Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  He nodded once. Leaned in as she leaned up, and their lips met for a soft, long moment before she pulled away, smiling.

  “Good night,” he whispered, too breathless to speak it any louder.

  “Good night, John. See you tomorrow.” And she smiled one last time, turned, and walked down the hall without a backward glance.

  When she was out of sight, John shut the door, and for a long time he merely stood there, staring at the framed emergency-exit map mounted on the wood, blinking.

  “Thank you,” he said, his words blooming quiet and clear in the empty room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Saturday morning, Suzy met Meyer for a coffee and a confab downtown. She’d be picking John up at his hotel in a bit, but she had loads to unpack with her best friend, starting with a confession.

  “Save it until we’ve sat down,” Meyer said as they joined the line, though Suzy was bursting, practically jumping up and down, so much on her mind she felt like a kid trying to hold in a secret. She’d been alternately floating on a cloud and fielding funny tugs in her gut all morning. The giddiness was easy to diagnose—she was smitten, and an orgasm from someone new and novel didn’t hurt, either.

  The misgiving was tougher to pin down. Was she worried about having maybe taken advantage of John? Had she? She didn’t think so, but something about it felt undeniably uncharted, like a game she didn’t entirely know the rules to. Was she worried she was the one in danger of getting burned, or overinvested? She wasn’t sure she’d unpack that one with Meyer, but the rest of it, definitely.

  “Don’t you want to know?” she demanded. She’d not texted or talked to Meyer except to arrange the coffee, and his blasé reply with a place and time had driven her nuts.

  “The most insanely fuckable barista was working here on Wednesday,” he said, narrowed eyes scanning the staff behind the counter.

  “I hate you.”

  In time they got their drinks and found a table near the back, where the only other nearby patron was nodding to whatever music played in his headphones; they’d be needing privacy for this chat. Only when Meyer’s steaming espresso was centered on its saucer and his hands clasped primly before it did he finally say, “Okay. Spill.”

  “Oh my God, where do I even start? Right, I’ll start with what’s most important—John Lindsay is a lovely man.”

  “Yes, but did you fuck him?”

  “No.”

  “What base, then?”

  “Second, I think.”

  He laughed. “I knew it. And you think? Were you drunk?”

  “Not really, but I’m thirty-three—I can’t remember what the bases are. But hands were involved, mostly under clothes. But before that we just had a really great time. We talked about—”

  “I don’t care what you talked about. Who initiated the grab-ass?”

  “Me, but only once I was sure he was into me. We talked a lot about sex, first. And other stuff, too.”

  “I don’t care about the other stuff. How was he?”

  “He was sweet.”

  Meyer rolled his eyes and blew on his tiny cup. “Translation: He was useless.”

  “He was sweet and a very attentive student. It was sexy, trust me.”

  “What lessons did you impart, precisely, Professor Park?”

  “Kissing, lots of that. He was a quick learner. He takes instruction well.”

  “And?”

  “Touching. Nothing too scandalous for quite a while, but then we wound up in our underwear, and hands wandered. And there was dry-humping. Mostly dry. Barely dry.”

  “Did he make you come?”

  “With a little assistance,” she said haughtily, “yes, he did.”

  Meyer raised his brows. “Well, well. And did you return the favor?”

  “Yes, I did. With assistance.”

  “So overall, a filthy good time?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Very. And pretty romantic, too, I thought. It was definitely more than just sex. Maybe not a romance, exactly, but there were feelings, for sure.”

  Meyer set his espresso down like he’d tasted something tart. “You say that like it’s a good thing. Virgins imprint, Suze. And they’re not like ducklings. You can’t just boot them down a storm drain when no one’s looking.”

  She shook her head. “Firstly, you’re an absolutely terrible person. And more importantly, he’s a nearly forty-year-old man, not a teenage girl.”

  “And that doesn’t scare you in itself? All the most successful psychopaths are middle-aged white men.”

  She rolled her eyes, knowing he was just trying to wind her up. She wasn’t entirely in the mood. Something about the situation had her feeling distinctly vulnerable. A feeling she’d grown estranged from, the past few years. Wanting to wind Meyer right back up, she said, “He’s bisexual, you know.”

  Finally, a taste of the upper hand. Meyer’s eyes went as round as his saucer, cup hovering just before his lips. “Says him?”

  She nodded.

  He lowered his cup, lips parting, then shut his mouth, opened it, raised his cup and drained it, set it down. “So . . .”

  She laughed. “Oh my God, just ask it. Whatever narcissistic thing you want to ask, spit it out.”

  “Does he want to fuck me?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he does, either. He’s never done anything with a man, and I don’t think he really ever plans to. He said he was curious, though. About kissing men, touching them. Maybe more, but I don’t think he’s entirely sure, himself.”

  “Would he like to find out?”

  She shot him a withering look, which of course was wasted, as Meyer withered for no one. After a deep taste of her latte she told him, “I do not know. But with the aid of a few glasses of wine he did tell me he kind of wants to watch us, just being however we are with each other. Like, not as Mr. and Mrs. Parks.”

  “Like, in front of him?”

