Sugar (6 page)

Cole cracked open his eyes. He lay sprawled on his back in the center of a metal four poster, the sheet riding his waist.

Where the hell am I?

Impressions from the previous night paraded through his consciousness. Masses of soft blonde hair spilling over crisp, white, cotton-cased pillows. Kisses that tasted of vanilla ice cream laced with sex. The slapping of sweaty, scalding skin against flesh equally fevered, an eternally satisfying sound.

Apparently his hookup had segued into a sleepover. That was a first, for him anyway.

He shoved up on one elbow, vaguely registering that his right hand hurt. Sunlight streamed through a pair of floor-length, sheer curtains. Some sort of white blossoming flower, freesias maybe, overflowed a cobalt-colored vase set atop a white, shabby chic dresser. Out of habit, he reached over to the nightstand for his phone and cigarettes, neither of which was there. Right, the crushed pack had never been replaced. As for his phone . . .

The blonde, Sarah, entered the room, not wearing his shirt as most women would presume to do but instead in an oversized tee of her own. Her hair was back up in the clip. A pair of granny glasses perched on the bridge of her slightly snubbed nose. From the neck up, she looked like a sexy librarian. Lower she just looked . . . sexy.

The fucking had been effortless, second nature, sublime. Now came the awkward part. Girding himself, he sat all the way up. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, stopping at the foot of the bed, again not launching herself at him as so many women might—had.

He scraped his hand through his hair, wincing when the action reminded him that his knuckles were split and swollen. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He hadn’t. Spending the night, the morning, or whatever wasn’t part of his deal. The last thing he’d wanted was to risk freaking out on some stranger, humiliating himself with his thrashing and screaming. But after making love to Sarah, he’d drifted off naturally, as normal people did. Normal, Christ, until last night when was the last time he’d felt anywhere close to that?

She shrugged. “No problem. That’s what beds are for.”

“What time is it anyway?” Like most people, he’d stopped wearing watches, relying on his phone for the time.

Still keeping the bed’s length between them, she answered, “Almost eight thirty.”

Eight thirty! Had he really slept through the night? Okay, so granted they hadn’t gone to sleep until sunrise, but still . . . Since Iraq, logging in that many consecutive zzz’s stood as a record.

He glanced to the floor where his clothes were strewn. “I should probably get going,” he announced, anticipating her push back.

Instead of trying to persuade him to stay, she nodded. “You left your jacket downstairs last night when we . . . Anyway, I hung it up in the coat closet.” The way she was directing him, it sounded like she didn’t mean to walk him down.

“Thanks. How long have you been up?”

Another shrug answered his question. “Since seven.”

“You should have woken me.”

Her brows snapped together as though being told what she should or shouldn’t do didn’t sit well. In bed, however, had been a very different story. Recalling how she’d waited for his permission to come, he felt himself thickening.

Distracted, he almost missed her answer. “I’ve always been an early riser. You weren’t in my way. I went downstairs to work.”

In her way—until now he hadn’t thought of it like that. He almost asked what her work was but stopped himself, not wanting to pry. Besides, what did it matter?

Naked, he slid out of bed. She turned away, pretending to tidy the top of her dresser. Given that she’d kissed, licked, and sucked nearly every square inch of him, the display of morning-after modesty struck him as a surprise—and seriously cute.

Holding back a chuckle, Cole began compiling his clothes. His pants lay crumpled pile beside the bed. His underwear must be somewhere close by too, but rather than prolong the awkwardness by rooting around the covers for it, he decided to go commando. He found his shirt in a ball at the foot of the bed. He put it on and buttoned it. Socks and shoes followed.

He stood from the side of the bed, clearing his throat to get her attention. “Well, I’ll be getting going.”

“Right, okay.” She turned and led the way down, her t-shirt riding up to give him a peek at pink cotton panties.

Cole followed, enjoying the view on his descent. Seen in daylight, her downstairs was small but pristinely kept. From the loveseat upholstered in light blue linen to the shabby chic dresser retrofitted as a home entertainment cabinet, every piece seemed to have a place and purpose. A laptop sat open on the kitchen counter along with a spiral notebook and coffee mug. She wasn’t bullshitting him. She really had been working.

