I stared down at Alma’s feet, crammed into my five-hundred-dollar shoes. Every woman needs a pair of sex-only shoes, but I felt faint at the vision that came to mind. Maybe I’d retire this pair.
Alma stepped out of my shoes. “Thanks. I can die happy.”
“This is terrific stuff,” Dorothy said.
“I thought I put you to bed,” I said.
“I had a job to do. Had to get to the pre-reunion party,” she said. “I feel like crap, though.”
“She has the flu,” I explained to Alma, ignoring Jen. I told her how I’d helped Dorothy to bed before coming to the party. “But we didn’t do the name thing. I was in a rush to get here.”
“Let’s sit down. I’m exhausted,” Alma said. She leaned her head back, wary eyes on Dorothy.
I sat in the booth next to my former archenemies.
“So explain again why you pretended to be Dorothy,” Alma said, looking puzzled.
“Not that we mind,” Jen said, whispering. “Since it means that the real Dorothy didn’t really see what happened.”
“She can hear every word you say, Jen.” Alma looked disgusted with life.
“But she can’t name names,” Jen said confidently. “It’ll be a footnote in the documentary. If she decides to do it,” she added.
“I’d say a public marital meltdown makes a compelling story,” I said.
“Nobody noticed, believe me,” Jen said, waving a hand erratically. “They’re all drunk.”
“Speaking of compelling stories, there’s the one about the fake Dorothy,” Alma leaned forward. “Well?”
“It was because of you guys.” I lowered my voice. I was close to resolving fifteen years’ worth of angst, but I didn’t want to share it with every female in our class.
“A practical joke?” Alma suggested, looking pissed off. I couldn’t blame her. I’d had my fill of those tonight, too.
“No, it’s because of what you guys did to me on Picture Day senior year.”
Alma looked blank, but Jen’s lips lifted at the corners in an evil smile.
“In the lunchroom,” she said. “You were so funny.”
Remembering brought a red flush to Alma’s neck and face.
“Wow, Cali. I’d forgotten about that,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Kids can be mean, can’t they?”
“Yes, they can,” I said. Interesting how she’d distanced herself, saying ‘kids’ instead of ‘I.’ At least she’d apologized.
I turned to Jen.
She waved a hand in front of her. “Hey, no tearful confessions here, Cali.”
“No apology, either, I see.” I kept my eyes locked on hers. She looked away first.
“I didn’t think it required an apology.”
“Jen—,” Alma said, frowning.
She turned. “Shut up, Alma. Just shut up. You can be such a wimp.”
Alma stepped back, eyes wide.
“Whoa. I think Jen’s going high school on us,” Sue Ann said behind us.
I looked around. The women in the room were all intent on our conversation, especially Dorothy, who was taking notes furiously.
Jen stared at each of the women. “What are all of you looking at?” Her chin lifted. “Oh, I get it. If I’m going high school, well you are, too. None of you is any different than Cali here. Expensive clothes, cheap insides.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I took a step closer. She didn’t move, but I could see the pulse jumping in her scrawny neck. She was scared.
“Just that. You were nothing more than trash, always were. What you are now is just fashionable trash. But fashions change. I never knew what Rick saw in you. You were pathetic, California.” She sneered my name, as if it were another insult.
I didn’t know I’d slapped her until the sound echoed off the walls and my handprint was a red imprint on her cheek. I stared at it, horrified, and she stared back. Around us, women were leaping to their feet.
“Jen, oh my God—” I started to stretch out a hand, to say I was sorry, but never got the chance. She bared her teeth like an angry German shepherd and launched herself at me, knocking us both down onto Dorothy Kalucheck, who’d stood for a better view.
“Oh no, you don’t, Jennifer Peterson.” A hand grabbed Jen’s blond hair and tugged back, hauling her to her feet. It was Alma, looking like the Italian Avenger.
