Something's Come Up Page 4

  “This isn’t my first rodeo,” she assured me.

  “Seems that analogy would be better spent if you were riding me.”

  Her eyes flickered dangerously in my direction as she pulled my belt all the way out of my pants, rather than undoing it enough for me to pull them down. She held it in her hand as I tried to hide the eagerness from my eyes. There was no way we were thinking the same things about that belt.

  Our first morning after was unlike any morning after I’d ever experienced.

  For one, I woke up at her place. That shit only happened while I was at Princeton, and by the time I left, I was an honorary sister of Zeta Delta. Drama doesn’t even describe it. It was a funny thing. In the span of one second they’d go from turning on each other over sleeping with the same guy—yours truly—to turning on me for breaking one of their sisters’ hearts. After that, I resolved two things: always at my place, and never get involved with sorority sisters.

  Secondly, and most astonishingly, I woke up in the same building John Lennon had lived in until the day he died. Judging by the industry decor of the New York-style palace, I was guessing that piece of history mattered to Red, especially as I stared at a black and white photograph of John, Yoko, and two other people I’d assumed were her parents. The woman in the picture was blonde, but was a 1970s platinum version of Little Red herself.

  I rubbed my wrists, not the only sore part of my body, as I grinned at the black leather belt that sat in unassuming uselessness on the floor. She still hadn’t told me her name, but we fucked well past first-name basis last night. Not knowing if I’d ever see her again, and out of my element, I decided it would be a nice gesture to make coffee. She stirred a little as I slid out of bed.

  “You don’t have to sneak out,” she said as she yawned. “You can just say thanks for the lay and be on your way.”

  Last night was far from my standard tame one night stands, and her apparent apathy toward me stirred my insides. I crawled over her on the bed, straddling her on my hands and knees. My eyes flickered to her nightstand, and a grin overtook me as I spoke.

  “You’ve got an attitude, Stephanie.”

  Her eyes flew open as she rolled over, no shred of shock. Pure anger. Rage. “How the fuck do you know my name?” She regulated her breathing through flaring nostrils.

  Taking the risk of her biting my face off, I leaned forward and kissed her nose. “The envelope on your nightstand.”

  Her face softened as all muscles went to rolling her eyes. “Crafty. Watch Law & Order much?”

  I took another risk as her eyes burned. “You keep using that tone with me and I’ll have to punish you.”

  My heart raced as she sat up on her elbows, touching her nose to mine. “I dare you,” she whispered, her hot, somehow minty breath on my lips.

  “Turn over.”

  An hour and the second-best sex I’d ever had later, I was finally ready to leave. Red had slid under her sheets again, her flaming hair across the crisp white flashing like a stoplight. Even half asleep, I felt her pulling at something in me. Calling to me.

  Don’t go. Climb back on in here and teach me a lesson.

  But she said nothing and I had places to be. I pulled my shirt over my head, cursing under my breath at the button that had gone missing in the name of impatience the night before, smiling in the next breath at the prospect of sending her the bill for it from the tailor.

  After lacing my shoes, I rose and was to her bedroom door before she said anything.

  “Pace?” Her voice was soft, the kind of vulnerable undertones that let me know I’d done my job.

  “Yeah?” I turned slowly, grinning in victory.

  She sat up, her expression hard, like a war-addled vet. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a smoky octave. “Lock the door when you leave.”

  At that, she got out of bed and walked into the bathroom attached to her bedroom and turned on the shower.

  Feeling like I was losing my footing, and not liking that at all, I took a blank piece of paper off her desk, traced my hand, and laid it over a pair of panties in the top drawer of her dresser. Scrawled in the center of my palm was the message: A little something to remember me by.

  As I walked back through the grand entryway and into the warm air, I almost regretted not leaving my phone number.

  Pull it together, Pace, she was just a one night girl.

  She wasn’t, though. It wasn’t a front she’d used when excusing me from her apartment. That girl had barbed wire through her veins, and, if I was lucky, around her heart.

