Twenty

Every other time I’ve dressed for Jonah Marks, my main concern has been whether to wear underwear.

Tonight, I have new priorities.

He’s seen me in everything from the professional stuff I wear to teach in to trashy pink dresses to plain old T-shirts and jeans. Even though I’ve never actually been fully naked with Jonah, he’s seen every part of my body. So why am I trying on the entire contents of my closet in an attempt to find the perfect outfit tonight?

Makes no sense. But here I am.

After putting on and then rejecting at least ten other possibilities, I settle on something simple: a pleated black skirt, white button-up shirt with the sleeves cuffed, ballet flats, and a simple chain around my neck. It’s laid-back and pulled together, but not fancy, and, well, not that sexy.

I mean, I think I look good in this. I wouldn’t wear it if I didn’t. But this outfit doesn’t show off my legs, my ass, my cleavage, anything like that. This is the first night Jonah and I have ever spent together that isn’t totally about sex. Tonight we’ll . . . talk. Somehow that feels scarier than our role-playing.

For once I’m ready ahead of time, which means I have to find a way to wait that makes it seem like I’m not waiting. So I open Spotify and click on my contemporary jazz channel; Cassandra Wilson starts to croon, and her voice melts over me like caramel. I sink into my plush white sofa and take slow, deep breaths.

Just for tonight, I won’t ask where this is heading. I won’t try to reconcile our sexual fantasies with the kind of people we are. I won’t bring my enormous load of emotional baggage with me.

Tonight, I’m going to find out just what kind of person Jonah Marks really is.

The music keeps me from hearing the car’s approach, so I startle when I hear the bell. But the song and my new resolution calm me, and I smile as I open the door. “Hi.”

Jonah simply nods. This man isn’t big on hello. He doesn’t smile, either, but his voice is warm as he says, “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” So do you, I want to add, because he does. Simple black pants that nonetheless hug his taut waist and skim past muscular thighs—a midnight blue shirt turns his gray eyes the shade of a less stormy sky—and a heavy platinum watch around one wrist, the first sign of real wealth I’ve ever seen from him. But men never understand when you call them beautiful.

I see him glance past my shoulder, perhaps curious about the place where I live. Or maybe he’s figuring out how to get in, some night. He says only, “So—should we go?”

Jesus, he’s ripped the clothes off my body and we’ve fucked like animals, but suddenly neither of us knows what to say. I laugh a little, and when Jonah gives me a look, I explain, “I was smoother than this at my junior prom.”

“Same here.” A smile slowly dawns on his face. “Should I have brought a corsage?”

“Next time. Come on, let’s go.”

•   •   •

We go to a restaurant on Congress, not far from my place. Most Italian restaurants serve up the classic spaghetti and pizza, but here, the emphasis is on authentic northern Italian cuisine: roasted lemony chicken, pale white cheeses, and light, crisp Soave wine. Just inhaling the scent of the air is more delicious than most meals I’ve ever had.

That gives Jonah and me something to talk about for approximately twenty seconds. After that, we’re sitting across the table from each other, hardly knowing what to say.

What if I don’t like this guy at all? I wonder. What if we have nothing in common besides our kinky fantasies?

Just when the silence is about to go from awkward to pathetic, Jonah says, “What made you decide to draw that picture? The one in the print I bought. The man holding the dove.”

“I like to portray—contrasts. Duality. So I look for images that express two very different concepts at once.”

“The strength of the hands,” Jonah says. “And the fragility of the dove.”

“Exactly.” Should I ask this? Might as well. “You said you were drawn to the etching even before you knew I made it. Why?”

Jonah remains silent long enough that I wonder if he was lying about his interest in it. But then I realize he’s not stumped for an answer; he’s searching for the right words. “There’s so much tension there—you can sense the energy, even in the muscles. So I thought he’d imprisoned the dove in his hands. That he was on the verge of hurting it. But then I saw how careful he was—that his grasp is gentle. He wants to keep the bird alive. The drawing surprised me, and I liked that sense of surprise. A simple image turned out to mean more than I first thought.”

“Wow. Thanks.” Don’t get me wrong—it’s nice to be told that people think your work is beautiful, or lifelike, that kind of thing. But there’s no compliment an artist loves more than someone telling you your work made them think.

“When did you start drawing?”

