CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
REBECCA
BY THE END OF THE first week, I’m feeling more grounded.
For the longest time, it seems like things have been up in the air. First Evan contacted me because he was interested in me in some way, though he couldn’t articulate what. Then he offered me a job that wasn’t remotely defined. I got a million bucks for just being there. Finally, Evan got his idea about changing education — and taking it to who I assume must be angel investors in a rich people’s group that Taylor and Sam think Evan’s involved in — but that, too, was ill-defined.
He put me on this vague “making people love LiveLyfe more” project, and then we had that almost-argument because he wanted to peek over my shoulder. But to see what? I had no idea what I was working on, either.
But now, blessedly, my ideas are taking shape. Evan has stayed out of my way as he promised, and it seems like he’s told people to cooperate because I don’t meet resistance when I ask questions.
I’ve decided to go right for the throat. The way I see it, users don’t dislike LiveLyfe at all. They’re frustrated with some aspects because people are impatient. I ask, What works for me? For my own business?
No reason it shouldn’t work for LiveLyfe.
I’m making a documentary of sorts. I’m not walking around with a camera like Michael Moore, but I’m taking a ton of notes. Talking to lots of people. Getting to know them. Evan’s assembled a remarkable group. Amazing people with open hearts and excellent senses of humor.
Why is LiveLyfe hiding its face behind such a professional mask? The public would adore the company behind the curtain.
They’d engage with it, bond with it.
They’d build cult status around it like Mac fans do for Apple. I have some ideas on LiveLyfe’s branding to make that happen faster, but for now, I’m keeping them to myself.
Evan asks about it whenever he sees me, but he’s just poking. It’s one of our jokes.
“What did you do today?” he’ll ask me when we meet for coffee. Then he’ll raise his eyebrows, indicating that he wants to know all the nefarious details.
“None of your business.”
“I noticed you haven’t posted on SteveHasATinyDick for a while.”
“It’s sort of on hiatus. So I can focus all my attention on your company, and eventually on this plan of yours to make the world a better place.”
“What do you mean by ‘sort of’?”
“To officially put my site on hiatus, I’d have to do some stuff. I don’t have time, so I’m just neglecting it. All of my attention is on LiveLyfe and its handsome founder.”
“Hmm,” Evan says, nibbling a biscotti. “And how are things going in that endeavor to do unknown deeds at LiveLyfe?”
“None of your business.”
Three more days go by.
A week.
I get more insider info. I interview some of the lead developers and a few of the custodians. Those people are unexpectedly hilarious. I’m already getting ideas for public-facing emails. For video to take, web shows to conduct. People will love the fuck out of this place in no time.
Ten days.
I’m meeting Evan every night. It just happened. To anyone on the outside, it probably looks like we’re dating. Evan is sweet, and although I don’t like to commit to feeling happy, I am. I’m waiting for it to break. For Evan to show me hidden true colors, like all the rest of them have. I scrutinize him when we go out to dinner, when we lie together on his enormous bed. I watch his face and try to figure out when things will go wrong. I can tell that he doesn’t like not knowing what I’m doing in my special project — he’s a guy who enjoys control, sharp lines, and privacy. He hates uncertainty.
Evan wants to pry. But he keeps his promises.
His Austin apartment is downtown, at the top of a building that looks like an enormous USB drive flipping off the sky. The people here know me. It’s weird. It’s like I’m part of the package for them. I know he has other homes in other cities, but I don’t want to know how many. The paranoid part of me imagines a woman like me in each of those homes, awaiting Evan’s return.
It’s not true. You’re just being Rebecca.
I hate feeling needy. But I’m not used to feeling attached to someone without pain to accompany it. The instinctual part of me is trembling inside like a trapped animal. I want to ask Evan for his reassurance, but I won’t.
I think on that idea, standing on Evan’s deck and staring down at the city below. Why is this about power? And why does deepening attachment make me powerless? Something prickles at the back of my neck, and it occurs to me that what’s wrong is nothing. I’m just uncomfortable without my misery.
Evan comes up behind me. The breeze is warm, even this high up. His arms encircle me. His face nestles at the back of my neck, in my hair. I want to ask him if the word I used with myself is valid. Is this a “relationship,” or two co-workers who don’t know enough to keep their boundaries?
I say nothing.
“You like it out here.”
I guess I do. Ever since I started hanging out at Evan’s apartment, the penthouse deck has fascinated me. His place is three floors, stacked behind me like glass Legos. At the railing, I can look almost straight down. Even at my worst moments, I’ve never considered ending my life. But staring down, I’m fascinated by the idea. If I’d had this deck when I was with Joe, the one who hit me, would it have been as enthralling?
I shake my head, snapping a spell. We’re far back from the railing, and I suddenly want to stay as far back as possible. I’m a different woman now. I make wiser choices. I chose a better man. And if there’s still a sneaking dread behind it all — waiting for the moment when this all sours — that’s just more proof of how fucked-up I am.
“You’re shivering.”
I guess I am. And it’s still over eighty degrees out here, even at night.
“Maybe I’m nervous,” I say.
Evan turns me. He can hear something in my voice. We’re face to face.
“Maybe?”
“I was kidding.”
But I wasn’t. I don’t want to be on this deck anymore. I’ve had agoraphobia before, just like sometimes I get social anxiety strong enough to keep me indoors for days. It’s on and off, but something about Evan’s embrace and seeing that suicidal railing has unleashed a slow panic.
