Unsuitable Men (17 page)

For awhile Tracy entertained the idea of slipping out to go spend his last night in Atlanta with him. She didn’t expect to miss him as much as she had when she left New York. And for sure, she didn’t anticipate that just seeing him walk across the Hartsfield terminal toward her would lessen the awful weight on her heart that she hadn’t even realized was there.

He was one of the last passengers to disembark and was carrying
a large
brown leather duffel, wearing a white button-down open at the neck with a t-shirt underneath, and khakis. Upon seeing her, he smiled and it had taken every ounce of her self-control not to run to him. When she hugged him, it was hard to let go. He kissed her on the top of her head and they walked out of the terminal together with his arm about her shoulders. 

At the hotel, she’d scarcely been able to wait to get close to him. Feeling his weight on her was like being enveloped by a security blanket. And most stunning to her was that it wasn’t even about the sex, it was about the sense of connection, of seeing him and being seen by him as she truly was.

But Jocelyn’s words reminded her that Brendan didn’t know who she truly was. He didn’t know anything of her long and sordid history of men with blurred faces, and even blurrier names, dates and circumstances. Could he look at her the way he now did, if he knew any of that? Would he still spoil her and tease her and indulge her as he now did, if he knew that she was precisely what Kelvin had called her that night? Funny how she remembered his name now—Kelvin. It would have disappeared
from memory like all the others had he not said about her what she always said about herself: she was a fucking whore.

Unable to sleep even after lying in the dark for over an hour, Tracy crept out of bed and headed downstairs. The house was quiet and the only light that remained was the dull glow, escaping from under the door, of the lamp in Malcolm’s room that remained on all night so her mother could slip in and check on him.

Sleeping with the light on didn’t seem to disturb him. His days and nights all seemed to blend seamlessly one into the other for him now. On the odd occasion over the last week that Tracy had stopped in to visit with him, he had barely acknowledged her presence. She tried to talk to him, but only about the most superficial things, like the temperature in the room and whether or not he wanted her to turn on the radio or television. He responded when she asked direct questions but the most effective were those that permitted him to respond with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Beyond that, and he would seem befuddled, or force out an answer that was as likely as not to be nonsensical. What was most striking was the utter absence of emotion on his mangled face. He seemed neither happy nor sad; he was just . . . there. His lack of emotion seemed a mirror image of Tracy’s. She neither loved nor hated this man, and could not even muster sufficient feeling to produce sympathy for his plight. There was just nothing.

In the kitchen where Tracy had decided to cut herself one more slice of Bundt cake and make a cup of tea, her mother was seemed to have been waiting. Wearing a powder blue housedress, she looked as well composed as she had at dinner, not a hair out of place. On the table in front of her
was
a cup of coffee and the remnants of her own late night snack on a saucer. She looked up as Tracy entered.

“Who is he to you, really?” she asked without preamble.

Tracy had not expected this conversation tonight, but was unsurprised that they were having it.

“I told you,” Tracy said, opening the refrigerator. “A friend.”

“What kind of friend, Tracy Ann?”

“Why does it matter? I’m not
sixteen
. I can date whomever I want.”

“So you
are
dating him.”

“He means something to me,” Tracy confirmed.  “And honestly, Mom, what do you care?” she demanded, going to grab a knife for the cake.

“I suppose I shouldn’t care,” her mother acknowledged. “After all, he’s gainfully employed. Very gainfully, I would guess. He’s good-looking, articulate.”

“And yet you still disapprove,” Tracy couldn’t help adding. She hated that it still mattered what her mother thought, even when she had more than enough evidence that it shouldn’t.

“Good-looking, oozing charm, talks a wonderful game. Works in a glamorous, high-profile field.
Loves
the ladies. Never an objectionable word to say about them, and promises you the world . . . I wonder why I would disapprove,” her mother said, her voice bitter.

“Are you sure we’re talking about Brendan?” Tracy said. “Sounds like someone else we both know.”

Her mother’s face darkened. “Tracy, you think you have it all figured out. You always have. But I have the benefit of many more years experience than you. And as soon as I saw that man walk through the door, I knew his type.”

Tracy’s breath was coming in short bursts, she was so angry. This was one of the reasons she didn’t want to come home ever; the criticism disguised as concern; prophesies of doom and gloom.

