Diane quickly ignored him. He was a tool, a device. Once people had seen her with him, that was it. Clinched. Her reputation secured by a check box that said viewed arriving with Michael Bournham. He wouldn’t have sex with her tonight. Just about every other time they’d gone out – and they’d only gone out five or six times now – she’d bowed out sick or invented an early morning deadline and frankly, Jeremy was dead on. It was like fucking a toothpick with boobs.
Her enthusiasm for securing her spot at the top of the heap of humanity did not spread to the bedroom. If there were anyone less sexually engaged, he didn’t know where to find them. He had used sex toys with more presence and personality.
Biding his time, this would be mercifully quick as long as he survived it. As long as he could slog through the ever-deadening process of watching people do good. Of watching people pat themselves on the back for doing good and of watching people who were at the top of the capitalism ladder redistribute tiny increments of their wealth for the sake of a named wing, a plaque, a bench, a gene.
And then he saw her.
Lydia.
Callie had begged Krysta to come and help with registration and the live auction for the autism charity ball. None of the offerings really appealed to Lydia. Borrowing someone's private jet for five hours wasn't high on her list of priorities.
“That'll go for $25,000,” Callie explained. She was Krysta's identical twin, though people didn't seem to notice. Where Krysta was soft and big, with long ringlets framingher face, Callie was a half inch taller, with a marathoner's long, lean look. Her hair was cropped short in a no-nonsense style. The two had the same coloring, but that's where the similarity ended.
Callie's son, Kyle, was an adorable, if anxious, toddler. Throwing herself into every part of project-managing his condition, Callie had assembled a team of speech therapists, occupational therapists, behavioralists, Early Intervention specialists, and had become involved in the autism charity – all in the four months since Kyle's diagnosis.
“$25,000!” Lydia shouted, shocked.
“Too bad a date with Michael Bournham isn't on there this year,” Callie said, nudging her. They all knew she found him hot, hot, hot, the pictures in People Magazine and Entertainment Weekly always drawing a double-take from Lydia.
“How much does that go for?”
“Someone told me a night with him in Paris sold for $55,000 last year.”
Lydia whistled low, a sound of amazement. “Damn. So selling my car wouldn't get me anywhere close?”
They all laughed. By the evening's end, Callie predicted, nearly half a million would go into a special research fund to understand more about the genetics of autism. Her eyes teared up as she talked about all of the ways that research was helping already. Words like “mitochondrial disorders” and “methylation” and “PET scans” and “cerebellum activity differences” went in and out of her head as Callie rattled off a near-encyclopedic understanding of the intricacies of the condition.
“Kyle's really lucky to have you,” she said, reaching out to hold Callie's hand. The act seemed to make Callie freeze, then melt.
“Thank you,” she rasped, wiping tears carefully from the corner of her eyes. “It's a lot to take in.” She fanned her face. “Can't cry! Can't cry,” she repeated, and Lydia instantly understood.
“Sorry!” Squeezing her hand once, she let go and got back to business. Registrants came in and, if bidding, were assigned a number. She and Krysta were only here for an hour or so, and she hoped she wasn't underdressed. Callie had said “ball gown,” so she and Krysta had hit a bunch of vintage thrift shops in Cambridge last week, Krysta settling on a long, black, flowing chiffon number paired with a loose silk coat, while Lydia went for red.
China red, in fact, with a scalloped neck, three-quarter sleeves, and a red pashmina for her arms and waist. Paired with red leather pumps and some fake diamonds, the dress worked just enough to pass here. No way would she ever really fit in; some of these women wore jewelry worth more than the cost of her parents' house.
Costume jewelry from the Central Square Salvation Army would have to do for Lydia.
“Lydia,” Krysta said through her lips, trying not to move her mouth. She sounded like a drunk ventriloquist. “Your boyfriend is here.”
“Matt?”
Choking on a laugh, Krysta nearly shrieked. “So now he's your boyfriend? You are hopeless.” She waved her hand toward the ballroom. “No. Bournham. He's here,” she said nodding in the same direction.
Silver, short hair. Shoulders that his jacket embraced perfectly, the cloth lining his muscles as if poured on his body. His back was stiff, and he held a praying mantis on his arm. Oh – no, just an underfed socialite. They all had arms like eleven year old girls.
If he turned around, she would melt into a wet, pussy-goo puddle right here, right now. Any part of her skin not covered by the sily fabric of her dress turned pink, hot from just beinging within hearing distance of the man. If he pivoted, even gave her a glimpse of his profile, she would surely orgasm on the spot, go blind from shame, and live out the rest of her life with a sly smile on her face as she told the story.
And then he did.
Without question, the very last person he ever thought he would see at this event was Lydia, who stared him dead in the face right now from just far enough a distance as to make it safe to stare back as Michael Bournham. Heart racing, hands flexing and itching to touch her, he took a deep, slow breath in through his nose, steadying himself. Diane's hand on his arm suddenly felt like an insect's dead appendage compared to the vision before him.
Luscious. Radiant. Sexy.
Fuckable. And oh, how. The red dress, lush, painted lips, her hair pinned up and off her neck. When she bent over to pick up a piece of paper, then tipped her head up to smile at a registrant for the auction he wanted to pummel the man she beamed at, for that smile should be his. That mouth should be for him.
And him alone.