Clearly you’re not crying.”
Lucy huffed an unsteady laugh. “Clearly.” She sniffled.
We lay together for a time, surrounded on all sides by brooding silence and a fate-ish sort of finality.
I couldn’t stay in New York.
We’d been in each other’s orbit for a week, so why did it feel like the end of something vital? Why did my bones ache at the thought of not being able to speak with her, touch her, or see her? Why did I become absurdly furious whenever I thought of her with someone else?
This would be our last night together. It had to be. I didn’t want any additional lessons with a disinterested teacher.
I
wanted more.
I wanted a shot with Lucy.
I wanted to go for broke.
But she didn’t want that with me, not enough to make a mess of her life. I was too risky.
I couldn’t fault her logic, but I gave myself permission to hate it.
Chapter Fifteen
@LucyFitz A man wearing a red evening gown just came on the subway and started singing Sir Mix-A-Lot to the beat of two empty Coke cans #NYC #neveradullday
@Anniecat to @LucyFitz I kinda miss the crazy #feelinnostalgic
*Lucy*
I woke up alone and naked.
When I glanced around the room, I saw that Sean’s suitcase was gone. The door to the closet was open and only sunlight on empty hangers greeted me.
Sunlight on those empty hangers was maybe the saddest thing I’d ever seen. My heart sank. My limbs felt too heavy to move.
I didn’t cry. Not immediately, at any rate. Instead, I lay back in the bed and did breathing exercises, attempting to clear my mind. It didn’t work. So I reminded myself that I’d been the one to say no. I’d pushed him away. My reasons were valid. I was being intelligent and realistic.
And then I cried.
I curled up into a ball and cried like an infant until a knock sounded at the door. My heart leapt, because my heart wasn’t thinking clearly. I jumped from the bed, pulling the sheet around me as I raced to the door.
Yanking it open without looking through the peephole, my silly heart took a nosedive when I found a man in a suit standing outside the door. Behind him was a room service tray and another man, dressed in a waiter’s uniform.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick?” the man in the suit asked, showing no sign of being surprised by my appearance.
I gripped the sheet tighter to my chest. “Uh, yes?”
“I’m Davies, your concierge. And I have an item for you from your Mr. Cassidy. He’s also sent up a tray. May we bring it in?”
I blinked at this Davies chap for several seconds before his words arranged themselves in my brain. They didn’t make sense, not precisely, but I realized I was gaping at him like a mental patient.
“Oh, yes. Please bring in the tray.” I stood back from the door, allowing the waiter to push it into the room.
Davies didn’t cross the threshold. Instead, as the waiter set up the service, he handed me a note and several boxes, all embossed with the hotel insignia.
“He left specific instructions that the room be kept for you as long as you like—a day, a week, a month—so please know we are at your service.”
These words were also gibberish, so I accepted the packages and note, nodded politely, and searched for my bag so I could give these fellas a tip. “Ah, okay. Thanks.”
Davies held up his hands as the server rolled the cart out of the room. “That won’t be necessary. Mr. Cassidy already took care of everything.”
“Um—”
“We were also careful to ensure none of your food came in contact with strawberries, as Mr. Cassidy explained you are allergic.”
“Oh.” My heart fluttered. He remembered.
“Enjoy your breakfast.” Davies reached forward and shut the door as I stumbled to the side, clutching the boxes and note to my chest.
I frowned at the items, the room eerily bright and quiet.
What just happened?
Blinking my eyes, finding them dry and crusty, I brought the card and boxes into focus.
Juggling the items, I ripped into the card first, devouring his script.
My lovely Lucy,
Thank you. For everything.
You are magnificent.
Now you have two people in all the world who will always be there for you.
Yours,
Sean
I read it maybe ten times, traced the neat, efficient letters with my fingertip. Raw, unmanageable emotion brought new tears to my eyes.
He was such a dunderhead; such a wonderful, sweet, funny, impossible, thoughtful, sexy eejit. I sniffled and opened the largest package first. It was full of clothes. Beneath were several pairs of sexy bras and knickers.
Didn’t buy me clothes my arse.
I set the large package aside and opened the next box with shaking fingers, gasping when I saw the item inside.
It was a pendant with white and black crystals against a silver-toned metal. Included was a silver-colored chain. A yin and yang pendant.
It was perfect and it would always remind me of him, of us.
