Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  I have to reset right now. Or else I’ll do something we’ll regret.

  “Yeah, I’m ravenous,” I say.

  But not for food.

  16

  Tristan

  Greasy food.

  That’s the only solution to tonight’s dilemma.

  Cheap, grungy, hole-in-the-wall grub.

  Something to kill the mood of the black dress, the send-all-the-blood-rushing-south teddy, and that precipice.

  That fucking precipice at the top of the steps where all I wanted was to haul her in for a kiss. To slide my hands through that silky curtain of hair. To bring her close and tell her I can’t stop thinking about her and need to have her.

  Instead, I choose a Mexican joint that’s as dingy as winter is long. We order tacos, chips, guac, and two Diet Cokes, then snag a Formica booth at the back of the shop, the sharp scent of cleaning supplies from a nearby closet making my nose sting.

  I’m not thinking of sex now. I have bleach nose.

  Nor am I picturing that teddy I bet she’s still wearing under the hoodie and jeans she changed into. Fine, I am thinking of the teddy, but I’m trying not to.

  I divert all my brain cells to the guacamole as I dip a chip then crunch into it.

  “What’s Barrett up to tonight?” she asks.

  “More play rehearsal. The theater department at his school is intense, especially as the show gets closer. He’s working on the set designs. He seems to really like it.”

  She picks up her taco and takes a bite, then says, “I could see him being a set designer someday. Like for Broadway.”

  I smile as I snag another chip then chase it with a drink of soda. “Definitely. And if not that, he’ll be a scientist. He digs science a lot. But hell if I know what it takes to be a scientist. I was terrible at any science classes.”

  “Same. I wish there had been a way to be a psych major without taking chemistry. But alas, I couldn’t escape it.”

  “You were dead set on studying psych,” I say, recalling our college days—business for me, psychology for her. “Did you ever want to be a shrink or a therapist?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I just like understanding what makes us tick.”

  “Ah. Have you figured it out yet, Gingersnap?”

  “Still working on it.” She digs into her taco, taking another bite and swallowing before she says, “How is he doing though?”

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “What do you mean? With the set design?”

  She shakes her head and sets down her half-eaten taco. “No. Just in general. I know it’s been two years since your mom died, but how do you think he’s holding up?”

  Ah, the million-dollar question. I ask myself that daily, but hardly anyone else does anymore. A few months, maybe half a year, seems to be some kind of statute of limitations on grief, when people stop inquiring.

  But Peyton never followed those rules. She didn’t follow them in college when my dad passed away, and she didn’t follow them, either, when I lost my mom.

  Ironic, in a terribly cruel way, that my mom died right when she’d finally started dating again. She’d met a guy she liked. She was moving on from her own grief, moving ahead into the next phase of her life.

  But fate has a way of fucking with you, and the bitch had a field day screwing with my mom. One sunny summer afternoon, as she was heading to see her new guy and Barrett and I were at the movies, my mom suffered a heart attack in the park.

  She died on the way to the hospital, no one with her but the paramedics.

  Watching my fifteen-year-old brother break down, kneeling, bawling, clutching the hospital bed when we arrived damn near broke me too.

  I was twenty-seven, and the pain of losing her was excruciating. But I’d lived a quarter-century already. I’d made it through my teenage years with both parents, and through most of my twenties with one.

  My kid brother was fifteen and had no one but me. I’d have to be enough.

  He moved in with me a few days later, and somehow we’ve fumbled our way through. I found a therapist for him, and over time, he navigated to the other side of grief.

  I take a bite of my taco, putting it down before I answer Peyton’s question. “I think he’s doing okay. And I mean the good okay. Not the eh non-committal okay.”

  She smiles softly. “Good okay is definitely all right.” She takes a sip of her drink and sets it back down. “A lot of that is because of you. You know that, right?”

  The praise feels undeserved, and I wave it off. “Nah, he’s a good kid. We had good parents. And he had a good shrink.”

  She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Yes, that’s true. But mostly what he has is you. You’ve been there for him. You’ve helped him.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything special. I did what anyone would do.”

  She shoots icy death rays at me with her stare. “Stop. Seriously. Why is it so hard for you to accept a compliment?”

  I shrug, sliding my hand away from hers. “Maybe because I don’t feel like I did anything. And maybe because that wasn’t how I was raised.”

  She doesn’t back down but grabs a chip, scoops some guacamole, and lifts her chin defiantly. “Well, I was raised that way. And I believe in draping the people I love in compliments. Heck, I give compliments all day long at my store to strangers. But you?” She points at me with the loaded chip. “I want you to hear this. You need to hear this. You’re amazing. And you’ve given your brother support and security. That you feel it’s what you had to do doesn’t negate that.”

  She stabs the air again with the chip, the scoop of green wobbling on the edge. “You’re there for him every day. You listen, and you encourage him. You set boundaries and give him what he needs. You’re only twenty-nine, and you’ve had to be a parent—and not at a starter level. You need to accept this compliment. Because you’re incredible.” She finishes her speech with a final jab of the chip, and the dip splats onto the Formica.

  A laugh bursts from my throat.