“You are not screwing this up,” she hissed, her eyes sliding down toward me. I wondered what she meant, until I realized she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at Dorothy Kalucheck, who was on the floor next to me, watching the proceedings with amusement.
I was helped to my feet, and except for the fact that everyone had gotten a good look at my panties when my dress flew up, my dignity was intact.
Alma signaled to one of the guys in the other room, who frog-marched Jen toward the front door of Scooters.
I sat down next to Dorothy. Alma, who had watched Jen’s removal, slipped in on her other side and started to apply damage control techniques. From Dorothy’s disbelieving look, the spin wasn’t working.
“Thank goodness we all grew up,” I said. “Some of us just have a little extra baggage.”
Alma’s eyebrows lifted. “You can say that again. Jen always thought she was a little better than everyone else.”
“Jen said something awful to me that day, Alma. She said she knew Rick and I were having sex in the library, and that was so not true. I was sure the whole school would think it was, though.”
Alma’s expression was thoughtful. “Rick really liked you. It drove Jen crazy. She was used to getting what she wanted, and the guy she wanted spent all his time with … you.”
“With a unibrowed geek?”
She looked embarrassed and nodded, sliding in next to Dorothy. “You’ve changed a lot, Cali.” She turned to Dorothy. “Maybe it would be better if you picked another school for your movie. I mean, you feel sick and all. Maybe you should go home and rest.”
Dorothy cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. “Are you kidding? This is rich. There’s enough material here for three films.”
Alma sighed and leaned her head back against the upholstered booth back. “I know.”
She seemed vulnerable, and I spotted an opportunity to get the la pura verdad. The absolute truth. “Alma, why did Rick marry Jen?”
She moved restlessly. “Because he came back into town when his Dad was dying, and he was sad and lonely and pissed off, and Jen was persistent. When he got his head together again, he saw he’d married a woman who never left her living room except to go to the mall. Jen’s not like you.”
My chest tightened. Jen had lied. No surprise there, but for once I was glad. He really didn’t love her.
Chapter Eight
Rick was outside, shoulders hunched against the chill. I still had his jacket.
“You look like you could use a drink,” I said.
He lifted a rueful eyebrow. “I may never drink again.”
I took his hand and squeezed it. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure. My divorce announcement could’ve been more private, but at least everyone will have plenty to talk about at the reunion tomorrow.”
A taxi driver at the curb popped out of his car. “You guys coming or what?”
“You called a taxi?”
“Yes,” he murmured, fingering the strap of my dress. “I’ve had a couple of drinks, and I keep an apartment in the city.”
“Is that an invitation?” I laughed and his arms went around me. I felt at home again. “What is it about you,” I asked. “I feel so comfortable when you hold me.”
He pulled back and looked at me, and for once he wasn’t smiling. “I think I know what you mean. It feels like being in your most comfortable chair, right?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Not the most romantic image, but yes, that’s it. And not just the chair. The chair, and a really good book that you can’t wait to read.”
“Anticipation,” he said, agreeing. “Comfo
rt and anticipation.” He nuzzled my throat. “What does that mean, do you think?”
“Fifteen wasted years,” I said.
He laughed and stepped back. “Right on the money, California.” He ducked my playful slap and danced away, keeping out of reach, then bowed by the cab.
“Your carriage, milady.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. I glanced back. Scooters’ upstairs windows were still filled with people dancing and shooting pool. I never got to beat Rick at eight ball.
“Let’s get away from this place,” he said, his gaze following mine. “I’ve had enough for one night.”
“First sense you’ve made in a while,” I said.
He held the door for me, then frowned, noticing my bare feet.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for your apartment,” I told him. “But you can come with me to my hotel room.”
“I don’t want to slink out of your hotel room in the morning. Come to my apartment. I’ve got a king-sized bed,” he wheedled.
“I don’t know.” Sex was one thing, but getting cozy on his turf was giving up power. And had Jen slept there with him? I hated the image that came to mind.
