Boston (5 page)

“Arrggghhehe!” The sound that comes from my throat is only marginally more pleasant than that of the cat’s. “Is that a spider? Oh, my God.” I grab at the desk chair, ready to climb. “Do you have Raid or is she going to actually eat that?”

Boston laughs so hard he almost loses the towel and has to grab at it. “It’s a cricket, Abby!” He rewraps the terry cloth without exposing anything. “Apparently cats find them delicious. You know, crickets are getting really popular in health food circles. Lean with lots of protein.”

“Well, you should have her hunt for you,” I say in a sort of snappy voice. “You could fry them up with onions and have a really healthy dinner. Save some money, too.” My heart is still racing.

“I get by.” His voice is tense. He heads into his bedroom, calling back, “I’m going to change. Wait for me, okay? I want to review our progress before you go.”

I bite at my lip. Boston is a confusing man—sometimes funny, sometimes defensive. Always sexy. Did he think I was mocking him with the cricket comment? I’ve figured out by now that I make more money than he does, but honestly, who cares about that? Besides, I can see his drive and ambition, and I’m one hundred percent sure that he’ll be so successful with his work that someday he’ll be flush. I feel uneasy: Should I apologize? Probably not, right? It would make things more awkward.

I save my work onto my zip and slide the laptop into my case, waiting for Boston. He comes out in low-slung black jeans and a sleeveless black tee, barefoot. His feet are not disgusting, I note—not hairy, not gnarly. They look… sexy. Erik’s toes were long and white and reminded me of ghost fingers one time, and then every time I saw them for the rest of our relationship, I preferred it when he wore socks. Boston’s toes look good enough to suck. I don’t even like feet!—feet are gross! Why the hell am I even thinking these weird thoughts?

Boston’s not pissy anymore. He pulls up his spreadsheet and shows me all the shots he’s checked off, a few he’s changed, a few he’s deleted. I agree with all of it. Then he shows me some of the pictures from today, warning me a thousand time that these are “raw” (whatever that means) and “still need to be edited” so I need to remember they’re just starters.

When he shows me the one of him on the bike, I feel a surge of moisture between my legs. I wish I had gone out there now, to watch. This is art and erotica and it belongs in a museum. His lean, strong body is stretched out along the bike, he’s naked except for boots that are unlaced and up on the handlebars. His head is tossed back over the seat, his body curves along the bike, sexy and sinuous and sinful. He looks like he’s in the throes of passion, and the only thing blocking the full Monty is his hand and arm, casually, accidentally in front of his groin. As in the club, I know my eyes are wide, and I’m staring, but his picture is so beautiful and sensual that I can’t even—I can’t even.

“Boston!” I say. “This—this needs to be the cover. Oh, my God. This is fantastic. I don’t even know how to tell you how amazing this is.”

His voice is reverent. “Yeah. It turned out.” He sounds proud. Then he gets critical. “I should have asked Chelle to use a slightly smaller aperture but it’s okay because everything’s pretty much in the same frame, and if I sharpen nobody will notice the softness on the tip of the boots. I wish I’d had my hand a little more relaxed but it’s okay. I’m going to have to do some dodging and burning and—”

I grab his hand on the mouse. “Boston. It’s perfect.”

My eyes meet his and there’s a spark. He leans in. “Abby.” His lips are full and sensual and soft. I remember that mine are not and lick along my bottom one, automatically checking for more rough skin, and he sucks in a breath. “Abby.” His voice is rough.

“Yes?” My voice is soft, shy, but I can’t look away. His eyes are so nice, the lashes are long, the color clear and bold. The look he gives me is different from that cocky, confident stare the other day, when I ended up teasing him about the blow job. Today it’s something fiercer, but softer at the same time, a request and a question.

He strokes my bottom lip with one thumb and smiles, and that sends spires of arousal through my pelvis. His eyes burn into me, and then he brushes his lips over mine, a soft swipe, just a slight moment without tongue or pressure, but it’s enough to make me moan.

