Boston (9 page)

Annalise’s voice breaks in before he even finishes. “You don’t have to go. Want to stay and watch the shoot? I mean, just to wait out the rain and all. Why get wet if you can, you know, stay… dry.”

“Can I?” His voice is eager. “I mean, I’d love to see how you do the shoot. I’ve always been fascinated. But only if it’s okay with Chelle and Parker, of course.”

Argh. I like how he assumes that I’d automatically be okay with it. And that’s another thing I remember irritating me about Erik—his assumption that just because we sometimes had a weird telepathy, that I must somehow always want to do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.

Chelle nods. “Sure, no problem.”

Boston shrugs. “Feel free.” He doesn’t sound too excited.

I’m not excited by this myself. I want to play my little touch game with Boston again, and I can’t do it if Erik is here fucking things up. But the mood’s been ruined anyway, and I’m a little irritated at Boston’s attitude. Why can’t he just deal? I mean, Erik could make me feel inferior if I let him, which I don’t. But seriously, the man has two PhDs and two jobs, and he writes and travels. There just are not a lot of people like that, and you can’t compare yourself, because—you just can’t.

Chelle adds, “Abby’s been a big help.”

I nod, feeling very not helpful at the moment. I want Erik to leave. I want everyone to leave but me and Boston, and then I want Boston to throw me down onto his bed and hold me down and make rough, sexy love to me. I want it so bad, but now Boston isn’t even looking at me.

Chelle puts the music back on, but this time things are different. Now it’s Annalise who’s burning and undulating like a viper made of honey. She’s confident and sultry and I’m spellbound, watching her sway and tilt her head and flash her eyes. Boston looks mechanical and he’s not doing the gazing-into-my-eyes thing at all, he’s holding Annalise by her waist and then by her shoulders, then his hands are on her ass, but I don’t feel a matching tingle on mine. When he rubs the rose along her shoulder and neck, I feel no sparks at all.

Chelle breaks in. “Let me get some of Annalise by herself,” and Boston nods, steps aside, and Annalise is in her element now. She puts her hand on her hip, does a half turn, runs one hand up her body and pauses, throws her head back, pulls it up and smiles at the camera. She’s really good.

Erik is staring without moving. I’ve never seen him this still, attentive, not even when I used to strip for him.

I blink back tears. Fuck this, fuck everything. Fuck Erik for coming here and ruining the moment with Boston, fuck Boston for flirting with me and then getting all skittish about whatever, and fuck Annalise for being so goddamn pretty that my ex is ready to jump her harder than he ever jumped me, not that I care about the sex because I’m not into Erik that way anymore, but I want someone to look at me that way again—I want Boston’s eyes burning me up again.

When the shoot ends, Boston disappears into the kitchen and I hear clanking and banging sounds. Annalise puts on her shirt and skirt and this makes her look more naked, because her sinuous confidence is gone and she’s pulling at her hem again, adjusting her shirt. She doesn’t look at Erik as she says, “So, what did you think? Was it what you expected?”

I roll my eyes as he answers, “It was like watching magic.” Even though I felt the same, it sounds so dorky and lame from his mouth. But Annalise seems to like it.

She smiles and her face turns pink. “Yeah. Abby, did you think that we did okay?” I can’t believe the note of uncertainty in her voice. How can she not know?

I clear my throat. “Annalise, honestly? You could be smeared in mud and wear a Chicago Bears jersey and still sell books, I bet. But yes, you were amazing. And Boston, of course. I mean, obviously him, too.” I bite my lip, thinking about how I touched myself earlier. Thank God she and Chelle didn’t see. Now I wish Boston hadn’t. At the time it seemed sexy and even inevitable, but now it feels vulgar and needy.

Erik nods to Chelle and Boston, who’s back, hovering like a dark cloud with a glass of green.

“Listen. If you want any more help with the contract, please give me a call, anytime. I’d be happy to help. No extra charge, of course. Or in the future if you do some of the stuff Abby was mentioning to me, like the contest for readers, and one of them wins a photo shoot and personalized book cover with Parker? I’d be happy to draft an agreement for that. Or if you have a guy do a shoot with Annalise, I can, uh, write up a contract for that, too.”

“For what?” Boston’s voice is hard. “Abs?”

“Oh!” I turn, surprised at his tone. “It’s just a few ideas I had that I bounced off Erik a while back. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Fine.” He sounds pissed.

“Okay!” Erik claps his hands together. “I guess… I’ll get going, then. It’s probably time.” He turns to me and gives me a lean-to hug, nothing like the huge exuberant squeeze earlier. He kisses my cheek. “Don’t forget to call my mom, okay, Abby? And call me if you need anything else with the contract.”

I nod. “Will do.”

