~ 6 ~
In the morning, though I got up early enough to do them—and feeling remarkably good, so Ice had done right by me—there were no dishes to clean. The kitchen sparkled. Amy’s tea-making supplies were meticulously arranged on the counter, but not brewing yet. She must be out for her run. In the freezing dark and ice. I didn’t know how she did it.
A sticky note on the oven hood fluttered.
We figure you get a bye. Next time we won’t go so easy on you. Now go have some fun, dammit. Love, I, A & J.
P.S. Leftovers in fridge are for you. J.?
It made me smile so I put it in my jacket pocket, for a remembrance. And, okay, it also made me ever so slightly misty, but I would not be crying today. Or puking. It might not be a fun—double-underlined—day, but I could shoot for that much. Lowered expectations could be a wonderful thing. Though that made me think of Amy and her doubts about marriage scores. Was it unreasonable to expect your spouse to maintain a 4.0 or better over the long term?
Or was settling for less than that lowering expectations? Glum thought.
Oddly enough, though I’d fantasized about everything else—our romantic meeting, the proposal, the wedding, honeymoon, even naming our children and having sleepovers with our grandchildren—I’d never given much thought to the day-to-day living with my husband. When I was a little girl and fantasized about my dad coming back for us, I’d dreamed that he’d take us away to his castle in Bavaria, which had a cook and a housekeeper, so my mom never had to cook and clean or work again. Of course, as I grew up, I recognized how silly that was. I knew whoever my dad had been he wouldn’t have a castle in Bavaria—particularly the one I was thinking of, as it’s been open to the public since the late 1800s—and he’d be just another one of the 99% like the rest of us. In adult hindsight, I could shake my head over that girl I’d been.
I could also recognize that I had zero idea how a normal, day-to-day marriage worked. How could I even predict what that would be like?
For some reason, I got a mental image of Damien at his end of his-and-her sinks, combing gel into his hair and picking out rings for his ear, asking me if I’d gotten his leather jacket back from the cleaners. Which made me snicker. Not exactly a romantic fantasy of Prince Charming in a castle in Bavaria—or even regular domestic harmony.
But that was the point with Damien, wasn’t it? That he was not a candidate for happily-ever-after, not in any reality. I didn’t need to test his fit against the his-and-her sinks because that would never, ever happen. Expectations didn’t even enter into it.
Regardless, I needed to focus on reality. No more romantic dreaming.
So, once on the train, I did not look for Gabriel. Or Damien for that matter. I didn’t watch the faces at all, nor did I look at the Missed Connections ads. Instead, I put my tablet on airplane mode and read M.O. Keefe’s new bad-boy biker romance. I didn’t have any illusions that living in a trailer park would be at all romantic or that biker gangs were anything but trouble, including all the drugs, misogyny, and abuse. Somehow, though, she swept me up in it. Phone sex with a stranger. Wow. If only I had the guts for that. So far, it didn’t seem I’d had the guts for much at all.
I brazened it out at work, reminding myself that I hadn’t really lied in the end. I had gotten sick. Nobody said anything, except to ask how I was feeling. I sat at my desk and plowed through the emails and sticky-noted paper documents that had piled up, working out my guilt and through lunch—heating up Julie’s leftover chicken stew in the break-room microwave—and staying late. Since it was a Friday and the week before Thanksgiving, people started heading home around three-thirty. By five, my floor had gone super quiet—that weird kind where you can hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights and even the shadows seem different. By six-thirty, I’d achieved Inbox Zero and felt like the only one still working in the entire world.
A virtuous feeling, though also kind of lonely. I shut down my computer and gathered my things, putting on one coat and folding the other over my arm. It would be quiet at the house, too—Julie and Charley were working, Ice doing her weekly study group, and Amy out on a date with Brad. I liked having the house to myself, and total control of the remote, but the night before had been really nice. It seemed that kind of thing happened less and less often, that we were all home and just hanging out.
Of course, not all the Fab Five had been there, and I felt guilty that I’d been glad Charley never made it.
To give myself a lift, I walked through the mall part of the towers on my way out, taking my time to enjoy the music and decorations. No reason to rush home to more of my own company, so I loitered, window-shopping. Some of the stores already had their holiday displays going. By the time I finally rode down the escalators, my gaze going to the bench where he’d parked me, I realized that—despite all my resolutions to be practical—part of me had been looking for Damien.