“Well—first of all, I’ve always loved to draw. But the work you bought isn’t a drawing. It’s an etching.”

Jonah has relaxed slightly as we settle into conversation. So have I. He says, “What’s the difference?”

So I start explaining about etching—the processes, the materials, the history of it all. He’s genuinely interested, and every minute is easier than the last, and suddenly our evening together takes flight.

No, Jonah’s not hugely talkative. His explanation about why he liked my etching is the longest he talks about anything the entire dinner. But he listens well. Instead of planning the next anecdote he can share, he responds like someone who genuinely wants to know more about my work, and more about me.

Of course he’s naturally curious, I remind myself as we leave the restaurant. Instead of heading straight back to his car, we begin wandering along Congress, side by side. The guy’s a scientist. Curiosity is his fuel.

“Enough about me,” I say as the Thursday-night bustle flows around us—college kids heading to bars, stores open late to take advantage of the foot traffic, guitar music and drumbeats audible from the door of every club. “What about you? What made you decide to study earthquakes?”

“And volcanoes,” he adds.

“Can’t leave out the volcanoes,” I say, and am rewarded with a small smile.

“Well, when I was about ten years old, my mother and stepfather took the whole family to Hawaii.”

Stepfather, I note. Jonah could have no memory of his real father, and Carter Hale’s been married to Jonah’s mother for almost three decades. Most kids in that situation would wind up calling their stepfathers Dad. Not Jonah.

He continues, “Like most tourists in Hawaii, we went out to see the volcanoes. I hadn’t imagined you could get that close to the lava flow. When I saw it—glowing orange with heat, pure liquid stone—” To my surprise, he grins. “I was ten, so I thought it was totally cool.”

I laugh out loud. “So that’s how you picked your scientific specialty? Because it was cool?”

“Any scientist who tells you something different is lying. If you’re going to spend your entire life studying something, it needs to thrill you. Volcanoes and earthquakes thrilled me when I was a kid, and they still do. Even after all the studies and the dissertation and months of looking at nothing but seismograph readings. I get a charge out of it every time.”

“Hey, they always say that if you do what you love, it doesn’t feel like work,” I say.

“Which is a crock.” When I raise an eyebrow at Jonah, his smile regains some of the fierceness I know so well. “If you spend twelve hours in a row doing something—anything—it feels like work.”

Laughing, I admit, “Okay, yes. The studio’s my favorite place to be, but there are times when I feel like if I go in there one more time, I’ll tear my hair out. Still, I’d rather go crazy making art than do anything else.”

Jonah nods. “That’s it exactly.”

“So you get to spend your whole life chasing lava.”

“And you’ll spend yours making art.”

“Yes and no,” I say. “After graduation I’m hoping to go into museum work. Preserving old etchings, curating important pieces, even using original plates from centuries ago to make new prints.”

He gives me a look. “You should do your own work. Not worry about taking care of someone else’s.”

“It’s not either/or. I’ll never stop creating my own work. But even if I set the entire art world on fire, it’ll be years before I can support myself through my etchings alone—if ever. So there’s going to be a day job for a while, probably a long while. Should I do something boring that sucks my soul away one day at a time? Or should I surround myself with some of the greatest etchings of all time, and help other people understand how amazing they are?”

After a moment, Jonah nods. “When you put it that way, okay. I see it.”

Then his hand brushes against mine. At first I think he’s drawing me aside as we go past a group of college kids drunkenly weaving along the sidewalk. After they pass, though, he adjusts his grip, twining our fingers together.

Jonah Marks has screwed me hotter and dirtier than any other man ever has—and yet my heart flutters like a girl’s as he holds my hand for the first time.

We browse the various shops for a little while, mostly for the pleasure of remaining hand in hand. Cowboy boots are available in every color, every size; these days in Austin, college girls wear them more often than ranchers do. Other stores offer Mexican crafts—thick woven serapes, kitschy wrestler’s masks in red and gold satin, bins filled with beads painted like the skulls of Dia de los Muertos, tin hearts crowned with flame.

“These are called milagros, right?” he asks as he traces his finger around the sharp edge of one of the hearts. “Miracles?”

“Exactly.” An enameled image of the Virgin Mary is at the very center of the heart. “The flame symbolizes the Holy Spirit, touching hearts, making us change.”

