Something New (37 page)

He leans in to me, reaching for my hand and pulling it to his chest. “I don’t know why.”

Oh crap. Time to go
, I think.

“We’ve known each other, what,” he continues, “three weeks? A month? We don’t really know each other at all.”

Uh-oh. Check please.

“But I feel like, God, this is going to sound cheesy as hell…”

That’s okay. I like cheesy. Go on.

“I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer.” He shrugs and blows out a breath. “I feel comfortable with you. I’m
drawn
to you.” He shrugs again and shakes his head. “I like being with you. You’re quick and funny. And you make me feel
interesting
again. Like I matter. Like I’m…” He laughs. “Like I’m cool. I haven’t felt that way in a long time.”

“But you could have your pick of women,” I hear myself say, and want to cringe at how wretched it sounds aloud.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah. I do. Sure, hell, I get fake boobs and plastic faces and friggin’ designer booty thrown at me all the time. I’m a cop. Women think I’m goddamned Bruce Willis. But those women don’t really know me. And they don’t really like me, either.”

“What about Linda? Does she like you?”

His smile fades. “Does that make a difference?”

I think about his question for a moment, my eyes never leaving his. “Not really,” I answer finally. “I was just wondering.”

“With Linda, it depends on the day.”

“I understand.” I try to remember the last day I actually liked Jonah. Monday? Tuesday? It’s been a while.
But that’s not why you’re here, Ellen
, I remind myself.

No. I am here because of the way Ben is looking at me right now, like he wants to run his hands over my entire body.

“What about you, Ellen?” he asks throatily. “Do you like me?”

Thank God the bar is as dark as a catacomb, because I can practically feel my cheeks flame scarlet. “More than I should,” I whisper.

“I like you, too. You’re beautiful.” He presses his index finger against my lips, then traces a line down to my throat. I shiver involuntarily. “You felt so good yesterday.” He moves nearer to me and I can feel his breath on my cheek.

“For the record,” I say, trying not to gasp as he tenderly kisses my temple, “I’ve never had a thing for Bruce Willis.”

He pulls back and grins, his hand still holding mine hostage.
Gently, I pull away and carefully raise myself off the stool. He frowns and gives me a confused look, like he thinks I’m about to leave.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I say. And before my mind processes the action, I reach up and run my hand through his hair, smoothing it behind his ear. It is such an intimate gesture that it surprises both of us.

“Mmm,” he purrs. “That’s nice.”

My hand lingers for another few seconds, then I turn and head for the corridor on the other side of the room. My steps are slow and measured, and I feel almost drunk, although I know it has nothing to do with the vodka. I am tipsy on lust.

There are two bathrooms, both unisex, as is the new trend. I test the doorknob of the first, find it unlocked, and push the door open. There are no stalls, merely a single toilet, a sink set in a vanity, and a worn upholstered chair in the far corner. The walls are a tired shade of yellow and the air smells of faux pine.

I lean back against the door as it clicks shut and stare sightlessly at the wall. My head is swimming. I don’t really need to pee. What I need is to get away from Ben Campbell for a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Because until two minutes ago, a part of me didn’t actually believe that anything was going to happen or that I was going to be able to go through with it. A part of me thought I was going to meet Ben for a drink and we were going to talk about yesterday and what a mistake it had been and that we should remain soccer acquaintances. I knew that putting the brakes on things would be difficult, yet it would be infinitely easier than starting an illicit affair. But he wants to. And I want to. There is no question about that.

You can still leave, Ellen. Sneak out the back or march right up to him and tell him that this isn’t a good idea, that
you’ve thought better of it, that you’ve come to your senses, that you don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all your children, or his children, that it’s been great getting to know him and blah blah blah, but you’re just not cut out for this type of intrigue.

Yes. That is exactly what I should do. That is exactly what I am
going
to do. But as long as I’m here, I might as well pee.

Just as I reach down to engage the lock, the knob turns in my hand and the door sweeps open on its hinges. I look up to see Ben standing in the doorway, gazing at me hungrily.