“Three hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton bedsheets.”
“Hmmm…”
“Huge whirlpool garden tub. Custom bath salts.”
“Well—”
“What do you say, Cali? Come to my place. I’ll treat you like a queen.”
His eyes shone with sincerity, and something else. I looked away, unable to give it a name. I wanted him so much. Not for the sex, although so far it had been incredible, but because Rick Capaldi was like a piece missing from my soul, from my heart. A piece that I hadn’t realized was missing until I was made whole.
“Okay, I’ll come with you,” I said. I wanted to spend every second I could in his company. Forty-eight hours left.
With a boyish whoop and a grin, he scooped me up into his arms and tucked me into the waiting cab.
* * *
I woke up at noon the next day, still aching from the intense pleasure of our lovemaking. Within seconds of walking into his apartment, I had been back in his arms. I thought it might be awkward to start again, but it seemed natural, as if our bodies were made to fit perfectly together.
He moaned, and pulled me close again, rubbing against me. He’d turned on music, a jazzy salsa that provided a counterpoint to our heartbeats.
“I want to feel your skin against mine,” he murmured, and pulled up the hem of my dress. It floated over my head and onto the floor next to his truly huge bed.
The three little shirt buttons by his neck thwarted me for only a couple of seconds. I undid them, blessing the manufacturer as each easily slipped free of its buttonhole. He pulled it over his head while I undid the waistband of his pants.
My bra had somehow come unfastened, and Rick’s hands slipped up my torso to cup my freed breasts. His fingers caressed my nipples, and they saluted him in appreciation.
“It better not be fifteen years before the next time,” he growled. He pulled my bra off and tossed it aside, then dipped his head to allow his tongue to flick the engorged tips of my breasts. “You are so beautiful, Cali. I never felt so close to anyone else, when we were kids. This is what it would have been like if you never left.”
Right, I thought, not believing him, but this was my fantasy, too, and I was going to feed my dreams while I could. I rubbed my hands on his bare back, enjoying the muscles that roiled under his smooth skin.
His arms tightened around my shoulders, and he picked me up, surprising me. He’d done that earlier, too. I’d never been carried before and the sense of powerlessness was frightening. I buried my face in his chest, and he held me tightly for a moment, as if he didn’t want to let me go, then carried me to his huge bed and gently laid me down. My senses were overwhelmed with the combination of his scent and mine, the perfect blend of ourselves. I wanted to cry.
Rick knelt at the foot of the bed, admiring me, as if I were a buffet laid out for his pleasure. His eyes half-closed from desire, he stood, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and pulled them down.
The sight took my breath away. In that moment I so understood sexual addiction. I could do this every day for the rest of eternity. When he had discarded his socks and shoes, I arched my back, expecting more yummy attention on my breasts, but he went lower, stopping only to swipe my belly with his tongue before he hit his true target.
I almost added my voice to the night’s chorus, gritting my teeth and groaning instead. “Stop,” I panted. “Rick, too much.”
The feelings were so intense I thought I’d pass out. I pulled on his hair, trying to get him to stop, but his tongue continued, exploring, stroking, and hitting true every time.
I felt my orgasm build, and cried out as it broke, a wave of pleasure that left me limp.
He rose and lay across me, his weight a soothing counterpoint to the lighter-than-air exhilaration he’d just caused.
After a moment I regained my voice. I didn’t speak immediately, not because I didn’t have anything good to say, but because I was afraid I’d babble.
“Rick. Wow.” Okay, so wit eluded me just then.
His face was against my neck, and I heard a satisfied laugh. My hands traced nerveless fingers across his back, feeling his muscles, touching him lightly. I wanted to give him as much pleasure as he’d given me.
I wondered if he would have felt so strong or so manly when he was eighteen and I had first wanted him. I loved the rebel then, and didn’t know enough about life to appreciate the person behind the façade they present to the world. And in high school, we’re all about façades. This was the real Rick, grown up and full of life. Some things are worth waiting for, and sex with Rick was definitely on that list.