  She stares fiercely at me again. “Don’t think the errant guacamole exempts you from taking my compliment.”

  I chuckle. “It kind of does.” Reaching for a napkin, I clean the mess. When I look up, the stern stare is gone and she’s looking at me sweetly.

  “Tristan, you’ve done good with him. I’m so amazed. And I admire you so much.”

  Her kind voice, her good heart, together they unlock something in me. Maybe it’s the seven layers of self-protective armor. Or possibly it’s plain stubbornness.

  “Thanks,” I say, finally accepting what she’s giving me, emotion clogging my throat. “I appreciate it. I’d do anything for him.”

  Her smile is so soft, so endearing, that it nearly makes me forget I was this close to clasping her face on the stairs and growling, Kiss me.

  Right now, she’s the friend she’s always been—warm, caring, loving.

  She’s everything she’s ever been to me.

  And I have to steer this conversation far away from warm fuzzies and mutual admiration. “So, what do I need to wear to homecoming?”

  She wiggles a brow, going with my 180. “Depends if you want me to rip off your shirt.”

  God, yes. I pick up my taco and bite into the rest of it, putting off a response with a full mouth.

  “But I think wear what you usually wear,” she says.

  “All I own are Henleys and jeans. Some sweatshirts. And the shirts I bought for the button experiment.”

  “You’re not wearing a sweatshirt.” Peering at my eyes like she’s studying them, she hums, then says, “My vote is for a forest-green Henley. It’s very you, so you’ll feel good in it, and it’ll also make your eyes pop even more.”

  I laugh. “You sound like you’re talking to a customer.”

  “Is that so wrong? Besides, you would look good like that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You always look good, Tristan.” There goes my heart again, skipping beats like the idiotic o
rgan it is.

  “I don’t think I have one that color,” I say, needing to segue to brass tacks. “I’m not even sure what forest green is.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ll handle it. Don’t think twice about it.” She sets her chin in her hand. “But what should I wear?”

  “I thought you were going as Marie Antoinette?”

  “I was just playing around. But I do think I’ll wear a dress.”

  “Color me shocked.”

  “Barrett will be so bummed I’m not in costume,” she says with an aw-shucks snap of her fingers.

  My mind latches onto Barrett’s comments the other night. “I think he has a crush on you.”

  She scoffs, her answer emphatic. “He doesn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He just doesn’t. He likes me in a friendly, big-sister way. The way you turn to the sister of a buddy.”

  “Some guys like the sisters of their buddies,” I point out.

  She shakes her head. “He doesn’t think of me like that. His interests are elsewhere. Trust me, I’d know.”

  My eyebrows rise. I’m intrigued by her comment, curious if all men are that transparent to her. “How would you know?”

  She nods, taking another bite. “Younger guys tend to give that stuff away easily.” She gestures to her face. “You can see it in their expressions, their eyes, their gestures.”

  Ah, that makes sense. “Do older guys do that too?”

  She stops, studies me, then shakes her head. “No, they don’t give away their feelings so easily.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  * * *

  After I walk her home and say goodbye on her steps, she yanks me in for one of those classic Peyton hugs.

  When I’m this close to her, inhaling her scent, feeling her body, I wonder if I’m giving anything away.

  If I’m transparent.

  But then, what would I have to be transparent about? What I felt tonight is what any guy would feel when a pretty woman stripped down to nearly nothing. Just a normal bit of lust, that’s all.

  After we pull apart, she waggles her fingers goodbye. “See you Saturday, Fred. Isn’t that your busiest day?”

  “Of course it is. But I’ve hired good people, so I’m all set.”

  “Then I’ll see you on Saturday. I’ll be the woman wearing red.”

  The image of her in that bra I picked up the other day flashes before my eyes. Taunting, teasing.

  It’s just lust. It’s just desire. Nothing more.

  I can’t act on it.

  For so many reasons, but chief among them is this: I don’t want to lose another person I love.

  I care about her too much as a friend to risk what we’ve built. That’s what matters.

  When she reaches the door to her brownstone, I call out in my best friendly, sarcastic, buddy voice, “See you this weekend, Gingersnap.”

  I hope it fools her into thinking I only see her as a friend.

  17

  Peyton

  The Lingerie Devotee: Don’t Try This at Home

  Blog entry

  The name says it all.

  A lace plunge teddy.

  And plunge I did.

  I plunged to my butt. I plunged to my elbow. I plunged nearly all the way down the stairs.

  Wait.

  Is “plunge” one of those cringeworthy words?

  Now that I write it over and over, I fear we might need to send “plunge” the way of “moist,” “pucker,” and “Uranus.”

  Let’s not use words like “plunge” when referring to sexy lingerie, shall we agree?

  So what if the makers of this satiny garment call it a lace plunge teddy? I say we give it a new name. The lace V teddy, because it cuts a V down my neck, between my breasts, to the top of my belly button.

  V indeed.

  And last night, it gave me confidence. It helped me radiate desire, and it boosted my spirits.

  But the thing is, asking a man to disrobe you while you walk up the stairs in heels is like trying to run the egg-and-spoon race while also carrying a wily cat in your arms and balancing a bucket of water on your head.

