Boston (4 page)

Nothing seems to work for them, too. “Nice! Late-ah,” combines in the air with perfume and large purses swinging and heels. When they’re out the door, the silence is louder than the chatter. Boston stretches his fingers and sticks his hands into his pockets. “You get a lot done, Abs?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“What did you think of the shoot? It didn’t distract you?”

“No, I actually—I got some inspiration for a sexy part.”

“Do tell.” His voice is lower now. “You writin’ a girl/girl scene?”

I shake my head. “It’s all hetero loving in my book, Boston.” I smile. “But sexy poses are sexy poses, regardless of gender.”

He tilts his head. “Maybe I should read your book.”

“Maybe you should.” My voice is low, too. “It might give you some ideas.”

“I got plenty of my own ideas.” His voice is taut, a challenge. He barely lifts one eyebrow at me and lets his lips curl into the smallest smile. God. Those lips, full and sexy. I want to feel them on my neck.

I lick my lip. “You know my book has bondage in it, Boston. Some spanky good times. You an expert on that, too?”

He hesitates. “Not to date, no. I don’t need to tie my women down, or threaten them with punishment, Abs. They come willingly. Over and over again.” I feel my stomach liquefy at his confident grin.

I shrug. “Oh, I just bet they do. But you never know. Sometimes it’s good to expand your horizons.”

He comes closer and I feel his warmth next to me, smell his scent. I control my breathing because I sort of feel like panting, and I control my head, because it wants to drift closer to his, closer to his sensual lips.

“Oh, Abs, you want to expand your horizons?” His voice is a gentle croon, a promise, and a dare. “I bet you’d like doing what I tell you to, without being tied up at all.” I gasp out at his intense gaze. He continues. “You can tell yourself it’s research for yah book, if you like.” He smiles and touches my cheek, lets his finger stroke down my jaw and down my neck.

My pulse flutters under his touch. “So you’re offering me some generous public assistance, just to make my writing better?”

“Better for both of us, babe.” He continues with the finger, lower now, along my clavicle. “The better the book, the better the profits. I wouldn’t be a very good partner if I didn’t pull my fair share, now would I? If I can… motivate you… shouldn’t I do it to help our bottom line?”

Oh, God. He’s good at this game.

I put my hand over his exploring touch, push his fingers into a fist, enclose his hard fist in mine. “Of course you should. I appreciate such a generous offer. You’re so selfless.”

“You want a study hour, Abby? Smart girl want to get herself a tutor?” He’s ready to strike. I can see it in his eyes. He’s so…
sure of me
. So confident that if he want this, he can hit this. And underneath my desire for him, that is irritating, and I don’t like it. Why should he get to be so cocky about himself?

I let go of his hand, feeling inspired. “Okay. Here’s how you can help.” I step back. “I do need some advice.” I point. “Lean against the wall for me.”

His gaze is quizzical. “Sure thing, Abs.” He saunters over and poses. Such a playboy. I shake my head with a smile. He gestures to me just like he did at the club, like “come here, baby,” and it’s all I can do to resist the urge to jump on him and grind, like that groupie girl.

“Can I ask you something?” I make my voice low and soft.

“Anything.” He’s all easy confidence.

I walk closer and ask in a whisper, “Do you like blow jobs?”

If he had a drink, he’d spit it out. His whole body reacts. “Do I—? Yeah. I fucking love them. I mean—
Abby
?” His eyes are popping out of his head, and I can tell he’s wondering, hoping, because his body shows me an immediate interest—more than a passing interest—in my question.

Good. I step in, close. “I figured you did, but I needed to hear it. How do you like them best?” I run one finger up his chest.

“Best?” I can almost see his mind racing, trying to figure this out, and I smile. “You know. Your ideal, perfect BJ. Are you lying on your back, and she’s kneeling over you, naked, ready to please you? Or do you prefer her on her knees and you’re sitting on the bed, or leaning against a wall—like this.”