As if he’d crash into me again. Or be sitting there still, looking up with that crooked smile and saying, “there you are, luv, I’ve been waiting ages.”
Instead, a woman with a pile of bags occupied our bench, texting. She stuck her phone away, gathered her things and strode off, glancing at me with a grumpy expression and a bitter, disappointed line to her mouth. Something about that decided me.
I plopped myself on the bench, dug out my tablet and took it off airplane mode, and hit the bookmark for the Chicago Missed Connections. There was Romeo still. He might be waiting forever for Juliet to change her mind. I scanned through them all. Then looked again. Nothing.
Well, fine. I hadn’t really expected anything, had I?
With a sigh, I thumbed off the tablet. Time to go home, make myself something healthy to eat. Call my mom. We’d texted, and I’d told her I was really busy at work, but I could tell she thought I hadn’t called back the night before because I was mad at her.
I wasn’t mad, though. I didn’t know exactly what I was. I rummaged in my bag to make sure I still had my phone.
“Yesterday, she had no coat. Today, she has two,” a familiar voice drawled.
Damien.
Standing in front of me. No packages, just his thumbs stuck in the front pockets of his jeans, a deep blue muffler wrapped round his neck with stars knitted in with sparkly silver yarn. “Remember me?” he prompted. “The guy you ditched yesterday.”
“I didn’t ditch you.” I stood and tugged the end of his muffler, absurdly pleased to see him. “Not your usual fashion statement.”
He glanced down and grimaced. “My stepmum. She knits. A lot. What can I say—it’s warm and it’s really fucking cold out there, especially on the bike.”
“You’re riding a bicycle?” I supposed it made sense, doing deliveries.
But he laughed, raising the pierced brow at me. “Motorbike, luv.”
Oh. I flushed. Stupid of me.
“So, what happened to you?” he asked. “You claim you didn’t ditch me, but I came back and hung a while until Blart the mall cop made me skedaddle. I was worried about you.”
His mall cop remark made me laugh, which was all wrong, since it seemed like I was making fun of him worrying about me. “Sorry! I’m sorry—I mean, my friends came and got me. I was, um, kind of drunk.”
“Fuck. I knew I should’nt’ve left you. Are you okay now?”
“Yeah.” I looked up at him, and he really did seem concerned, his eyes as somber as aqua could be. “I guess I’m just a super lightweight when it comes to drinking.”
“Well, can’t say you didn’t warn me.” He put a hand on top of my head. “You’re shorter today.”
“No heels.” I pointed a toe to show him my sensible boots. “Thought I’d play it safe.”
“How’d that work out for you, luv?”
I took it for a flip question at first, but he seemed to be waiting for an actual answer. I thought over my day, especially compared to the day before. “Boring,” I said.
He cracked a grin. “Want to come out with me?”
Despite everything, I hadn’t expected that. “Out—on a date?” I needed to count points. “Now?”
“Well, sure, now—if you don’t have plans. My bike’s at the meter. Anywhere you want to go. Dinner. Show. Dancing.” He chewed his lip, worrying at the pair of rings. “I might have to draw the line at whiskey, though, the way you’re likely to drink me under the table.”
“True. With you being such a cheap date and all.” Who was I kidding? He was a five-pointer. Maybe he shouldn’t be, but it was what it was. No expectations. “Okay.”
He grinned and crooked an elbow for me. Oddly, it already felt familiar, the feel of his leather jacket under my hand, the scent of cold air, city exhaust, and bay rum. A little too heavy. Maybe I could entice him into a subtler brand. For a Christmas present, maybe, I—no, Marcia. Stop picking out wedding china and just have fun. With a double underline.
The bike looked big and I eyed it dubiously while I examined the helmet he’d handed me and he packed my second coat into wide panniers on the back. The helmet fit tightly. I found the straps and tried fitting them together like I did it all the time, but they didn’t work like a seat belt or anything. I pulled the helmet off to examine the buckle, my hair crackling and flying up. Just great. I tried smoothing it, then pulled the helmet on again, still fumbling with the straps.
