Before Midnight

 

In the dark attics of our minds, all times mingle.

- Charles de Lint

 

 

KAT

 

My biggest problem tonight wasn’t that I couldn’t feel anything… It was that I could feel everything.

The silk was cool against my skin, almost cold. The mattress beneath my body seemed stiffer somehow, more rigid. Seemingly soft, the pillow I previously had loved had roughened in a matter of minutes, and my body sensed every rough edge, every wrinkle along the surface.

I sighed, beating a fist into the sheets.

Elena’s advice hadn’t worked. Mr. Two-Strokes was no longer doing the trick tonight. A groan worked its way up my throat, and I released it, sinking back under the covers. It was a good thing my older sister slept sooner than I could because if she hadn’t, she might hear the ragged scream that was seeping out of my open mouth.

Even my “Me-Time” was a mess, the cherry on top of a shit night—a night that had started with a bang… and ended with me on the floor.

It started the second we stepped into the bar, buying our first round of drinks.

“That’s my next baby daddy.”

I sipped my drink. “I think you have to have at least one baby daddy before you can technically look for your next.”

Elena shrugged. “True. Okay… He’ll be my first baby daddy.”

I stared at my sister, watching her watch the man on the other side of the room. “You have a boyfriend.”

She grinned, a sexy smile spreading on her pretty face. “He doesn’t have to know that…” She turned to the sight of me rolling my eyes. She smacked my wrist. “I’m kidding… You know I’m looking for someone for you.”

“You’re better off looking for that baby daddy.”

“And lose out on my now-unemployed stoner of a boyfriend, Ted?” She rolled her eyes even harder than I just had. “Not for anything in the world.”

I looked at my sister, side-eying her as she mused about her mess of a boyfriend. I didn’t understand it. She was phenomenal; she looked phenomenal. She wore a thigh-hugging black dress. Mostly blonde hair and perky boobs, Elena had the sort of figure that couldn’t be hidden by clothes, the kind of attitude that most men both feared and loved, and though she’d had the mouth of a sailor, she also had the ballerina legs of a dancer; she’d been one all her life.

Men flocked to Elena like moths to a flame. And me? I had trouble just talking to the hot bartender. Maybe I’d just been a tomboy for too damned long…

I took a deep breath that was full of water. The air was heavy, thick with humidity. Tampa Bay at night was breath-taking, and though I was high above the city, hundreds of feet above the surface of the ocean, in all actuality, I might as well have been beneath it.

I was drowning, suffocating in the typical Tampa bar-club scene, and I couldn’t tell if it was the crowd, the memories that wouldn’t go away… or the strange feeling that refused to, either, but halfway between panicking and partying, I sipped at the cocktail, willing the nightmare hiding behind my eyelids to disappear.

Suddenly, another lemon drop shot of vodka appeared in front of my face, the clear-ish yellow concoction pushed towards me at the bar.

I looked up. The bartender smiled.

“Sorry to scare you,” he said. He slid a piece of paper in my direction. “The guy at the far table wanted me to give you and your…” He glanced at Elena, grinning. “…gorgeous friend this note.” He spun back towards the bar. “And these, of course.”

He placed two more lemon-drop drinks in front of us and winked. The attractive barkeep disappeared just as quickly as he had shown up, and before I could ask him who the guy was, some stranger was talking Elena’s ear off to the tune of some cheesy Train melody playing in the background.

And I was left alone at the makeshift bar, wondering why after all these years, a lifetime of losing out to the likes of the Elena’s and Laney’s, why I couldn’t just be like other women—flirty and free…  I’d grown into my looks at eleven, learned to love my Loubotins at twenty-two. I waxed. I shaved. I primped.

But I didn’t look like anyone else on the beautiful rooftop patio. Still in a day’s work clothes, dark hair piled atop my head, I hadn’t felt this adrift, unwanted and abnormal in such a long time—at least not since I was seventeen. I’d never been the life of the party, networking didn’t come natural to me, and though I enjoyed people, I never partook in the brown-nosing that ran rampant in my own profession—publishing. I never adhered to the kiss-ass mentality that pervaded every “hi,” “bye,” and “Lunch later?”

I was the only party-pooper in the place—a complete mess under my dress. On the outside, I was primped and powdered, ready to put the fire behind me, but on the inside? It was as if the fire had never died. Five nights ago, Laney and I had turned around after finally settling on the street only to discover that the man who had saved us was gone—vanished into the night. Authorities, firefighters and police had arrived within minutes to battle the blaze, questioning us the whole night through, and yet he never resurfaced—our rescuer.

