by Portia Moore
“So I decided I should at least have something beautiful to look at,” he says, throwing me a flirtatious grin.
So far, the night is starting off extremely well. I can’t wait to see what other surprises Cal may have in store for me.
May 9th 2011
May 9th, 2011
I love the spring breeze in Saginaw. I close my eyes as the cool wind passes, leaving tingles from the temperature change. I look at my watch and see that it’s three in the morning. We’ve been in Saginaw for four days. Four days that have passed like moments.
He stayed—a small gesture, but one that means so much. It’s been a long time since we’ve been like this, just with one another, no pretenses or agendas; having him for the entire day and not dreading the phone call that will pull him away.
I’ve been able to let the ice melt, and Cal has shown me a side of him I haven’t seen in a long time. I know we have a long way to go, but his being here is a step in the right direction. Still, there are moments when he seems lost in his own thoughts, where he’ll go off to be alone, leaving Raven and me to ourselves.
Those are the times my heart reaches out to him. I feel as though he’s struggling with something he won’t share with me. I don’t bother him about it, though I hope he’ll eventually learn to lean on me the way I have on him.
I’ve been sitting here on the balcony since one. I really should try to get some sleep. I walk back into the room where Cal is sprawled out on the bed. I can’t help but smile. He always looks like a little boy when he sleeps, so innocent and peaceful. I tiptoe to the other side of the bed, slip out of my robe, and climb in.
I settle under the covers and lay my head on his chest. It’s been months since I’ve done this, and I tentatively put my arm around him. I’ve missed this so much. When things started going wrong, I hated my desire to be near him. I resented my longing for the touch of someone who didn’t seem to need mine, so I pulled back.
I turn toward him now and watch his breathing pattern. It’s never deep, but subtle—almost as if he isn’t breathing at all. He’s always quiet, he never snores, and most of the time, his expression is calm. But then there are the moments when his breathing is faster, as if he has a million things going on in his head at once. I try to enjoy this moment and not think about anything else, but he’s so unpredictable, it wouldn’t surprise me if he jumped up all of a sudden and said he was going back to Chicago.
He must have heard my last thought. He’s up now, observing me, possibly attempting to read my mind. I would say he’s giving me his attention, but it’s more like he has mine.
“You think too much,” he whispers, massaging the small of my back.
I sigh. “So do you.”
I put my hand on his. He smiles for a minute and gets out of bed. I watch him grab the bag he brought with him and disappear into the bathroom. I hear the water start to run. The walls are so thin here. I shift in the bed, trying to get comfortable. It’s no use; I’m utterly restless. I know I can’t sleep now. Once I’m up, it’s so hard for me to get tired again.
The crickets are singing. It’s been a while since I’ve heard them. When you live in a high-rise, you miss out on the luxury of hearing their lulling, albeit sometimes annoying, song.
I get out of bed and turn on the radio on the dresser. Smooth sounds, the only thing Raven listens to, pour out of the speakers. I’ve learned to appreciate it more than I did in my younger years, when I found it beyond boring. But now the music hypnotizes my mind into forgetting the stresses that burden most of my thoughts.
My eyes drift to the alarm clock sitting comfortably between three books and an old photo of me in high school. The light green numbers tell me it’s 3:20. I really need to be asleep. I cover my mouth, trying to hide the yawn that sneaks out. I’m not tired. Well, my mind isn’t, but my body disagrees.
I flop back on the bed and lie across it, resting my face on the mattress, absorbing the remnants of Cal’s warmth on the bed. I close my eyes, hoping the music will work as a lullaby to put me to sleep. I hum along with the song, catching on to it after a minute. I feel the light shining in from the hall, but it soon disappears. I recognize his scent and open my eyes. I love his cologne, but the truth is he doesn’t need any. His own scent is intoxicating.
“I’m hungry,” he says, standing at the foot of the bed.