Though so far she seemed cool with his leaving, he braced himself. By now he was used to all kinds of morning-after histrionics from classic crying to one semi-serious suicide threat. Some women started in on waking, others waited until he was reaching for the door handle before letting loose with their inner bunny boiler.

Perfectly poised, she opened a closet, took out his tuxedo jacket, and passed it to him. Shrugging it on, he stood as if rooted to the spot. What the hell was his problem? His exit was right there. No one was blocking him.

Cole took a step toward the door, and then stopped. Edging partway around, he said, “I’m hungry, you hungry?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Sorry, but this isn’t a B&B. Feel free to grab a yogurt from the fridge to go.”

So much for his concerns that she might cling! God, what would it take to fuck the bitchiness out of her? He’d give a lot to find out, more to do it. Then he remembered he didn’t plan on seeing her again. A hookup was supposed to be just the one night. At least that’s how he’d always played it. If he was smart, he’d set his course for the door and not stop walking until he cleared her street. Nothing, certainly not her, was holding him here. And yet for whatever reason, having her so misread him really rankled.

“To set the record straight, I wasn’t expecting you to make me breakfast. I thought I’d pick something up for us, bagels probably.”

She blinked as if startled, as if a guy being decent to her was a foreign thing. “Oh, that’s . . . really nice of you, but I can’t. I have this . . . thing I have to do.”

Cole shrugged, wondering why he felt letdown rather than relieved. “Sure, no big deal. I’ve got a packed Saturday too. I’ll let you get to it.”

He turned to go. With every step toward the door, he felt as if an invisible rope tugged him back. This reluctance, it made no sense. He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? The sex had been mostly vanilla and yet mind-blowing. It wasn’t like him to hang around making small talk. It wasn’t like him to hang around at all. Ordinarily he was out of bed and putting on his pants almost as soon as his partner climaxed. That he’d not only fallen asleep beside Sarah—nightmare free sleep— but then found himself making excuses to stick around set off all kinds of sirens.

Behind him, a drawer scraped open. “Cole, wait.”

Seizing on the excuse, he swung around. “Yeah?”

“You forgot this.” Leaning over the counter, she held out his phone.

Deflated, he walked over and took it, his fingers grazing hers.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. I might want to shoot some video later.”

She grimaced, but the pained look dissolved into a smile. “Or make some calls.”

He managed a laugh. “Right, I guess I could do that too.” Pocketing the phone, he hesitated. “I had a really good time last night.” Really good didn’t begin to describe it.

She didn’t look shyly downward as a lot of women would but boldly met his stare. “Thanks, me too.”

Cole hesitated, considering kissing her. More than considering it, he wanted to kiss her—badly. But now that they were out of bed with their clothes on, a kiss in the bright light of day might be misinterpreted as more. Besides, she’d already shot him down, rejecting his offer of bringing in breakfast because she had a “thing.” He recognized the blow off for what it was. Hadn’t he spent the past two years coming up with similar excuses? He should feel relieved rather than pissed. With Sarah, he didn’t have to worry about extricating himself. She was as good as pushing him out the door.

He settled for pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Great, well, take care.”

She stepped back. “You too. Stop smoking.” She tapped a finger against his chest.

The playful gesture brought a rare sense of tenderness surging through him. He caught her hand and turned it palm up. “Buy ice cream by the gallon. It’s safer,” he joked, kissing her fingertips.

She smiled. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”

I’ll think about you
, he thought but of course didn’t say. Something told him that despite the sleep he’d gotten, he would be more or less useless for the rest of the day.

Cole turned and opened the door. Out of excuses, there was nothing to do but walk away.

S
arah’s ready excuse to Cole also happened to be the truth. Liz had a noon chemo appointment at Memorial Sloan-Kettering, and Sarah had volunteered to drop off Jonathan at his friend’s house and then sit with her during the grueling several hours’ treatment session.

They met up at the hospital. Liz sat in one of the half dozen occupied, mint-green, vinyl hospital chairs, her head wrapped in a bright, patterned, purple scarf, her left hand tethered to the IV dispensing the drug. To give her the best possible shot at a permanent remission, her oncology team had agreed on an aggressive protocol of dose-dense chemotherapy, wherein the treatments were delivered every two weeks. Halfway through the chemo course, her hair was history. Even the fuzz had fallen out. Her eyebrows looked as though they’d been erased. Her face was thin, pale to the point of translucence. But her big brown eyes were animated above the shadowed crescents. Sarah focused on the eyes. Seeing the light in them gave her hope that cancer wouldn’t win. Liz would.

