Broken (13 page)

Neither of us spoke for a moment. The food was getting cold, but I didn’t care. I kept my eyes on his, and this time, there was no need to lie.

“I love you, Adam. Only you.”

After another long moment, he nodded. “I know you do.”

I leaned in to kiss him. “I heard Dennis leaving. We don’t even have to lock the door.”

I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively, hoping to make him laugh. He smiled, but it was a faint shadow of his usual grin.

“I’m starving. And pretty tired.”

Concerned, I pressed my hand to his forehead. “Do you feel all right?”

He gave an irritated sigh and jerked his head away. “I feel fine. I’m hungry and tired, I said. I thought we were going to eat and watch a movie.”

“Yes, but—” But I thought maybe we could fool around didn’t seem quite the thing to say. In our past, Adam had sometimes worn me out with his constant desire, with his need for me. Back then the food would have been left to get cold while we satisfied our other hunger first.

But this was now, not then, and my ego wasn’t so solid that his rejection wouldn’t wound me.

“Right,” I amended. “Food. And then a movie.”

“Why don’t you go change, first,” Adam said, his voice cold. “Maybe take a shower, too. Your perfume’s giving me a headache. I’ll finish watching
Baywatch
.”

I wished he’d come out and accuse me. I could defend myself against accusations but could do nothing against his silent conviction of my infidelity. If he’d asked me, I could have told him the truth, all of it.

He didn’t ask, and so I didn’t tell.

June

T
his month, my name is Sassy. It’s really Sarah, but Sassy suits me just as well. I have hair in multiple shades of blue and green and a penchant for making devil horns with my fingers. I favor striped stockings worn with vintage Converse sneakers and short skirts held together with safety pins, and I’ve a lot of piercings you can see and some you can’t.

I’ve known Joe for about six months. I’m the computer tech who comes in to service the system his practice uses. I tease him about having to clear his cache of porn and he jokes back about having to wear sunglasses to guard against the atrocities of my fashion.

I like Joe a lot, and I’m pretty sure he likes me. He’s a good-looking dude, a real smart suit, but he’s got a great sense of humor, too. A rare thing, I tell him, compared to his co-workers. Once in a while he saves a doughnut for me from the box in the lunchroom. I sometimes pick him up a bagel with cream cheese and lox from the deli downtown.

It’s a good working relationship, but that’s all it is until the day I come across him sitting at his desk staring at his monitor with a scowl so fierce it’s as if he’s trying to burn a hole in it with his eyes.

“It’s a virus, it’s nothing personal,” I tell him as I set up the scan and prepare to clean his hard drive. “Half the practice got it.”

It’s going to set him back a day’s work, he complains, and I reassure him I’ll have him up and running in no time at all.

“If you can do that,” Joe says, “I’ll buy you dinner tonight.”

It’s not like we’ve never flirted before. I mean, I flirt with most everyone. It doesn’t really mean anything. But this time…well, this time I’m tempted to put on a little extra Sassy charm for Joe. It’s very clear to me, as it’s been for months, Joe’s in terrible need of someone to take care of him. I don’t mean in just a sexual sense, though I’m sure he’s got his share of offers. No, I mean Joe needs someone to ask him how his day was when he comes home, someone to draw him a bath once in a while, cook him soup. Joe needs some petting, something I’m pretty good at, but of course I can’t offer it to him just out of the blue. I tell myself it’s because he seems so down about the computer, and he’s seemed bummed the past couple times I’ve been in, but the flat-out reality is—Joe’s beautiful. He’s got features that line up just right, so pretty. It makes me want to sketch them.

He’s surprised when I tell him that later over dinner. It only took me fifteen minutes to get his computer working again, and he made good on his word.

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I’m not, really. Art’s something I do for fun. It’s not my career.”

“You don’t have to make a living at it to be considered an artist.” Joe leans across the table, gaze intent upon me.

I feel the weight of his gaze all over me, covering me like a blanket. I might be out of my league, here. There’s flirting, which we’ve been doing for about six months. And then, there’s flirting with intent, which until tonight neither of us bothered with.

“So,” I ask him over dessert, a very good cheesecake we share, not because I’m the sort of girl to moan about my waistline, but because we both ate so much we can only stuff in half a piece each. “When you’re not wasting company time downloading Internet porn, what do you like to do?”

He’s got coffee. I’ve got tea. He stirs sugar and cream into his cup. I watch the dark liquid turn light as his spoon makes swirls. At first I think he’s not going to answer me, but then he does.

“I like to read.”

“Don’t sound so ashamed,” I say, teasing. “You do mean other than Internet porn, right?”

