Frankie
Darian’s chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. Our legs are tangled together. His arms are wrapped around me. I’ve never felt this content, this at peace. Lonely is so much lonelier when you realize what you’re missing. And this is what I’ve been missing.
Come Sunday, I’ll be missing it again.
I’m careful not to wake him as I unravel myself from his body. He moans softly as my toes touch the carpet. He rolls over as I pad back to my room.
Memories of my behavior last night come and go in flashes. I know weeks from now, Jane and I will have a big laugh over a giant vat of ice cream when I tell her all about how I threw myself at Darian like a lovesick teenager. But today, it isn’t very funny. It’s humiliating.
I don’t want to venture out today. I think I’ll skip the bands—and certainly the free drinks—and hide out here with room service and a book. Get lost in someone else’s romantic woes for a while. Maybe reread The Time Traveler’s Wife. Nothing’s more woeful than a disappearing husband. I’m sure, at some point, Darian will come by, and I want to be here when he does.
So I can apologize—again.
But he doesn’t come by.
He’s here on business, Frankie. You keep forgetting that.
When the room darkens to match the sky, I close my book. I set it on the coffee table and stretch out along the sofa beneath the comforter from the bed. Just as I’m drifting off, I hear a loud commotion in the hallway, and even though I know I should mind my own business, I can’t stop myself from opening the door.
Darian glances up at me with an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he says, stacking CDs in a beat-up cardboard box. He shrugs. “No one listens to these things anymore.”
“I do…sometimes,” I say, bending down to help him. My fingers brush against his, and there’s a staticky crackle, like a sheet from the dryer without softener.
He gestures to the CD I’m holding. “Help yourself then.”
I pick up a few more, quickly scanning the covers. “Oh, I’m not really familiar, but…maybe you can introduce me”—heat crawls up my neck the second the words leave my lips—“sometime?”
Darian lowers his gaze to the mess on the floor, and mine falls to the white cotton shirt stretching across his back. He’s wearing dark navy slacks and polished brown dress shoes. His matching suit coat and a lavender tie are stuffed in the crook of his arm.
“Sure. Sometime.” He gathers the last of the discs and stands with the box. He smiles tightly. “Thanks for—”
“Darian, about last—”
He lifts a hand to my face and holds his thumb over my lips. “Have a good night,” he says and then disappears into his room.
Isn’t it funny how guilt and embarrassment feel so similar? Physically, I mean. A hollow feeling that can only be filled by reassurances like, It’s okay; I forgive you, or, You have absolutely no reason to be embarrassed.
I felt bad before, but after that awkward exchange last night, I feel terrible today. And the truth is, I don’t even know why I feel this way. Is it because I keep making a fool of myself or because I was rejected?
I consider taking the easy way out—packing my bag and slinking home—but knowing what Darian spent on my badge, that would be a pretty shitty thing to do. So I decide to stay even though I avoid the parties that would require me to use it—the parties where I might run into him—and I slum it with the rest of the non-badge-holders at an unofficial showcase. I make it a whole two hours before I give up and go back to my room.
For the rest of the day and well into the evening, I stay curled up in bed with my book, reading until the lines blur together on the page. I wake with it tented over my face, my nose wedged in the binding, to Darian’s soft tapping on the door between our rooms. I fly out of bed and send the book skating across the floor.
“Hey,” Darian says, holding a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses. His gaze travels my body before settling on my eyes. His lips lift in a grin. “I took a chance you’d be here.”
I glance down at my attire and turn as red as the wine. I’m in my underwear and, as if that isn’t bad enough, Darian’s Doors T-shirt. “Oh no. Hold that thought. I’ll be right back. I mean, come in.”
I rush to the bathroom and pull on my sweatpants, and just as I’m about to walk out the door, I grab my bottle of honeysuckle oil and dab some on my neck.
Well, that was stupid.
I saunter into the sitting area in my shabby sweats with my head held high, like it’s perfectly normal to smell like a flowering vine while dressed for the gym.