“I bet he treats you like no one else in the world is as important,” her mother continued. “Like he doesn’t see another woman, can’t see another woman, because you’re
just
that special.”

“Or maybe I am that special to him.”

“You want to believe you are. Choosing a mate is an art, Tracy. And the fact that he sets your stomach aflutter shouldn’t even enter into the equation. Take it from one who knows.”

“Who said anything about choosing a mate? He’s my . . .”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Tracy Ann. I’m your mother. I saw what it was like between you two. Don’t tell me again that he’s just your friend. It insults me, and diminishes my view of you as an honest young woman.”

“I’m not honest at all,” Tracy said. “You have no
idea
.”

Her mother looked puzzled for a moment and for what was not the first time, Tracy was tempted to let it all come pouring out, telling her mother that all work and lectures and platitudes had been for naught.

Everything you told me fell on deaf ears
, she imagined telling her.
Because despite your best efforts, I still turned out to be a slut.

But even she was not that cruel. It had always been easier just to stay away. But Malcolm and his damned illness had made that impossible. All the wounds, carefully covered up all these years would begin to bleed again if she stayed too much longer. She could feel the urge to confess building up in her with each day she spent in the same house as her mother.

“I know it probably feels possible, doesn’t it?” he mother said, almost sympathetically now. “Especially with your friend Riley and her husband. You’re thinking that you may be able to make it work, and oh what a cozy little foursome you all would make. As soon as he told me he worked with Riley’s husband, I knew that’s what you were thinking. As soon as I saw what it’s like between you, I knew.”

Tracy’s face flushed. She desperately wanted to ask her mother what she saw, because she thought that with the exception of her little outburst (which had been done in private after all) she’d done a great job keeping her distance from Brendan at dinner, as had he. But
she
could not bring herself to give her the satisfaction by asking. And truth be told, she was pretty sure she knew. If she and Brendan were within reach, there was a charge between them, not always a constructive, positive or even sexual charge, but a latent energy that, to Tracy at least, was so thick, it sometimes felt like she could barely draw a breath.

“If you pursue things with this man, you would be making a very grave mistake, Tracy Ann. A very grave mistake.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“Because I was you once. And boy did I ever pay for being the kind of fool you’re being right now.”

Tracy felt her heart ache. “You wound up with precisely what you wanted in the end,” she said, her voice cold.

“But at what cost?” her mother said. She turned to leave the room. “So perhaps you ought to consider the cost to you, Tracy Ann.”

Tracy had never understood why Jason Miller insisted on personal service for the somewhat small—by his measure anyway—investment he’d made with her. He almost never wanted to talk about it on the phone and had on countless occasions insisted that she schlep all the way over to his office, or out for lunch.

Today he’d invited her to yet another lunch, which was fine since a girl did have to eat sometime. But looking over his file earlier, Tracy saw that his investment was performing about as well as expected and couldn’t figure out what the purpose of the meeting might be. Unless he was about to fire at her. And that was always a possibility. Some new hotshot might have accosted him at a party and gotten in his ear, or a friend on the golf course gave him a tip, and rather than risk new money, he may have decided to move his modest stake with her someplace else. In her business it happened all the time.

Tracy walked into
Dorcas
, at precisely the appointed time, smoothing her skirt several times as she waited for Jason Miller in the entryway of the exclusive restaurant. She had refused the hostess’ offer to wait at the table because she preferred to greet her clients while standing, from a position of power. In Jason Miller’s case, though, it was probably a fantasy that she could ever be in anything resembling a position of power. His wealth made it more than clear who held all the cards. So perhaps a position of equals was more achievable, though even that was a stretch.

When finally he walked in, only five minutes behind, Jason Miller was smiling apologetically. He ran a hand over his head as though harried and busy and then placed a hand at the small of her back.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he said.

“No, not at all,” Tracy smiled back at him.

The hostess hurried to seat them before he even said a word. Clearly he was a recognized and valued patron here. The restaurant was one of those highly exclusive places where the reservation wait-
list was rumored to be months long. Tracy had never been, and would have been somewhat excited at the prospect of the meal if she wasn’t so apprehensive about the cause of his summons.

As soon as they were seated, Jason Miller ordered for them, not even requesting a menu. She tried not to take offense, and instead smiled and nodded when the waiter glanced in her direction. When they were alone once again, Jason Miller turned all his attention to her and formed a steeple with his hands, resting his chin on them.

