Darker Water (8 page)

“And you told her...?”

“That in order to double date, you have to be
single dating which we aren’t doing. Now or ever.”

He nodded. “Good answer. But I’ll go if you
want me to.”

“What?”

“Not as your date because I don’t do that
with anyone, even with you and your roommate.”

“And her boyfriend.”

“All the more reason—if it was just the three
of us, at least I could pretend the night was going to end really
well for me. But if you want me to go somewhere, I will. And I’ll
only ask for one thing in return.”

I laughed, trying to clean up some of the
mess he’d created. “You’re evil, you know that? I could just see
her face if I told her I slept with you to make her happy.”

“I’d like to think sleeping with me would
make
you
happy.”

“I’m sure it would.” Probably too happy.

“Lane, you know that I’d really like that,
right?”

“Yes, Carson, you’ve been pretty clear about
it.”

“And you know that I get a perverse amount of
pleasure reminding and teasing you about it, right?”

“That’s also clear, yes.”

“And you know that if it’s ever too much, you
should tell me so I can immediately stop, right?” He stood up,
putting his project under the worktable and tossing his gloves into
the garbage can. “I mean it.”

“Clear.”

“So should I?”

I walked away from him. When he followed I
laughed. “I have an incredibly attractive, interesting man
literally following me around and telling me how much he wants me.
And even though I keep saying no or ignoring him completely, he
doesn’t give up. Do you have any idea what a stroke to the ego that
is?”

He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled
me back against him, his breath warming my neck, his hand resting
low on my belly and holding me still. “He doesn’t give up because
there’s an incredibly attractive, interesting woman right in front
of him who will eventually say yes because she wants me to stroke
things besides her ego.”

Being with him was torture. It was much
easier to say no when he was joking around. But when our bodies
touched and he spoke with a voice that went straight to my core, it
was nearly impossible to keep my hips from pressing against his
growing erection. We stayed in that position for a very tense
couple of seconds. Or maybe it was hours. Both of us coiled so
tightly, if either of us moved, there would be no turning back.

“I can’t. Not yet.” It was more of a plea
than anything else—begging him to release me. After a deep sigh, he
did.

“Until then, he gets to tease her mercilessly
and enjoy being incredibly sexually frustrated.” He went into the
small storage space connected to the shop area and got a beer out
of the mini-fridge/freezer he’d bought me. I mean
him
. I was
allowed to use it as long as I didn’t drink the last beer. If I
did, I would be punished in a way he couldn’t discuss but that made
him smile in a very wicked way.

“You’re not sleeping with anyone?” I
asked.

“I don’t have time to. I spend all of it
trying to sleep with you.”

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take a huge
burden off my chest. But it was completely unfair, illogical, and
irrational to expect him—someone very upfront about his sexual dos
and don’ts—to be saving himself for a woman who couldn’t make up
her mind.

I’d assumed he’d been sleeping with people
while I’d been trying not to imagine him sleeping with people. But
when I actually thought about it, we really were spending a lot of
time together. He worked all week, met me for coffee every night,
and spent at least one weekend day with me, usually both.

He sat back down at the worktable. “So are we
having this foursome or not?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready. Before we
do it, I have to know I won’t feel anything. I mean anything
emotional
because that would really be sad if I didn’t feel
anything
.”

“We’re not talking about your roommate
anymore, are we?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to be a tease,
and I really want to. Like,
really
want to. But not if it
screws me up.” Sex always screwed me up—as if the second the deed
was done, my ring finger started itching. And Carson was so
amazing, I wasn’t sure I could keep my promise to myself and to
him. “So if you want to take a break from trying to get in my pants
or if you want to stop completely, I totally understand.”

He paused. “I’m glad you said that because I
think you needed to. It’s good practice for you and was a nice
offer. But honestly… I don’t actually give a shit. I am a selfish
prick, Lane. If I wanted to be somewhere else with someone else, I
would be. If and when I decide I want to, I’ll let you know and
then I’ll do it. Because I’m a selfish prick. But for right now,
the only pants I want to get into are yours, and the time I choose
to devote to the cause is up to me. The only decisions you get to
make are when—note I didn’t say ‘if’—
when
you say yes and
when—again notice the absence of the word ‘if’—
when
you want
me to go away.”