He laughs. Joe’s got a great laugh to go with his smile. The real smile, which he doesn’t use as often as the smarmy one.

“Yeah, besides Internet porn.”

We launch into a discussion of literature, lofty and base. I admit a passion for ridiculous science-fiction. Joe prefers mysteries and thrillers, he says because he likes the challenge of figuring out whodunit before the end of the book.

Dinner’s over and they’re giving us significant looks that say they want to clear our table, so Joe and I finish our drinks and the cheesecake and head out into the night. It’s later than I expected it to be, but conversation with him was so easy and nice it made the evening fly by.

On the drive home, the car is filled with tension he does nothing to alleviate and I analyze. Do I want to fuck Joe?

My gut answer is an unequivocal yes. I mean, I like sex. I like Joe. I don’t have a boyfriend and if he’s got a girlfriend, that’s not really my problem since he’s never mentioned her and he doesn’t keep her photo on his desk at work.

So yes, sure, I want to. I’m not worried it will cause awkwardness at work, either, because I’m pretty sure we’d both take it for what it is. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, even a real cutie like Joe. He’s too much suit for me, with my slightly vagabond lifestyle and eclectic taste in clothes.

When he pulls up in front of my house, he seems surprised. I live in neighborhood that used to be bad but has since become trendy and therefore, overpriced. I laugh at his expression and get out of the car. Gavin, the kid from two houses down, waves to me with the hand not holding onto his girlfriend. I wave back.

“The previous owner went to live with her son. It was in pretty bad shape. I’ve been refinishing it myself. I’ll sell it at a profit in a year or two.”

Inside, I get a rush of warmth at the appreciation he shows of my efforts. I show him the floors I stripped, sanded and varnished by hand, the walls I plastered and painted, the kitchen I’m slowly refitting with antique and retro appliances. I don’t have much furniture and the decor is plainer than he must have expected, based on what he sees of my personality.

“Most people live beige lives,” I explain in the bare living room, where paint cans and brushes still scatter the tarp-covered floor. “I want to sell this place to a nice, upwardly mobile yuppie couple, if they still exist.”

Joe’s laugh is rueful and self-effacing, and it makes me suddenly like him even more than I already did. “They do.”

He’s loosened his tie and his hair is a bit tousled. His cheeks hold a hint of color in that tawny skin and his eyes are bright, maybe from the wine I’d given him in my kitchen.

“I don’t live in most of the house. But upstairs, in my bedroom…”

Our eyes meet. I’m going to take him upstairs and let him take off my clothes. I’m going to give him what pleasure I can and assume he’ll offer some to me. I know this, and I’m pretty sure he does, too, but for one moment we stand as if frozen and look into each other’s eyes.

“I’d like to see it.” He lifts the wine and sips. Gives me that grin, the one I’m used to, the one that says he’s flirting. Funny how Joe’s regular flirting smile isn’t any different than the one he uses for flirting with intent.

Maybe I only think mine is, so I test it out. I sweep my gaze up and down his body, taking in every inch, before I look back into his eyes. I slide my tongue slightly along my lower lip, give him the lift of chin, the tilt of head, that says I’m dead serious.

“Then c’mon upstairs.” I’m challenging him, a little.

Heat flares between us. My flirting does have subtle layers after all. I crook my finger and he steps closer. He puts the glass on the newel post. I take his hand and link our fingers together, and then I take him upstairs.

I pause before I open the door. I turn to Joe and we stare at each other. He’s smiling. I am, too.

“Sassy.” Joe strokes the length of my hair, twining blue and green and violet.

“Joe,” I answer with a little wiggle of my eyebrows.

“Maybe I should go.” My hand’s on the knob behind me, and I’m turning it. My other hand is still in his. I’m not letting him go. I push open the door and back inside the room, pulling him with me.

“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

“So then don’t.” Now we’re all the way inside and he seems about to say something but instead he just looks around.

This room rocks. Deep blue walls and ceiling, matching deep blue carpet. There are small specks of luminescent paint in the shape of constellations on the walls and ceiling. My bed’s a stack of mattresses on the floor, covered with dark blue blankets. I have a plain wooden dresser painted to match the walls. It’s like walking into the universe.

“Wow.” He turns as far as he can in a circle while being tethered by my hand. He looks at me. “You
are
an artist.”

His compliment touches me. “Thanks.”

He pulls me closer. I’m shorter than I seem and have to tilt my head way back to look into his face. His hands fit nicely on my hips, the curves of which I’m not shy about. I reach up to tug at his tie, loosening it further. I slip it from the loop of his collar and unbutton the next button of his shirt.

Joe puts his hand over mine. “Sassy, wait…”

I put my other hand over his and look up. “Shh. It’s okay. This will be fun, I promise.”