Darian’s amused grin returns and he holds up the bottle of Bordeaux. “Nightcap?”
I sit beside him on the sofa. He’s dressed casually in worn jeans and a Jethro Tull T-shirt. His tanned feet are bare. He hands me a small pour of wine, and I relax as the first sip slides down my throat. It’s warm, soothing, and tastes like tart cherries. I set my glass on the coffee table in front of us. Now unsure of what to do with my hands, I pick at the edge of the cushion and then finally place them in my lap with my fingers linked together.
“I haven’t seen you much in the last day or so,” I say. “Any more cardboard box malfunctions?”
Cardboard box malfunctions? My God, Frankie, stop talking.
Darian smiles. “Nope. Malfunction free.” He slides his hand in his back pocket. “I stopped by for a reason actually,” he says, pulling out a single ticket and handing it to me. “Glass Surface has a show tomorrow.”
“Glass Surface?”
“One of the bands from last night. You know, that I had CDs for? The ones with the weird-looking solar system on the insert?”
“I remember,” I say, looking at the ticket. “VIP?”
“Yeah, killer seats, backstage access…” He takes a sip of his wine. “I thought maybe you’d like to check them out…with me.”
Is he asking me out? Is this an actual date?
“I’m on a tight schedule tomorrow, so I’ll have to meet you there,” he says. “I mean, you know…if you want to go.”
Maybe not.
I hold the ticket between my fingertips, mindlessly thumbing the surface as I reach across the sofa to set it on the end table. “Sure. Thanks. Sounds like fun.”
“And I was thinking maybe we could grab a late dinner after.”
Maybe so.
I turn my head toward him. His gaze is trained on his glass, on the tip of his middle finger absently sliding up and down the stem. Long, silent seconds pass. Then he tosses back the rest of his wine and sets his glass on the table.
“So, what do you think about the Bordeaux?” he asks, looking over at me. “I picked it up at that French restaurant we went to. The sommelier recommended it.”
He reaches for the bottle, and I quickly place my hand over my glass.
“I love it but no more for me.” I smile nervously. “I’m taking it easy. I don’t think my ego can handle two rejections from you this week.”
He sets the bottle back on the table without pouring any. “Do you really think that? That I rejected you?”
I tilt my head from side to side with my nose scrunched. “I know I wasn’t the epitome of sexpot, all wobbly and slurry, but—”
“Francesca…you’re…well, you’re you. And I’m…I’m thirty-six. I’m closer to forty than you are to thirty. And you were—it was the alcohol talking, not you. I wasn’t about to take advantage, which is exactly what I would have been doing.”
“It’s fine—really,” I say, waving off his explanation. “I was in no condition to be doing anything anyway. I didn’t even need to be upright at that point. Not that I’m saying I needed to be horizontal. Well, I did need to be horizontal but not horizontal like that. Oh dear God, what am I saying?”
A slow smile builds on Darian’s face, and I take a very unladylike gulp of wine.
“I get and appreciate why you didn’t stay. But yes, I thought it was me. I thought you were rejecting me, even before the embarrassing display.”
“I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I almost kissed you.”
“You did? I was beginning to think I’d imagined that.”
“Jesus, Francesca.” He takes my glass and places it on the coffee table next to his. “Get up.”
My toes barely touch the carpet before he’s dragging me into the bathroom. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you what an idiot you are.”
Oh, I’m fully aware.
Darian stands behind me and our eyes lock in the mirror.
“Is this where you tell me how beautiful I am and how any man would be lucky to have me?” I ask. “Or is this about you? Because you’re so old and gangly?”
“Are those my only two choices?”
I shrug.
“I didn’t want to say no to you the other night, Francesca.” He pulls my hair away from my neck and skims his fingertips down the side of my face. “It took every ounce of self-control I had.”
A charged silence fills the bathroom. I feel the warmth of his hands as they close over mine, and despite the butterfly Olympics his touch sets off in my stomach, I feel brave…ish.