  “Oh, jeez, no. I doubt it. I told him there’s always Tuesdays, but he made it sound like it’s more something he just wonders about than anything he’d like to actually make happen.”

  “Shame. I’d love to fuck for him, knowing he’s as interested in me as he is in you.”

  “So you could toy with him.”

  “So I could stare into that camera while you suck me off and say his goddamn name, yes.”

  “You’re awful.”

  “For wanting to blow his mind?”

  “He’s not the sort of person you can come at so aggressively.” Fresh memories of his hesitant hands, nervous-then-curious mouth, darting eyes and hushed moans flashed across Suzy’s mind, hummed through her body. She’d never wanted to sully anyone as much as she’d also wanted to coddle and protect them. It was an intoxicating combination. “He needs seduction, not . . . scandalizing.”

  “How long’s he in town for, again?”

  “Until tomorrow lunchtime. I’m going on that abandoned-mill tour thing with him this afternoon, then I imagine we’ll get dinner later. Do you want me to try to get you invited along?”

  “Obviously.”

  “But you have to promise not to come on too strong. Or at all.”

  “I’m not a Neanderthal,” Meyer said, sitting up straighter. “I merely want to meet him. Tell him I’m dying to, in fact. And should he confide in you that he’d like to do more . . .”

  “I get it.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “I have no clue—we haven’t talked about restaurants yet. Maybe just the one at the Mansions, if I don’t think of somewhere better.”

  “Bed adjacent. Good thinking.”

  “Shush. Anyhow, I’ll find out if he’d like to meet you and text you yea or nay and where, if it’s yea.”

  “Yay, indeed. I’ll wear my best underwear, just in case.”

 
“You’re the worst, Mey.”

  “Drink your coffee, darling.”

  ***

  John exited the lobby at five of one, heading down the stone steps to stand by the curb so Suzy could find him when she pulled up. He’d checked his phone every two minutes for the past three hours, half expecting a cancellation but never getting one. His current forecast was cautiously giddy.

  If anyone should happen to ask him what the actual weather was like just then, he wouldn’t be able to say—he was too lost in thought, wandering way off in the wilds of his brain. He’d been that way all morning, in fact, distracted in his head and heart and . . . farther down.

  He couldn’t say what was haunting him the most intensely—memories of the intimate things they’d done; memories of the things they’d said to each other, be it sexual or sweet or just simple snippets from their two lives; memories of her smile.

  It was that last one that had him the most mixed up.

  A car pulled up in his periphery. A wolf whistle sounded, triggering a split second of wide-eyed, mortified confusion before it melted to a goofy smile.

  “Hey!” Suzy called. “Climb in.”

  “If you insist.” John opened the passenger door of her little sedan and took a seat. Every fiber of his being wanted to lean over the center console and kiss her hello, but he didn’t dare. He wasn’t that brave or that foolish, so instead he merely buckled his seat belt, settled his briefcase on his thighs.

  “Thanks for the lift,” he offered. “And the company.”

  “My pleasure. Hell, my adventure. Thanks for inviting me along.”

  “I have directions somewhere,” he said, opening his case.

  “I plugged it into my GPS. We should be fine.” Her phone was mounted on the dash, leading the way. “How was your morning?”

  “A pleasant mix of lazy and productive. I woke up around nine and ordered room service, did a little writing.” Hardly any, he’d been so distracted and preoccupied, maybe a hundred and fifty words. “You?”

  “I had coffee with Meyer, ran some errands. Debated how to dress to tour a disused steel mill.” Apparently she’d gone with gray jeans and a grass-green sweater. “Are you excited for your research mission?”

  He nodded. “Quite. I like getting the details right, and this time I imagine the details are going to be pretty interesting.”

  “What other exciting trips have you gone on in the name of research?” she asked, slipping them into the flow of traffic.

  “I enjoy the forensic stuff. I try to get the science of murder right. I got to visit a body farm, once, if you’ve heard of those.”

  “I have. I love Mary Roach—she wrote a whole chapter about one in Stiff.”

  “That was creepy, but fascinating. What else . . . I’ve done several police ride-alongs, two morgue visits, and I’ve interviewed several actual detectives. I try not to take too many liberties with the procedural stuff, though luckily Jacob’s not averse to bending the rules, so I can do the same. Oh, and I once took a private tour of a whisky distillery in Scotland. That was a bit of a stretch, to be honest—Jacob’s never left the eastern seaboard in the books. But any details enrich the writing, right?”

  “Absolutely. I hope Meyer and I rate somewhere in the Memorable Research Hall of Fame.” She bobbed her eyebrows but kept her attention on the road, mercifully, not privy to the blush he felt creeping up his neck.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Albeit one I’ll likely omit from interviews. No offense.”

  “Just name-drop us in your deathbed tell-all memoir and I’ll be satisfied.”

  They arrived at the mill precisely on time, met by a man armed with battered yellow hard hats and a clipboard bearing safety waivers, which they signed, promising not to sue the management company if any rusty I-beams plummeted from the rotting roof to squash them. Taking in the looming shell of the former factory’s main floor, John could appreciate the necessity of the paperwork. It felt like they were standing in an airplane hangar half eaten by giant moths. Vines and trees were reclaiming the building, some walls more ivy than brick.