“Here,” Damien said, his own helmet already on. He took the straps from me, adjusting the slide so it was snug, and buckling it under the corner of my jaw, his face intent as he worked. His eyes flicked to mine. “Has to be tight, to work right. Don’t want to mess up that sharp brain of yours.”
“You think I have a sharp brain?”
“Yeah.” He tucked some of my hair into the sides of the helmet, gaze following the movement. “Smarter’n me for sure, but I’m no brainiac.”
“Don’t say that.”
“No?” His mouth quirked in a bemused smile. “Why not?”
“Because…” I trailed off, flustered by the way he looked at me. All around, the traffic rumbled, horns blending with bursts of Christmas music from the mall and a rock band at a bar across the street. But it felt like we stood in a bubble. “I, ah, think you’re great.”
“Do you now?” He feathered a hand down my throat, the other thumb rubbing over my bottom lip. My lips parted and I had the impulse to kiss that thumb. Or taste him. Why not? I flicked out my tongue, a light lick, and he caught his breath, a little click and hiss. “Naughty Marcia,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to mine.
He tasted—oh, hot and masculine, if those were flavors. I’d make a cologne of that, if I could. The hoops on his lip were cold from the air, a bright, hard counterpoint to the softness of his mouth, which he had open from the first. No demure peck, no chaste test—he kissed me with a kind of seeking hunger. I melted into it, his leather jacket stiff from the cold under my clutching fingers, catching a hint of his shampoo under all the bay rum—or maybe whatever gel he used in his hair, a fresh, aloe sort of scent.
Our helmets clanked and he laughed into my mouth, backing out to give me a softer kiss, then pretending to check my chin strap again, as if we hadn’t done anything. “There. All ship-shape. Ready?”
I pulled on my mittens. “Should I put the visor thing down?”
“Nah. It’s tinted, so it would be too dark for night. Really you just want it to keep the bugs out of your mouth on the highway.”
“Um, bugs?”
“All frozen right now,” he said cheerfully, squeezing my hands and peering at the mittens. “Cute. Furry.”
I yanked them away. “They’re warm.”
“And on leashes.”
He meant the string that went up my sleeves and through the coat, tied to the mittens on either end. “You can laugh, but I never lose them this way.”
“Sure enough. Wait a mo.” He unwound the muffler and put it around my neck, tying it in a loose knot under my chin. “Can’t have you catching a chill.”
“Won’t you get cold though?”
“Me? Nah—I’m all tough and manly like. No strings on my mittens.” He pulled leather gloves out of his pockets and yanked them on, then got on the bike, kicked up the stand and started it with a roar. Reaching down, he folded out a footrest and tapped, then held out a hand. “Put your foot here and swing your leg over.”
I wasn’t so sure. “What if I tip it over?”
He shook his head. “A bit of a thing like you? You’d have to try pretty hard, and I have it braced.” He did have both feet on the ground.
Horns honked at a car in the near lane with its blinker on, waiting for the parking spot. I put my hand in his gloved one, my foot on the prong, and—fairly graceful, glad I’d worn pants—got my leg over, finding the other footrest. I hadn’t expected, though, the way the slope of the seat had my pelvis pressed up to Damien’s tight butt. I kind of felt around for handholds and he chuckled, reaching back to drag my hands around his narrow hips beneath the jacket.
He revved the engine. “Ready?” he shouted.
“Yes!”
He glanced over his shoulder, waved at the car like they’d been honking to be polite, picked up his feet, and the bike surged forward. I yelped with surprise, squeezing tight so I wouldn’t fly off the back. After that initial acceleration, though, we didn’t go fast. Not with Friday night downtown traffic.
At the first red light, he turned his head. “Doing okay?”
“Yes!” And I was. Being on the bike made all the lights that much more vivid, sparkling and up close. Food scents, savory and sweet, wafted past from the food carts on the sidewalk.
“Where to?”
“You choose.”
“Food?”
“Oh God, yes.”