“You want to go get something?” I ask, getting out of the bed and searching for something within my reach to throw on, even though we’ll be driving a while to find something open around here. I grab his black button-up from the floor and put it on. It, of course, engulfs me.
“Come make me something,” he says, leaving the room.
“You must really be hungry if you’re going to eat what I cook.” I snicker, and we both head down the stairs and into the kitchen.
He turns on the light and sits at the table. I look at him curiously.
“Are you going to stand there and look at me all day? My stomach’s kind of growling,” he says teasingly while rubbing his stomach, then he rests his head in one of his hands.
I playfully roll my eyes at him. “Excuse me.” I touch my chest indignantly and make my way to the cabinets. I pull out a loaf of bread and open the fridge and retrieve a packet of ham.
“Nuh uh,” he says.
I look back at him with my brow arched.
“Cook me something,” he dares, his eyes smiling.
“You really want me to cook?” I ask in disbelief.
He folds his arms with an amused grin. In the entire time I’ve known Cal, he’s never asked me to cook anything. I told him I was a terrible cook when we met, and so far, he’s taken my word for it. But I can plate a meal like nobody’s business.
“Only if you promise you’ll eat whatever I cook,” I dare him, folding my arms.
“Deal.”
I assume the “thinking position,” with my chin in my hand, trying to come up with something at least edible. It’s morning; eggs are easy. I’ve seen them cooked a thousand times.
“Get ready for the best eggs of your life, Mr. Scott,” I brag as I open the fridge and grab cheese and eggs.
“Just promise me it won’t be my last meal.” He laughs.
I shoot him a warning glare and prep my cooking area. He walks over to the counter and leans against it—the better to watch me, I guess.
“You want a cooking lesson?” I joke while washing my hands.
“More like making sure you don’t burn Raven’s house down,” he says.
I jokingly nudge his chest. “So first you crack the eggs,” I begin to explain, demonstrating the process. The egg falls neatly into the bowl, but… oh crap.
“I don’t think the shells are supposed to be in there.” He muffles his laugh with a hand over his mouth.
“It adds to the texture,” I say sarcastically.
He shakes his head and grabs a fork and attempts to get them out.
“You’ll eat those shells and like it, remember?” I say, referencing his earlier promise.
He sighs. Not feeling so smart now, huh, buddy? I sprinkle the salt and pepper into the bowl then reach for the butter to add.
He grabs my wrist. “Okay. I think the butter goes in the pan, not the actual eggs.” He laughs.
“Well, in my eggs it does,” I say, swatting him away.
He suddenly puts his hands on both my shoulders and moves me out the way. “I think I’ll take it from here.” He snickers, and I pout.
“But I thought you wanted me to cook,” I whine.
“I thought I did too,” he mutters, and I playfully hit at him.
Begrudgingly, I walk back to the table and watch him make his way around the kitchen. I have to admit he seems much more acquainted with it than I am.
“Since when did you become a master chef of the kitchen?” I ask as he whips the eggs like a pro.
“You don’t have to be a five-star chef to make eggs.” He winks.
I’m really starting to regret not
honing my cooking skills during all the times Cal has been gone. In what seems like no time at all, the eggs are cooked, and he sets before me a plate of the most mouthwatering eggs I’ve ever seen. He scoops a spoonful and lifts it to my mouth. Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s delicious.
“Okay, you win. I’ll work on the cooking thing,” I say as we both dig in.
After a few moments, I decide to take advantage of his good mood to tell him something. “So I’ve been thinking of going back to school to get my master’s.”
“Why would you want to do that?” he asks, unimpressed.
“Well, I haven’t really done anything with my undergrad. It’s been something I’ve been thinking about.”
He’s quiet.
“Your thoughts, sir?”
“You know how I feel about that sort of thing,” he says, finishing his food.
“A master’s isn’t like a bachelor’s, Cal. It holds more weight and prestige.”