I widen my eyes and tilt my head, and he groans. I kneel down in front of him, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve had one while standing, right?”

“Abby?”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes, I have. Uh, what was the other question?”

“Forget the other question. All I need from you right now,
Professor,
is a few measurements. I just need to see if someone
my
height,” and I inch in a little closer on my knees, “could service someone
your
height,” and I run my hands up his hard thighs, “while she’s kneeling.”

His muscles clench under my fingers. “Yeah, Abby, yeah, you could. She could.” He shifts against the wall, restless, and I see how hard he is through his jeans. Damn, but I want to stroke him, to feel him. I want to unbuckle his jeans and touch him, lick him, then have him put his face between my legs and return the favor.

“Does it work against the wall?” I have to be careful not to get caught up in my own game. “I mean, if you get excited, you won’t throw your head back and concuss yourself, right?”

He laughs, a hard bark, and I see his hands clench and unclench. “I can control myself, yeah.”

“Good.”

I stay there for a second, just touching him, watching him fight his body for control, then I lean in so my mouth is really close to his groin. “Yeah, it does look like I could reach. You’d have to thrust down and I’d have to adjust, but we could make it work, don’t you think?”

I squeeze into his quads with my palms, then get to my feet, standing so close that I can smell the scent of his shirt. It’s a different detergent than Erik’s, and I like it, I like the difference.

He pushes off the wall and takes my shoulders in his hands. “What exactly are we doin’ here, Abby?” His breathing is rough, his eyes glittering. There’s a tone in his voice that makes me weak.

I smile innocently. “Research. You just helped me, like you offered. And I so appreciate it. Thanks a bunch, partner!” I touch his arm, then pull away and sashay back to my computer. “Now that I have the logistics down, I need to get it into the computer. You’re the best.”

I start typing. I try to ignore the spark of pleasure between my legs, the way my breathing jerks in my chest. The way I want to lean into him and beg him to take me. The way I want to do exactly what I just teased him about. But I keep my eyes directly on my screen. The funny thing is that although I want nothing more than to feel his mouth on mine, I also feel the muse in my brain, and the ideas are filling me; beautiful, wicked words that need to be captured.

“Oh, fuck me.” His voice is full of rueful humor, but also something else. “Abby?” I can feel the tension, the question. If I said yes, he’d be on me in a heartbeat, and I think it would be the best sex of my life. I
know
it would be.

But I don’t say yes. “Not now, Boston, sorry.” I wave my hand behind me without turning from the screen. “I’m working on our bottom line.”

Yeah, I want him, but something also makes me want to win at this—I don’t know why it feels like a competition, but I’m terrified of giving in to this surge of passion. I don’t know what it will do to me, to us, to this arrangement, so I just can’t allow myself to indulge.

I’m already a little crazy for him, and I can’t risk a one-night stand, because I know myself, and I know I’d fall deep and hard and crash right down on the rocks when it turned out he wasn’t available, wasn’t going to offer anything else.

He makes a loud growl and slams his fist into the wall, but then he laughs. “Jesus. I’m gonna go for a jog.” He disappears into his room, and a few minutes later, the front door bangs shut.

When he comes back, he greets me casually, although his eyes wander over me more boldly than the day before. Whatever we did or didn’t do, there’s something between us, and it’s growing stronger, little by little. I can’t help but think I see a new respect there, too. He’s no longer sure of what I am, what I offer, and I think he likes that as much as I do.

The next day I stop at the Dunkin’ drive-through for a bag of sugary perfection. I was up writing until two a.m., and I can’t start my day without something to get my blood going, and something to save for that narcoleptic afternoon slump that hits around three p.m. I have a huge Frappuccino too, with whipped cream and caramel, and it’s delicious and it does what it’s supposed to. I suck half of it down in the car, feeling the instant hit in my veins. Ever since I started writing full time last year I’ve become more reliant on fast food and treats, but writing is such a rush that I never seem to want to take the time to prepare a meal from scratch. The computer is a siren, a lure. I’m addicted to my work and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the words coming, to allow my fingers to find their natural home on the keyboard.