“So,” he said. “This is very difficult.”

Yup. She was about to be fired.

“I’ve decided to move my investment with you.”

“I was afraid of that,” Tracy admitted. She took a sip of her water. “May I ask why?”

“This is the difficult part,” he said.

“So it wasn’t difficult to fire me?” she asked, managing to smile winningly at him.

“No, it’s more difficult to work with you,” he said flatly.

Tracy’s face fell and she put her glass back on the table. “Mr. Miller . . .”

“Jason.”

“Jason. I have no idea why you feel that way, but I assure you, if there’s anything I’ve done, and anything I can do to . . .”

“I can tell you’ve already misunderstood me,” he said waving a hand to silence her. “You’ve serviced my account impeccably. And so far the investment has performed well beyond what I expected. And if your boss were to ask me, I would say that you’re one of his best assets in the firm.”

Tracy wrinkled her brow. “So I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been trying now for six months to ask you out,” he said baldly.

Tracy leaned back in her chair.

Wait, what?!

She hadn’t picked up on that. At all. Now granted, over the last four months she’d been otherwise occupied, but this was still a surprise. And not to mention, that Jason Miller called her ‘Ms. Emerson’ in that awful, condescending voice that only her most difficult and high-maintenance clients used. Usually, she had great radar for when men were attracted to her, and Jason Miller had never treated her any differently from her average rich jerk client.

“I’ve surprised you,” he said sounding surprised himself.

“Yes.”

“This can’t have been the first time a client asked you out,” he said.

“As a matter of fact it is,” she said truthfully.

“And?”

“I can’t pretend to be happy about it if it’s the reason I’m going to lose your business,” she said.

“You could lose the investment and gain a boyfriend,” he suggested.

Tracy couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Are you saying you want to be my boyfriend?”

“Of course not. We barely know each other,” Jason Miller said. “I’m saying I’d like to take you out and see how it goes. But I’m hoping it goes well. I’m betting that it does.”

He was okay looking, she supposed. Like a young college professor, complete with the black-framed glasses and perpetual pensive look, as though he was always thinking deep thought. But his
clothes were considerably better tailored than a college professor could afford. If she could get past the supercilious mannerisms, she might be able to find him attractive, she supposed. But
why?
After all, she was very happy with . . . She stopped herself from completing the thought and turned her attention to Jason Miller once again.

“I
might
gain a boyfriend and would
certainly
lose your business would be more accurate,” Tracy countered.

“Well, I can’t promise you we’ll be dating a year from now or anything . . .”

“Obviously.”

“. . . but I couldn’t promise you my investment would still be here a year from now either,” he pointed out.

“You don’t waste time getting down to it, do you?” Tracy asked coyly. “I mean, we’ve only been sitting here for ten minutes.”

“I had to work up the courage to do this,” he said. “I’ve been working it out in my head for ages. And I’m sure you know that you’re a little intimidating.”

“I am?”

Jason Miller smiled. “Very beautiful, but you never smile. Men are suckers for that. We like the challenge.”

“I do smile. In fact, I think I’ve probably smiled at you a dozen times since we sat down,” she countered.

Jason Miller shook his head. “I’d like to keep my money invested with you, Tracy. But I’d much rather take you out to dinner.”

It was the first time he’d ever used her first name. And it made all the difference in the world. Suddenly he seemed like a genuine . . . possibility. She rewarded him with one more smile.

Brendan was upstairs in the kitchen when she let herself in, and looked over the railing down at her as she entered.

“Hey!”

Tracy waved up at him,

“Happy Friday,” she said.

“Friday is when the work begins at Lounge Two-Twelve though,” he called back. “You want to come with me tonight?”

“Maybe. I’d need to go back to Brooklyn to get something nice to wear though.”

“What?” he called down as though he hadn’t heard her.

“I’m coming up.” Tracy went to join him in the kitchen.

He was standing by the refrigerator, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, drinking Vitamin water. He’d finally given up on the argument against her stocking it up, so inside there was fruit, veggies,
meat
for the breakfast sandwiches she made him almost every morning, juice, eggs and cheeses.

“I said I would have to go back to Brooklyn to get something to wear if I’m coming to the Lounge with you.”

“Not worth it,” Brendan said. “Go buy something new. And the next time you go to Brooklyn bring back some stuff to leave here.”