He pauses and rubs my lip again, back and forth, and I stick out my tongue and lick along his thumb, a sensuous path that says more than words.

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, then his lips are back, harder, and his tongue is in my mouth, and we’re kissing for real. It’s hard and hot and unbelievable.

He stands up and pulls me to my feet, and it’s
déjà vu
to the club, when he took my hand and asked me to dance, but this time I move into him instead of back into my chair, and press my chest and hips to his. He puts his hands behind my head, wraps his fingers in my hair, and pulls my mouth to him and we kiss again, a long kiss, our bodies so close there’s no air between us, our mouths so close we’re sharing the same oxygen and getting dizzy because we’re not taking any time to breathe.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. He lifts his head and steps back. I widen my eyes and brush the back of my hand across my lips, wiping my spit and his. “Boston?”

But he looks away. “See you tomorrow, Abby. Okay?”

“Uh… yeah. Sure. Tomorrow.” My mind scrambles to keep up. Apparently we’re done kissing, and I need to leave. Okay. I pick up my laptop bag and purse, but turn back at the door, my hand on the knob. “Boston—”

“Good night, Abby.” His voice is firm. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Good night.” My voice wobbles, but I walk to my car with my head high. This time, no childhood memories come rushing back to soothe me back into control, and all the way home I alternate between surges of adrenaline and despair.

***

“Your artwork is very eclectic,” observes a middle-aged man in a dark suit and an uninspired haircut, glancing at the wall. “The number theme matches your job.” He swipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and stands up.

Liesl’s laugh is delighted, as if she’s never heard this before and finds it utterly charming. “It
does,
Larry, you’re so right. Thanks for noticing.” She touches the sleeve of his jacket and lowers her voice. “I like to remind people that numbers can be beautiful, you know? And that we’re not just about hard numbers here at Benson Accounting, we’re about making things better. Taking the ugly tax forms and making them pretty again, right?”

He laughs, but his face looks grateful, and I see that his hand is tight on his laptop case. “Well, I appreciate your help. My wife and I really needed the refund.”

Liesl nods and steers him to the door with a touch on his elbow. “Well, with the tax credits we found, and the things you were not deducting, you’re going to get double what you got last year. So tell Mary Patrice that the fancy matching cribs are a go. Twins! I’m so excited for you both.”

He nods and brushes his forehead again. “You’re a lifesaver. I’m glad I hired you to handle my extension.” He gets onto his phone as he walks out the door, and his face looks easy.

I sidle up. “Another satisfied customer here at Benson, am I right?”

“Abs!” Liesl sashays over on her heels and hugs me. Her hair is up in an elegant chignon and her suit is total Wall Street chic.

“How do you answer the same questions all the time?” I point at the wall, where a huge painted five echoes itself in yellow, smaller versions, against a background of red and brown boxy shapes.

Liesl shrugs. “It’s just the way to start or end conversations for me, kind of like,
Did you find everything okay?
from the grocery clerks, or
Want a lap dance?
for the girls at the clubs. Just part of the lingo to get everyone in the right frame of mind for the situation at hand.” She pours two cups of coffee from the pot and hands me one. “So how’s the working with Parker going?”

I shrug. “It’s—complicated. He kissed me.”

“I knew it!” Her face lights up. “When did this happen? Did he use tongue? Is he a good kisser?”

“Yesterday, yes, and yes. He’s awesome. It was a great kiss. And then he dismissed me.”

“He what?”

“We kissed, then he suddenly pulled back and was all, okay, goodnight, see you tomorrow.”

“So what did you say?”

“Nothing. I just said goodnight, too, and walked out.” I pick at the hem of my shirt and sigh. “It’s probably better. A one-night stand would mess things up.”

Liesl bobs her head. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause while neither of us speak, then I burst in. “But he has a lot of nerve. I don’t see why he gets to call the shots and be all,
kiss me, kiss me
, and then,
okay, we’re done
. Right? He probably thinks I’m so hot for him or so hard up for a guy that he can get a fast fuck, and then go back to work as normal. So he’ll just get what he wants now and get the rest, whenever. That’s not… Ugh. Or worse. Maybe he thinks I’m a terrible kisser and he didn’t want to tell me, so he just said goodbye.”