  John had his pad and pen in hand, poised to take in every fascinating detail . . . yet he could feel his attention thoroughly snagged not on the towering behemoth rising up all around them, but on the beguiling woman currently standing to his right.

  ***

  The tour took about four hours, the great bulk of it comprised of John asking the building manager questions. Suzy found it all riveting, from the history to the atmosphere, to simply standing back and watching John work. She’d felt his nerves when they’d arrived—his speech was tight, a touch breathy, his ability to interrupt and ask questions timid at best. It was a side of him she’d not really met, not aside from the opening minutes of that first fateful video chat. But by the second hour his voice had grown stronger and he’d shed his shyness, curiosity clearly trumping introversion. The guy giving them the tour seemed delighted by John’s interest and excited to know the place was going to feature in the next book, and by proxy maybe even the Nicetown TV series, though John made it plain he could make no promises.

  Suzy didn’t have much to contribute, but a couple of her questions had John scribbling notes and raising his eyebrows, which made her feel useful.

  “That was so cool,” she said, squinting as they stepped into the late afternoon sunshine. She unlocked her car with her key fob. “Thanks again for letting me tag along.”

  “Of course. Thank you for coming.”

  What she asked next was, “Where am I taking you?” But of course what she really wanted to know was, Are we still hanging out? Please say yes.

  “Oh, gosh.” John slid into the passenger side and they got their belts on. “Back to the hotel, I suppose . . . Unless you could recommend a nice café with Wi-Fi. I imagine I’ll just get to work making notes for the story.”

  Damn. “Sure, I know a couple.”

  A long pause ensued as Suzy got them pointed in the right direction, heading back toward the city. At length, John finally said, “I wouldn’t mind company. I mean, unless you have plans, of course.”

  “Nope, no plans,” she said, probably way too quickly to count as playing it even remotely cool. “I was actually wondering if maybe you wanted to get dinner . . . ?” A quick glance thrilled her heart as she caught him smile then purse his lips in that sweet, nervous way he had.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Great. There’s a place I’ve been wanting to check out, maybe ten minutes’ drive from your hotel. It’s a little fancy, but as you’re such a sharp dresser, I thought, hey, let’s go for it.”

  “Fancy’s fine by me.”

  “Cool. And I’ve been ordered by Meyer to ask if he can come as well.”

  His brows quirked up. “Oh.”

  “You can say no.”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to meet him. I’m just intimidated.”

  “I get that. Want to think about it for a couple hours? I should swing by my place and change, anyhow.”

  “I think it’d be fine if it was dinner, something structured like that. But sitting around making small talk . . . I just have no idea what I’d say to him.”

  “Meyer can be his own force of nature—I’m sure he’d be happy to lead the conversation.” Or dominate it, as he frequently did. Meyer delighted in the sound of his own voice nearly as much as he did his reflection. Luckily he could be as charming as he was handsome, when he wanted to be.

  “What does he think of me?” John asked, sounding nervous.

  “He’s intrigued. I told him about a lot of what we spoke about. I hope that’s still okay.”

  He nodded. “It is. So does he know we . . .”

  “Yeah, the broad strokes. As it were.” She peeked sidelong and caught his smile. “He’s very eager to meet you, I’m supposed to tell you that. But honestly,
no pressure. I have no problem telling him to fuck off.”

  “I suppose you two have few boundaries.”

  “None.” Minus a couple verboten subjects to do with Meyer’s family life, anyhow. It was rare when he shut down a line of conversation, but when he did, it stopped you cold. Dead. It was jarring, hitting a rare nerve with a man who was normally as happy to spill his darkest secrets as he might discuss the weather.

  When she glanced at John his smile was small, sweet. “That must be nice,” he said. “I’m close with my sister and my parents, but I don’t have anyone I can really . . . I don’t know, turn myself inside out in front of.”

  She pursed her lips and spoke to the road. “What about me?” Another glance, and she found that a blush had bloomed along his throat and was creeping into his cheeks.

  “Oh. Well, I suppose you’re right. Though it feels silly to say so, when we’ve known each other for, what? For real, for perhaps a week. And as a fiction for a couple of months.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a man who’d underrate fiction, John.”

  “Touché.”

  ***

  The entire ride from Swissvale back to Pittsburgh proper, John mentally wrung his hands, wondering what he was supposed to do when he and Suzy parted. Had this been a date? Was he meant to kiss her? It didn’t seem quite right. He fretted over the question even as he carried on a conversation with her, right up until she eased to a stop along the curb in front of the hotel.

  “Am I supposed to kiss you?” he blurted, unable to bear the uncertainty.

  She laughed, put the car in park. “You may, if you wish.”

  “But this outing . . . This didn’t feel like a date. It was fun, but we weren’t really flirting, were we?”

  “Not especially.”

  “But we kissed last night.”

  “We certainly did.”

  “So—and I ask this in the interest of my romantic education, mind you. Not merely because I’m a neurotic train wreck.”

  She laughed again, and he relaxed some.

  “So tell me,” he said, “if we had one romantic encounter—or sexual, or however you want to classify last night—”