Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  “Does that get him to stop working?”

  “It probably wouldn't, would it?” I ask.

  Luke shakes his head. “Probably not.”

  I watch as he wraps his lips around the straw. His lips are gorgeous, not too thick or thin, and soft. They look soft at least. And they're probably sweet from this drink. A little sticky from the agave. A little salty from the rim. What would it feel like to have those lips on mine?

  Jesus, what's wrong with me? So, he's handsome and charming? I've kissed plenty of handsome and charming guys. None of them looked out for me the way Ryan does. None of them would have been worth betraying Ryan for.

  “Why do you need to see Ryan?”

  “How is that any of your business?”

  He swirls his red straw around his drink, knocking the ice into the sides. He looks away, as if he's thinking about something, then he looks back at me, his gaze strong and steady. My heart beats faster. He shouldn't be looking at me like that.

  “I'm going to guess,” he says. “You're pregnant.”

  “No. Thank God.”

  “You don't have to sugarcoat it.” He laughs. Did I sound that harsh?

  “I don't mean that I hate children.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Just that…”

  “You don't want kids or you don't want Ryan's kids?”

  “I never thought about it,” I say.

  “You must use something.”

  “Not that it's any of your business,” I say. “But I have an IUD.”

  “Good to know,” he says and he sinks his teeth into his lip. It's such a sexy gesture, the kind of thing he'd do in between moans.

  He shakes his head and licks the last bits of salt off his glass. His lips still look so perfect, so soft and sweet. Do they taste like his drink? They must. They must taste like some delightful mix of agave and lime and Luke.

  Jesus, what is wrong with me? I try to look him in the eyes. He's smirking. So he realizes I was staring at him.

  I clear my throat. What were we talking about?

  His eyes connect with mine, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. I try to take a deep breath, but I can only manage something fast and choppy.

  “Are you thinking about ending your hiatus?” he asks.

  “Maybe,” I say. Could that have been more obvious?

  “And you need Ryan's permission?” His big, brown eyes bear into me. It sounds so ugly like that.

  “Not exactly.”

  “But close?” Finally, he looks away, down at his drink. It's nothing but melted ice at this point. His lips must taste like agave and lime. His tongue must taste like agave and lime. Fuck. I can't think about his lips or his tongue, especially not when he's trying so hard to hide his disapproval.

  “It's complicated,” I say.

  “It's not,” he says. “Ryan always thinks he knows best. And he always needs to shine brighter than everyone else.” His eyes are different now. It's like he went into his head, deep in thought about something. Or someone.

  The waiter stops at our table again to drop off our food—grilled fish and sautéed vegetables, the perfect, healthy, nourishing, non-tempting, non-binge inducing meal—and asks if we want another round of drinks. “What do you think? Do you want another round?” Luke asks.

  I shouldn't. I am already flushed and nervous and way out of my league. But I nod, yes, I want another. I want this free and easy feeling. I want my inhibitions to stay dull so nothing will stop me from flirting or smiling or staring.

  The waiter leaves. Luke stretches his arms above his head, his white T-shirt sliding up his torso, revealing a sliver of skin above his jeans. His body is taut. Perfect abs. And those v-lines, those perfect v-lines, going from his hips to his… I try to pull my gaze away from his crotch, but I only manage to get as far as the soft, black hairs below his bellybutton.

  Fuck. I shouldn't think about anything below his bellybutton. I shouldn't picture him slipping off his shirt over his head, revealing the rest of his strong, lean body. I certainly shouldn't picture him unzipping his jeans and sliding them off his hips.

  He rouses my attention with a dramatic, “Ahem.” I finally pull my gaze back to his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say, my cheeks flushing.

  “You can look all you want. I work out for a reason.”

  “And what's that?”

  “To look great naked.”

  I will not picture him naked. I will not picture him naked. I will not picture him naked.

  I swear I won't.

  “So, what's your favorite movie?” I ask, in a lame attempt to occupy my thoughts long enough they won't create an image of Luke naked.

  “Is that really the best you can do?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let's just say I'm not convinced you're actually thinking about movies.”

  “I'm not…” I barely manage to get it out. I clear my throat. I take a bite of my dinner and wash it down with the last of my tequila. This has to be enough time to come up with some kind of articulate response. I can't let him think I want to see him naked. Even if I do.

  “To Kill a Mockingbird,” he says. “But I have a special soft spot for Law and Order.”

  “Really?”

  “It's the reason I became a lawyer. That and my father made it clear he'd never speak to me again if I didn't go to law school.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I guess it's Lawrence family drama night.”

  “Really? I thought it was interrogate Alyssa night.”

  He smiles. “Have you seen it?”

  “I'm an unemployed actor. What do you think I do all afternoon?”

  “Then you know it's brilliant. The cops figure out who did it. But the lawyers figure out why they did it.”

  “Why he did it,” I correct him.

  “Miss Summers,” he says. “This is a friendly dinner. But if you're going to correct my grammar, I don't know if I'll be able to keep things platonic.”

  Is he kidding or is he really going to… Jesus. I shouldn’t even entertain the thought of Luke making the next move. Kissing me. Or touching me. Or pushing me against the wall and sliding his hand between my legs.

