“You're the last person I'd take relationship advice from,” Ryan says. Luke looks hurt, but he doesn't say anything. He just stabs his broccoli with his fork. What does it mean, that Ryan wouldn't take Luke's advice? Is Luke perpetually single? Did he get dumped? Did he scare off a woman by working too many hours for too long?
Ryan looks at me. “We're going to get into details. Why don't you grab your Kindle or watch TV?”
“It's okay,” I say. “I'm used to boring conversations.”
“I think that's a dig at you,” Luke says. I polish off my glass of tequila and Luke refills me, his hand brushing against mine again, for longer this time. His lips part into the tiniest of smiles. They look so soft. They look like they could do all sorts of things to me.
The boys talk shop, debating the figures on some piece of paper. Ryan wants to ask for more. Luke wants compromise. It's dreadfully boring, so dreadfully boring I wish I had grabbed my Kindle when I had the chance.
I finish my second glass. Luke refills me. He sits a little closer to me, a little further on the edge of his chair. His hand brushes against my thigh, just for a second, and my body floods with electricity. God, I want that hand on my body. But it was an accident. Just an accident. It's not like Luke would stroke my thigh in front of my fiancé.
Not when we haven't done as much as kiss.
I finish my third glass and Ryan cuts me off. But I don't care. I am light and free and everything is so, so funny. I laugh as I crash on the couch, my dress riding up my legs, exposing my underwear. As Ryan suggested, I turn on the TV and flip around the channels, unable to find anything interesting.
“Stop,” Luke says, moving next to me on the couch. “You just skipped past Law and Order.”
“We're not finished,” Ryan says.
“I'll rewrite the proposal tonight. We'll give his wife the vacation house. He won't even miss it,” Luke says. Instead of taking the remote, he holds his hand over mine, pressing my finger into the channel down button.
“Don't you have your own TV?” Ryan asks.
“I don't have cable in the apartment,” Luke says.
“I think he's asking you to leave,” I say. I giggle and press my arm into Luke's. We are so close, and his arm is so warm, and he doesn't even care that Ryan is watching us.
“Come here, Alyssa,” Ryan says. I pout, but I climb over Luke and scamper to Ryan. “Get some water. You're drunk.”
“Why can't I get drunk in my own apartment?” I ask.
“Your therapist was very clear,” he whispers.
“Shh! We aren't supposed to talk like this in front of company,” I say.
“Let the girl have a little fun,” Luke says. “What else does she have to do all day?”
“Ooh, he's not going to like that,” I say, but I do fetch my glass of water and drink the whole thing. Ryan is right. I am not supposed to drink more than two glasses. My therapist did lecture me about other compulsions—exercise, shopping, coffee, cigarettes, alcohol.
But that was so long ago. He doesn't have to lecture me every time I have three drinks.
I move back to the couch and accidentally fall onto Luke's lap. Accidentally. I feel his hands on my sides as he lifts me and places me on the cushion next to him. I want to be closer to him, but Ryan won't like it. He doesn't like anything. I slide to the other side of the couch and hug the arm rest.
“Why don't you go home and get started on that report?” Ryan suggests.
“The episode is almost over. Don't you want to see if ADA Jack McCoy nails the murderer?”
“He was only asking to be polite,” I say. “He wants you to leave.”
“I know,” Luke says.
“He'll get mad if you don't leave,” I say.
“It's your condo too, isn't it? Do you want me to leave?” Luke asks. I try not to giggle, but I'm sure I do, and I'm also sure I twirl my hair around my fingers. How can he so easily turn me into a nervous school girl?
“Ryan doesn't watch TV. He thinks it's boring and pointless.”
“Even your show?” Luke asks.
“He got too jealous,” I say. “All my character did was make out with… well, with everyone.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” Ryan says. “Let's go to bed.”
“It's early,” I say.
“Yes, but you're making a drunken fool of yourself.”
“I think she's a cute little drunk,” Luke says.