A long swallow rolls down my throat, followed by a steadying breath. “Darian, the alcohol didn’t make me want you. It just gave me the nerve to tell you.”
His gaze falls to his feet and I cast a nervous smile which he fails to see with his head down.
“So I guess what I want to know is, if I threw myself at you again, right now, would you shoot me down?”
A quiet laugh escapes him. I turn around and push myself onto the counter.
“Francesca, I—”
“Darian, I like you. I think you’re pretty hot—in spite of your AARP eligibility. I’m not looking for a two-carat ring and a white picket fence. I’m on vacation. I’m trying to live a little.” Sitting between his outstretched arms, my eyes holding his, I lift my T-shirt—his T-shirt—over my head. “It’s just sex, Darian,” I say with this newfound bravery. His five o’clock stubble tickles my hands as I bring his face closer. I gently brush my lips against his. “No strings.”
Stepping between my legs, he pulls my hips forward. Finally, he kisses me. Really kisses me. He holds my head still as his soft lips press against mine. He parts them, sweeping his wine-laced tongue into my mouth. I kiss him back and an unfamiliar tingle spreads through me, circling my heart and whirring in my stomach.
Is he feeling what I’m feeling? This overwhelming sensation so strong, it reaches all the way to my dangling toes?
It’s just a kiss, Frankie.
Then why is the room spinning? Spinning and…moving.
Darian carries me across the suite to the edge of the bed, finally releasing my swollen lips as he lowers me to the floor. He pulls the drawstring on my sweats, and his gaze travels my body as I wiggle out of them. He removes his shirt and then my bra. Diffidence and desire swirl in my stomach as I watch him watch me. Holding my breasts in his hands, he drags his tongue across a nipple. It hardens, and he draws circles around it. Then he takes it between his teeth and sucks it between his lips.
“I do want you.” He feathers my skin with kisses, working his way down my body until he’s on his knees, staring up at me. “Don’t think I don’t.”
His words swell in my brain until I can’t think at all. Raspy moans spill from my lips as he pulls my panties down.
“Lift,” he says simply.
I pick up one foot, then the other, and a bright pink scrap of lace tumbles from my toes. My breath leaves my body and my heart bounces in the void like a ping-pong ball. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m…
“Ohh…”
Darian touches me. Slowly. Softly. I arch my back and push against his hand, against the teasing kiss of his fingers. My legs struggle beneath me and I grab his shoulders.
“Darian, I need…”
“Tell me what you need.”
It’s strange—this mix of bravery and fear. It’s…exhilarating.
“Your mouth. I need your mouth on me. Please.”
With a deep, throaty groan, Darian takes hold of my hips, then touches his lips to my lower abdomen and works his mouth south.
“Spread your legs, Francesca.”
“Oh God. Okay.”
He tortures me with long, slow pulls of his tongue. I shove my hands in his hair, twisting the strands around my fingers, tighter and tighter, pulling him forward until his mouth is pressed against me.
“Darian…”
“Francesca.”
“You’re gonna—I’m gonna…”
Tilting his head back, he peers up at me with those big olive eyes. How innocent they look beneath that dense shelf of lashes. How deceiving they really are. Amusement flickers behind them, and he smiles. “That’s the idea.”
With a final stroke of his tongue, Darian stands and guides me backward onto the bed. “Are you sure?”
I nod with fervor. “I’m sure. I’m sure.”
His smile brightens, and the butterflies from earlier take flight through my body. Kneeling between my legs, he watches me as he reaches inside his pocket and fishes out a condom. I fixate on the small foil square dropped beside us on the bed until the metallic slide of his zipper brings me back to him. My gaze climbs to his eyes and then rolls down his body, down his golden and sinewy chest, to that sacred patch of skin peeking through his unfastened jeans. He pushes them down and kicks out of them, then slips his thumbs inside the waistband of his rubber-ducky boxers. I bite back a grin. That has to be the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
But then the boxers come off.
There is nothing cute about that.