  Fuck. I need to get ahold of myself.

  “Your turn,” he says. “What's your favorite movie?”

  “You're going to make fun of me.”

  “I'm going to make fun of you no matter what.”

  “It used to be Casablanca, but…”

  “You realized it's bullshit?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “What's so great about putting duty before love?”

  “Better to let the Germans win World War Two?”

  “Say you're Victor Laszlo. Do you really want your wife to stay with you because the other man convinces her it's the right thing to do?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Exactly. You want her to stay with you because she loves you more. Because she wants you more. What good is it being with someone if you're the second choice?”

  “So you think they'd be better off if she stayed with Rick?”

  “No,” he says. “Rick doesn't respect her. He patronizes her like she's some child who doesn't understand morality.”

  “Or maybe he helps her see the light.”

  “No. He decides she should do the 'right thing.' That isn't love.”

  “What's love?”

  “Victor Laszlo letting her choose if she wants to be with him or with Rick.”

  “So, in the end, isn't she better off with Victor? If he respects her and loves her and Rick doesn't?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But that isn't the message, is it? The message is a bunch of bullshit about putting duty ahead of love. But nothing is more important than love.”

  “That's awfully romantic.”

  “Is there something wrong with being romantic?”

  “It's not what I expect from a divorce lawyer.”

  We talk movies, and life, and other random getting to k
now you stuff all the way through dinner. He's from San Diego. He did his undergrad at UC Berkeley, mostly because his father hated the idea. He majored in philosophy. The law school major, he calls it. He's never been out of California for more than a few weeks, and he can't stand cold or humid weather. His favorite food is pasta, but he doesn't eat it often. Not good for his figure. His favorite drink is Earl Grey tea. His favorite place is anywhere by the water.

  And I tell him about myself. About why I love acting and why I love California and what I do during my long days at home. I want to tell him about my favorites, but I can't remember many things that make me happy.

  When Ryan calls at 7:00, I ignore it and send him a text that I went out for a drink. One drink. Another lie, but I don't need a lecture. I've been in recovery for eight months. I can have two or three or four drinks without getting compulsive. Without being tempted to throw them all up. Well, without actually giving in to my temptation to rid my body of the 300 something odd calories of tequila.

  I haven't purged since before I went into treatment. I deserve a little leeway.

  So, after we finish dinner and our second round, I order a third tequila. I know better, but it tastes good, and it feels good not having enough sense to immediately shut down every illicit thought that crosses my mind. Is it really so bad if I imagine what Luke's lips taste like or what his touch feels like or what he looks like naked? It's only my imagination, after all. It isn't hurting anyone.

  As if he knows exactly what I'm thinking, Luke leans in close, so close I can feel his breath. His hand grazes my wrist and my body tingles with anticipation. Jesus, I can't remember the last time I wanted someone so much.

  “I'm sure this is out of line,” he says, his eyes once again on my ring finger, “but I don't think you're in love with Ryan.”

  “That's none of your business.”

  “I know. And I shouldn't get involved, but I know what it's like to be on the other side of that relationship. Maybe you're both content with what you have, but you don't have to settle for content.”

  “I love Ryan,” I say.

  “I know he looks out for you. I know he protects you. But, if that's it, if you're not in love with him, you should end it now. Dragging it out will only hurt both of you. I've been through… I've seen enough divorces to know how ugly it is.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” I ask.

  “I'm sorry,” he says, reaching for my arm. “It's none of my business… but do you really want to marry him? Would you really be happy to be with him forever?” He tries to hide how much this hurts him, but his eyes betray him.

  “I will,” I say. “When I get used to the idea.”

  “How do you know?” he asks.

  “Because I have to.”

  I expect him to object or try to talk me out of my loyalty, but he nods like he understands.

  He pays the check and helps me to his car. It's a sleek black sedan, much more practical than Ryan's luxury car. His body hovers over mine as he buckles my seatbelt. Does he think I'm that drunk or does he want his body near mine?

  We are home before I know it, and Luke drops me off at the main entrance. I pray for him to lean over me again, his body over mine again, but he leaves it to me to unbuckle my seat belt.

  “I'm sorry if I was out of line before,” he says. “I hope I'll see you around.”

  I nod, yes, okay, and slip inside as quietly as possible. I ride up the elevator. I walk down the hall. I slip my key into the door as quietly as possible. Maybe I am lucky and Ryan isn't home yet. Maybe I'm lucky and he won't lecture me tomorrow.

  Fat chance.

  It's quiet inside. The lights are off. So he is still at work. I check the clock. It's only 11:00. He's stayed later plenty of times, but not usually when I've asked to talk to him. He must be annoyed I didn't answer his call.

  I retire to my room and undress, not bothering with pajamas. The moon is so brilliant tonight, a giant, silver ball in a black sky, the only light I need in the room.

  I slide my hand between my waist and close my eyes. I try so, so hard not to picture Luke naked. I try even harder not to imagine him peeling off my clothes, his hands roaming over my body, his soft, sweet lips pressing into mine.

  But I fail.

