Us After You

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Thank you, Becky. Please close the door on your way out,” he says, shifting his eyes toward the door. “What’s so urgent that couldn’t be handled over the phone, Decker?”

  I stare at Becky, watching her hips sway while she follows his directions. As the latch clicks, my attention goes back to him. “She’s hot. Are you tapping her?”

  “Yes, she’s something,” he agrees smirking slightly. Once again, he doesn’t disclose much about his taste in women—or men. I know he’s attracted to me, but he seems to fight it. There are so many questions swirling in my head when it comes to him, but with that major wall he puts up between us, I’ll never find my answers. “But I make it a rule not to mix business with pleasure.”

  “If she wasn’t your … staff, would you do her?”

  “Decker, concentrate.” He snaps his fingers at me. “What are you doing here?”

  I walk closer to his desk, and the oak, mossy scent of his fragrance replaces the mix of club stench from outside the door. My entire body goes into red alert. I reach inside my jacket and unfold the NDA as I hand it to him.

  He takes a quick look at it and starts shaking his head. “Another fucking NDA?” The thud his hand makes as it slams against the desk makes me jolt. “I’ve already sworn never to speak about your family. Parents, siblings, or goddamned pets. What is it now?”

  Touchy. I retrieve the paper back from him avoiding his gaze.

  It’s hard for many to comprehend why we need an NDA, but for me it is natural to hand them to business partners or employees. My fathers, the patriarchs of the Decker family, like to keep their private life within the family. It’s what my parents decided once they became a couple. Being celebrities made them news. Chris Decker is a famous rock star from the ’80s, and Gabe Colt is a critically acclaimed award-winning actor. And yep, both are men. These days it is hard to understand why a gay couple would want to hide their relationship, but back in the ’80s, when their relationship started, it had to be kept under wraps if they wanted to protect themselves and us—their children—from gossip. If it hadn’t been because of their rules, we would have become an attraction from day one. Watch the latest news about the triplets of the famous gay couple.

  These contracts are created to protect my loved ones and keep them far away from the media. There’s always a foe, or a contractor ready to find some important piece of information about our lives and sell it to the highest bidder. That’s why I brought this with me, to make sure Tristan doesn’t leak any information regarding the family, like Jacob’s recent nuptials.

  Of course, Jacob, my triplet, didn’t mention that Tristan already signed one when we spoke on Saturday during his wedding reception. He only told me to inform Tristan he’d be out of town for a few months and that I’d be in charge of all his shit. Shit which includes Thrice, the nightclub Jacob and Tristan are opening next year. I always cover my bases when I have to deliver any kind of sensitive information about my family—including the secret wedding. Jacob Decker became a solo act and with his new fan base, it’s in his best interest to remain single and detached. At least that’s what Pria, his wife and PR rep, said.

  “Jacob got married this past weekend. He’s going to be out of town on his honeymoon. You and I will spend more time together.” I wiggle my eyebrows as I slide into the chair in front of him. His growl is priceless.

  “I’m hurt.” I touch my chest, then lean closer as I lower my voice. “Your mouth says you don’t like me.” I give him my best cocky wink. “But your body screams that you want me.” I rise from my seat.

  He tries to laugh off my comment even though we both know it wasn’t intended as a joke. “I’m not gay like you, Matthew,” he says. My eyebrows lift because he’s assuming. If I’m seen with a woman, I’m straight. Yet, if I’m with a man, I’m automatically deemed gay. I like and enjoy being with both—but despise labels. “My taste is … different. We’re different, Matthew,” he says, his emotionless eyes narrowing on mine. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Email me your travel schedule,” I say, placing my business card on top of his desk. “When you’re working in Seattle, you can stay at my place. There’s no point to waste money on hotels when I have plenty of room. I’ll give you a set of keys and the code since I travel about as much as you do.” And with that perplexed look now covering his face, I turn to make my exit.

  “Decker?” he calls after me as I’m about to open the door. My shoulders hunch, as I wait for him to insult me again. “Are we okay?”

  I spin around, leaning against the heavy door and watching this contradictory man who, I’m guessing, has no fucking idea what he wants and is afraid of who he might be. I set my gaze on his and wait a few breaths as I search for an answer.

  An answer for what … What does he need, and can I give it to him?

  I don’t know. He shuts me down every time I try to start something with him.

  I shrug. “You tell me, Cooperson,” I respond crossing my arms. “I hate labels. And no, I’m not gay. I sleep with whoever I’m attracted to.” I press my lips together halting any more words from escaping, as I feel they’re coming out all wrong. But in part that’s the truth. “I like women, men … I don’t like to label who I am. I find you strikingly hot.” Tristan’s eyes narrow, his hands become two fists, and his jaw twitches. “In my mind, there’s nothing wrong with telling you because your body responds to me. If you’re straight, you might want to rethink a few things because your reactions toward men say something else.” I shrug and immediately regret saying the last sentence. Holy shit, I hit a nerve.

  Tristan stares at me, the strength of his glare unsettling.

  Awkward.