  “Hey!” A fierce voice stopped me just as I’d started my long walk around Central Park.

  I turned, too cocky for my own good. “Miss me already?”

  “You left this behind.” She held out her hand and dropped a small white button into my cupped palm. String attached.

  As I watched her bound back up the grandiose stairs to her apartment building, I tucked the button into my pocket, bit my lip, and walked away. I knew this was something; I made up my mind. Stephanie was far from a one-nighter. Come hell or high water, I vowed last night wouldn't be my last time between those ivory thighs.

  Steph, July 2012

  We’d been lying amongst our discarded clothes on the kitchen floor long enough for me to start shivering. Pace must have felt me tremble, because even though his eyes were closed, he pulled me onto his chest. He was always surprisingly warm post-coitus, and I relaxed into him like he was an electric blanket on a cool autumn day. I traced my index finger along the religious tattoo on the right side of his chest. He had several new tats since I’d last seen him naked, but this one in particular caught my eye.

  “What’s the deal, Pace? Did you find Jesus?” I couldn’t help myself from blurting Jesus out like a tent revivalist.

  His chest vibrated against my cheek as he erupted with that deep, panty-dropping laugh of his. “Look closer, Red.”

  I pushed myself up to sitting and tilted my head to inspect the large black image of the cross more thoroughly. Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene crouched beside an abused-looking Son of God at the foot of the cross.

  “A decidedly morbid biblical image,” I critiqued, but I didn’t miss the pensive look behind his eyes.

  “I got it right after we came home from Rome.” His eyes were like liquid topaz as he studied my reaction.

  I realized I was holding my breath and exhaled in a ragged gasp. I fumbled for my clothes, waging an epic battle to hide my bewilderment.

  Rome.

  Holy shit—pun intended.

  Pace and I met in the fall of my junior year and were done before summer break. We’d stupidly made an attempt to playact as a legit couple for a brief period during the month of March, traveling to Rome together over spring break. It was an impulsive move. Thrilling and magical and…

  And we stopped seeing each other after we got back. By the time term ended, we’d stopped speaking altogether.

  “I’m sure the Pope would be thrilled that you mutilated yourself in effigy.” Fixing him with a wry smile, I picked up my shirt and tossed it on without my bra.

  “I didn’t do it for him.” His deep bass voice chastised me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. He looked like an African version of The David and I wished he’d put some clothes on.

  “Aw, Honey! You got a post-crucifixion tat for little old me?” I did my best Scarlett O’Hara to lighten the mood. “I notice it isn’t over your heart.” I nodded to the left side of his chest, which bore a large oriental dragon.

  He scoffed, then his serious expression morphed into a sly grin. “That would have been...inappropriate.”

  “Yeah, maybe on your crotch, but never over your heart.” I relaxed at his apparent return to the game and climbed to my feet.

  Thanks to Pace’s tall frame and discerning tastes, I still wore my nude platform heels. He remained motionless and naked on the floor, his astounding arms folded behind his head. His eyes never left my face.

  “The
neck tattoo is pretty bold.” I rerouted the subject, nodding to the left side of his neck, his most blatantly visible ink.

  “A collared shirt keeps secrets. Certainly you remember...” He sat up and grabbed my upper thigh, placing a soft kiss on it, then sucking it in an apparent attempt to remind me of the hickey he’d given me once on a Sunday night. Asshole. Right before Monday morning classes. I pulled away and bent down to reach for the rest of my discarded clothes. He pulled me down so that I was straddling him. I felt him stiffen beneath me and every muscle below my navel tensed deliciously.

  I sucked in a loud breath as he leaned forward and bit my nipple. “Feels like someone’s ready to play again.”

  “Always,” he mumbled into my cleavage.

  Butterflies awakened in the pit of me when he said that word. Disturbed, I promptly doused them with ether. Pace was a champion strategist. Do not misinterpret that statement; I find intelligence incredibly sexy, but Pace was literally a chess club champ in high school (don’t think I didn’t make fun of that shit), and he used his Machiavellian brain for some pretty tiresome shit way back when. I hadn’t come to see him for a trip down memory lane, I came to have him make me come. After all, a girl has needs.