“I'm not drunk! I'm only tipsy. And I agree. You should find it cute,” I say to Ryan.
Ryan rolls his eyes. I know what this means. I push off the couch, again, and let Ryan escort me to my room. It is early, but I am drunk, and I am much safer in here, with the door closed, with it impossible for Luke to touch me again. Or for me to touch him.
I hear Ryan turn off the TV and walk Luke out. He sighs, a heavy sigh, and returns to my room. He looks through my dresser and pulls out a pair of pajamas.
“You need to be on your best behavior tomorrow,” Ryan says, but I hear what he really means: If you embarrass me, I won't let you take that role.
“Have I ever been on anything less than my best behavior at one of these dinners?”
“This is the second night this week you went to bed drunk.”
How does he know I rolled in drunk last night? He can't know I spent the night talking to Luke. But we were only talking. It's not like it was a secret. It's not like there's any reason to keep it from Ryan.
“Thanks Mom,” I say.
“Alyssa.”
Ugh. It's the end of an argument whenever he says “Alyssa”. He might as well say, you already know you're wrong, you know you're going to lose this argument, you should give up now, you should stop pushing it or I'll never, ever even consider allowing you to do anything other than sit in this stupid fucking apartment.
“How many drinks am I allowed to have?” I ask.
“Do you need to go back to therapy?” he asks.
“No, I'm fine.” And I hate going to those stupid appointments, some doctor staring at me with a bored look while I shrink into some stupid couch stained with the tears of the hundred patients who came before me.
“Don't you think it would be a good idea to talk to someone about whether or not you can handle going back to work?”
“I thought that was your decision,” I say.
“Alyssa.”
“I need to answer by Friday,” I say, and I pull the covers over my head.
“Go to bed,” Ryan says, “you'll feel better in the morning.”
He kisses me on the forehead, turns the lights off, and closes the door behind him.
I stare out the window, at the rolling ocean, the black sky, the bright stars. I try to sleep, but I am too anxious, too wound up. I remind myself that Ryan has my best interests at heart. He is only trying to help me. He is only trying to protect me.
I remind myself that I love Ryan, that we are engaged, and that I am not supposed to think about another man.
But, when Luke touched me, Jesus, I've never felt anything like that. And it was only his fingers brushing against my thigh. It was only his hands on my waist. It was only innocent.
Why did it have to be so innocent?
What if it wasn't only my waist, or my arm, or my thigh? What if his hands were under my clothes? What if his hands were on my chest, or on my ass, or between my thighs? What if his body was pressed up against mine? What if his lips were pressed against mine? What if his cock…
I slip my hand between my thighs and finish my thought.
Chapter 8
Two cups of coffee do nothing to ease my hangover. I should have listened to Ryan and limited myself to one drink. Mouthing off will only hurt my case. It will only convince him I'm too emotionally volatile to be ready for any responsibility. If I am not responsible enough to monitor my drinking, how will I handle the pressures of a starring role without slipping back into a frenzy of binging and purging?
I can hate Ryan's rules as much as I want.
He's right. I would have died without him. I never would have convinced myself to check into an inpatient treatment center. I never would have convinced myself to stick to a safe recovery diet. I never would have dragged myself to twice weekly therapy sessions.
I drink three glasses of water, but still, my head pounds. I lie on the couch, my eyes half open, flipping through the channels. Talk show. Friends rerun. Talk show. Cartoon funny to no one but 14 year old boys.
Law and Order.
Jesus, this show is everywhere.
It ran for 20 seasons. And it's not like Luke is the only person in the world who likes it. My mom likes it. She likes all these shows.
It's not like watching the detectives question busy witnesses should make me think of Luke. It should make me think of New York City. It should make me think of all the times I auditioned for guest spots on police procedurals—I was almost cast as the kidnapped daughter once. It should make me think of something besides Luke watching with me on the couch, his body pressed against mine, his eyes wide with interest.
Interest in the TV show, not interest in you.