  Yet I can’t help it but ask, “So, you only sleep with women? Is that it?” He gives me a blank stare, and his hands are no longer a couple of fists. “Have you ever been with a man?” He remains stoic, though begins to fidget with his pen. “I’ll take that as a yes all round. Is it me, then?”

  He blows out a noisy breath. “You’re a public figure, Matt. You’re comfortable with your sexuality—whatever that might be. Good for you.” I flinch at his last words, releasing my arms. Oh man … he’s in the fucking closet. I run a hand through my hair, my long strands falling onto my forehead. “I prefer to keep my business to myself.” His head drops, and he stares at the desk.

  He’s piqued my curiosity and I want to discover what’s behind that façade. It might eat him alive if he continues to hide behind it. I push myself off the wall, walk to where he sits, bend down, then kiss his cheek.

  Fuck. How I want to do much more than simply kiss his cheek.

  “Around me, you can be yourself. I will never judge you, Tristan.” I place my hand on top of his. “Whenever you need me, I’m here for you,” I whisper and leave the room.

  Unlike Any Other

  I step out of Eleanor—my lime green VW Beetle—press the alarm key and take a glance at the neighborhood. The row-house architecture emulates the brownstone structures found in almost every city in the East Coast, but with a Texan twist. It’s a warm combination of stucco and stone on the exterior with heavy timber balconies and iron accents.

  I climb the steps, getting sidetracked by the mums on each side of the door. Bending down, I smell them and sigh. I miss living in a house where I can plant flowers galore. My studio is comfortable. I even have a couple of plants. Still, this reminds me of … don't go there, Ainsley, stay in the present.

  Right, the present.

  Today, I focus on my mission—and having a good time. As usual, the door is unlocked and opens when I wiggle the handle.

  “Honey, I’m home,” I holler as I step onto the rubber mat, wiping my feet and turning on the light in the small foyer.

  I scan the room, taking every detail. I cringe as I spot the plaid cherry color couch adorned with big orange pillows. Grabbing my phone out of my messenger bag and place it on the arm chair along with my light jacket. I scrunch my nose when my eyes land on the mustard c
olor walls.

  Who decorated this place?

  I like the black and white pictures of the Eiffel Tower, a ballerina, and the landscapes. Yet, I can’t marry these decorations with the tall, blonde, husky football coach.

  The heavy steps on the wood floor drag my attention away from studying his apartment.

  “We don’t have all night, AJ,” Ryker Finn scolds as he ushers me inside the condo.

  Why am I here?

  My original plan for tonight included writing some music and watching a marathon of 80’s romcoms to kick-off my Thanksgiving week. It seemed like a good idea at the time and sounded better than visiting Ryker. Except, as I watched You’ve Got Mail and Meg Ryan celebrated Thanksgiving with her boyfriend and friends, it hit me; I wanted to spend the holidays with someone.

  The best solution, I could manage, was calling my… boyfriend. I phoned him and the call didn’t go as planned.

  “AJ, glad you’re calling,” he answered. No greetings or introductions to his newfound happiness. “Sweetheart, why don’t you swing by. I have a game tomorrow and I want you, babe.”

  Yes, I’m responding to a booty call. My fault. My call didn’t include the booty part; he came up with the idea all by himself. Obviously, I said yes—a girl has her needs.

  Ryker raises a blonde eyebrow, tilts his head toward the hallway and crosses his muscular arms waiting for me to follow. He doesn’t like me to linger around the living room area. Our routine is to step into the house, to make out while heading to the bedroom, and to finish with sex.

  “Sorry, the couch…” I scrunch my nose. “You really can’t buy a new one?”

  There are some pretty inexpensive ones at the second-hand furniture store on Main St. I know because I worked there two years ago during the holiday season. I refrain from mentioning it, since my mission is to score an invite, not to piss him off.

  “That’s my roomate’s shit, I can’t just changed it.”

  Right, the mysterious roommate who is never around. Six months and I’ve yet to meet him. The interior of this place isn’t why I’m here. Let’s focus on what we both need. Ryker needs sex and I want some holiday cheer.

  For the first time in three years, I plan to celebrate. At least Thanksgiving, which is this Thursday.

  Minus six days and counting.

  Ryker and I have been seeing each other for about six months. We don’t have a title, but surely, it’s enough time to invite me for a dinner, right?

  Earlier, I talked myself into asking.

  My parents always said: “What's the worst thing that can happen? If they say no, you're back to where you began.”

  “Thanksgiving is almost here,” I state the obvious.

  Ryker grumbles some incoherent words and directs me to his room. Like usual, the comforter is gone and there’s only the sheets and blanket on top. He’s such a slob.

  “As I was saying,” I speak, but Ryker doesn’t take notice. He kisses my neck and pulls off my dress.

  “Fuck, I swear you have the best lingerie in this world,” he grunts and kisses my shoulder blades and his hands slide down my back.

  “Take off the pump, AJ,” he orders, taping my pump lightly.

  I remove his hand and shake my head.

  “No, the pump stays. After six months, you should know better.”

  Since day one, he’s have a problem with my insulin pump. Actually, every guy I’ve been with, has a problem with it. Sorry, but I don’t have a pancreas that works well enough to produce insulin on demand.