Jonah gives me a look; I seem to have surprised him. “Are you a believer?”

“I think you’d have to call me a ‘hopeful agnostic.’”

“I’m less hopeful. But when I see things like this—the feeling in them—I envy that kind of faith. The world must look so different, through those eyes.”

I like this man. Once you break through his cool reserve, he’s . . . engaging. Intelligent. Even fascinating. He may be guarded, but it’s possible to get past his gates. I’ve only just begun learning who Jonah is, besides my ultimate sexual partner; now I realize I want to find out everything there is to know.

Finally the shops begin to close, and Jonah drives me the short distance home. We don’t speak. I suspect Jonah’s mind is full of many of the same questions now rushing through my mind about what happens with us later. Can two people so sensually connected by a very specific fantasy have any other kind of sex? Am I ready to find out? Strange though it seems after everything Jonah and I have done, making love as ourselves—not playing any roles—feels far more intimate, and even more scary.

But when Jonah walks to me to the door, he stops. “Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.

“Not on the first date.” At my surprise, he smiles that fierce, knowing grin that turns me to jelly. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

I squeeze his hand. “You’re right. Wouldn’t want to rush things.”

“Wouldn’t be proper,” Jonah murmurs as he draws me closer. Two of his fingers trace along the side of my face, painting my skin with the warmth of his touch.

“We couldn’t have that.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But what about kissing?” I tilt my face up toward his. “Do you kiss on the first date?”

“Not usually.” Jonah pulls me into his arms. “But sometimes I make an exception.”

He nuzzles my cheek, my chin. Tilts my head back slightly so he can brush his lips against my throat. I breathe out—a sigh that makes him tighten his embrace. My fingers stroke the back of his head, his short hair soft against my palms. Then I trace his neck and the broad planes of his back. I could worship this man’s body for hours. The powerful muscles I feel beneath my hands make him seem like he was created to give pleasure, or pain. Maybe both.

When Jonah’s mouth meets mine, his touch is feather-soft. My entire body reacts—flushing warm, getting wet, wanting more. I part my lips, and he kisses me again. Only the tips of our tongues touch, but it’s enough to make me reel.

But then he pulls away, his arms slipping to my sides, and I know he’s about to go. That’s all? I want to smack him. I want to kiss him again. And yet this is perfect. For our first date, we’re leaving each other wanting more.

Jonah’s voice is husky. “I enjoyed tonight.”

“Same here.”

“We can do this again sometime?”

“Sometime soon.”

He smiles, leans forward, and gently kisses my cheek. “Good night, Vivienne.”

“Good night.”

I don’t shut my door until he’s started his car. Once I’ve closed and locked it, I literally slide down to the floor. My laughter sounds giddy. What was erotic fascination has become infatuation—and I love it.

How long has it been since I felt this kind of elation after a date?

Never. Not unless you count the one kiss from that Barcelonan exchange student. This is about a thousand times better.

I’m still beaming when I lie down in bed and turn out the light. It feels like I could even smile in my sleep.

•   •   •

My subconscious has other ideas.

Someone’s knocking on the door. “I’m tired,” I moan. “I don’t want to come down for breakfast.”

The knocking continues. Gets harder and louder. It turns into pounding.

“Jonah?” I sit upright, unsurprised to find myself back in my childhood room. My bedspread is trimmed with eyelet lace. The stuffed lamb I loved as a baby, Woolly Bully, still sits on a bookshelf, ratty and gray and yet adorable. “What are you doing here?”

The next slam against the door makes the wall shake, and I hear someone roar, “Let me in!”

That wasn’t Jonah.

I scramble out of bed. In my haste I trip myself up in my own sheets and fall on the floor, so I try to crawl to the closet. If I hide in the closet he won’t find me—

The door breaks, pieces flying against the wall. I scoot to the back of my closet, hanging clothes swinging against my shoulders and head, thinking, please no please no please—

“You can’t hide from me,” Anthony says as he comes toward me. His fist closes around my wrist, and by now I’m screaming, but no one can hear. Nobody ever hears. “Come on. Get on the bed. Be a good girl.”

“I won’t,” I shriek. “I won’t—”

Then I’m awake, in my own bed, gasping for breath. I realize I woke myself up screaming in my sleep.