I sighed. “I love your honesty. I really
do.”

“Well, I love your breasts, so we’re even.”
His smile disappeared faster than it showed up. “Oh fuck. Does that
mean we’re in love?” Amazingly, he kept a straight face until I hit
him. “Oww. I need a drink to ease the pain.”

Before I could stop him, he used one of my
very sharp, very expensive chisels to split a lime open.

“No, Carson, the blade!” I yanked it out of
his hand and ran to the sink to rinse the acidic juice off the
steel. “Lime juice will dull it.”

“Wow, speaking of dull… I hope you’re more
fun when you’re drunk because, as soon as I find a tool I’m allowed
to touch, it’s going to happen. I didn’t bring a shot glass though,
so you may have to whittle one.”

Thankfully, I woke up in my own bed. Alone.
Although I really could’ve done without my head feeling like a
condemned building being torn down by a huge iron ball. I reeked of
tequila and when I wiped my neck, I felt something grainy like
sand. Nope, not sand. Salt. I had salt on my neck from where
Carson’s…

Oh shit. His tongue. The heat of his mouth
running up my neck, his lips lingering just behind my ear.

“Yes, that really happened.” Then with a
whole new kind of pain in my head, I remembered us staring at each
other while I took my time sucking every last grain of salt off his
finger.

Even more vaguely, I remember him getting us
a cab and dropping me off here. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have sex.
Almost sure. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to forget having
sex with someone. If I remembered sucking on his finger, I’d have
remembered if any other parts of his body went into mine. Oh
god.

I wondered what he felt like right now.
Hopefully worse than I did, seeing how it was totally his fault.
After a long, life-sustaining shower and putting on some clean
clothes, I’d call Carson. Then I’d have to go find out if my shop
looked as bad as
I
did.

Hillary came out of the kitchen, smiling and
horrifically cheery. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I’ve been working a lot.”

“All night long?” she smirked.

“Maybe.”

“Is it that guy?”

I brushed hair off my face. “Yes, but it’s
not something to goofy-grin about. Really.”

“When’s the last time you were here?” Hillary
followed me through the apartment, stepping over the bag I’d
dropped in the middle of the living room at some point. I’d get it
later.

“I’m here every night,” I said.

“Not when I go to bed.” She totally didn’t
believe me. I needed to either stop caring or start sticking to a
curfew.

“What do you mean? I watched TV with you for
three hours the other night.”

“Yeah. On Thursday. Today’s Monday.”

How was that possible? There’s no way I spent
the last three nights hanging out with Carson. No way. If for no
other reason than he probably kept track and had a limit of how
many nights he could spend with a woman before he went into
estrogen shock.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Hillary said, amused at my obvious
expense. “I know how to keep my days straight because I don’t have
the kind of job I do seven days a week, and I don’t have the kind
of boyfriend I sleep with every night. Because
that
would be
more like living with someone, which
I
don’t do. I have a
normal job with normal hours and a boyfriend who takes me out to
dinner every Friday night. Then we go to his house and have sex and
go to sleep. Then we spend Saturday together and on Saturday night
we have sex again.”

“I really appreciate you telling me this.” I
turned the shower on, praying the water wouldn’t take too long to
heat up.

“Then, like many, many other normal people,
Eric and I spend Sunday watching TV and vegging on the couch. On
Sunday night I come back here and sleep in my own bed for the next
five nights before doing it all over again. But one thing I
don’t
do is see my roommate anymore. So are you really going
to keep telling me this guy isn’t your boyfriend?”

“No, I’ve given up on you.” I shooed her out
of the room. “But he’s not my boyfriend, and I don’t live with him.
I live here, with
you
. And I’m not having sex with either
one of you.” I blinked, my hand ready to close the bathroom door.
“By the way, you should consider trying to liven things up with
Eric because that sounds hellishly boring. People our age shouldn’t
already be hellishly boring.” People our age should probably not do
shots with someone they’re trying very hard not to sleep with,
either.