  “Can we at least move to the couch?” I asked when it was clear he wasn’t backing down from another go.

  “Are you uncomfortable, Princess?” He was eye to eye with me; I tried my best not to flinch away from his bullshit taunt or his electric gaze.

  I thought for a fleeting moment that I might have made a tactical error visiting him. No. Pace knew me, I reminded myself. He got it. He knew what I was capable of and—more importantly—what I wasn’t, and he accepted it. Well...most of the time.

  Clearing my throat and needing to regain my footing, I tilted my chin toward the window. “How strong are those windows?”

  He leaned forward, wickedness playing in his smile. “Suicide glass.”

  My heart raced at the term. It begged to be toyed with. “You feeling dangerous tonight?”

  “I’m with you, aren’t I?” He stood, putting me eye to eye with his best attribute. He caught me staring and chuckled. “Get up. You’re lucky it’s July, that glass can get cold enough for your nipples to cut through it.”

  Steph, November 2008

  November had been one crazy ass month. I was still recovering from the trials and tribulations of mid-terms, which had required me to do all sorts of unpleasant stuff, like writing papers and studying terms for techniques I just perform instinctively. All of that was highly irritating and made me kind of pissy. More importantly, I’d had so many parties to go to that I had to use my calendar to keep track of them. I still had to show up at school and pretend to absorb information I’d learned when these other idiots still had hairless privates. Dad demanded I come home for Thanksgiving, so I grudgingly made the trip back to Chicago even though I knew I’d get snowed in and miss P Diddy’s rave on Saturday. And I’d even waxed for it.

  Dad and I ate Thanksgiving dinner in The Signature Room in Hancock Building, a tradition of ours since long before Mom’s sternum got crushed by a drunk driver and my brother Cedric hobbled off to Rome. I hadn’t seen Dad since school started in August. After his disapproving inspection of my new nose ring, I got the full court press about school and interning at The Sound Wave after graduation. I implied that interning at a magazine that I’d been shooting covers for since I was thirteen years old was ridiculous. He proceeded to drink too much whisky, so I was forced to drive him home. I always loved driving his Mercedes. Unlike Dad, I drove it the way it was meant to be driven—fast and motherfucking furious.

  After indulging Dad’s drunken ramblings (he insisted on singing an Irish lullaby for me that his grandma used to love), I poured him into bed and hopped online to check my email. I was homework free and had paid the right people to write my papers. The assigned school projects were laughable, but my agent had scheduled a cover shoot the following week with some up-and-coming British chanteuse named Amy Winehouse, and I’d heard that girl knew how to party. I suspected we’d hit it off.

  When I saw a new email from CPTurner3@columbia.edu, I had to read the address three times to believe it. I hadn’t seen Pace since our one-nighter (one night and part of the following morning, if you want to get technical) almost six weeks earlier. About a week after our hookup at my place, I’d received an envelope containing a bill from an overpriced tailor for a “button repair.” The return address was on the other side of Central Park. I’d smiled at that; he lived just across the green space from me and it was almost...sweet, knowing he was so close and so far away.

  I wrote out a check for the full amount and stuffed it into an envelope coated in my perfume. I included his receipt, on which I scrawled “paid in full” in whore red lipstick. As a bonus, I included a bottle of Steel Dragon, a “natural” male performance enhancement drug I stumbled across at a skanky liquor store in Greenwich Village.

  He never replied, so I assumed he didn’t have the stones to hang with a bitch like me after all. Now over a month later, here was an email from the man himself. Hmm…

  The subject line of his email said “Something’s Come Up.” Of that, I had no doubt.

  I was suddenly so wet I felt like I needed to change my panties. Twirling my hair anxiously, I leaned close to the screen and double clicked.

  Red,

  Been thinking about that dirty mouth of yours. I have something you can do to keep it occupied. ;)

  I want to take you out. Or in. You get the idea. If you’re up for it, meet me at The Rack on Friday night at 6.