Darian crawls up my body, and my skin blazes beneath him. His hands cradle my face. His eyes bore into mine.
“I imagined this,” he says, his fingers brushing the hair from my face. “I think, last night, I dreamed it.”
His words pull me from the pillow like a magnet, and I lift my head and kiss him with every bit of the fire I feel burning in my veins—eager and impatient, tongues sliding together, stroking, twisting. Wanting. Needing. The force of it pushes me back against the pillow, the fluffy down rising above my ears with the weight of his lips. His scratchy stubble grazes my skin as his mouth moves over mine, and his fingers curl in my hair. He grips and tugs the strands, working me like a marionette. Every pull causing me to move. Every move causing me to moan.
I smooth my hands down the soft, velvety skin of his back and dig my fingers into his hips, pulling him closer. His erection strains against me, and as he grinds down, a long, broken sigh tears from his throat.
Peeling himself off of me, he sits back on his heels, shakes his head, and smiles. “God, you’re beautiful.”
A man telling you you’re beautiful might not hold much weight when you’re naked beneath him, but Darian isn’t looking at my body. He’s looking at my face, staring into my eyes. He sits still for a moment just watching me, and then his gaze falls to the bed, the sheets tugging and pulling beneath us as he rifles through them for the condom. The wait is agony. My legs twitch and my knees draw up. My hands grab for his thighs. His eyes darken to a deep forest green as he rolls on the condom, and I become captive to them. Leaning forward, he eases my ache with a pass of his fingers, and the last of my inhibitions melts away as he pushes into me.
“God, it’s so…” I slide my arms around his neck, my hands dangling over his back. “Darian…you feel…this feels…”
My words crumble to nothing, and Darian grins against my lips.
“So fucking good,” he whispers, his large hand consuming my body as it trails down my side. It disappears between the back of my thigh and the bed, drawing my leg forward.
His rhythm is slow and steady, lulling the butterflies in my stomach. My eyes close. I feel his lips first, then his tongue, and the butterflies awaken.
Our hearts beat faster as Darian pushes harder. His pace quickens. A glowing, hot ball of intensity builds inside me, expanding with every thrust. I hold onto him tightly, belting my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. Tremors assault my body, and I clench around him, drawing out his release. I cry out…
The room quiets. Our short, labored breaths and the ruffling of sheets are the only sounds between us. Darian kisses my forehead, and his lips linger for a moment on my skin.
Then he pulls out of me, climbs off me, climbs off the bed. He doesn’t say a word as he picks up his boxers and disappears into the bathroom. I sit up against the headboard with the sheets pulled high around my chest, wondering if that was code for, Thanks and goodnight. An empty feeling settles in the pit of my stomach and I have to remind myself that I wanted this.
But he surprises me. He comes back to bed.
I wake with last night’s grin still plastered on my face, but it quickly fades. The sheets on Darian’s side of the bed are pulled neatly to the headboard, and they’re cool to the touch. It hardly looks like he slept here, much less slept with me here.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
No strings, Frankie. Your words, remember?
I should call Jane, right? Or is this the kind of thing you tell your best friend in person?
Hey, so guess what? You know how I said I was going to sleep with strange men? Well, I did! It took two tries, but I finally talked him into it!
Oh God. I’m a slut. I’m a slut who had to beg for sex.
Maybe I should just text—
My hand flies to the nightstand, knocking over the lamp. It tumbles off the table and lands on the floor, but I don’t give it a second thought as I grab my phone and power it on.
No texts. No messages. None. Zip.
Damn. He really didn’t tell you goodbye.
I’m not sure how I feel about that either.
Frankie: So…I got laid last night.
Jane: I’m calling you. Pick up.
“Hi, Ja—”
“Oh no. Are you okay? How long have you been analyzing?”
“I’m not analyzing. I’m—he left before I woke up. Is that normal? And does that make me a slut?”
Jane laughs so loud, I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
“No, Frankie. It’s the one-night stand that makes you a slut.”