“It was great to meet—watch, um, see you. Working! Very nice.” Erik sticks his hand out to Annalise. She steps forward and takes it carefully, and their handshake is wincingly awkward.

“You, too.”

“Well. I guess I’ll see you around, later, maybe? Okay. Bye.”

“Thanks again. See you soon.”

I blow out my breath. Annalise winds her fingers together when the door closes behind him. Her voice is casual. “So, Abby. You and Erik used to date?”

“Yes, we did. About two years. We were actually—well, it’s no big deal, but we were engaged for a while. But not anymore. We’re just friends now. It’s better.”  I feel like I’m babbling. Boston sets the glass down hard onto the table, making me jump.

“He seems really smart.” Annalise’s voice is wistful.

“Oh, he is!” I’m all agreement. “He’s brilliant.”

“He’s kinda cute, too.” Annalise smiles at me and blushes.

“Yes.” I agree with that, too, although in the end, I appreciated his looks and even his sexuality like you would that of a platonic friend.

Boston breaks in. “I’m sorry to cut off the chitchat, ladies, but I gotta get this stuff cleaned up.” His voice lacks emotion.

Chelle is packing up her camera. “I’ll walk out with you, Lise. You’re back next week for more shots, yeah? The ones of you in a bathing suit and you doing sexy poses on the bed.”

Annalise nods. “Yeah. I’m goin’ to wear my white string bikini. I think it’ll be perfect for what Boston described.” She comes over and gives me a sudden hug, and I stiffen up, then tentatively hug her back. Her body is so tiny and fragile, but her boobs press into mine like firm squishy balls. I idly think that if I were a guy, this kind of hug would probably turn me on. It’s always a little awkward hugging another woman because of just this, the boobie-touching situation, but she doesn’t seem to be bothered, so I act like I’m not, either.

“Abby, it was so, so nice to hang out with you,” she says, and I feel like she really means it. “I hope you’re at the next shoot,” she adds. “Um, if you get a chance. Only if you see him, and all? Tell Erik that you know, it was nice to meet him and all.” She grabs her purse. “Ready, Chelle?”

“See you later!” Chelle and Annalise walk out, leaving me and Boston alone and the silence is deafening.

He sits his butt back onto the crate. “So you and Erik used to be engaged, Abby?”

“Is that a problem of some kind?” My voice is defensive, but I don’t get his attitude.

“You could have told me. “ His voice is taut. “I told you I don’t want favors, and especially not from your fancy, rich ex. Ex-fiancé, at that.”

“It’s not a favor anymore,” I argue, “because we’re paying him to do the contract work. So why does it matter?”

“It matters because—fuck it. I don’t know.” He pauses. “Okay, here’s why it matters. I don’t want him coming in here and thinking he’s some hot stuff lawyer doing favors for the little guy. I don’t need that kind of attitude and I sure as hell don’t need the handouts. I can do this on my own and I don’t need someone’s ex to hold my fuckin’ hand.” He stands up and paces. “And I don’t like that you discuss our business with him, when you should be discussing it with me first. Book cover ideas? What the fuck, Abby? Having a reader win a shoot with me? Really?” He crosses his arms and glares.

“Boston!” I sigh. “I was going to talk to you about it, I just got inspiration and he was there, so I told him. Look. Erik and I are still close, but it’s no big deal. I mean, you and Annalise are friends, right? You talk? It’s like that.”

“But I was never engaged to her.”

“So?” I argue. “Over is over, no matter what words we used to describe our—relationship. Now he’s just my friend. And he still cares about me, and I about him, which is why I talk to him. And really, that’s none of your business.” My tone is hard, too, like his was before.

“It’s my business if we—fuck.” He’s glaring at me, but his eyes are fierce with arousal.

“If we fuck?” I can’t believe I said it, but he’s pushing all my buttons. “Really? Do you think that’s a good idea right now?”

“Oh, it would be more than good,” he snaps, and the words spark instant arousal in my body. “It would blow your mind, Abby.” His gaze is direct. “And you know it.”

A wave of desire rolls through me at his coarse words but I scoff. “Nicely done, Boston. You need to work on your seduction skills. That’s not the way to woo a lady.”

He scoffs back. “A lady, is that right?” Now his voice is low, a murmur. “Does a lady get down on her knees and tease her business partner about a blow job?” He pushes off the crate and approaches me, softly, like a panther. “Does a lady touch herself in front of a room full of people?”

He’s in front of me, our eyes locked. “Answer me, Abby.”

I catch my breath. “No. And you’re no gentleman.”

His laugh is harsh. “No. I’m not. I’m a rough guy from a bad neighborhood, Abby. I’m not rich and refined and educated. I’m working hard to make this business a success, and I’m doin’ it, but there’s no extra for trips to fuckin’ France to buy wine. My girls have to be content with a beer and the moonlight. For now.”