Honestly, I need the sugar as a distraction, too. I eat when I’m nervous sometimes, and after my little tease-o-rama yesterday, I’m not sure what’s going to happen today. I don’t like the way my pants have been a little tighter these past months, but I swear, I’m going to get back into running just as soon as this project is finished.

Boston frowns when he sees my plastic cup and colorful bag. “I told you I’d make coffee and something healthy.”

“Oh, live a little,” I challenge. I pick up a cake donut sprinkled with white sugar and take a bite, licking my lips to get all the sweetness. “It’s soooo good.”

A muscle clenches in his jaw. He goes into the kitchen and comes out with a tall glass of some thick green liquid that looks like someone put grass clippings and swamp water in a blender on low.

“Here.” He plucks the donut from my fingers and tosses it back into the bag, and wraps my hand around the glass. “Taste this. One sip and you’ll realize what you really want for fuel.”

I eye the glass with misgivings, although I like the feel of his fingers arranging mine. “This is regurgitated cud. I’m not a cow.”

“It’s a veggie and fruit shake, Abby, and it’s got so many nutrients that you’ll go insane. One mouthful.”

One mouthful… one mouthful. My mind goes off in a thousand directions, but I dutifully put the glass to my mouth and take a small sip. It tastes like fields and alfalfa and sunlight and green; it’s not horrible. But neither is it what I’d call “delicious.” I wrinkle my nose and hand the glass back. “I did one. Give me back my donut.”

He rolls his eyes. “Abby, every single thing you put into your mouth is either fighting disease or feeding it. Think about that when you eat your ring of grease. I hope diabetes doesn’t run in your family.” He chuckles, but I feel my eyes swell.

It takes a few seconds, but he notices. “Abby? What is it?”

I feel a tear squeezing out. “Nothing.”

“It’s clearly not nothing. Shit, did I hurt your feelings? What I said about the food?” He sounds incredulous. “Seriously?” He blows out a breath.

I shake my head. “Something else. Forget about it.”

He comes closer. “I don’t like to make girls cry. Come on. Tell me.” He sounds kind but demanding, and his tone makes my stomach lurch despite the topic.

“My mom had diabetes before she died. It wasn’t the reason, but she had a lot of complications.”

He folds me into his strong chest, holding one hand against the back of my head, stroking my hair. “Aw, Abby, I’m sorry. How long ago?”

I swallow. “Twelve years ago. And every single moment of every day since.” His arms feel good.

“Oh, man. I really messed up, then. Abby, I just—I love teaching people about fitness, okay? It’s one of the few—I mean, I’m good at it and I like helping. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m sorry about your mom. My mom died when I was a kid, too. I get it.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t know. It’s okay. And I just, I just miss her, you know?”

He strokes my hair. “Yeah. I know.” The doorbell rings and he lets go of me. “That’s gonna be Chelle.”

I suck in a tremulous sigh. One day I’m teasing him with a pretend blow job, the next he’s consoling me about my mom. This is a strange thing we have going. It’s confusing. But I like it.

Chelle is tall and lean with wiry muscles and jet-black hair pulled into a bun and fastened with ornate silver chopsticks. A cluster of colorful tattoos twines up her left arm and disappears under the soft scoop of her black tank. When she lifts her arm, I notice a thick swatch of underarm hair dyed blue.

She sees me looking. “Goin’ natural is the new black,” she announces, adjusting her purple-rimmed glasses. “It’s very freeing. My othah arm is purple. My girlfriend Rain is doing it, too, except she’s got green and pink. We’re a rainbow.” She smiles. “Sometimes I think we should lie down together with our arms up and pose for a Gay Pride picture.”

I laugh. I like her sense of humor.