“Yeah, well, there’s that.”
“Frankie, I’m kidding. He probably just had things to do and didn’t want to wake you. It’s almost noon. Did you expect him to wait?”
“No. Yes.” I swing my legs around and perch myself on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know. What if I was terrible? It’s been a while, Jane. Oh no. What if he had to wait until I fell asleep to coyote-ugly his way out of my bed?”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m trying not to listen.”
“Do you have plans to see him again?” she asks.
Duh. He didn’t need to tell you goodbye. You’ll see him in a few hours.
I heave a sigh of relief. “Yes. Tonight. He gave me tickets…a ticket. Tonight.”
“Then stop panicking. You’ll see him tonight.”
When I bend over to pick up the lamp, I find a note—Darian’s note—which simply fell to the floor.
SORRY I HAD TO RUSH OFF. EARLY MEETING.
DF
Despite my excitement, or maybe because of it, the afternoon drags. I don’t have enough time to venture out, so I stay in, get ready at a leisurely pace, and then page through my book. After a while, I give up on trying to read and opt for pacing back and forth in front of the balcony door. It looks as gloomy outside as AccuWeather predicted.
When the clock strikes seven, I grab my purse and bolt from the room. Yesterday I didn’t want to leave it; today I can’t bear to be in it.
I glance at my reflection in a shop window on my way to the show. Several pieces of hair have escaped my elastic and are blowing in my face. The wind is biting and ruthless, and I’m happy I had the good sense to wear my hair up. My fifties-style dress, on the other hand, wasn’t well planned. The sleeves are short, and the skirt is full, catching the wind like a kite.
I scan the crowd for Darian as I near the building, but the lines are long and congested and it’s impossible to make anyone out. I battle with my dress as I search for him, more hair falling loose from my ponytail and masking my eyes. I must be a sight. With my purse clutched between my knees, I attempt to fix my hair and smooth out my skirt. If Jane were here, she’d fuss over me, probably going as far as spitting in her hand to flatten my flyaways. Luckily Jane isn’t here, and my disheveled appearance does little to affect my mood. Darian doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who cares about unruly hair. He strikes me as the kind of guy who causes it.
I follow the signs to the Special Guests entrance around the corner, my stomach twisting tighter and tighter with each step. By the time I reach the door, I have full-on pretzel tummy. My heart is in my throat, my hands are clammy, and I’m beginning to wonder if Jane’s spit isn’t such a bad idea. First-date jitters. Even though this isn’t a first and may or may not be a date.
Darian isn’t waiting for me like I hoped he’d be, and although I know he’s working, my heart sinks a little. I give it a few more minutes, but after my hair falls a third time, I shake it out, slide the elastic around my wrist, and hand the door attendant my ticket.
The Stoli and Seventh party was the first time I’d ever been backstage, and it was just a roped-off area in the back of a warehouse with a few benches and a keg. This is much different. For one, it’s packed. Wall-to-wall, body-to-body packed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people crammed into such a small space. It’s a madhouse of photographers, journalists, roadies, and fans, and everyone seems so tall. At five and a half feet I’m considered average, but sardined between so many people, I feel pretty short.
I make my way to the bar and pull out my phone. I have two texts from Jane and one from my boss with next week’s schedule. Nothing from Darian. I shoot a quick reply to Jane and message Darian to let him know I’m here. The bartender hands me a beer, and I move to the side, turning to face the mass of people while I consider my options. But my only option, it seems, is to get to my seat and hope Darian’s there waiting for me.
I find an usher and show him my badge. He smiles brightly when he reads my name. He either really loves his job or he was expecting me. As I follow him onto the stage, I quickly learn it was the latter.
“There are only two chairs,” I say, craning my neck to look past him. “This has to be a mistake. I’m supposed to be in the VIP section. Where are all the VIPs?”
He turns toward the people filing into the front row. “There’s your VIP section. Think of this as the VIP of VIP. These seats are special.”
