Say Never (39 page)

“Get this thing off me!” I breathe into his ear. He returns to the task of my buttons and I can feel his erection against my thigh, even through the thick denim of his jeans. I part my legs and he moves between them, resting his crotch against mine, and I almost have an orgasm right there and then. Unable to wait any longer, I reach down, grasp the silk edges, and rip open my beautiful hundred-and-seventy-five-dollar Tory Burch blouse. The sound of tearing fabric and the clatter of buttons against the tile floor makes Matt pause.

“I thought you loved that blouse.”

“I thought you liked my tits.”

“Good point,” he says. A moment later, Tory Burch is in a discarded heap on the washing machine along with my Cosabella bra, and Matt Ryan is gently and reverently sucking on my breasts. My heart pounds at double speed.

I guide his mouth back to mine and kiss him passionately, thrusting my tongue through his lips, feeling the velvety slick surface of his tongue while he simultaneously traces the outlines of my aureoles with his fingertips. I reach around him and lay my hands on his ass, grip him, and tug him against me. A low guttural sound rises from his throat as we start to move together, both our lower halves still encased in fabric. I haven’t dry humped a guy since high school, but if memory serves, it did not feel quite like this.

My whole body is thrumming, my every nerve ending tense with anticipation. My mind is a blessed blank, and I realize that this is exactly what I wanted, to be swept away, to not think for a few short moments, to forget about my mother and my painfully anemic life and all the wrong turns I’ve taken based on a mistaken assumption. I want to lose myself and Matt is providing the perfect place in which to get lost.

“You feel so good,” I whisper, because it’s true, he does. He feels more than good, he feels right, but I won’t let myself go there, won’t allow that thought to take hold because then I’d be thinking again, and I don’t want to think at all. I stroke his back, grazing his skin with my nails. He answers me by lightly licking my earlobe, sending me into a frenzy.

He grabs me by the waist and lifts me onto the edge of the washing machine. I let go of his ass and yank at the front of his jeans, unzip his fly, then slide my hand beneath his boxer briefs. His penis is smooth and hard and as I wrap my fingers around the head of it, I detect a droplet of moisture squeeze from the tip.

“Oh, God, Meg.”

Matt is more successful with my slacks than he was with the blouse, hurriedly unbuttoning them and tugging them down my legs until they fall to the floor. He pulls off my panties and the cold metal of the washer gives me a shock, but when Matt palms my inner thighs and slides his hands toward my pubic hair, every inch of me feels like it’s on fire. His thumbs meet in the middle, caressing my most sensitive place, and I start to shake with intensity, as though the washer is running at high agitation. Again, I grab his ass, now naked, and pull him to me.

The tip of his penis is touching my yearning core, but just before he enters me, he freezes.

“Wait.” His voice is low and his breathing labored. His erection twitches.

“I don’t want to wait.”

“I don’t either, obviously.” He chuckles, but his face remains serious. “I just, uh…”

I try to reel him in with my hands, but he doesn’t relent. “Matt, seriously. I want you inside me. Right now.”

“I know, Meg. I want you too. But I…I can’t…”

“Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to go to the couch? To your bed? Where? Just tell me, and let’s go.”

He sighs and leans back, but doesn’t break eye contact. The intensity of his gaze unnerves me. “I like you, Meg. I’m not sure exactly why, but I do. A lot.”

His declaration unleashes a herd of butterflies in my stomach. I can’t remember the last time someone has expressed this kind of emotion to me,
for
me. It feels good and terrifying and it’s the last thing I thought I wanted. I work to keep my mood ambivalent.

“I don’t want to start in the middle with you,” he says. “You’re the first…shit…” He runs his hand through his hair roughly. “Look, I haven’t felt this kind of connection with anyone since my fiancé. I want to start at the beginning with you.”

“You sound like a woman,” I snipe, sounding bitchy and hating myself for it.

“I’m not a woman,” he says.

“Obviously.”

“But I would like to take you out on a date, get to know you a little before I fuck your brains out.” He traces a fingertip down my cheek and I have to clench my teeth to keep from shivering. “Seriously,” he says. “Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night. I know you’re off duty, I asked your brother.”

“Matt, this is just sex, you know? We’re not going to start dating. I live three thousand miles away. I’m going to be gone in a few days. Can’t we just…just…do it and enjoy it and forget about it?”

He laughs harshly and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. I’ve never said this to anyone before, but, no. We can’t. I’m kind of past the point of just having sex. I know it sounds stupid, but it means more to me now. And based on our connection here, I don’t think I’d forget about it. Do you?”

I have no answer for him, none that would bring back the heat of the moment. It’s gone. We both know it. Plus, he’s right. There is a connection between us, that weird sense of knowing someone, even though you’ve only just met. I felt it before, the night we hung out and sang together, but I pushed it away. Now, after having had his arms around me and his dick in my hand and his tongue in my mouth, I can’t deny it. Not to myself. But I sure as hell can deny it to
him
.

“It’s just sex,” I repeat. “I’ve forgotten most of the sex I’ve had in my life. Why should sex with you be any different?”

He sighs and nods. “Right. I’ll just go get you that shirt.”

He pulls away and tugs up his briefs and his jeans, leaving me naked on the washing machine and suddenly very cold.

* * *

“You okay, Meggly?” Buddy asks me as I walk him to the steps of his condo.

“Sure, Buddy,” I lie. “I’m fine.”

He lumbers up the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail, then roots around his pocket for his keys. As I reach the top step, he turns to me and smiles.

“It’s good to see you, Meg. I know your life is in New York, but I sure do wish you lived closer. I ain’t getting any younger, despite what Bettina says about my youthful prowess in the sack.”