I can’t be out here. I need to be inside, where it’s safe.
“I want to go inside.” And I push past him, not waiting.
Evan follows me through the glass doors. His face is concerned.
“Are you okay?” he asks once we’re inside, away from the whistling wind.
“Fine.”
He studies me. We’ve known each other for a while now. He knows he shouldn’t pry, even if it’s for my own good. Especially if it’s for my own good.
He opens his mouth anyway. I stop him by putting a hand on his cheek.
There’s no sound. No motion. Time stops. It’s dim in here — a computerized light setting Evan calls “Zen.”
“Evan,” I say.
He waits.
“Can you do something for me? Without asking questions?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t ask me to elaborate. Don’t ask me why I’m asking. Just do it.”
“Okay. Sure.”
His eyes have gone grave. This almost sounds like a prelude to one of my dumb jokes, but it’s very much not.
“Please just tell me all is well. Tell me everything is okay. With me. With everything.”
“Is something wr—”
My finger presses his lips. “No questions.”
Evan blinks, not understanding. I don’t blame him. The request doesn’t even make sense to me. I’m asking for blanket assurance — about everything in the world. But I don’t want to discuss this. I just want to hear reassuring words from my man’s lips, even if deep down I know they mean nothing.
He waits another few seconds. He can tell I’m freaking out. Not because things are going wrong, but this time because things are going well.
I can’t handle satisfaction.
Delight only confuses me.
“Everything is okay. I promise you, Becca. Everything is okay.”
I close my eyes. Inexplicably, I want to cry. I feel my eyes water, not understanding this strange emotion. In his words, I hear:
You aren’t broken, Becca.
The world doesn’t hate you, Becca.
You will make it through whatever this is, Becca.
But most of all — and this one, I suspect he’s saying: I will make it okay in any way I can, even if you won’t tell me what’s wrong. I will fix it. I will protect you, even though you never requested my providence.
A tear falls, pinched out by my closing eyelids.
“Becca, what’s …?”
I kiss him. It lingers.
We pull apart. I see the track of my tear on his cheek — my pain transferred to him, like a crayon rubbing made by a child. I think he’ll ask again. Instead, he kisses me.
Hands move. We shuffle backward, me pushing him and then him pushing me. I hit the bed, Evan atop me.
He stands in front of me as I come up on my elbows. He undresses me in a rush as if this moment might shatter. I do the same to him, having to reach up because I’m sitting, ready to go for his belt.
It’s not thirty seconds before we’re both naked, Evan rock hard as he lies beside me. His cock brushes my bare thigh as our hands explore higher — my fingers and palms caressing his stomach and chest, his hands on my breasts.
He rolls me onto my back, his mouth on my tits, flicking my nipples with his tongue. His lips purse around one and then the other, licking, sucking, leaving trails of spit on my chest like a maniac’s roadmap.
Then back to my mouth. To my face.
He pulls back and looks at me, his palms on either side of my face. Like he’s studying me, wondering what damaged creature he’s captured and invited into his bed. I feel every bit of him, as his mind watches mine. We’re barely flesh. Just a pair of souls in congress, two sets of thoughts feeling animal magnetism.
Who are you, Rebecca Presley? his gaze asks me.
But the second passes and he’s kissing me again, holding me tenderly, one set of fingers under my hair while the other runs along my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder.
He kisses down.
Down.
Across my breasts, my erect nipples.
Across my belly.
Down one leg, his fingers feather-light on my inner thigh. Then he crosses over to the other inner thigh, kissing and touching. He avoids my pussy on purpose. I feel myself throb, yearning to have his flesh on mine.
His tongue crosses the chasm and finds me. It starts low, licks high. Flicks my clit. Then with his mouth still on me, a finger slides inside. I grip it like a cock, my entire lower half alive with electricity.
Evan’s finger turns and hooks back. Presses a soft spot on the inside of my pussy that I didn’t even know was there — except that when he does, with his tongue on my clit, I come immediately, shouting across the empty and dark apartment.
“Come up here,” I beg.
He rises slowly, his mouth lingering along my body. He detours at my tits again, taking one in each hand, rubbing as the orgasm crashes below.
“I want to be inside you,” he whispers.
“I want you,” I reply.
His breath on my ear: “I want my cock in your tight little pussy. I want to fuck you so bad, Becca.”
“So fuck me.”
“I want to fuck you until I come inside you.”
“Fuck me, Evan.”
But I can feel the smile on his lips. He’s toying with me. Making me wait on purpose.
I reach between his legs, fondling his balls before taking his hot cock in my hand and pulling him forward. Spreading my legs wide, pressing its tip against my wet pussy lips. Dragging him in.
Once the tip licks my folds, Evan drops his facade. I move my hands around to his ass to pull him tight, but he’s already entering me. Filling me up. I want to bite his neck as he slides inside, but I can only gasp.
He thrusts. I focus on the feeling of Evan inside me, Evan leaving me. His cock thrills me. I’m already coming again.
Faster.
Then slower. I can tell he’s holding back. I can see the focus. But I’m on the cusp, about to come. Evan knows. He’s making me wait.
“Come with me. Please, Becca. Come when I come inside you.”
My eyes close. Open. I’m drowning.
He comes. Me, too.
Waves seem to roll over us, holding our breath until it passes.
He doesn’t pull out. I don’t want him to.
And eventually, I drift into a lazy sleep with Evan still inside me, full and finally complete.