I drifted over to the food and lifted the metal cover, finding a vegan feast of almond yogurt, fresh granola and fruit, three kinds of nuts, sprouted grain bread, and blackberry preserves.
Usually I’d devour this type of spread.
But today I put the cover back in place and claimed a chair in living room, right next to the spot where we’d had sex the night before. I closed my eyes at the memory, gathering several bracing breaths.
We.
Us.
Sean and I.
I hated that our lives existed in two very different worlds.
And I hated that he had to leave. Hate was a strong emotion, one I often tried to avoid, but there it was in all its ugly glory. Sean Cassidy had made me feel things, intense things, and far too many of them for that matter.
I thought about dressing quickly and going to the airport, just to see him off, just to say goodbye in person. But I cared too much. If I started getting all weepy and teary-eyed at the departure gate, then he’d know the growing depth of my feelings for him.
That couldn’t happen. It would be a big, fat mixed message, which wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
There was no Sean and me. No us. There never had been. Not really.
Yet for a moment last night—not while we were going at it against the wall or on the rug, but while we were lying in bed, touching, speaking of ourselves, sharing each other—it had felt possible.
***
My mantra over the next few weeks was distance was good.
Although it seemed like a small part of me was being torn away, distance was what we needed. It was for the best. Distance would make my heart grow less fond—I hoped.
Had he forgotten about me already? Moved on? Realized I wasn’t worth the effort? Found a new . . . teacher?
The questions had me feeling positively morose and it was so unlike me to get worked up over a man.
It was a full two weeks after he’d left that I received the first text message, the first morsel of communication between us after an endless sea of uncertain silence. I was waiting in line with some friends at a food truck event in Central Park when my phone buzzed.
Sean: Is it strange that every time I see a gay pride flag I think of you?
I snorted a laugh at the question, giddy as a school girl that he’d decided to make contact, my insides all aflutter. I excused myself, stepped out of the line, and immediately responded. Obviously, the distance hadn’t worked. Plus, I’d been wearing the yin and yang pendant. I’d been wearing it every day, touched that he’d gone to the trouble of buying me such a thoughtful gift.
Lucy: Not at all. Every time I see two spherical objects side by side I think of you.
Sean: ???
Lucy: Begins with a B, ends with an utt.
Sean: How obsessed we are with one another’s rear ends…
Lucy: I like to think it’s a healthy level of interest ;-)
Several minutes passed before I received anything else. When I did I chuckled, rolling my eyes at his brazenness.
Sean: If you send me a picture of yours, I’ll send you a picture of mine.
Lucy: Wow, you don’t care about the cloud at all, do you?
Sean: Nope, not when there are dozens of photos of me already floating around the Internet.
I frowned, recalling the images I’d seen of him online, taken by women he’d had one-night stands with. They’d posted them like they were trophies, something to be proud of, when really they should have been ashamed of themselves.
Sea
n wasn’t just some hot piece of arse to be shagged and then bragged about. He was a person with feelings. And yes, I never thought I’d see the day that I defended Sean Cassidy and his feelings, but here we were. Those women were as bad as all the men who went around treating women like sex objects. My next text was fueled by this anger and therefore startlingly honest.
Lucy: I’m having some really violent feelings toward the women who did that to you right now.
Sean: Don’t be angry. I’m not.
Lucy: You should be. You’re worth more than that.
Lucy: Thank you for the pendant, btw. I love it.
Another full minute passed and then came his response.
Sean: I miss you.
I inhaled, the three simple words taking the wind out of my sails and causing a sharp pang of emotion to cut through my chest. I didn’t even hesitate to respond.
Lucy: I miss you, too.
He didn’t respond after several minutes, so I tucked my phone back in my pocket and rejoined the line and my friends. But when it came time to order, my stomach was a swirling mess. I couldn’t eat. I could barely draw a full breath.
***
After that we messaged almost every day, chatting about all manner of things, and I found myself looking forward to our interactions, a smile on my face every time my phone pinged with a new alert.
Sean: -unicorn vomiting rainbow emoticon- Another thing that reminds me of you.
Lucy: Not sure what to think of that.
Sean: I’m going to have it put on a T-shirt as a Valentine’s Day gift.
Lucy: How romantic.
Sean: Terribly so. How are you?
Sean: I still miss you.
I didn’t contradict him, but rather just accepted the affectionate way he often spoke when we texted. However, I was also becoming uneasy, because the nicer he was the bigger my feelings grew.
God, what was I doing?