  Chapter 5

  Ryan takes a long sip of his black coffee. His hazel eyes flit from his laptop screen to me, watching me stir cinnamon into my oatmeal. It's 7:30. He's going to leave in 15 minutes. I can't put this conversation off any longer. But still, when I open my mouth, I ask, “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine. When did you get home from the bar?”

  “Around ten.”

  “You only had one drink in three hours?”

  “I didn't throw up and I don't have a hangover,” I say.

  “Sweetheart, why didn't you wait at home?” Ryan is so difficult. What should it matter if I spend my night at a bar or at home? Either way, he isn't entertaining me. He isn't taking care of me. He isn't giving me company.

  Ryan used to be sweeter. He was the first guy who cared about more than getting his hand up my shirt. He listened to me, really listened, and he cared about how I felt. When I was overwhelmed with school or worried about my mom or tired of jerks grabbing my ass in the hallway, I could cry on his shoulder. Sure, other guys were nice to me—they would walk me home or buy me lunch—but they always wanted something in return. Not Ryan. He only wanted to be my friend.

  “I want to go back to acting,” I say.

  “Sweetheart, you need more time to think it over,” he says.

  “I thought it over, and I want to go back.”

  “I can't watch you crash and burn again.” He checks his watch. “I have to go, but we'll talk tonight. I promise.”

  Maybe I'm better off listening to Ryan. I was so lonely out in Los Angeles until he moved here for law school. He had better options—Harvard, Columbia, Duke—but he picked USC to be close to me. So he could protect me. And he did. He really did. It was just like high school. He called me every day, just to check in, to make sure I wasn't getting myself into trouble. He made me dinner. He picked me up when I got too drunk and called him crying. Sure, he lectured me about my reckless behavior, and sometimes he gave me the cold shoulder for a week or two. But he was only trying to help.

  I spent long days on his couch reading pages for auditions while he studied. When we had time, we explored the nooks and crannies of the city. We saw everything there was to see in Los Angeles. Every museum. Every neighborhood. Every tourist trap.

  We never really decided to become boyfriend and girlfriend. It just kind of happened. We were both busy. We were both lonely. We both wanted more than friendship. I could have been with other guys—guys who made more money, guys who had more time for me, guys who were better in bed—but I picked Ryan. Yes, we fought a lot, and Ryan usually won, but I loved him, and I knew he'd protect me.

  But he didn't hold up his end of the bargain. He didn't notice my growing eating disorder, and, when he did get suspicious, he bought my lies about the stomach flu or a bad hangover. I got worse and worse, and I hid it better and better, until I got so bad I couldn't hide it anymore. Until I fell apart completely.

  But Ryan was there, once again, to rescue me and put me back together.

  ***

  I try to spend the morning reading, but I am utterly unable to concentrate. I will know if I got the role soon. Ryan is considering it. He might say yes. I might be able to do this. I might have something that resembles a future.

  I am full of anxious energy. Once upon a time, when I was in a state like this, I would have called one of my special friends to help me work off my energy. Or, later on, when I was only seeing Ryan, and he was unavailable for that kind of distraction, I would have downed two pints of ice cream and heaved them back into the toilet.

  But I am supposed to learn “healthy coping skills” or some bullshit like that. Fine. I change into a sports bra, shorts, and sneakers. Exercise falls under t
he “healthy coping skills” umbrella.

  I take the stairs to the ground floor, my fingers gliding over the railing in case I slip.

  It's a beautiful day—sunny and warm, with clear blue skies for miles—but the marina is quiet. I head for the concrete path that winds around the water.

  But then I see Luke, sitting in the grass, under the shade of a tree, a dog eared paperback in his hands. He licks his fingers and turns the page. He wears a white V-neck and blue gym shorts. He's flushed and sweaty, like he just finished a run. Or a particularly vigorous fuck.

  Get a grip, Alyssa, he didn't get worked up for you.

  I pull my hair behind my head and secure it with the elastic band I keep on my wrist. So much for working off all my energy.

  He looks up from his book, slowly scanning my body, his eyes wide with delight.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He points to his book. So, it was a stupid question. “I live in the building,” he says.

  “Since when?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “I haven't seen you around.”

  “I've been preoccupied.”

  “By what?” I ask. By who? Does he have a girlfriend? A wife? A fuck buddy?

  “Work, and… Well, I need to do something besides think about it.”

  “And you love the water,” I say.

  “You remember,” he smiles. “Running relaxes me. One of the few things that does.”

  It usually relaxes me, but it won't today. Not with Luke so close to me.

  He pushes himself off the ground, slips his book into his pocket, and asks, “Can I join you?”

  “You look like you've already exercised.”

  “I'm up for round two,” he says, his lips curling into a smile. His hand grazes my arm, and I feel that electricity again, surging from my fingertips to my toes, filling me with nervous energy. My mouth is dry. My stomach is butterflies. My heart pounds so loudly, I can barely hear anything else.

  Jesus, I am so fucked if I can't even handle him touching my arm.

  “I don't own the sidewalk,” I say.

  “If you don't want me to come, just say so.”

  I will not think about him coming. I will not think about him coming. I will not think about him coming.