Chelle unwraps a piece of mint gum. “Want some?” She holds it out.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

Boston snorts. “You know that sugar-free shit is not good for you, Chelle.”

“Fuck off, Parker,” she says, flipping her finger, and I love the accent and the attitude both.

“Thank God,” I say. “Someone who enjoys regular food.” I give Boston a baleful stare, and he laughs.

“Chelle eats better than I do,” he informs me, “but she has her vices.” His voice is warm. “Chelle, I got some more kale-cucumber-celery juice in the kitchen for later. Maybe we can convince Abby to give it a real try.” He winks at me and adds, “She said she’s up for new experiences, right, Abby?” But something in his face is serious, and I flush, look away.

I don’t answer his question. “So what are you going to shoot today?”

“Me.” Boston smiles at me. “The ones out back by the garden, the ones of me angry punching the wall, the ones of me in the shower. The ones of me on the bike.”

Chelle is doing something with her camera, and she doesn’t react to these words with any outward show of arousal, the kind that my body is doing to me in a crazy fashion.

I run through the Excel spreadsheet in my mind. The poses sounded sexy when he mentioned them, but knowing that he’ll be stripping down to nothing and posing, right here, right now? My pulse couldn’t get faster. It really couldn’t.

I nod. “Cool.” I’m aiming for nonchalant author, but what comes out is a croak that’s all “fan girl.” I clear my throat. “I’ll just get my water bottle from the car. Have fun.”

I retreat to my Prius and actually get into the front seat and put both hands on the steering wheel and grip it, trying to calm down, regain my control.

I look at the automotive logo, blank my mind, and listen to a fly buzz; it’s trapped in the backseat. A minute goes by, the air warm and close like a blanket. The hot sun on my neck and the faint sound of the insect bring me back to my childhood. It’s like I’m on one end of a ribbon, a long stretched-out ribbon, and my childhood is at the other end, and time suddenly ripples the ribbon and puts me next to that old scene from twenty years ago.

I can smell fresh watermelon and chicken charring on the BBQ grill, hear my mom calling “Abbilene! Jace! Come in and set the table, please.” I can feel the tugging itchy pain of the healing scab on my knee every time I pump the swing, but I don’t care, because the wind on my face from my own flight outweighs it. And then I leap from the swing when it’s at the peak, half sure I’m going to take off into the clouds, then suddenly just as sure that I’m going to die, but that thought fades quickly, because I’m safe, my life is charmed, and nothing bad ever happens. I land in the scuffed grass, my legs and ankles vibrating with the hard shock of the landing, a sick feeling in my shins, my stomach in my throat. And then I get up, unharmed, and run in.

I was so infinitely safe back then, when everyone and everything important was immortal, when even bad decisions had happy endings. When home made me invincible. I wish I had that same confidence now. These days, things seem so complicated, people and relationships so hard to navigate. Especially this one, with Boston. And the one I have with myself, my own lack of self-confidence.

I know that I should have faith in myself, and I do!—when it comes to writing, intellectual stuff, brainy stuff. Then I rock like a rock star. I’m never afraid of challenges that involve my skills. But when it comes to men, I worry about how I look, how I compare, and it makes me shrivel up inside. It’s been a problem for as long as I can remember. I think it started back in grade school when I was chubby and never got asked to dance in junior high. But even when I joined track in high school and lost weight and regained my fitness, I never regained that sense of pride in my body. And being around body temples doesn’t help. I know a man as ripped and handsome as Boston can get his choice of women, and his ex—Annalise—is maybe the prettiest woman in the world.

I open the back door of the car and shoo the fly out, and go back into Boston’s house without the water bottle. Boston and Chelle are gone, probably in back, and I want to watch but I also don’t, so I sit at the computer and start writing.

I’m in a pensive mood and different words pour from my fingers, something rougher and stranger than my sex scenes from yesterday. Today I write the back-story of my heroine; the zigzagged scars on her heart that make it difficult for her to trust. I write the gentle coaxing love of my hero, who opens her petal by petal to expose her deepest secrets, and how their trust becomes so strong that it survives every cataclysmic event I’m going to throw their way.