It was almost as if I had imagined him, and for a few moments, I’d been ready to deem him a dream… until I remembered that Laney saw, heard, felt him too. He’d haunted my thoughts ever since…

Elena snapped her fingers near my face, waving.

“Hey! Earth to Kat. I’m trying to get you drunk here, if you don’t mind…”

“Oh!” I dropped my head, staring at my cup. “Sorry. I just…”

“Less ‘sorry’s.’ More sipping.”

It was a reminder I wasn’t sure I needed. It was bad enough that I’d been interrogated by the cops. I was raked over the coals by my sister the second she stepped into town. Her taxi had pulled up to my apartment two days after the TravelTalk fire, and she stepped out of the cab, all boobs and blonde hair bouncing in the wind, her high heels clicking across the concrete as she ran towards me before grabbing me in a tight hug, squeezing—probably bruising what few parts of my body managed not to turn black and blue.

Nonetheless, she’d sat beside me during my police precinct interviews, slapped my wimpy lawyer into shape and threatened to pistol-whip a detective who’d gotten a little aggressive during questioning. And after all of that, after I talked until I was blue in the face and beat the police over the head with the same version of events, Laney and I barely managed to squeak our way out of a Breaking and Entering charge, our role in the fire still listed as unclear, a big question mark that the Tampa Police refused to erase.

Truth be told… neither could I.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the vision of the fire off my mind or the sound of it out of my head. I thought of nothing but the flames… and the man emerging from them, saving me from the fiery fate I had almost resigned myself to.

It was all so beautiful… and terrible. The air around me had crackled with finality, its rhythm dancing on a deadly drumbeat of sparks and snaps. Blue bursts intermittently emitted from the blaze, roaring and raging in a way I’d never seen before, the mounting fire making its way across the floor and all but stapling me to the ground, holding me fixed. Frozen. I was completely and utterly helpless on my own heels.

Until him. The mysterious man from the fire—a man that was much more myth than reality.

I’d taken to calling him Dante (from “The Inferno”). At the very least, he was the Greek God, Icarus—a figure of imagination flying much too close to the sun, his exploits burning as bright as the flame that threatened to consume him. I could cope with what had happened in the fire when I focused my thoughts around him. But then a flaming shot on the liquor bar sent me into pure panic attack mode, my knees giving way from under me, my legs collapsing as I nearly fainted in the center of the floor, my skin cold and clammy as my sister rushed to my side, shaking me back into consciousness.

It wasn’t my brightest moment. Advised to “take it easy,” I plotted to do just that after a twenty-minute cab back to my place, but Mr. Two Strokes had different plans. And if an orgasm wasn’t going to take my mind off my near-death experience, then work was going to have to do the trick.

Sliding my battery-operated boyfriend back under the pillow, I reached for my laptop at the edge of the bed. I slid it over the silk nightie hugging my thighs, opening the screen to stare into my e-mail inbox. Instead I found a message, waiting to pop up as soon as I signed on.

I clicked on it, making the red notification button disappear, chuckling at the fact that our chat group—the one that Laney and I had started on our company-wide messaging system—was still entitled, #DesperateforDick.

Laney:

How was your “Back to normal” night?

 

It was Laney, in our private chat channel. I started typing back.

 

Katarina:

Half a success. The drinks were good. Elena was Elena. I was a spaz. Nothing new there.

 

Laney:

Did you meet anybody?

 

Katarina:

Yes.

 

I replied.

 

Mr. Jack Daniels and Sir Jose Cuervo.

 

Laney hesitated before writing back.

 

Laney:

Two men in one night…?

 

The messenger showed that she was typing.

 

SLUT.

 

Katarina:

HAG. And don’t try to lecture me. Before the night is over, I fully intend to cozy up with a big heap of Dr. Johnny Black.

 

I turned my TV on, flicking through the channels before getting bored.

 

Care to join us?

 

Laney:

A foursome…? No, thank you. I’ve actually got an early lunch date with a man who doesn’t require batteries. I suggest you do the same. If you keep abstaining from sex, your vagina is going to shrivel up like a raisin. I don’t want to be the one to tell you so, but if it comes down to it… I am NOT putting money on your vaginoplasty. That’s all I’m saying…

 

Katarina:

Some friend you are. What’s a friend if she can’t sit beside you while you’re getting your vagina walls reworked? And how do you know I haven’t been getting some? We’re not ALL as vocal as you are. Maybe some of us like to keep some secrets…

 

Laney:

OH PUH-LEASE. You haven’t been able to keep a secret from me since the day we met. Remember: I was the one who found out you were arrested for what happened in Mrs. Wentworth’s store… EVEN THOUGH YOU DIDN’T CALL ME.