The usher winks at me before walking away, and I sink into my chair, an uneasy feeling sitting like rocks in the pit of my stomach. Darian should be here by now.
I pull out my phone and check my texts again. I have one from Jane—I expect details, it reads—but nothing else. I slide my phone back in my purse as I scan the audience. Hundreds of eyes, all of which seem to be set on me. I can’t blame them. Besides myself and the drum set, there’s nothing else up here to look at.
Or they’re shooting daggers at you for being the special girl in the special seat.
Maybe if the chair beside me wasn’t so painfully empty, I’d feel special. But right now, I just feel exposed. I check my phone again, shaking my head when I realize only a minute has passed. I silence it this time and then put it away. Darian never said this was a date. Something probably came up. Some South By emergency only he could handle. Maybe he’ll still make it. Maybe he’s just…
Doubt pushes forcefully against the wall of my chest.
He would have texted you, Frankie.
I don’t want to be here, and I really don’t want to be up here. I consider making a run for it, but before I can even stand from my chair, the lights flicker and everyone is asked to take their seats.
Darkness swallows the music hall as the concert begins, and I try to relax into it, hoping to disappear. But three songs in, my invisibility is cut short when the lead singer begins to serenade me. When the song ends, he asks how I scored the lucky seat.
Jane would eat this up, and as much as I’d like to be more like her, as much as I’d like to come out of my shell, this is too much. I’m in the spotlight—literally. It’s on me and only me, heavy and blistering as it circles my lonely chair. My heart thunders in my ears and my eyes burn.
Wearing a forced grin between my burning cheeks, I choke out a single word, “Contest.”
The singer smiles. The crowd cheers. The spotlight returns to its star.
And I’m back to being blissfully forgotten.
The March Austin air was chilly before the concert, but it’s freezing now. It was foolish of me to dress for a guy, and the fact that I’m standing at Third and Nueces by myself really drives that point home.
I rummage through my bag for my phone and turn it back on. My heart plunges deep in my chest. Still nothing.
Well, Frankie, I think it’s safe to say he’s not coming.
This is exactly how I felt the first and only time I slept with Chad Abrams. On prom night. Incidentally, it was also the first time I’d slept with anyone ever, and he never spoke to me again.
After Chad, I only had sex within the confines of committed relationships, of which I had exactly two—both in college and both incredibly short.
Darian Fox is my first no-strings sexual encounter.
No strings? You’re freezing to death on a street corner at eleven thirty at night, pondering your sexual history. There’re so many strings you could knit a sweater.
I hop on a pedicab and brave the icy wind as we pedal our way back to the hotel. The cold is numbing and I consider asking the driver to circle a few more blocks before dropping me off. I don’t though, and all too soon, we come to a stop.
I’m both grateful and disappointed I don’t run into Darian on the way to my suite. Once inside, I toss my bag on the chaise and kick out of my shoes. I sigh in resignation as I walk to the adjoining door and hold my ear against it. Darian’s there. I hear him talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I raise my hand to knock, then drop it to my side. What would be the point?
I slide down the door, draw my knees to my chest, and close my eyes. It isn’t long before his muffled voice lures me to sleep.
Even on the unforgiving floor, I don’t wake until the sun rises. It casts a warm glow on the little patch of carpet I’m curled up on. My head aches and my neck’s sore, but my heart’s okay.
I’m okay.
I pack quickly and throw on a clean set of clothes. I sit down at the oversized mahogany desk and pull out a single piece of the hotel’s stationery.
DARIAN,
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING THIS WEEK.
HAVE A WONDERFUL FINAL NIGHT AND A SAFE TRIP BACK TO MIAMI.
GRATEFULLY YOURS,
FV
P.S. I HAVE YOUR T-SHIRT. I’LL MAIL IT TO YOUR OFFICE.
I grab my bag and quietly sneak into the hall. I’m careful to avoid him, tiptoeing soundlessly to the bank of elevators. When I reach the lobby, I drop the letter off at the front desk and hail a cab home.