Once again I write in a trance, breaking only to raid his fridge, a frustrating endeavor; I end up with a Red Delicious apple, some mini carrots, and some slices of organic turkey breast. It’s not the burger and fries I was craving, but it fills me up. My energy continues and I get back into the writing without my usual afternoon slump, and by the time Boston and Chelle come back in, I’ve written another two thousand words. I’m so excited that I’m nearly vibrating.

Boston swipes at his hair with a towel. He’s got another one around his waist. My eyes trace his happy trail of hair down to where the towel starts and, holy hell, I realize he’s naked under there.

Chelle is exuberant. “We got totally awesome shots, Abby. You ah going to love these so freakin’ much. I can’t wait ‘til we edit them and show you.” She’s almost skipping. “Parker outdid himself today, he really did. We struck gold.”

I nod, trying not to stare at the V of Boston’s abdomen, his six-pack, the water drops on his shoulder. I want to dry him off with my tongue. I hope he gets dressed so I can focus again, but instead he goes right to the kitchen, pours a cup of his green goo, and comes back out, chugging it.

“You get work done, too?” He’s looking at me.

I nod. “Even more than yesterday. No writer’s block or anything. And it’s good, too.” I hesitate, not sure if I should, but say it anyway. “Sometimes? I write but it feels forced, and when I read it back it’s boring, like a history textbook. More like an outline of a story than the actual story, and I have to go back another day, when I’m more inspired, and fix it. But today it was beautiful and pulsing and alive, all of it.”

Boston and Chelle both nod and start to talk at once, their words tumbling over each other, and she gestures at him. “No, you go.”

His eyes are excited, locked onto mine. “Abby. That’s exactly how it with photography. When I’m in the zone, it all goes well and the lighting is perfect and the poses are perfect, and when I get them into Photoshop, I can feel the energy through the screen. Other days it’s a drag, the mood isn’t right, and then the pictures are worthless.”

Chelle can’t wait to talk. “It’s exactly the same. All artists speak the same thing inside.” She thumps her chest and silver rings flash from all of her fingers. “We all get the same highs and lows. I guess today we all got the high.” She smiles and checks her watch. “I gotta go meet my girl. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

She packs up her things, and it’s me and Boston and the silence of his room in the late afternoon, the sun sending generous, autumnal swaths of brilliance across the room, making things glow orange and yellow. I hear a meow, and jump. “Boston, did a
cat
get in here?”

He laughs and scoops up a thing that’s mostly long white fluffy hair and cuddles it against his chest. “This is Doll. She’s shy. She was probably undah my bed all day.”

“How did I not even know you had a cat? Your house doesn’t smell.”

I clap my hand over my mouth, but he laughs. “Thank God, right? Her litterbox and cat tower are down in the basement. She probably didn’t come up when you were around because she’s a little shy. Don’t try to pet her until she gets used to you. She isn’t that friendly to newcomers.”

“I’m more of a dog person anyway.” I watch as the creature bumps her head into Boston’s shoulder and makes a rasping purr. “She seems to love you.”

“Yeah.” His voice is affectionate. The cat meows and drops to the floor with a thump, then wanders off, her tail moving like a separate entity. I’m fascinated.

“I wouldn’t have ever thought you were a cat person,” I observe, and somehow that’s not the right thing to say.

“Why? Am I not smart enough to qualify for a cat?” His voice isn’t as easy as before.

“No! I just, you seem so, rough. Tough muscle guy. Cats are kind of… sweet. You know, gentle.”

The cat screams out a horrible sound, hisses. It leaps up into the air and does an incredible twist, something out of dolphin Olympics, and lands without a sound. Its paw goes crazy, a blur of motion, and it yowls again and bats with both hands—they’re nimble as mine, now—and I realize that it’s playing with a bug.