But what if his interest was in me? What if those big, brown eyes were wide and bright because of me? What if his breath was fast because of me? What if his cock was…
Jesus, I'm going to tear my hair out if I stay in this apartment any longer.
I find my most over-sized pair of sunglasses and slip into my flip-flops. It's a nice day outside. And I'm not that hung over. I can handle the flood of light outside. I can handle a walk around the marina.
I slip my essentials into my purse—phone, keys, wallet, water bottle, Kindle. It's early. I don't have to be back in this room, in my sluttiest cocktail dress, for another five hours. The fresh air might help me think of a way to convince Ryan I can do this.
If Ryan says no, I'm going to have to figure out how to spend all the hours between when he leaves in the morning and when he gets home well after dinner. Practicing monologues and powering through books isn't going to cut it.
The elevator feels especially slow today. Its shiny silver doors feel especially oppressive. I avoid my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. I don't need the reminder I haven't slept.
A gentle breeze blows across my arms. It's late spring. Every day is like this—sunny, cloudless, warm but not hot. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I fell in love with the weather. Every sunny day was a love letter from the city to me, another sign I was right to get my GED and move the fuck out of Massachusetts. But, after eight months sitting in the condo, staring at the blue skies and sunshine from behind giant glass windows, the beautiful days seem more like a fuck you. Fuck you, Alyssa, you are stuck inside, trapped by your own pathetic inability to cope.
I am lucky. I have a beautiful home. I live in a beautiful place. I have a fiancé who takes care of me. I should be happy. I should make the most of it. I should, at the very least, enjoy a peaceful walk on a quiet day.
But I can't, because Luke is here, again, under that same tree, the same dog-eared paperback in his hands. Pockets of sunshine fall through the leaves, casting a soft glow over his face and body. He looks even more fuckable than he did yesterday. He's not sweaty or flushed today. Not yet.
So, he's all kinds of sexy. That doesn't mean I need to have sex with him. It doesn't mean I need to imagine having sex with him. I am a fully grown woman. I have some self-control.
“I was hoping I'd run into you,” he says. He was hoping he'd run into me. He was thinking about me. He was…
Get a grip, Alyssa. He's only being nice.
“Aren't you and Ryan supposed to be at work?”
“I'm sure he's at work. Probably at a meeting, getting a client just tipsy enough that he can still legally sign a contract.”
“Ryan doesn't drink,” I say.
“Of course not. He wouldn't want to accidentally have fun.” He offers me his water bottle. I wrap my lips around the mouth of the bottle, slide my tongue around the plastic. Oh, no. I'm getting ideas.
“How did you two ever decide to work together? I've never seen two business partners who respect each other less.”
“I can't speak for Ryan, but he is a great lawyer and a great business man. He doesn't think about anything but work, and he's more than happy to do all of the shitty running a business stuff I hate. And there was the matter of pissing off my father,” he says. “Dad always wanted me to join his firm.”
“Aren't you a little old to rebel against your parents?” I ask.
“I was only 25 at the time,” he says. He slides his book into his pocket and motions for me to help him up. I know he's perfectly capable without my help, but still, I offer my hands, relishing in the feeling of his hands on my wrists.
“How long have you been rebelling against him?” I ask.
“Since high school. Things weren't the same after my mom died.”
“I'm sorry. How did she…”
“Car accident. It was late. They were fighting, again. She was too emotional to drive, but…She wasn't the most cautious person. They had been miserable a while. They hated each other. She should have left him. But… I think she was afraid he'd try to get sole custody just to spite her.”
And everything Luke has said makes a little more sense. His mom was stuck in a miserable marriage, afraid she'd lose her son if she left. No wonder he's a divorce attorney. No wonder he wants to talk me out of marrying Ryan.
“So, what's your traumatic family story?” he asks. I shouldn't tell him. It's none of his business. But it seems like he really cares, and, for some reason, that's enough.