He laughed, the light turned green, and off we went, wending our way through the traffic, cutting in and out. I began to get the feel of the bike, how his body balanced it, and the way my body pressing to his worked in concert with that. We got to a quieter part of town, away from the main business district, the Logan Park area where houses and restaurants lined the streets, lights glowing warm gold from small kitchen windows and panes a full story tall. It seemed we went through clouds of various smells, wood smoke here, the tang of chilis there, a bright splash of curry from a family meal.
Damien found a spot, wedging the motorcycle into a space between cars that didn’t really have a meter.
“Is that legal?” I asked dubiously, as he strapped our helmets to the bike.
“Not exactly, but people are usually so glad I didn’t take up a whole parking space for my bike that they don’t complain, and the meter maids look the other way.”
“I don’t think Chicago has meter maids.”
“No? They should. Think how lovely—short skirts, high-heeled boots, and those double-breasted uniform jackets that squeeze up their bosoms.” He had my hand through the crook of his elbow again and gestured with the other, making like he squeezed his own cleavage.
So inappropriate—and he had me cracking up. “That’s quite the prurient fantasy for what has to be a pretty low-paid civil service job.”
“Maybe they could earn tips. Have a line on the ticket, you know, where you can add the gratuity. ‘Hell, yeah, I’ll pay my fine plus a tenner for the maid who leaned over just so as she tucked it on my windscreen.’”
“You are so wrong.”
“Yeah, but you laughed.” He walked up to a place on the corner. The sign overhead had a cut-out ampersand, and stenciled on the window was:
Eat
Sleep
Whiskey
My stomach frankly lurched. “Whiskey?”
“Total coincidence!” Damien insisted, then rolled his eyes. “Okay. Not total, because it is me, but you’ll like it, I swear. Believe me—I agree, no more whiskey for you, pet.”
He opened the door for me, cocking that brow while I peered in and raucous noise poured out. Smelled good, but…
“All farm to table,” he said. “Great food. And we’re in luck, there’s an open two-top. Let’s snag it.” He overcame my hesitation by grabbing my hand and pulling me in after him. “Bench or chair?” he asked. “Chair for the lady it is.” He held the chair for me when I stared at him blankly, part of my brain still out on the sidewalk.
So it happened that I found myself sitting at a small table, wedged in between couples on either side of us, while he ordered a fancy whiskey cocktail. “Seltzer with lime,” I replied automatically to the waiter.
“Not that,” Damien inserted. “Dead boring.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Shush, luv. She’ll have an Autumn Warmer.”
I fumed at him, inarticulate with it. Sure, I liked his contrariness, but pushing me around? Oh no. “You’re trying to get me drunk again so you can take advantage of me.”
He sipped his water, eyeing me over the rim. “You are a bit more…relaxed, shall we say, with some whiskey in your tum.”
I threw down my napkin. “That’s it. I am so—”
His fingers closed around my wrist. “Marcia, luv. It’s a non-alcoholic drink. Do try to chill.”
Oh. Well…oh. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m not good at this.”
“Start with taking off the coat?” he invited. “Perhaps the muffler, too, as you’re in no danger of freezing in here.”
Great, now I felt really stupid, still huddled in my parka. I unzipped it, shrugging out of it and hanging it over the back of the chair, then tried to hand him back his scarf. He waved that off.
“Keep it for the ride home. Unless you’ve decided to ditch me again, then do me a solid and leave it for my cold and lonely ride.” He made such a sorrowful face that I scoffed.
“No colder than any other.”
“Not true. Thanks, mate,” he said, as the waiter set down our drinks. “After having the voluptuous Marcia snuggled up against my backside, I’m now spoiled forever. Cheers, luv.” He waited, glass held high with significance, all playfulness gone as his intent gaze went to my mouth. “What’s your favorite toast—a family one, maybe?”
All those years with my mom. Hot chocolate. Glasses of milk. Orange juice when we were flush, tap water when we weren’t. “It wasn’t something we did.” I stared hard at the glass I held, not sure where the vague sense of shame came from, the fountaining bubbles somehow as sparkling as any festive decoration.
“Ah, room then for us to make up our own, since you criticized my ‘meet beautiful.’ How about: to the good and the bad, and the best of both.”
“It’s very us.” I clinked his glass with mine and sipped, unable to contain my pleasure as the scents of rosemary, lime, and ginger rose on the fine bubbles to meld into a warm flavor on a brightly cold stream. “Lovely.”