  Pace-It’s my name. Remember to use it.

  P.S. I threw those pills away.

  I noticed he included his phone number under his signature. I took a moment to punch it into my phone. Then I looked at the time stamp. He’d sent the email the night before. Six would be cutting it close if my plane left O’Hare on time, which never happens. My fingers engaged before my brain did, plunking the keyboard a million miles a minute.

  Cary,

  Make it 8 and I’m game. I won’t bother wearing panties. Not that I’m complaining, but how’d you get my email address?

  Steph

  P.S. Bring condoms.

  I wandered into The Rack at 8:15 and with the exception of the staff, the place was deserted. The scent of burnt ends, tangy sauce, and honey butter caused me to salivate. Glancing around once more, I shrugged and sauntered to the cash register. Bubba leaned carelessly on the counter, eyeing me with a wry smile.

  “Expecting someone, Shorty?” He smirked, his glittering gold tooth sparkling like a beacon of culinary excellence. He was a chill dude and we’d been trading barbs for three and a half years. He popped the top of a bottle of my favorite beer, handing it to me.

  “Yep. But looks like he bailed.”

  “You’re one cold heartbreaker. Real talk, girl.”

  “You know me. Sad and lonely,” I said sardonically, sipping the beer as he plated up my usual order.

  “So this missing thug of yours—he tall, black, and cocky as hell?”

  “Why yes,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if Pace was standing behind me. He wasn’t. We were alone.

  “He was here. Waited for a half hour...asked if I’d seen a redheaded smartass. He left about five minutes ago. He seemed pretty annoyed.”

  I shrugged and took my plate of ribs. “I’m late.”

  He handed me a second bottle of beer, and, balancing both bottles and my heaping plate, I went into the empty dining room and took a seat close to the heating vent. I’ve always been cold-blooded, and New York City in late November made me wish I’d gone to college in Miami. Then I’d have skin cancer, but at least I’d be snug as a bug. I took off my coat and dug into the ribs. Pace came back in the door just as I was sucking the sauce off the first bone.

  “Well, now. That’s a sight for sore eyes.”

  His seductive voice literally caressed me. I’m embarrassed to admit I shivered w
hen I heard him. He was heading in my direction, all lean, virile muscle. He didn’t sound pissed, but those astonishing eyes of his simmered with something...promise of punishment, maybe? I felt my lower muscles pulsating like a tightly wound guitar string.

  “I thought you left,” I replied. “I did say eight, right?”

  “It was 8:15.” His poker face was flawless.

  “Traffic.” I shrugged. “Hungry?”

  “Not anymore. I just forgot my scarf.” His cool tone left a breeze in his wake as he walked past me and scooped up a sheath of cream wool off the back of a nearby chair. Then he strutted back in the direction of the door.

  What the hell?

  “Hey!” I called, tossing down my rib and hurriedly wiping my hands off with a pile of napkins. “Settle down, Carrington. I was fifteen minutes late!”

  He paused. After what seemed like eternity, he looked over his shoulder at me. His eyes scanned me clinically and he reached out and flipped the nearest chair around backwards. He straddled it and my eyes drifted to his muscular thighs. Memories of his perfect naked flesh were overwhelming, and I knew I was blushing as I felt heat rising in my cheeks. He intertwined his own fingers and cocked his head to the side.

  “I don’t think you are sorry. But I think you will be.”

  I didn’t want him to go, but I didn’t want him to know that. I lifted my chin defiantly. “That sounds delightful. Can I finish my dinner?”

  “You can do whatever you like.” He stood and wrapped his scarf around his neck. “I have other...things I can do with my free time.”

  I sighed and sipped my second beer. “Sit down, Pace. I think we need to have a conversation.”

  His eyes shot to mine and I was sure he’d walk away. To my surprise, he slowly took the chair a second time.

  “If you tell me eight, you be here no later than seven fifty-five. Do we understand one another? The only games I wish to play are in the sheets, Red.” Just like that, he was in dom mode.