  Do it now, AJ. You set yourself up to succeed in this mission; take the chance.

  “Talking about six months,” I say. “You know that I don’t have a family to spend the holidays with you.”

  I clear my throat and reword it, “Why don’t you invite me to enjoy it with you?”

  “Uh, you celebrate the holidays?” his question follows with two wide eyes and a confused hmm that doesn’t sit well in the pit of my stomach.

  “Of course I celebrate the holidays,” I answer, controlling my annoyed tone. “It’d be lovely if you invite me to spend it with you.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?” His southern accent deepens. “Why would I want to bring you home when you’re only a romp between the sheets?”

  Ouch, that hurts somewhere. In fact, his question hits me right through the heart. Why not call me a cold bitch? Not that my heart hurts. My pride, maybe? My back tenses and I’m shrinking in size. Yes, he wounded my pride.

  “I’m more than that.” Not really.

  My protest isn’t acknowledged as he unhooks my bra slipping the straps down my arms.

  Really, after calling me his… fuck-girl, he thinks I’ll continue this?

  Fuck that, I’m leaving.

  The feathery kisses he places along my back are making me doubt myself, though. Okay, one more time and then I’ll head home and move on… yes?

  “Not once have I ever seen you leave,” he comments as a matter―of―fact.

  “That’s because after you dispose of the condom, you doze off,” I complain of his poor performance. There are times I don’t orgasm at all and he doesn’t care.

  “If you stayed… nevermind. You’re unattainable, AJ.”

  Before he can respond, there’s a sound coming from outside of his room. Keys hitting a surface, wheels rolling, papers shuffling. He freezes and I take this as an opportunity to jet off this place.

  I hurry dressing up, this is so over. When I turn to look at Ryker, his eyes are bulging. He trembles to the sound of stilettos tapping the floor. Moving my attention toward the door, I see spot an attractive, tall, willowy, dark haired woman dressed to kill—me.

  “You fucking bastard.” She steps in, flashing a dark glare toward him. “My mother was right, I shouldn’t have married you.”

  I gasp and glare at Ryker.

  “Wait, you’re married?” The last word comes out more like a desperate shriek.

  This tops last years dude with his, ‘Oh, I'm heading to my girlfriend’s place in New Hampshire with her folks.’

  My crippled judgment strikes again. Great, I'm becoming the Marilyn Monroe of the south. Except my hair is curly, long and brown, and my eyes are green.

  Note to self: next time run a background check and make sure you have the facts instead of assuming.

  “I can explain,” Ryker stutters.

  I can’t believe the husky six-foot-something football coach of one of the most famous college teams highlights the show. I work hard not to laugh.

  I raise my hand as I teach my kindergarten children to do during class when they want to participate.

  “No, please, let me do it,” I say. “I love to explain things.”

  Then, I slap my hand and remind myself that this isn’t a classroom, and I’m too nervous, so my brain is prone to act before thinking.

  Retreat, I order.

  The wife sends another wave of death rays toward me. Ugh, great, now I’m a harlot. The home wrecker.

  Mrs. Ryker turns on the light and her eyes pin me. I suddenly shrink a foot or two because of that super height and power the heels she wears provide her. The navy blue dress accessorized by a scarf and a pair of wings pinned to her breast hint that she’s a flight attendant.

  Now it all makes sense. She’s out of town, and I have never seen this place well enough to notice who might co-habitate with Ryker. That glare—she’s going to kill me.

  So long cruel world.

  What is this woman, six feet tall plus her shoes? At my median height of five-foot-five, she’s making me self-conscious of my size.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” I say. “You see, I’m internally damaged. Emotionally dead, no longer among the living when it comes to the heart-to-heart thing. So, of course, I wouldn’t be with a married man. If you choose to kill me, I don’t blame you, but know you’ll leave behind… no one to cry for me.”

  I drop my chin to my chest.

  “You expect me
to clap after this dramatic display?” she snorts.

  Oscar-worthy acting, I don’t say. I ran lines with the best. You’d freak if you knew who I really am.

  “You know how to choose them, Ryker,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “No, I’m purely stating the truth. Drama is a family trait,” I explain and shrug one shoulder. “My parents.”

  I close my lips and press them tight. They don’t need to know more about me. After all, I’m not real. Just an afterthought my parents would rather forget forever. They might already had forgotten all about me.

  “Sorry,” I repeat, looking into those seething eyes of hers.

  There’s nothing much I can say to make her feel better. Finding that the man you love is someone totally different hurts too much. I touch my chest. After all these years the pain remains.

  “I’ve been there you know… and it hurts, destroys you.” I point at myself. “Evidence.”

  “How old are you?” She glances for the millionth time from me to her husband. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-four,” I correct her while tracing an imaginary line with my bare foot. I need my boots and socks for the getaway.

  A quick glance around the floor and I spot them a few inches in front of me. Ducking forward, I grab the suckers to quickly finish dressing and straighten up to look Mrs. Ryker in the eyes.

  “Well, this was… awkward, and again, sorry,” I apologize. “So sorry.”

  I turn to look at Ryker giving him my best slit-throat glare. “I hope your dick dries up and falls off the next time you think about cheating on your wife.”