He charges into the bathroom, simultaneously grabbing for me and kicking the door closed with his foot. He swings me around and pins me against the door, fumbles at the lock, then slams his mouth against mine, crushing my lips with his. I reach up and encircle his neck, all thoughts of escaping to the safety of my boring life gone. Because his kiss is all-consuming, ravenous, oh-so-fucking-amazing I can’t think at all, can only feel. Feel his tongue dart into my mouth and entwine with mine, as they do their slick and sumptuous dance that sends fire down to my loins. Feel his hands move down to my waist as he tugs at my sweater, yanking it free of my skirt; feel them slide back up again, over the tingling skin of my stomach, my sides, my back, oh, God, his hands are everywhere, and our mouths are still locked as he sneaks his fingers up under my bra and rakes them over my breasts, rubs his thumbs over my nipples and I shudder with desire, my back arching and my toes curling inside my leather boots.

“Ellen,” he rasps, as he grasps my shoulders and whirls me from the door to the vanity and lifts me so that I am perched on the counter next to the sink. He lowers his mouth to mine again, treats me to another blistering kiss, then tears himself away from my swollen lips and moves down, biting at my sweater just where it stretches over my breasts. He
pushes the fabric up, past my waist, over my chest, then roughly rips at the silk of my bra, jerking it down and exposing my nipples, which are hard as pebbles, to the cold air.

He flicks his tongue across my right areola then closes his mouth around it and sucks, nibbles, bites, and I feel my insides quake with wanton desire. My hands snake down to the waistband of his jeans (
What are you doing?
screams the one rational brain cell I have left) and I grasp, tug, claw at his fly until I manage to yank it open, then shove my fingers beneath his boxer-briefs to the rock-hard erection that twitches at my touch. I graze the smooth head of his penis with my index finger, hear Ben gasp, then run my hand along the entire length of him.

Ben grabs my skirt and pushes it up, up to my waist, then I feel his own hand inside my undies, seeking, lightly brushing against my pubic hair, and continuing until his fingers find my folds, and he parts them, gently at first, his touch so soft, like a whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut and moan as a wellspring erupts,
down there
, washing over his fingers as he pushes them deep within me. A primal cry escapes me and I reflexively contract both the muscles in my groin and the muscles in my right hand, which is currently clutching Ben’s shaft.

But the shriek of ecstasy that originates in my own vocal cords serves to cut through the animal frenzy I am submitting to. When I open my eyes, the first thing that comes into focus is the cracked toilet and the useless shriveled air freshener sitting on the back of the tank. The fog of passion lifts faster than you can say
Glade
, and I quickly pull my hand out from the heat of Ben’s briefs and gently place it on his hand, stopping him from further plunder.

“Not here,” I gasp, sucking in a few gulps of artificially scented air. I’ll be damned if I am going to consummate this
affair in a unisex bathroom in a bar downtown. It would be like winning the Miss America title in a bowling alley.

I try to stay his stream of endless kisses by gently nudging him. When that doesn’t work, I use a bit more force, pushing at his chest until he has no choice but to break free. His eyes, which are practically glazed over, take a few seconds to clear, and when they do, they roam over my face suspiciously.

“What?” he asks in that annoyed, coitus interruptus kind of way.

“Is there someplace…? Can we go somewhere…else…?”

He looks around and seems to realize for the first time where he is. His sweeping scan takes less than a second (a skill learned as a cop, I assume) but he clearly registers the cracked toilet, the peeling paint, the ancient vinyl flooring, the deodorizer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and looks truly mortified. “I just…I couldn’t help myself. I want you, Ellen.”

The force of his words slams into me with the impact of a freight train. It’s not that his actions have left any doubt in the matter, but hearing the words aloud are even more powerful, and for a crazy instant, I want to grab him by his beautiful and noteworthy body part and help him shove it deep inside me and let him fuck me until I go blind.

“I want you, too,” I tell him, resolutely resisting the temptation. Because if I am going to throw caution, common sense, all of my morals, and possibly my marriage to the wind, you can bet it will be in surroundings more dignified than this place. The Four Seasons? Absolutely. The back of Ben’s Land Rover? If need be. But not here.