When he finally rose onto his elbows, the tip of him poised at the juncture of my legs, I looked into his eyes and gasped, not because he was big and hard and about to drive into my wetness, but because his eyes, the color of molten honey, were looking straight into mine. Suddenly, it was real, not fantasy.
I felt as if I could look into his eyes forever. I revised my sexual addiction decision. I could do this every day, forever, but only with Rick. I couldn’t be this intimate with anyone else, ever.
We’d changed the sheets before sleeping, even though we could barely stay awake. The bed had been wet from sweat and lovemaking, but even in the new, crisp sheets, every bit as luxurious as Rick had promised, the musky smell of our lovemaking clung, like an aphrodisiac made only for us.
* * *
I stretched like a lazy cat, enjoying the feel of the soft sheets and down pillows. I turned over to look at Rick.
He slept on his back, arms over his head. His strong profile was unchanged. I’d fallen in love with his Roman nose when I was sixteen, and now, at thirty-three, I fell in love all over again.
It was love, all right, and I was stupid to have put myself into this situation. I’d come here looking for Rick, looking for closure, and all I’d leave with was pain. We had no future, so any emotion I invested in Rick would be a hurtful waste.
I ran my fingertips lightly over his bare chest, twirling them in the thick hair between his nipples, which hardened into pinkish brown pebbles that needed to be kissed.
I leaned on one elbow and licked the closest one, flicking my tongue over the warm nub. A sigh ruffled my hair.
I looked up and met his eyes, warm and smiling.
“You can wake me up like that every day, if you want.” His voice rumbled, low and sexy. His left arm pushed under and around me, pulling me against him.
I wanted to snuggle, but that could come later. “Make love to me,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” Rick said. “Exactly what I had in mind.”
“Making love” is a vague and euphemistic term. Rick and I had wild, aching, throbbing, orgasmic monkey sex.
We licked and sucked every bit of each other’s bodies, exploring territory we’d only wondered abo
ut for fifteen years, and when we finally rested, side by side on our backs on his bedroom carpet, our calves and lower legs on his bed, we held hands.
“Cali, I’m part owner of this apartment building,” he said, playing with my fingers.
I hummed, eyes closed.
“It would be perfect for an office for you. You could have one of the downstairs apartments. It’s got an exclusive address; your business would be a fit for the neighborhood.”
I opened my eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Your design business. You said you were tired of doing someone else’s designs. Sue Ann told me about your Cali E business. Hang your shingle here.” He was on his side, his head held up on one hand, the other stroking me lightly.
“I’m not going back to Elmwood Park.”
“Chicago’s not a small town, Cali. You can be in Manhattan in two hours. Can’t you email or fax your designs from here? Line up your distributors from here?”
I’d never thought about it. There was an immediacy to living in New York that I could not duplicate in Chicago, but everything he said was true. But—move back? I shook my head.
“I’d come to you, Cali, but I can’t run my businesses long-distance. You can. Come home, Cali. Come to me.”
I looked at him, handsome and disheveled, the sweat of our lovemaking glowing on his skin. In the low light he looked like a burnished god.
“I have to go back to Manhattan. That’s where my life is.”
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “I understand,” he said. “I understand, but I don’t accept it.”
He rolled back over, and pulled me closer. With a moan, I surrendered, looking into his eyes as he entered me, our gazes locked even as our bodies found the rhythm.
This is as honest as it gets, I thought, and then he was in me, and I couldn’t think anymore. Our bodies strained against each other, our faces cheek to cheek, and the feeling was incredible. I’d never felt such intimacy.
Sex had always been a lukewarm exercise, the few times I’d had the dubious pleasure. From now on it could only be a painful chore, because after today I would never have Rick, and Rick was the only one who had ever made me feel this way, who had ever gotten this close to my heart.
Friday Night Chicas Page 17