“It’s a crap piece of paper you have to drop thousands of dollars on and waste years of your life over, to work in a miserable job that you’re going to end up hating.” He gets up to take his plate to the sink.
“It’s not only about that. It’s to prove to myself I can still do something on my own. I can achieve something outside of…” I trail off at his disapproving look.
“Look, I think it’s good that you want to do something to challenge yourself. I think with me working like I have, something to occupy your time is good, but why a master’s in English? Do you want to teach now? You despise the corporate world. What are you going do with it?”
I push my plate away, annoyed. This really isn’t going as I wanted it to.
“I think you should open a gallery,” he says, taking a seat at the table.
My eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”
He folds his arms. “Yeah, why not? Your stuff is just as good as the shit Dex has on his walls.”
I bite my tongue, deciding to take the compliment for what it’s worth. Then I dare to give the idea a serious thought. “Well, it wouldn’t just be my work. I’d need to get more prestigious artists. It would be a lot of work, and the money…”
“I guess you’d have to sacrifice some of those shoes, and I can do without a few Rolexes,” he quips, throwing my earlier words back at me.
I jump up and settle myself in his lap. “You really think I can do it?” I ask, looking him in the eye.
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t marry you for your cooking skills,” he retorts playfully, and I laugh.
During these moments, I know the reason I’m here and why I fight so hard against the wall he puts up.
“There’s so much to do. I—oh my God, I’m so excited, babe! I don’t even know what to do first,” I gush.
“I can think of one thing I want to do right now, in multiple ways.” His eyes are mischievous and they’re locked onto mine as his hands creep under my shirt.
I hop off his lap and back away from him, a smile playing on my lips. He stands up to follow me, walking slowly until I’ve stopped, trapped between him and the kitchen counter. He places his hands on both sides of me.
“No,” I say half-heartedly before he lifts me onto the counter, squeezing himself between my thighs, and begins kissing my neck. “No, Cal, not here.” His lips take mine, and it takes all my strength to pull away. “What if Raven wakes up?”
He groans, and before I know it, his hands are on the bare skin of my bottom. I’m being lifted off the counter and carried into the pantry. He closes the door behind him.
“But—Raven!” I protest as he lifts the loose silk shirt I have on up to my belly button, his fingers caressing me.
“You’d better be quiet then,” he whispers in my ear before his tongue makes its way there.
A moment later he’s inside me, and I’m helpless. I hold on tightly to his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist and trying to muffle my moans by burying my head into his shoulder. He pins me against the back wall, taking my arms from around his neck and capturing my wrists over my head. As my body opens up for him, he exploits it, pushing deeper into me. I bite my lip, trying to prevent a moan from slipping out. His mouth sucks the skin above my collarbone, and I give in, unable to keep quiet any longer. I’m lost in the moment. My body is in heaven as he moves rhythmically inside me, and I feel the climax building, but in the distance, I hear footsteps. That’s not good!
“Cal… dooo… y-you h-h-hear that?” My sentence sounds incoherent, even to me.
“Shut up,” he says, his grip on my wrists tighter than before.
I wrap my legs around him tighter and move with him. This needs to happen faster. Oh God, please don’t let Raven be in the kitchen.
“Oh fuck, Lauren,” he groans and releases my wrists.
I’m thankful I can bury my head back into his shoulder. “Right th—”
I’m cut off when the door opens, the light from the kitchen illuminating what I can only assume is the last—and most traumatic—thing Raven’s ever expected to see in her pantry.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry, honey!” Raven screeches.
I don’t see her face, but Cal looks as if he’s seen a ghost. The door quickly shuts, and Cal sets me down. Seconds later he bursts into laughter. I punch him multiple times.
“I told you we shouldn’t have been in here!” I scold him angrily as he pulls up his boxers.
“I’m sorry, babe, but you shouldn’t have been wearing that around me!” he defends himself, gesturing at his shirt that I claimed as my own. “And it’s morning.”