 

I’m the only person in the world who knows about the Corey Feldman posters stashed under your bed. And IF you were getting laid (or at least successfully flicking the bean), I would know it the second you did. You’ve never been able to fix your face when you were feeling some sort of way. It’d be a cold day in hell before you were able to mask an emotion. And you definitely know it.

 

I tapped the edge of my screen, tempted to close it on my speculating best friend. I hated when she was wrong, even more so when she was right.

It was Corey Haim that was under my bed, not Corey Feldman. But even a broken clock was right twice a day because facts were… I hadn’t been laid in sixteen months, and even then, it had been a drunken mistake, a senseless romp in a back-room bar with my ex, Greg Sears… a man I now hated more than anything.

Truth was… I didn’t trust myself to have sex. My track record hadn’t been stellar up until this point, and even the unforgettable ones—the once in a lifetime lays, were incidents I wished I could forget, men I wished I could forget… feelings I wished I could forget.

One man more than most, actually. But I wouldn’t allow myself to think about him. I pushed him out of my mind and responded to Laney’s message.

 

Katarina:

Here’s an emotion for you. Pop Quiz: Can you guess this emotion? EAT A DICK. I am getting off. Byeeee, Laney.

 

Laney replied immediately.

 

Laney:

Joke’s on you, too. I WILL eat a dick. Probably tomorrow night. JEALOUS? And I don’t want to hear about you getting off. Not unless it’s the good kind of “getting off.” I’m leaving this chat-room channel because it no longer applies to me right now. I’m a newly formed “cocks-pert.” Call me when you cum, Kat.

 

And yes… I meant “cum.”

 

I stuck a virtual tongue out at her.

Swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I went reaching for those retro posters under my mattress frame when my computer pinged, indicating a new message.

I clicked on the red bubble that appeared. I stared at the first thing I saw.

 

We need to talk.

 

I groaned, replying without a second thought.

 

Katarina:

Sorry. You need a reservation for #DesperateforDick party of one. All parties who are currently getting some need not apply. No floozies. No whore-bags. No “cocks-perts.” BYE, Laney.

 

I hit the final key with a loud tap. I bent over the side of the bed. I squeezed my arm under the space beneath it, my fingers finally reaching it after a full minute. My arm practically stretched out of its socket, I sat the Corey Haim posters beside me, considering making good use of them. Except I wasn’t a teenager anymore… and no “The Lost Boys” remake was going to make my girly bits do a dance now at the age of twenty-six.

I sighed, slumping back onto my headboard. The sigh slid into a gasp the second I peeked at the returning message on my screen. I blinked, fearing that I was losing my mind. The bad part was… I wasn’t.

 

Brendon:

Sorry. No Laney here…

 

I looked again. I had been added to a new #WorkChat conversation, a private invitation—not a channel, with only one other member. None other than Brendon Foxx himself…

 

My heart beat against my chest as I sat there, staring at the words, unable to pick up my fingers and make them type. I swallowed thickly as the private message showed that he was responding. Another bubble popped up.

 

Brendon:

Hello?

 

I wrote back faster than I intended.

 

Katarina:

Hi.

 

I followed up quickly.

 

Sorry. That was meant for someone else.

 

Brendon Foxx:

I see. Laney the “cocks-pert.” Seems as if I intercepted her invitation. If it’s all the same to you… I’ll pass on the #DesperateforDick party.

 

Katarina:

Suits me just fine.

 

I decided to be blunt.

 

What do you want, Mr. Foxx?

 

His response came quick.

 

Brendon:

A meeting. Face-to-face. I might not have been as responsive as before. Scratch that. I know I haven’t… But some time has opened up on my schedule. I’d like to sit down, talk to you in person…

 

I said nothing and he continued.

 

That is…if you’re still interested. I know I am.

 

Katarina:

Change of heart?

 

Brendon:

Something like that.

 

There seemed to be more to that statement, but I refused to delve further. In fact, I refused to have anything more to do with Brendon Foxx, his letters or his death-trap of a building. Let Greg Sears sing like a bird, share whatever he wanted. I was done with trying to keep control of the situation. Brendon Foxx could run his business as he saw fit… and I’d be fit to sue if he stepped out of line and into mine. I was doing my best to move on from him, my stupid ex, and the sexy stranger that had saved me several nights ago.

I typed as humble of a reply as I could manage. I placed my fingers on the keys.