He said it so casually, like it was just a common-sense solution, that she almost missed its significance. Brendan was inviting her to leave clothes at his apartment? The key was one
thing,
this was one step even further. This was the step just before moving in.

“You have no room for me,” she said quietly, sitting on one of the breakfast bar stools.

Brendan came over and grabbed her about the waist, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll make room.”

Tracy’s heart thundered in her chest.

Oh God, why did she want this?

She couldn’t stop to dissect it right now, but she really, really wanted this. And what was worse, she couldn’t remember ever having been with a man who she wanted to spend as much time with as she did with Brendan. For most of her adult life, she’d been convinced she wasn’t the relationship type, because she was always eager to be rid of the men she was sleeping with after the sex was done.

And once she realized that she did want a relationship, she was frustrated that no one came along who measured up, who made her  . . . crave him. A couple of men lasted a month or two but when they were gone, their absence barely registered. In one case, she recalled feeling nothing but relief at the affair’s end. Just her luck that she would find someone she did crave, but who might not even be real relationship material. Although lately, her reasons for thinking that in the first place were beginning to seem so obscure she could hardly recall what they had been.

“If I go shopping for something for tonight, will you come with me?” Tracy asked.

Brendan looked at her. “Ahm, no. I’m about to pick up a basketball game downtown.”

Well, thank God. Because at least now she knew he wasn’t
perfect
or anything.

Brendan was back from his basketball game by eight and they lazed around on his bed channel-surfing and eating a light supper Tracy picked up from Zabar’s of seafood salad and basil
bruschetta
. Even as she enjoyed it, she felt almost outside of herself, watching the comfortable domestic scene of a couple in bed, and scarcely believing that the calm and content woman who was one half of that couple was she. Even the crumbs that Brendan managed to scatter all over the Egyptian cotton sheets did nothing dampen her mood. The few quiet hours they spent together until it was time to leave for the club were enough to make her night, no matter what happened once they got there.

Tracy’s quick shopping trip had yielded an inexpensive but chic Michael
Kors
Ikat
-print mini dress with a cowl neck and cut-out sleeves, and a pair of black heels while Brendan wore navy pant
s
and black dress shirt. He was handsome in dark colors, Tracy noted and shocked herself when it sprang to mind that next time she went shopping she might pick him up a shirt she’d admired in a store window earlier that evening.

Just as they were about to walk out the door, Tracy remembered she’d left her phone in the kitchen and ran back upstairs to grab it. On her way back down, Brendan, waiting at the foot of the circular staircase, watched her descent.

“You’re looking up my dress,” she sang, enjoying the clear appreciation on his face of the view.

“Except I can’t tell if you’re wearing underwear,” he said wrinkling his brow.

“I don’t always,” she shrugged.

She was almost at the bottom when he stopped her with a hand on her thigh. Just one step shy of having her pelvis directly in line with his face, Tracy could feel the pace of her breathing increase almost immediately. His touch did it, every single time, so much so that Tracy was sure if someone hooked her up to an EKG machine, the damn thing would go crazy.

Brendan slid his hand slowly northward, his fingers lightly caressing the smooth skin of her inner thighs. His eyes never left hers as he hooked a finger at the crotch of her thongs, briefly and just barely brushing her clitoris as he did.

“This doesn’t qualify as underwear,” he said.”This is just a torture device.”

“It’s not torture at all,” Tracy said, struggling to keep her voice even. “It’s actually surprisingly comfortable.”

“I meant that it tortures
me
,” he said and in one quick motion he yanked it sharply down and away with a flourish, like a magician performing a disappearing trick. His movement was so sharp, the strings on the side simply snapped, but not before chafing her hip.

“Ouch,
Brendan!
” she said.

He held up her now-shredded panties. “Useless,” he said, letting them drop from his fingers and onto the step closest to the bottom. Then he ran his open palm across her lower abdomen.

“Where does it hurt?” he said. “Show me.”

Tracy thought she would pass out just from how
freakin
’ hot his voice made her. She put a hand down to her hip and over the fabric of her dress rubbing the sore spot.

“No,” Brendan said, a smile playing about his lips. “Touch it. Show me.”

Her breaths were short and shallow now, like she was having trouble getting air to her lungs, and when she looked at him, it got even worse. Brendan took her hand and put it under her dress so she was touching her skin directly.