  IT DOESN’T WORK.

  Or, really, it works phenomenally well if your goal is to twist your ankle.

  My handsome scene partner and I reenacted the staircase strip four times last night. Each time, we landed on our butts, elbows, hips, or the wrong side of our feet.

  The problem is, you’re not supposed to land. You’re supposed to parade upstairs, looking sensual, shooting sexy-times eyes at your lover, and sashaying to Sade.

  But where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  We were determined to make this scene work, so we found a way. Or, rather, he did.

  He took the lead, whispering naughty words and deeds in his smoky, gravelly voice as he followed me up the steps.

  Then, when we reached the top step, he whisked off my dress.

  In one bold, swift, commanding move.

  Like a hero in a romance novel, casually, coolly dropping the fabric to the floor.

  And my silky black clothes pooled by my feet as I stood wearing only heels and a teddy that exposed most of my flesh.

  Most.

  But not all.

  Plenty was left to the imagination.

  And that’s why I say don’t try the staircase shimmy at home. But do indulge in a piece of clothing that will make you feel adored when the one you want tugs everything else off you.

  In short? Make this move your own.

  Xoxo

  The Lingerie Devotee

  Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue

  18

  Peyton

  When I walk into Gin Joint on Friday night to see my girls, I check if I have toilet paper on my Jimmy Choos.

  Nope.

  Maybe a leaf fell into my hair? I brush a hand over my head as I make my way to the purple velvet couch Amy and Lola have commandeered in the center of the lounge.

  With the way my two best friends stare at me, like I’m a giraffe walking backward, something has to be amiss.

  I run my hands down my leopard-print skirt, then check my backside. “Do I have lint on my shirt? Dirt on my nose? A sign taped to my back that says I ate two whole chocolate bars for lunch? Because I swear, if Marley ratted me out about my midday Lulu’s Chocolates scarf session, that girl is toast.”

  Amy blinks, holds up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. Your dessert compartment is that big? It holds two chocolate bars?”

  I sit next to her, crossing my legs, answering primly, “It wasn’t my dessert compartment. It was my lunch compartment.”

  Lola bows. “I had no idea it was possible to eat two chocolate bars for lunch. I humble myself before you, O Great Chocolate Queen.”

  I pat her curls. “You may rise now, my subject.” Taking a moment, I stare at them like they’re crazy. “Guys! No, I didn’t eat two chocolate bars.” I lower my voice, cupping my hand to my mouth. “I had one. But seriously. Why are you staring at me with those you’re-so-naughty eyes?”

  Amy gently shoves my leg. “Because you are naughty. Ahem.” She clears her throat, adopts a sultry tone. “But do indulge in a piece of clothing that will make you feel adored when the one you want tugs everything else off you.”

  I shrug as a waitress swings by and asks for my order. I eye Amy’s drink.

  “This one’s called Last Word. It’s delish,” Amy says. “Get it.”

  “I’ll have the same, thanks,” I tell the woman, then return to my friends. “So, what’s the issue with my blog?”

  Lola blinks rapidly. “What’s the issue? You just declared in a public forum that you want Tristan.”

  “No. No, that’s not what I said.” I jerk my head back, shocked they’d leap to that conclusion. “I did not. I was writing about . . . ”

  But I don’t entirely know how to fill in the blank. I was writing about whether romance novel scenes work. About
walking up stairs. Was I writing about reenacting desire?

  Or rekindling it?

  Lola does know how to close the thought, it seems, since she jumps in. “You were writing about how you felt. With Tristan.”

  Her statement—bold, possibly true—rings like a gong.

  And with it, a host of nerves descends on me. Nerves I haven’t felt quite like this. Because this time, the nerves aren’t about what I’m doing. They’re about what I’m feeling.

  Or, rather, what I can’t let myself feel.

  I recalibrate. “It was an experiment, and I was writing about it sort of as if I’m an everywoman. I was saying, as an everywoman, you want to feel desired when the guy, or gal, stares at you like they want to ravish you.”

  Amy points at me excitedly. “That’s how he looked at you! Like he wanted to ravish you. I knew it. Called it.”

  She offers a high five to Lola, who smacks it.

  “You’re placing bets on how Tristan looked at me?”

  They nod in unison, twin torturesses.

  “And you guys are my friends, right? Just want to make sure.”

  “We are your people.” Amy pats my knee. “Now, how did it feel when he stared at you like he wanted to eat you up like those chocolate bars?”

  Decadent.

  I wave a hand, wishing I could erase this conversation because it’s treading on dangerous shores. “I wrote about it. It was an experiment. I wasn’t saying he’s the one I want.”

  Lola arches a brow, her expression shifting. “But do you? Do you want him?”

  “Because it seems like maybe you do from those posts,” Amy adds, a gentleness in her tone.

  My throat hitches. My breath comes fast with the swell of rising emotions I do my best to deny. “I was just trying to capture a moment. To write broadly about how a woman might feel if she were in the shoes of a romance heroine.”

  “Did you feel like one?” Amy asks, all teasing stripped from her tone.

  Did I?