“Dad was never in the picture,” I say. “Just Mom and she was so overworked and stressed. I never wanted to burden her with my problems, so I never asked for help. I kept everything to myself. Ryan was the first person who I could really talk to…”
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I know what it’s like to try to be strong for someone else. It's never easy.”
I shake my head. We shouldn't be sharing these kinds of things like we're close friends. We shouldn't even be talking.
“Are you going to the dinner tonight?” I ask. Please let me change the subject.
“You shouldn't entertain Ryan's cheap tricks,” Luke says. “Honestly, I don't want any client who needs to be convinced by your body. Even if it is an amazing body.”
My heart beats faster. He thinks I have an amazing body. But that doesn't mean he wants it. That doesn't mean he wants me. Not necessarily.
“But I can go if you want my company,” he adds.
“I don't want you to think less of me,” I say.
“I'm sure you have your reasons for putting up with Ryan. It's not his personality or his looks. It's probably not his money. Maybe it's the sex. Maybe he's great in bed.”
“No, he's only okay.” Fuck. Did I just say that? There is no way I just told Luke that Ryan isn't good in bed. I might as well have asked Luke to fuck me right here, on the grass, in front of any random person who walks by.
I might as well have told him I'm lonely, desperate, and horny.
He laughs. “My lips are sealed.” He offers me his hand. “Now, do you want to take a walk?”
“Ryan wouldn't like that.”
“Miss Summers, it's only a walk. I meant what I said yesterday. I'm not going to spring some seduction attempt on you. I'll make my intentions very clear.”
“And if I say no?”
“Well, you are engaged. That's the answer I'd expect.”
It's only a walk. An innocent walk. A completely innocent stroll down the boardwalk.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clip-clop of my flip-flops. We cross a street, heading into a residential neighborhood. Where could we possibly be going?
“I know you and Ryan have been together for a while,” Luke breaks the silence.
“Do you?”
“About four years, right?”
“About that.”
“Four years is a long time to be with s
omeone you don't love,” Luke says.
“How is that your business?”
“It's not. But I wouldn't want to get in the way of true love, real love, the kind of romantic, passionate love that leaves you breathless and keeps you together for 80 years.”
“I'm not a romantic.”
“Then you've never been in love,” he says. He stops in front of a two-story house. It's modest, but nice. White with blue trim. He leads me through the front yard, a mass of grass, and reaches over a blue gate to unhook it. Is this his house? It seems much too domestic and feminine for a guy like Luke.
“If you really love him, and you really want to be with him forever, I don't want to fuck that up. But I know, better than anyone, that women can't be stolen. They can only decide to stray. Or decide to leave.”
“You talking about anyone in particular?” I ask.
“Come on, come in,” he says. “Don't worry. It's a friend's place. I'm house sitting.”
I nod, fine, and follow him into the backyard. It's suburban paradise. Rose bushes. Sleek patio furniture. Crystal blue pool.
Luke strips to his boxers. Jesus, his body is amazing. His arms and legs aren't big, but they're sculpted. His back and shoulders are strong. His chest and abs are perfectly chiseled, right down to those amazing v-lines I keep staring at. His boxers hang around his hips. Just above his…
I am so fucked.
“You coming in?” Luke asks, jumping into the pool. He emerges, black hair sticking to his head, his body practically glistening in the sun.
“I'm not wearing a swim suit,” I say.
“And?”
“And my bra costs $70. I'm not going to ruin it with chlorine.”
“No one is forcing you to wear a bra,” he says. I fold my arms over my chest. “Oh, come on,” he continues. “I'm only kidding. There's a few swimsuits in the bedroom that she never… that have never been worn. You can have one. You can keep it here if you want.”
What's he doing in some random house with some random woman's unworn swimsuits? It's weird, but it's better than nothing. If I get naked with him, I might not be able to put my clothes back on.
I nod, fine, and he returns with a bag of unworn lingerie, tags still attached. There's a navy bikini. It's not my size, but I can make it work.
Rouse Me Page 5