He raises a finger and traces the
O
of my lips. “The GHPD has an apartment, on La Croix. They keep it for undercovers, or witness protection. More than a few of the guys
have bunked there when their wives kicked them out. It’s empty tonight…”

I nod. That sounds more like it.

“We could go there,” he suggests, his finger lightly mapping out the contours of my chin, the hollow of my throat, my clavicles. This feather-light touch is almost as good as the hot raunchy frenzied heavy petting of a moment ago. In fact, it is even better.

“Let’s go there,” he says.

“Okay.” One word. Two syllables that seal my fate. If I hadn’t yet crossed the line by shoving my hand down this man’s pants (and who are we trying to fool anyway?), I have just taken a giant step over to the dark side by agreeing to go to the PD’s apartment. I try not to think about it. I know the guilt will get me; I do not exist in a vacuum, after all. But since I know I will eventually experience the retroactive regret, I refuse to feel it now. (Do you see what kind of bullshit you can sell yourself because a hunk with a great ass finds you beautiful even at the ripe old age of almost forty-three?)

“Just give me a minute.” I glance at the toilet to my left.

He chuckles softly, lowering his hand to his side and stepping back. “I didn’t give you a chance to pee, did I? How rude of me.”

“I forgive you.” I grin at him and bite my lower lip. “You might want to, uh, wash your hands.”

He cocks his head to the side, then seems to realize what I am talking about. He smiles as I turn on the faucet and squeeze some soap from the wall-mounted dispenser. Side by side, hands interwoven beneath the spray of water, we take a quiet moment to scrub each other off our fingers. Then we dry our hands and do our best to make ourselves presentable, which causes us both to break into laughter.

When we’re as good as we are going to get, he grazes my cheek with a kiss and says, “See you out there.”

I lock the door behind him and press my forehead against the cool metal door. My pulse is still racing, and I can’t seem to wipe the stupid smile off my face. I don’t have to look in the mirror to see it, I can feel it, plastered to my face with Click Bond. It is the “cat that ate the canary” smile, the “I have a secret” smile, the “I just got down and dirty in the bathroom of a bar with a hot guy and am going back for more” smile. The kind of smile that gives you away, the one you never want to allow yourself to reveal to the jury lest they vote to hang your serial-killing ass. I try to rub it off with my hand, try to force the corners of my mouth down, but it will not budge, and I absently wonder, as I wash my hands for a second time—post-pee—if I will ever be able to frown again.

As it turns out, the answer is yes, and the
when
is three and a half minutes later when I make my way back into the main room, glance past the tables to the corner of the bar where Ben stands, and see that he is flanked on his left by none other than Nina Montrose.

What the fuck?

If you had told me that DNA testing revealed that I was related to Catherine the Great, I would not have been more shocked.
What the hell is Nina Montrose doing here?
Trolling, of course.

I stand at the archway of the corridor, frozen in place, sifting through my options with the speed and urgency of John McClane in
Die Hard
. What to do? What to do? My sweater is hanging on the back of the very stool that Nina Montrose is perched against, her hands grasping the lip of the bar top, her arms straight at the elbows and squeezed together
in order to create an eye-popping tableau of her expensive breasts. To his credit, Ben is studiously avoiding looking at her; his eyes are glued to his beer bottle as she rattles on about something.

Okay. So these are the facts. I need my sweater. And I need to get the hell out of here without the plastic queen of Southern Cal putting two and two together. If only I
were
John McClane and had a little C-4 I could create a diversion, like blowing up the stage in the corner, microphone and all, thereby giving me an opportunity to snag my sweater unnoticed. But I am me. And, alas, I have no C-4.

I make a decision, wait a moment until the bartender crosses to the other side of the T, and saunter toward the bar, donning a distracted expression. I sidle up to the counter and make a show of waiting to catch the bartender’s attention. Not three seconds later, I hear the high-pitched keen of my new nemesis.

“Oh my God! Would you look at who it is? Ellen!”

I glance to my right and see Nina waving frantically at me while Ben empties his beer with one long swallow. He sets the bottle down and looks at me, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.