“Yes, you are.”
I put my glass down. “Why are you here, Damien?”
He sat back, toying with his cocktail glass. “Eat, drink, whiskey.”
“The sign says ‘Eat, Sleep, Whiskey,’ in point of fact.”
“True.” He leaned forward and snagged my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. His were cold from the glass. “I wasn’t sure if ‘sleeping’ was on the agenda.”
Flustered, I looked around, as if anyone cared to be watching us. “I don’t know why a restaurant would have ‘sleep’ on the sign anyway.”
“It’s like an old-style inn. There’s rooms upstairs.” He cocked that brow. “Shall I see if one is open?”
This time I couldn’t blame the whiskey. I went hot, flushed, and melting, just like that. The images flashed through my mind. Going upstairs with Damien. Letting him undress me. How those hoops in his lip would feel as he did wicked things to—Whoa, Nelly. I reeled myself back. Damien still held my hand, caressing my palm with his thumb, interested gaze on my face, as if he could track every thought.
“No,” I said, not without some effort, dragging my hand out of his, pretending I needed both to hold my drink. I forced a laugh. “No, I am so not going upstairs to have sex with you.”
He left his hand where it was on the table, open to me, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “For a moment there, you considered it.”
“I did not.”
“You did. You even liked the idea. Until you started overthinking.”
“Is this what you do? Prowl the malls of Chicago, knocking women over and inviting them to drinks as part of a massive seduction plan?”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, raising his drink to his mouth and sipping. Then shook his head. “Awfully convoluted. Most chicks, it’s easier to just say hey and go from there.”
“But I am not most chicks.”
“No, luv, you surely are not.”
“Then why are you bothering?”
He finally sat up again, giving me an odd look. “Are you trying to talk me out of being attracted to you?”
“I find it hard to believe you’re attracted to me.”
“Maybe I find that attractive.”
“A somewhat perverted take on things.”
“Ah,” he nodded sagely. “Yes, quite perverted. You do give me…ideas.”
“Like what?” I meant to be scornful, but it came out breathless. Anticipation sang through me. So bad and wrong. So alluring.
“Hmm.” He leaned his elbows on the table, laying his hand on it again, palm up, waiting for me. “Pay the toll, luv.” He wiggled his fingers.
I put my hand in his. Which felt right, God help me. He beckoned me closer with a crooked finger, so I leaned in.
“I’ve got this idea of you, bent over my bike. I lift your skirt to reveal that voluptuous bum. Tell me you wear lacy scanties.”
I didn’t say anything and he crooked a smile. “In my fantasy, you do. So, I pull them down, all slow like, but you can’t do anything about it.”
My mouth was dry. “Why can’t I?”
“I won’t let you. And you’re wiggling, squirming, making those little noises like you do—”
“What noises?”
“Like when I shock you. And you get all blushy, like now.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t go.” His hand tightened on mine. “Don’t you want to hear what I’d do to you next?”
I did.
I so did. I so didn’t.
I couldn’t believe it was me, doing this.
I yanked my hand away and gulped my drink, not even savoring it. My face had to be beet red. Like a washer woman. With my fair complexion, every bit of flush showed—heat, embarrassment, frustration—and it wasn’t pretty “roses” in my cheeks, either. Instead I tended to look like I’d rolled in poison oak.
Damien just watched me, no cheeky grin, cocktail glass loose in his hand and lurid fantasies hot in his eyes.
“I happen to know,” I said, “that ‘voluptuous’ is a euphemism for fat.”
He held up his hands in demonstration, as if he were holding me by the hips as he’d painted so vividly, pretended to look down and licked his lips. His eyes shot up to mine, a flash of aqua catching out my rapt attention. “Looks like the perfect size to me.”
The woman next to him, across from me, looked at me aghast—the whites of her eyes rolling wide with shock. Part of me jerked with embarrassment, wanting to apologize, but the way she twisted her mouth in disapproval, in disgust…well, it pissed me off. She shouldn’t have been eavesdropping in the first damn place. I laid my hand on the table, wiggling my fingers so Damien would take it.
“Tell me more.” I flicked my eyes at Offended Woman. “Feel free to use graphic detail.”