He gestures at the window, where the rain has cleared up, and the moon is low and yellow, a ripe fruit on the horizon. I catch my breath, distracted, because it seems unnaturally low, like it’s too close to us, something out of an alternate universe.

“It’s so big.” My words are for the moon, but my voice is somehow sultry and I don’t know exactly how this happened, but my body is pressed up again Boston’s and his mouth is nearly touching mine. He laughs into my lips and I laugh, too, at the double entendre, and then he shakes his head.

“Aw, Abby. Sometimes I just don’t know what to—to do with you. Before, you were so sexy. During the shoot. Before it. And now, so mad at me.” His voice is rough, joking, and something else. There’s a question in his tone. I don’t know what he’s asking. What
is
he asking? If he wants to know if I’m attracted to him? God, the answer is in my eyes, my voice, my hands. It’s obvious.

I blink. “I’ll take the beer and moonlight. If you’re offering. Wine’s overrated.” I let my eyes meet his for a long moment. The moment extends, like time stretched out, taffy in the hot summer sun, and he narrows his eyes. “Yeah?” He’s assessing me, and it’s about more than the beer, I think.

I try to smile. “I like beer as much as anyone. And who doesn’t like the moon?”

He looks at me again, a long heartbeat, then nods. “Okay. Okay.” He brushes my cheek with his knuckle, making me catch my breath, then fetches two cold beers from the kitchen and gestures to the couch across from the window.

We sit side by side, looking at the moon, and it feels to me like
déjà vu
from some European art film, the kind of indie thing where two mismatched lovers would actually sit and watch the moon centimeter across the black backdrop of the sky until it passed out of view behind the window frame. Of course, in that French film, the lovers would probably then fall asleep and one of them would sneak out and leave to buy a goat farm in Romania, and the other would dress in a gauzy gown and thick red lipstick and dance like a dervish in an abandoned temple with sunbeams lighting up his or her scar. And then the credits would run.

Here, in this set of my own, where I’m responsible for the action and the dialogue, I feel achingly unsure of what to say and how to say it. All of the passion I have for Boston has been swathed in a strange waxy coating of discomfort; his at my ex, and mine at his. I don’t even know how to meet in the middle.

So I just start talking in the middle of nowhere, hoping that if we can work out way to the end or at least to the start of it all. “What’s your favorite color?”

He doesn’t even act like this impromptu behavioral interview is odd. “I like the color of the sky when it’s night but day is just starting to tip over the horizon,” he tells me. “Now you.”

“Blue.” I hesitate. “No, purple. No. It is blue, but not plain blue. It’s the blue of the oceans in the Caribbean and in Hawaii, the blues that are so clear and beautiful, where the water looks like glass and the colors are so insane that you want to dive into them and somehow absorb them into your soul.”

He raises his beer. “I think my dog ate that crayon when I was a kid.”

I laugh. “Can you imagine if they actually printed that onto a crayon?” I pause. “You know how the Crayola company could make a ton of money?” I pause for emphasis, then declare, “Custom Color Labels. Think about it. You get to type in what you want the label to say, pick the color, and they send it to you. It would be a huge hit.”

He examines the idea. “Sure, but you know that people are going to ruin it.” He clears his throat. “I can see teenage guys ordering pretty dirty stuff. Just sayin’.”

“Well, but that’s the best part!” I’m excited now. “Why should crayons be just for kids? The adult market is literally untapped, pun intended. Pussy Pink is just the start. You could have, oh, Nipple Nude. And Butthole Brown.”

He spits out some beer. “Abby!” But he’s laughing.

“What?” I give him an innocent look. “Writers need to think creatively, you know? Oh, and sometimes two crayons melt together? They could make one called Conjoined Twin Teal. Or that same duo could be Lesbian Lavender or Glittering Green Gay.”

He’s laughing so hard now that he has to put down his beer. “Oh, my God. You’re fucking insane.”

“I know, right?” I preen and smile. Making people laugh has always given me a rush, especially when someone is laughing because they think I’m truly funny. It’s a kind of appreciation that can’t be faked, like the way Erik was starting at Annalise: A from-the-gut, genuine reaction.

“You should write to them,” he urges me, laying one hand on my knee and rubbing. “Put it into a proposal. Ironic if you made more out of that commission than from our project.” His voice gets serious at the end.

My heart pounds at the heat from his hand, but the words are discomfiting. “I really think this is going to work for us, Boston. I mean, it’s a great idea.”

He nods and squeezes. “Oh, me, too.”

We’re silent for a moment, then he says, “So. Um. You and Erik?”