Liesl puts her cup down and looks right at me. “I doubt that he didn’t want you. I’m serious, he gave off a very powerful fucky vibe toward you at the club. The kiss just verifies that. Maybe he just didn’t want to push you, or something. Maybe he has a rash downstairs. There are other possibilities. Do you or do you not want a fling with him?”

“I do not. And I do. A rash?
Seriously
?”

Liesl takes my cup away, because I’m sort of clenching on it and endangering her brocade couch. “Kidding about the rash. But I agree it would be difficult since you’re working together and all. I mean, I like to joke around, but when it comes down to it, you have to make the decision that works for you and your work. Keeping it professional is honestly the safest thing to do here. Maybe wait until the project is done.”

“When the project is done,” I retort. “I won’t be around all day and he’ll forget about me.” I snap my fingers. “Out of sight, out of mind, and he’ll be back to his usual dimes. I’m just an old nickel.”

Liesl laughs and then her faces goes somber. “You have this weird way of making me laugh and then get sad at the same time. Stop being such a pity-party. There’s nothing nickel about you. Okay? You’re as dime as they come.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re obligated by Girl Code to say that, and even believe it, because we’re BFFs. Your brainwaves have already been corrupted by our friendship. It’s like when they made what’s his name actually believe that two plus two equals five in that one book.”

“Sometimes two plus two does equal five. Trust me, I can make the numbers says what I want.” She pokes me. “And you mean Winston Smith, from
Big Brother
by George Orwell.”

“But I don’t look like his usual models.”

Liesl looks me dead on. “No, you don’t. You’re shorter and sturdier. Your nose doesn’t scream, ‘I just got done by the best plastic surgeon in L.A.’ You don’t have enhanced boobs, and you’re not a size two. But you have the prettiest eyes and hair. Your shape is fine. You have a great smile and the kind of laugh that makes everyone want to join in the joke. You’re fun and interesting. You don’t need to be like those model girls to get a guy. It doesn’t matter that you’re not like them.”

I bite my lip. “But maybe to him it does matter. I don’t want to be his foray into the fascinating new world of regular non-model girls, something he tries out for fun one weekend like me trying, say, sushi or sumo wrestling on Pay Per View. Just for kicks.”

“I think you’re reading too much into this,” Liesl informs me. “Attraction isn’t for kicks. Love happens. And you’re not
regular
, whatever that means. You’re unique and wonderful.”

I shrug and look away, and I can tell this pisses Liesl off because her voice gets that tone. “Sometimes people come together and stick. And sometimes they come together and drift apart after one or two moments, and it’s not because one of them isn’t Swimsuit Model Of The Year. I mean, think about all those women. If they’re so frickin’ perfect, why are so many of them single? Why do they have men trouble just like us? Why do they drift around hopping from guy to guy, marriage to marriage sometimes, with ugly breakups and stuff? If they were that amazing, wouldn’t they just lock right in to Mr. Perfect Forever?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. All I know is that I wish I was—”

“See, that’s the problem.” Liesl sounds irritated. “You wish, you wish. Either just accept that you are the way you are and learn to love it. Or else, try to change. I mean, if it’s that big a deal to you, then join a gym and go on a crazy diet and sign up for plastic surgery. Which you know is freakin’ unnecessary. Or else, figure out that you’re good the way you are and find a guy who appreciates that.”

“Well, it’s easy to say that. Harder to make your mind believe it.”

“It’s impossible if you don’t try at all.” Liesl give me the coffee back. “So do I have to stop teasing you about him, now? What are you going to do tomorrow when you see him? Are you going to talk about the kissmissal?”

I snort. “You’re so funny. And I have no idea. I’ll see when I get there. I—well, I sort of… flirt with him a lot, too. So maybe it’s not so weird that he kissed me and then backed off. Like a tease.” Except that it felt nothing like a tease. It felt like something deep and powerful, something so special I can’t even describe it to myself.