He tries to maintain a straight face, but I don’t find this funny at all! How am I ever going to look at Raven again? I’m only thankful I couldn’t see her face when she caught us.
“I’ll tell her it’s my fault,” he says, swallowing a laugh.
“Of course it’s your fault! God no, you don’t talk to her. That’ll make this even more weird.” I fold my arms, upset at this entire situation.
He pulls me into a forced hug. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m sure Raven has had a little pantry action before.” He chuckles, and I push him away.
“Ewww.” I shudder and hit him again.
“What? Raven’s hot!”
Chapter 6
May 10th, 2008
“So you’re telling me this painting doesn’t awaken the inner creativity of your soul?” I say condescendingly, nudging his arm. This will be the fifth painting he hasn’t liked.
He smiles at me and sighs a little. “Not really.”
“Seriously? How can this not captivate you?” I ask, looking at him.
A whimsical expression is on his face. He walks beside me and puts his hand on his chin, mimicking deep thought. “It’s a train running through a wall—genius!” he says sarcastically.
If that damn smile of his weren’t so hypnotizing, I’d find his blasé attitude irritating, but instead I’m quite intrigued by it. “Okay, maybe modern isn’t exactly your thing.”
I look around the museum. It has been a while since I’ve been here, and they’ve added so much for the event. I get an idea. Taking his hand, I pull him behind me, walking quickly until I finally spot the painting I’m looking for. Triumph! I glance back at him to see his eyes aren’t on the back of my head but on a lower region. I’ll just pretend I didn’t notice that. I stop in front of it, and he looks at me expectantly.
“Okay, what about this one?” I ask him. I watch him step closer and examine the painting.
“A Sunday at La Grande Jatte,” he reads.
“So do you like this one?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
“Okay?” I laugh in disbelief. “Georges Seurat was mastering pointillism before it was even thought of, really. These all just started out as dots and look…” I trail off, feeling his body heat behind me. I feel his breath against my neck as he brushes my hair aside with one hand. His other hand finds my waist and his fingers slowly slide down, reaching my hip.
“Lik
e I said before…” His fingers trail down my neck as his lips graze my ear. “I think there are much more interesting things to look at.”
Lauren, get a grip. Just calm down. I can’t help how my body just reacted to that and he barely touched me, but it was in all the right places. STOP! I fold my arms across my chest, just to make sure he doesn’t see exactly how obviously my body reacted.
“Don’t you think?” he retorts playfully, walking backward with a sexy smirk.
God help me. We’ve only been here an hour and I’m having thoughts about him that really should be more like fourth or fifth date thoughts. I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure before I join him in front of a huge black-and-white photograph of the ocean.
“This, I like,” he says, gazing into it.
I look at it. I’ve never really been into photography, but I have to agree, this is beautiful. “I can see why.” I become mesmerized by it.
“It’s real. No embellishments or sensors. It is what it is,” he says quietly. He breaks the spell and turns his attention back to me. “So what type of drawings do you do?”
“What type of work do you do?”
“A lot.” He smirks at me.
“So do I.” I grin. If he doesn’t want to tell me anything, I won’t tell him anything either.
“I’ll show you my favorite painting.” I lead him to where I remembered it being. Luckily, it’s still there, so I don’t look like an idiot. “Degas is my absolute favorite painter. The way he captures light and color is just amazing.”
“The Dance Lessons,” he reads off the information card below. “I saw this in Washington last year.”
“I think they made a trade for another painting. Wait, you were in a museum?” I smirk at him.
“Something like that.” He loves to talk in codes.
“Hmmm, a hint… do you work in a museum? You’re an art collector? Or you’re a notorious thief, and you’re scoping out your next grab,” I guess.
“You really want to know what I do?” he asks with a sly grin.
Suddenly, he gets serious, stepping closer and holding my gaze. I stop my eyes from drifting to his lips.