I shrug. “Yeah?”

“So what exactly is your deal?”

“We’re friends,” I explain, feeling awkward. “We lived together.” I drink my beer, a long swallow, wanting to wash away the acrid taste in my mouth that comes sometimes. “We were engaged, like I said. But we weren’t really in love anymore. Maybe we weren’t ever. But I still love him and his family, just more like a cousin or something.”

“And you did fancy trips together and stuff. You probably know that blue color because you’ve been to those places.” His voice is flat.

I bite my lip. “We did travel together. But the blue, that was something I dreamed about when I was a kid, Boston. When my mom got sick the first time, she was in the hospital a lot. Like, all the time. And I was so anxious about it. And she was sad because she couldn’t help me. And one day when I visited her in the hospital, she told me a story about how someday she wanted to take me to the most relaxing place on Earth, a place where the water was magical and clear, all the colors of blue, like azure and robin’s egg and cornflower, but even prettier. She told me to think about a place like that whenever I got too sad, and to let the waves relax me.”

“Did it work?”

I shook my head. “Not really. But I liked the image. I wanted to take her somewhere like that when she got better. But she never really did, you know? And I was just a kid. But here’s the thing. Every year on the anniversary of her death, I go to her grave and put something blue there. Just a small thing, a pretty thing. Last year I left a blue ribbon that was the right color. The year before, the most perfect blueberry from the pint I bought at lunch.”

“That’s sweet, Abby.” His voice is rough. “Poetic.”

“It sounds poetic, but in real life maybe not so much.” I laugh a little. “Ants started getting right on the blueberry and then a bird came and ate it. And the ribbon? A little girl stole it.”

Boston laughs, too. “Like, right in front of you?”

I nod. “Pretty much. They were at the grave next door. It was cool, though. I guess it was better. I mean, how shitty is it that a little girl had to visit a stupid graveyard, anyway, you know? So it made me smile when she took it. Although then she stuck it up her nose and told her brother, “I’m going to put this big snot on you!”

“Then what did you do?”

“I laughed. And then I cried. I hate going there. It doesn’t get easier. At least the little girl and the ribbon? I didn’t feel so alone.”

“I’ll go with you. Next time.” His voice is rough.

I look up with shock. “What? You didn’t even know her.”

“I know you.” His eyes are firm. “You just tell me when the day is, and I’ll meet you there. Hold your hand.”

“It’s—it’s my birthday. The day she died.” I feel tears in my eyes.

“Shit.” He puts down the beer, takes mine away, too, and wraps me in his arms.

I push into him. “Boston, I’m sorry I keep crying around you. I don’t mean to be such a downer.”

He holds me tight. “You’re no downer. You’re interesting and wicked funny. You made me laugh with those crazy crayon ideas. Everyone is allowed to be sad, Abby.”

I nod and rest my head on his shoulder. It feels so right to be here, his strong body breathing with mine, his arms strong yet loose around me. I look at the moon, which is still cartoon-like in its perfection.

“Why did you and Annalise break up?” I ask, stroking along his arm. It’s not a sexual touch, not exactly, but neither is it innocent.

He shifts. “I guess we ran out.”

“Ran out?”

“Yeah. Ran out of things to talk about. Things to do together. Things that made us both happy at the same time. She’ll always be my girl. I love her. But not that way anymore.”

“But she’s so beautiful!” The words come out despite the fact that I hate myself for saying them, and I cringe.

Boston peers down. “What does that have to do with it?”

“I don’t know. She’s  so pretty. How could any guy not want to be with her? I just don’t understand.”

“But I  told you why.” He sounds a little impatient. “We weren’t working right anymore.”

“But I mean… Are you still attracted to her?” I bite back the words, “she’s so pretty,” because I think that might irritate him further.

He shrugs his arms up and down around me. “Not really. We’re past that. Of course I know she’s gorgeous. I’m grateful that she still models for me after our breakup because she’s amazing on camera. But the other stuff? It’s like a one-way ticket, Abby. We got to the end of our trip and now it’s done. We’re not going back.”

“A one-way ticket.” I try out the words. “Boston, that’s genius. Can I use it in a book?”

“Don’t mock me.” He takes his arms away and sits up.

“Boston! I’m not mocking you. I actually think that’s beautiful. The way you said it. A one-way ticket. We’re at the end of our trip and we’re not going back. It’s a poem. It could be perfect in a novel.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and shoots me an unreadable look. “You really want that in a book? Is this going to be something like that guy,
Shit My Father Says
?”

“No. It’s going to be something my sexy, smart hero says.” I emphasize
smart
, frowning back at him.

He tips one shoulder. “Be my guest, I guess. I’m glad I can entertain.” His words sound uncertain.