“Dad, please,” I say on a groan.

His eyes twinkle. “You know, I like it when you call me ‘Dad.’”

“Then I’ll try to do it more often.”

“I’m gonna see you before you go back, right?”

I nod. “Definitely. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” I give him a kiss on the cheek and he pulls me in for one of his hugs. When he releases me, he gives me a sober look.

“I think it’s terrific what you’re doing for your brother, Meg. I don’t know what he and Caroline would have done without you.”

“It’s no big deal, Dad. And I’m not very good at it.”

“Baloney. You’re aces. And the most important thing is that you’re here.”

He steps inside the condo, but before he closes the door he flashes me a toothy grin.

“By the by, how’d that stain come out?”

“Goodnight, Buddy. Dad.”

He winks, then shuts the door. I wait until I hear him engage his deadbolt, then I slowly descend the stairs and head down the concrete path to the guest parking spaces. Just as I reach the Camaro, my cell phone rings. Without checking the caller ID, I answer.

“Meg Monroe.”

“Meg. When are you coming home, baby? I miss you so much.” Adam. Or should I say, inebriated Adam.

“You didn’t miss me the other night when you were with the naked hot ass.”

“Don’t be like that,” he says, a trace of adolescent pique in his voice. “You know you’re my number one, Meg-a-licious. No one does that thing you do to me,
no one
. When will you be back in the Big Apple so you can do that thing to big old me?”

I know what he’s talking about and it involves oral, and just the thought of me doing that to him—especially after my ten minutes with Matt—makes me nauseous. I lean against the driver’s door of the Camaro and take a deep breath.

“What’s my middle name?”

“Come again?” he asks.

“My middle name, Adam. What is it?”

Silence on the line. I count to ten. “Uh, babe. I, uh, don’t have a clue.”

“Wrong answer.” I hang up and pocket my cell phone, then climb into the Camaro. I start the engine and rev it a few times, but instead of shifting into reverse, I rest my head against the steering wheel and cry.

Twenty-two

Meg:
Nobody owes anybody anything. The only person you owe anything to is yourself. As long as you’re not intentionally causing other people harm, your karma’s secure.

Barry:
I don’t know if I agree with that. Karma’s a tricky thing. Your deep-rooted intentions are what matter, the positivity of your actions, the underlying emotions surrounding all of your conscious choices.

Meg:
Please, Barry, don’t go all Shakti Gawain on me.

* * *

“You lying piece of shit,” I spit into the phone. It’s Saturday morning, 6:30 my time, 9:30 Eastern Standard.

I am desperate to hold on to my sanity and avoid another meltdown like the one I had last month. The only way I know how to keep it together is to lash out at someone else. Thankfully, Damien is an appropriate target.

“You cocksucking, traitorous son-of-a-bitching douchebag mother fucker!”

“So it’s going to be that kind of conversation, is it?” He sounds more amused than offended, and this makes me even angrier.

“You pushed me into coming out here, Damien. Now I know why! How could you stab me in the back like this?”

“Look, dearest, I didn’t do anything to you that you wouldn’t have done to someone else. I’m bloody tired of fetching coffee and bagels and dry cleaning and kowtowing to all of you stupid bloody hosts. I have to think about my own future.”

“Getting rid of me is going to help your future?”

“It already has. My new allegiance to the Humpinator has paid off. I played my Style and Entertainment reels for him and what can I say? He was impressed.”

“The
Barry and Meg Show
doesn’t need you for any style and freaking entertainment segments. I do those.”

“Oh, sorry. Not the
Barry and Meg Show
. The
Barry and
Damien
Show
.”

“Over my dead body,” I hiss.

“Yes, well, we’re having a trial run on Monday. Did Gordo not tell you when you spoke with him yesterday? Hhhm. I’m not surprised. He was reluctant at first, but I understand that after speaking with Eileen Buchanan, and hearing from her own mouth how enthusiastic you were about meeting with KTOC, he rather changed his tune.”

“You know this won’t work, right? All I have to do is show up on Monday and your whole little scheme will be shot to hell.”

“But you won’t be here, Meg. You’ll be out there, in LaLa Land, changing nappies and wiping spit-up off your shirt. I know when your return flight is, dearest. I still get your work emails, you know.”

My head starts to throb and I press a fingertip against my right temple. “I just can’t believe you did this to me, Damien. I thought we were friends. More than friends. I thought we were compatriots. Family.”

“Knowing how you feel about your real family, Meg
darling
, I’m quite insulted by that remark.”

“I like them a hell of a lot better than I like you, Damien.”

“See that? I have done something wonderful for you, haven’t I? I’ve made your family seem much more tolerable. You should thank me. Say it, Meg. ‘Thank you, Damien.’”

“Fuck you, Damien. This is not over.”

I disconnect, then bring up the internet on the Samsung and revisit the Google search for nannies I did last week. I scan the first page of hits, click on one that looks good, and spend a few minutes perusing the website. I tap the phone number in the upper right hand corner of the screen and wait for the call to connect. Because of the early hour, I’m not surprised when I get a voicemail. I leave a message, then hang up and scroll through my phone log. I find the outgoing call I made to the airline three days ago and press the send button. After sifting through the automated menu, I finally get a real person’s voice on the line.

“Hi. My name is Meg Monroe. I have a flight scheduled for Wednesday. I want to find out how much it’ll cost me to change it to tomorrow.”

* * *

When I walk into the kitchen twenty minutes later, I find Danny, McKenna, Cera and Tebow seated at the table eating breakfast.

“Geez, guys, it’s Saturday. Don’t you sleep in on the weekends?”