 

Katarina:

Look, I have to admit that I was out of line. My dealings with a former employee are mine… and not yours. I can’t stop you from doing business with Greg Sears. Nor do I want to anymore. I heard about the accident at your offices. Maybe you’ve heard about mine. So why don’t we just take our licks and keep it moving…? Maybe one day, down the line, we’ll find ourselves collaborating on some project. Stranger things have happened…

 

I removed my hands from the keyboard. That was as good of an apology as he was going to get. And if I could end our chat quickly, I might be able to do what Laney suggested I do before bed tonight. I grabbed my testy Mr. Two-Strokes, giving him a smack. I was going to need extra battery power tonight if I was going to get all of the tension out of my body… and the crazy thoughts about Brendon Foxx out of my head.

I waited for a “Good Night” message that never came. Instead, something else showed up.

 

Brendon Foxx:

No.

 

The words “Brendon Foxx is typing” appeared below to show that he was writing. One tiny spaghetti strap falling from my shoulders, I leaned closer to the screen, not believing what the TravelTalk CEO was actually saying.

 

This isn’t done. I can help you…if you need it. Strong, small businesses like yours are always more like chum for the sharks. I can give you our backing—the support of Foxxhole. We can make sure you’re not acquired. We can help you become as successful as you’d ever hope to be…

 

I read his message to myself again, mouthing the words out loud to myself so I didn’t get them wrong. The tips of my fingers were trembling by the time I put them back on the buttons of my laptop. Though my nightie was small, my skin felt feverish, and I couldn’t stop myself from typing back the words that were bubbling around on the edge of my teeth.

My raps on the keyboard built a frenzied rhythm.

 

Katarina:

Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Foxx. But I don’t NEED your help. I know what you and your “team” are like… You pounce on the vulnerable, prey on the weak. I’ve seen your father offer a helping hand that was little more than a stab in the back, and no offense… but the apple doesn’t seem to have fallen far from the tree. So, pardon me for saying this, as it comes with a healthy dose of skepticism… but kindly crumble your condescension into a ball and shove it up your rectum.

 

I don’t need your pity. Even less than that, I don’t need you pretending to want to “help” while harboring my worst enemy. I’m sorry, but it is, in fact, true. Let’s just call it what it is—a cessation of hostilities. For now, at least…

 

I sat backwards. Waiting for his response was killing me. I don’t know why I was so curious about what it would be, why I was even talking to him in the first place. His patronizing tone about “helping me” had somehow set me off, and I shouldn’t have cared what he thought about my business or me, for that matter… but somehow I did.

And I didn’t want to be that quintessential cheerleader I hated—waiting on the sidelines, hoping for the star quarterback’s nod of approval. I spent a lifetime trying to be anything other than her. And then Brendon responded.

 

Brendon:

Do you know who I am?

 

In that moment, he had confirmed every fear I’d had about the Foxxes. I had a few choice thoughts about what the bastard was, but I kept them to myself. Picture or not, he had to have been just like his father… and the father before him. Serious-eyed. Beautiful. And imminently brutal.

How was it possible to respect and dislike someone at the same time? And so much?

“Brendon Foxx is typing” appeared again.

 

Brendon:

Let me give you a hint…

 

He was starting out on a scathing foot.

 

I am Brendon Foxx… and I was BUILT for business. See, you may have been at this for a while, KATARINA, but I’ve been breathing this shit all my life. I was born to be this way… and any offer of help I make is all the way genuine because I don’t make these offers often… if ever.

Running a company, to me, is like riding a bike… or making love to a gorgeous woman. And I happen to be fucking phenomenal at all three. If you gave me the chance, maybe I could show you what I can do…

 

My fingers froze. I held my breath. A thunderous pounding beat within my chest, and I was sure it was because I didn’t know which of these he wanted to show me: the business, the bike, the love-making… or all three. I knew Brendon was bringing up the “love-making” just to get under my skin, but he had succeeded.

The silk of my skimpy nightgown felt indescribably cool. I rubbed my legs together, feeling the friction of the fabric against my skin… and the beginnings of a dampness that was forming between my thighs. I placed my hands back on the computer, tapping away.

 

Katarina:

Your father may have proved himself in the publishing world, but you haven’t… yet. Seems to me you’ve been nothing but talk… and not particularly interesting talk at that. You’re already boring me. And until you show me what you can do, I’m not particularly interested in listening.

 

Fuck. I stopped typing. What exactly had I given Brendon Foxx permission to show me? He pounced on my ineptitude.

 

Brendon Foxx:

A skeptic, I see, KATARINA.

 

He liked to capitalize my name.