I called him as soon as I got out of the
shower and felt mildly human again. “Did we have sex last
night?”

“Of course not.”

Hallelujah.

“No, last night we made sweet, sweet love.”
He didn’t stop laughing for about ten minutes. “I promise, Lane,
when we have sex, you will be completely sober, awake, and begging
for it.”

“Has a woman ever actually needed to beg you
for sex?”

“No. But I’m playing hard to get with you, so
you’re going to have to beg. On your knees. While you’re—”

“Shut up! I’m begging you.” Then it was my
turn to laugh.

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that my
wardrobe was completely unacceptable for the gallery opening until
the day of the event. My clothes consisted mainly of jeans and
shirts because cute tops aren’t so cute when your bra is filled
with sawdust or the sleeves are splattered with varnish. And in a
fit of ‘I’m never dating again, so I don’t need going-out clothes’
frustration, I’d tossed a lot of reminders of my old self.

After Kevin had shown me the error of my
loyal and trusting ways and I’d finally wised up, I didn’t want to
look sexy—I was purposefully trying
not
to attract anyone.
And every outfit reminded me of a man. It was actually pathetic—I
could remember when and with whom I wore every attractive outfit I
had.

They were souvenirs of the delusion I’d lived
with since I agreed to go to junior prom with Michael Buckley and
he celebrated by sticking his tongue in my mouth. Worst kisser
ever, although I didn’t know that at the time because he was my
first. My first everything—kiss, love, lover. Worst
everything
ever, actually. For his sake, I hope he’s gotten
better.

Tonight was special, though. I didn’t need to
look sexy but jeans weren’t going to cut it. There would be
potential clients for my business and, more importantly, for my
art. I needed to go shopping.

Carson called just as I got to the department
store. “What are you doing?”

“Shopping for a dress I can’t afford. What
are you doing?”

“Leaving work. Are you almost done buying a
dress you can’t afford? I thought we could have a drink before you
drag me to this horrible thing tonight.”

I heard the smile in his voice. Doing what he
did and being who he was, Carson probably went to this kind of
thing all the time. Then his offer sunk in—he’d just asked me to
have a drink a few hours before an event it would take me hours to
get ready for.

“Oh my god, it’s true—you’ve
never
gone out on a date, have you?”

“What’d I miss?”

“I’m a woman.” I pulled dresses off the
racks, cringing every time I saw a price tag. So I stopped looking
at them—they were all more than I could afford. Hopefully I
wouldn’t discover I could buy the dress I wanted or pay my rent,
but couldn’t do both. “I have two hours to find a dress, go home,
shower, do my hair and makeup, and get to the gallery. Yet the guy
I’m not dating is asking me to meet him for a drink.”

“And he still doesn’t know why you
can’t.”

“Because I’ve already been to two stores and
haven’t found a single dress I like. If Nordstrom doesn’t have
anything, I’ll probably have to go in the dress I wore to my high
school prom.”

“Dear god, I hope you’re kidding. Just pick
one. You’ll look good in whatever it is. Except your prom dress.
Don’t do that to me…unless you went to the prom in a cheerleading
uniform.”

I held the phone between my shoulder and my
ear as the stack of dresses grew. “This is important, Carson. I
can’t go there looking like crap.” A saleswoman took pity on me and
brought the stack to a dressing room.

“You won’t look like crap. You’ll look great.
I’ll make sure of it. See you soon.” He hung up before I could ask
him what he meant. I jogged after the big pile of options, crossing
my fingers that one of them would work.

Ten dresses—mostly black, in two different
sizes—and I still had nothing. How could I possibly be the only
woman in the world to have boobs and a butt? Evidently, I was only
allowed to have one or the other. Just as I slipped dress number
eleven, i.e. the last one, over my head, a long royal blue dress
came sailing over the top of the dressing room door.