“Hey, you,” Sarah called softly from the open doorway.

Sucking on an orange Popsicle, Liz looked up from the open magazine in her lap. “Hi, yourself.”

Five other gowned oncology patients shared the treatment room, all receiving their chemo cocktails through identical IV drips. Most listened to music or meditation tapes, heads leaned back and eyes closed, as if willing themselves to a pleasanter place. One, an elderly nun, worked a beaded rosary, her lips silently moving, her navy blue habit half-hiding a mostly bald head. Beside every chair, a plastic tray held a licked-clean Popsicle stick. The frozen treats helped mitigate the mouth sores that sometimes occurred, yet another side effect of the drugs.

Carrying the magazines she’d picked up, Sarah picked a path over to Liz. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, avoiding looking at the pump. Even knowing the chemo drugs were killing any residual cancer cells, seeing Liz so sick made it hard not to think of the medicine as poison.

Liz gestured with the Popsicle to the plastic tubing tethering her left hand. “No problem, pull up a stool. As you can see, I’m not going anywhere, at least not for the next few hours. Jonathan get off okay?”

Sarah hesitated. The seven-year-old’s prearranged playdate had gotten off to a shaky start, but Liz didn’t need to know that. He’d dug in his heels when she’d dropped him off at his friend’s. “Why can’t I come to the hospital too?” he’d demanded, his dark brown eyes, exact replicas of Liz’s, filling with tears.

Fighting tears of her own, Sarah had explained that kids younger than twelve weren’t allowed, but that his mom would be back home later that afternoon. Then she’d dropped down on her knees and given him a huge hug that she’d needed as much as he.

Glossing over those details, she focused on the result. “Chandler’s mother mentioned something about taking the boys to the Central Park Zoo. Looks like a good day for it. How are you doing?”

Liz glanced down to her hooked-up hand. Because of swelling, the delivery site had been moved from her arm to a vein at the top of her hand. “I can’t complain, or actually I can, but it doesn’t do any good. Besides, I’m on my second Popsicle. Apparently there’s no limit. Oncology here is like one big, lactose-free Good Humor truck.”

Taking in the bruises mapping the cannula, Sarah steadied herself not to cringe. “I brought you some magazines.” Careful to avoid the tube, she settled the stack in Liz’s lap. “Sorry, there wasn’t a
Vogue
to be had.”

“That’s okay. I’m not feeling especially
en vogue
at the moment.” Taking another lick of Popsicle, Liz surveyed the stash. “You got
Glamour
,
In Style
, and
Us
. This is awesome, thanks.”

Sarah nodded. “Next time I’ll be sure to stop at a newsstand before I get here. The hospital gift shop selection seriously sucked.”

“Speaking of sucking, Nurse, can we get a Popsicle for my bestie here?” she called out, holding her dripping one aloft.

Hearing herself so described sent Sarah’s heart lurching. They’d met on the set of Sarah’s first film,
Cheerleaders in Love
. A buxom brunette with a winning smile and natural double-D sized breasts, Liz was the lead, Sarah a lowly walk-on. Their girl-on-girl scene had called for some serious acting. Neither of them into women, they’d managed the kiss okay, but when it came to cunnilingus, they’d cheated the camera big time. The director had been royally pissed, but Liz had sufficient clout to get away with telling him where to shove it. As the new girl, and thereby totally expendable, Sarah had borne the brunt of his anger.

Afterward, Sarah had retreated to the dressing room, wondering if maybe she hadn’t made a huge fucking mistake. Liz had followed her back, handed her a box of Kleenex, and sat her down for a pep talk. It turned out they were both from Brooklyn! They shared a weakness for black-and-white films, vintage evening bags, and loser men. Liz had taken her in, insisting she wasn’t to worry about rent until she’d lined up steady work. She’d shown Sarah the ropes, sharing trade secrets— use Visine to shrink razor bumps, shave with Neosporin to not get them in the first place, wear lip gloss beneath lipstick rather than over it to keep your hair from sticking to your mouth. Liz had filled her in on who was a doper, who followed safe-sex practices and who didn’t, taking her to the heavy-hitter parties and making sure she met the right people and steered clear of the wrong ones.