I’d always had the idea Joe was a bit of a player. I mean, a guy like that, no girlfriend, means he’s on the market for a reason. Usually it’s commitment issues, looking for the next great thing, can’t seem to settle down. Whatever. I’ve seen my share. His hesitation makes me think maybe I misjudged him, and a thought crosses my mind.

“You’re not gay, are you?”

His face goes so shocked it makes me laugh. “No! Why? Do I act like I’m gay?”

“No.” I undo the next button. “But you’d have to be gay to turn me down.”

He laughs. “I’m not gay.”

By this time I’ve got half his buttons undone and his chest is yummy. I quickly finish with the rest and fold open the material to get a better glimpse.

“Joe, sweetie, listen. I don’t know what kind of girls you’re used to, but let me take a guess, okay?”

“Okay.” The ease of his answer tells me he’s sure I’ll guess wrong.

“You like women. You’re not as picky as a guy like you could be, and that’s not bad. It’s a good quality.” I trace my finger down the ridge of his sternum and then around each of his nipples, which tighten quite nicely. Sweet. “But you’re looking for something in particular, which is why you keep looking, am I right?”

His gaze has been focused on my finger’s path, but he looks at me. “Yes.”

I pull his shirt from his waistband slowly and let my palms skate up his skin to his shoulders to slide his shirt off. His skin prickles into gooseflesh, though the room’s more than warm enough. I smile. My touch is making him shiver, and that’s very flattering.

“You’re not a player. I was wrong about that.” I lean forward to nuzzle against his skin. He smells clean. Too many guys like to bathe in their aftershave.

“I’m not?” He puts his hands into my hair and gathers it at the base of my neck. It’s my turn to shiver.

I lick his skin and smile again when a small hiss slides out of him.

“No. A player is someone who sets out to fuck his way through women without giving regard to their feelings. A player gets off on getting what he wants and then leaving. A player gets off on the escape. But you, Joe, you…” My hands go to his belt buckle. Below it his cock is already half-hard, and I slide a hand down to cup him through his pants. “You want to be caught. Don’t you.”

He pulls my hair to tilt my head back, and it’s my turn to hiss because his touch is a little rougher than I’m expecting. He looks angry. I’m not scared. I know I’m right. I stroke his cock through his pants and we stare each other down until his fingers loosen.

“It’s not that simple, Sarah.”

“It never is.”

I unbuckle his belt and reach my hand inside. I find his hot length and ease it from the confines of his briefs. I like the way he feels like this, all heat and hardness, a small, tight throbbing.

Joe’s cock is thick enough to curve my fingers and hard enough that I’ve got it out of his pants—it makes me think of steel. Moving my hand up and down just a little while keeping a firm grip moves his skin, just a little, up and down. From what I can see so far, he’s got a pretty dick.

His head’s tipped back a bit, his eyes closed. I could hate him for his gorgeous lashes. They make small flickering shadows against his cheeks.

His lips have parted. I let my hand move a little more, sliding along his length instead of just gripping it. I twist my wrist as my palm goes up and over the head of his cock, and he makes a low noise.

It’s a sexy noise, and my body reacts at once. It’s been quite a while since I went to bed with anyone, not from lack of opportunity, mind you. Let’s face it, any girl can get laid if she wants it bad enough and doesn’t have her standards set too high.

No, I’ve just been busy and my standards are rather high. Joe’s the first man I’ve invited inside my house for months, and the first I’ve taken upstairs in longer than that. This, along with the rare glimpse of the man inside the designer suits, makes me feel quite tender toward him.

I want to make Joe smile, a real smile, not the charming one he uses so well. I want, even if it’s just for tonight, to make him happy. Give him a little bit of what he wants.

He murmurs my name and I let my stroking slow. A slight flush has crept across his cheeks and down his throat, a sight I find unbearably sexy. He opens his eyes and looks down at me, and I sense a hesitation.

I bring his hand to my breast, urging his thumb to pass across my nipple and the ring through it. It stiffens under the thin fabric of my shirt. I want him to be certain this is what I want, too, that he’s turning me on. Because he is. This is.

Together we back toward my bed. He stops at the edge to push his pants and briefs down and step out of them. He toes off his socks while I pull my shirt over my head and unhook my bra. The air still feels as warm in here as it did before, but I shiver like he did when I touched him as he covers my breasts with his hands. My nipples are tight, hard pegs against his palms and I can’t wait to feel his mouth on them. And between my legs. Something tells me Joe isn’t the sort of guy to shy away from going down, and the thought excites me so much my thighs contract in spasms of anticipatory pleasure.

We’re naked in a few minutes, and a slow smile tilts his lips.