 

I should have known… I’m equally as mistrustful. But until you’ve been in my shoes… until you’ve crunched the numbers, gotten your hands dirty in every deal and played in a contract pool of millions, you won’t quite understand what I’m capable of working.

I could do what you’ve done with your company at the age of ten.

You have to bend the business. Make it submit to your will.

It’s all foreplay, really…

You have to approach it as you would a beautiful woman. You give her your full concentration—your undying focus. You make her the object of your world until you can’t see anything else. But you can’t rush it with her, no…

You have to take your time…

 

I swallowed thickly as I read.

 

It’s more sophisticated than sweet-talk, more complicated than pretty words. You have to SEDUCE her, make her know that she’s yours. You mold her—shape her. You familiarize yourself with her body, become acquainted with all of her moving parts to the point where you can memorize the shape of her with your fingers.

You have to delve deep. So deep.

Highlight her flaws and spend time loving each one. Understand her in and out, so that you can carefully master each position, fine-tune every nuance in her—work within her walls.

 

My fingers fluttered between my legs and I didn’t stop them.

 

It isn’t about making her perfect. That would be impossible. It’s about LEARNING her imperfections, using them to climb to the top and stay there. It won’t be a quick ride. Won’t be easy. Nothing great ever is…

But you’ll enjoy it.

The hard work makes it worth it. And as you tweak, as you poke, prod, push and feel your way around, the climb becomes a drug—an addiction. How far can I get…? How long until I reach her peak…?

You’d want to know…

 

The breath I expelled was harsh. My fingers rubbed around the center of the lips between my legs until they were almost aching, and I slid them across my clit as slowly as I could handle. As I did, a small moan escaped my mouth, making me even wetter, drawing a dampness out on my fingers that felt addictive. I slide an inch deeper and sighed, imagining that my touch came from hands that weren’t my own.

I thought of the imaginary face of Brendon Foxx and bit back a groan. He never stopped typing.

 

You put in the hard work to enjoy the slow, steady, ecstasy-driven rise. Along the way, you tweak whatever you have to. You push and pull. You bend her until you feel you both might break and all the while, you drive forward until you feel like you almost can’t drive anymore, letting the sweat and tears propel you further than you ever thought you could go—beyond anything you could imagine…

You don’t stop. YOU CAN’T.

You sink your teeth into it. Rage, cry, claw your way to that nirvana if you have to… but DON’T STOP.

And when you hit that sweet spot, when you experience that incredible, undeniable breakthrough… you revel in the pure elation—the knowledge that you have thrust her to her peak, to the crest and maybe even further…

THAT is what I’m capable of, Miss KHVOSTOVA. My lessons are, for the time being, free… as soon as you take your head out of your ass and try to learn.

 

I gasped. My fingertips had slipped all the way inside my quivering core, and with Brendon Foxx’s final word, I came, my wetness spreading to the palm of my hand, tremors traveling down my body as I unsuccessfully tried to slow my breathing—taking huge gulps of air that did nothing to quench my sudden desire.

I couldn’t move if I wanted to. But I’d be damned if I didn’t try…

I slumped forward, my shoulders slipping out of my soft pajamas as I bent over the lower half of my laptop, making myself put words on the screen. I spelled them out slowly.

 

Katarina:

Very nice work you tried to do here. Really. Phenomenal. But trying to sexually intimidate a woman you’ve never met is the true trademark of a spoiled, entitled coward.

My business is just as good as yours. Maybe even better. Because I never had help… But you know what? You have earned something. An invitation to the #DesperateforDick channel. You see… I may be the one with the vagina. But you’re the one without any real balls. I’ll send you your summons to #DesperateforDick in the morning.

Have a nice night, Mr. Foxx.

 

With a final tap, I closed my laptop, doing my best to avoid checking the message I knew he would leave—the message I wouldn’t help but read and respond to. I was like a mouse in his trap, trying desperately to get out. I couldn’t explain it.

I was becoming obsessed with the man. And it was bad when I’d done it professionally, but now there was a personal note to it, a distinctive rapport that sickly made me look forward to his next letter, his next message—his next chat.

I lay my head back against the headboard, wondering how I had gotten to this point, why Brendon Foxx affected me so… And why I hoped in my heart of hearts that this night wouldn’t be the last time I spoke to him. Call me fucking crazy, but I was intrigued. I couldn’t care less about the poor bastard, but the curiosity surrounding everything about him was slowly killing me.

Maybe I’d take him up on his offer to meet. Maybe not.

Either way, I had screwed myself… Literally. Because Brendon Foxx was now getting what he wanted—my attention. And I was so very fucked…