ELEVEN
AIDAN
I’m sitting at my desk when my receptionist’s voice comes over the speakerphone and tells me Essie Floyd is here to see me. “Did she have an appointment? I didn’t see her on the calendar,” she asks.
“No. She didn’t need one. Send her in.”
I stand up and adjust my collar. I’ve spent all morning trying to figure out what Essie’s going to say when she gets here, and now the time has finally arrived. I can’t say I’ve had much success in guessing what’s going to come of this talk. Everything seems possible and at the same time, totally implausible.
My office door opens, and there she is.
She looks older than the last photograph I saw of her. Or maybe it’s that in the photograph she was smiling, and right now she isn’t. She’s frowning. Almost grimacing. Either way she doesn’t look pleased. Like every other night this month, I dreamed about her last night, and her demeanor had been very different then. She’d been breathless, words slipping out of her mouth in endless whispers as I fucked her. I’d taken a paddle to the buttocks, gently laying the leather against her bare, naked skin. She’s writhed around in ecstasy as I’d played with her, running my fingers over the slick, wet pussy, before carefully sliding my index finger inside her asshole. She’d gasped, fingernails digging into my thighs as I’d toyed with her, teasing her, using my other hand to work her clit. When she came in the dream, she was grinding her pubic bone into my hand, panting, rocking wilding against me, and the very act of witnessing her climax had made me come too. I’d woken unsatisfied, though, my dick still hard, my sheets clean. I hadn’t jerked off in the shower. I’d left my ridiculously hard cock well alone. I knew I was meeting her. I wanted to be hard for her all day. My erection had vanished before I even left the apartment, but still… It feels slightly criminal knowing that I wanted her so badly only a matter of a few hours ago. I’m all too aware of how fucked up it is that I’m thinking about fingering her ass the first time we meet in person.
“Essie.” I walk over to her, hand extended. “Aidan Callahan.”
Her face remains impassive. She takes my hand and shakes it quickly. “Nice to meet you,” she says.
Since taking over the company, women have treated me differently. Most are demure, hiding shy giggles behind their hands, looking me in the eye for only the briefest of seconds. A handful—the models, the actresses—are aggressive and unapologetic in their advances. But right away I can tell Essie is different. There’s a hard look in her eye, and her mouth is set in a thin line that doesn’t waver when I smile at her. I expect her to say I know who you are, or I know you’ve been watching me. Maybe even, I know what you’ve been dreaming about. Something, at least, to acknowledge the past history we share. However, she says nothing. And I wonder: is it possible she has no idea who I am? That thought never even crossed my mind. She must, right? She must know about our shared past. Unless…unless she didn’t see the articles or the countless pieces in the evening news. Maybe all she was really aware of at the time was that her brother was dead and it didn’t matter to her who did it. She may not know who I am. This seems even more likely when she slaps a folder down on my desk.
“Here are the forms,” she says.
“Oh. Of course.” I sign them quickly, my chest tightening when I notice Arturo Mendel’s chicken scratch in the margins of the papers. She stuffs the papers back into the file. We both stand there, awkwardness filling the space between us. I’ve often thought what I might say if we were ever standing in front of each other, the way we are now. In my mind, we’ve had some very in-depth conversations. Everything from the serious and heartfelt to the more lighthearted and humorous. I’ve apologized to her for what my brother did. I’ve asked her to tell me about her own brother. In all these conversations, things flowed easily. There was never a moment of discomfort. The reality of our first meeting is stark in contrast. It’s about as uncomfortable as meetings can get.
But then Essie does something strange: she reaches out and touches my arm. “Thank you,” she says. I am sharply aware of the feel of her touch on my arm, the warmth of her skin radiating into my own. She takes a step closer, a small smile starting to form at the corners of her mouth.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “Is…” I let my voice trail off. What had I been expecting? I don’t know. Something out of the ordinary, that’s for damn sure. I clear my throat. “Is there anything else?”
Her mouth begins to form the shape of a no but then she stops. “Actually,” she says. “There is one more thing. I was…I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner some time.” She says the last part in a jumble, words all rushed together.
It’s not very often I am rendered speechless in my own office, but right now I’m pretty close. At first, I think that I’ve misheard her, but she’s starting to blush. She rips her gaze from mine and looks down at her feet. She’s wearing black pumps, and her ankles are slim and lovely.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I realize that’s probably way out of line, considering I’m here on…business. It probably seems totally out of the blue. But…that’s really why I emailed you to begin with. I…I was hoping that we could…go out and get dinner.” The color continues to rise on her cheeks. She finally looks up and meets my eye. She really is beautiful. It’s something more than that, though, but I can’t put my finger on it just yet. I mean, I see beautiful women all the time. So much so that I don’t really even notice them anymore. Perhaps it’s their attitudes. They’re entitled, or arrogant, or want to play silly mind games. It doesn’t matter how fucking hot you are; if you do shit like that, we’re not going to connect.
But it’s almost like there’s something in her eyes that I recognize, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s more than her simply looking like the first girl I ever loved.
“Yes,” I say. “We can do that. Did you have somewhere in mind?”
She stares at me like I’ve just slapped her across the face. With wide, unblinking beautiful brown eyes, she studies my face, her glossed lips slowly parting. “I—”
“If not, I know a place or two,” I continue. I don’t know what’s occurring between us right now, but it feels like I’ve just called her bluff.
“Anywhere you choose is fine,” she says, exhaling. Her breath is sweet and smells like mint. I can just imagine what she would taste like if I kissed her right now. I shouldn’t be thinking about fucking kissing her right now. Jesus. What the hell? On top of what I was thinking when she walked into the room? I clench my left hand into a fist inside the pocket of my pants.
“When would you like to go out?”
She finally blinks. “Friday night?”
I have a vague recollection of something I’m supposed to do Friday night, but fuck it. It’ll have to wait. “Why don’t you leave your phone number,” I say. “And I’ll call you when I’m on my way over.”
“Or…why don’t I just meet you somewhere? You pick,” she says.
She’s putting me on the spot. I say the first restaurant that pops into mind. “Electra, then.” It’s a fancy nouvelle cuisine place. The food looks like a work of art instead of an edible meal. I went there with a client a few months ago and spent a ridiculous amount of money on food that was pretty fucking terrible.
“Electra? Sure. That sounds fine. Why don’t I meet you there at seven?”
“Sure. I’ll take care of the reservation.”
“I heard their waiting list’s over a month long.”
“They’ll probably be able to accommodate us.” I’ll make damn sure of it.
“Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she says. She picks up the folder and leaves.
I’m not sure how long I stand there for, replaying the scenario in my head, over and over again. Did that just really happen? And, with all the images of ass-play running through my head, did I manage to talk to her without sporting a massive hard-on?
Yeah.
Yes, I most certainly did.