Boston (10 page)

I blow out a breath. “Okay. Because it’s not entertaining, Boston. It’s—beautiful.” There’s a silence, then I get up. “Okay. I guess I’ll get going.”

He stands up and gives me a quick kiss on the lips, not a lingering one like the other day, the one I’m craving, and certainly not the one from my dreams, the one where he devours me whole. It’s nothing like what I wanted before, when I was touching myself during his shoot, but that feels a million lightyears distant, as if it happened to another person. Right now Boston is holding back for some reason. I need to figure it out, if we’re going to go forward with this.

***

We’ve been working together a few weeks now, and he hasn’t kissed me again. I think he wants to, but here’s the thing—the times he seems to want to, now, are the times when we’re alone and start flirting. That sexy banter that maybe I start, or maybe he does, the jokes that could so easily turn into a conflagration if I just said yes.

The problem is that I want him to want me during the regular moments, too; the ones when I’m sitting there winding hair around my finger and staring at the screen, or even more important, the moments when I’m standing there watching him work with models or when we’re revising the contract with Erik. I want him to want me even when I am compared to everyone else. I want him to want me so badly that it doesn’t matter if the entire
Sports Illustrated
Swimsuit Edition is prancing around naked. I’ve never really been into casual, “let’s fuck because we’re both here and don’t have anything better to do.” If I let myself even
try
that with Boston? I know I’d lose my heart in half a second. The more I get to know him, the more infatuated I am. What I thought in the beginning, about him not being that smart? It was so wrong and horrible, because he’s brilliant in his own way. And funny.

I eat lunch at his place every day now. I’m not dumb. I know that the lean meats and veggies are what give me the slow-release energy, and that because I’m eating better, I’m not having so many afternoon crashes. It’s crazy how just a few weeks of healthy lunches have made a difference. Well, I admit I’ve stopped with the caramel coffee milkshakes from the corner coffee shop and the donuts, too, because when I don’t bring that… he cooks breakfast for me. And I like it.

We take turns making eggs and surprising each other with the veggies we mix in. Last time it was my turn, I put in chopped celery and mushrooms, which might sound disgusting, but it was really good. He usually does spinach and kale and tomato.

One day after our breakfast I start writing and get frustrated. I’m trying to organize chunks of my book and I’m irritated that it’s not coming together as easily as I’d like, and I curse under my breath and tug at my hair.

“What are you doing now?” His voice is lazy, light. He’s looking at me from across the room. I didn’t know he was there.

I startle, then answer. “Weaving.” I like the intonation of his words, and the way they dropped into my consciousness like rocks into a still pond, making ripples that spread out, warming me.

“Weaving? What do you mean?” He comes closer and stands next to me. He leans his butt back against the desk and looks down at me, and I look up at him. The light makes his face glow.

I close the laptop lid and regard him for a minute. “I guess I’m taking all the pieces of my story and sewing them together with words.”

“You don’t write from start to finish?” He seems interested.

I shake my head. “I write all kinds of scenes and segments, and then I put them together when I’m ready.” I hesitate. “I read this book once, when I was a kid. Have you ever heard of St. Therese of Lisieux?”

He laughs. “I’m a Boston Catholic boy, Abs, but I confess I’m not up to speed on all my saints. Refresh my memory.”

I roll my eyes and slap him on the thigh, but the touch makes me burn. “So there was this girl, Therese, and she ended up being a saint, and she lived in a monastery and had to deal with gross black spiders and mean nuns. But that’s not the important part for now. Her mother was a lace maker, and the most important kind of lace maker. She would take pieces of lace from all of the talented workers, and weave them all together into one coherent piece. It was painstaking, critical work, and she was good at it—the best.”

“So you see yourself as the mother of a saint?” he teases.

I slap him again, and this time I let my fingers linger and slide down his leg, and he tenses his quad under my touch. I press my hand against his jeans leg and hold. “I see myself at the most difficult part of my book, the part where I have to make it all come together. It’s the hard part, and it takes tiny little stitches, millions of them. But each one matters.” I pause. “Right now, I have that great blow job scene that I wrote, but I’m not sure where to put it.”

He chuckles. “I know where to put it. Too bad you didn’t, though.”

“Boston!” I press my fingers into his leg, remembering that day I teased him. He got so turned on, and so did I. I remember how it was all I could do to keep myself from following through on my teases. I glance at his face and I know instantly that he’s remembering that day, too. He’s not laughing anymore. Now he has that sexy look, predatory and intense, the way his breathing has quickened. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

I reluctantly pull my fingers away. “Don’t stop,” he says, his voice husky.

“What?”

“Don’t stop touching me.” His voice is a command and a request, all at once. I feel my face get hot. “I like it.” Now his voice is sensuous. “Touch me again, St. Abbilene. And if you do it right, and then if I do it right, I’ll have you screaming out the name of our good Lord.”

“You’re so bad.” But my body starts to tingle with desire, anyway. I shouldn’t do this. But I want to. And I reach out.

“Aw, I promise to do my penance,” he murmurs. “Want me on my knees?” He deliberately stands up, then kneels in front of me, getting down on one, then the other. He pulls my swivel chair around and suddenly tugs my knees apart and I gasp. “Boston!”

He runs his hands up my thighs. “Wider.” And God help me, I do, gazing at him, helpless, unable to resist his voice, his face, his touch. “More.” I burn and obey.

“Hmmm…” He cocks his head. “Not gonna work. I’m too tall for this.” He gets up and suddenly lifts me from the chair like I weigh nothing, and sets me on the desktop, somehow depositing me down and spreading my legs again as he does it, and then he gets back on his knees, his head even with my—

“That’s better,” he says, with satisfaction in his voice. “Don’t you think?” He runs his hands up my calves, squeezing, touching, then relaxes them on my knees, his fingers splayed open, and I can feel the heat of each digit through the fabric.

“Abby? I asked you a question.”

“Yes. Better.” I suck in my breath. “Boston?”

“Yeah?”

He smiles up at me, his eyes dark and dangerous, his smile sexy.

“What, I mean…?” I trail off, hesitant, my heart beating so hard I can feel the pulse in my neck.

“Relax,” he murmurs, “and close your eyes.”

“But I—”

“Do it, Abby.”

I lick my lips and watch something spark in his eyes, then I close mine and lean my head back.

I feel his hands massage my knees, then move higher up along my thighs, all the while stroking and caressing me, warm and confident, and suddenly he slides both hands under my butt and pulls me forward until his head is nestled between my legs, and I squeal in surprise and reach out and grab his hair.

“Eyes closed,” he reminds me, and I suck in my breath, eyelids flickering.

He stays there for a moment, resting his head against my belly, his mouth breathing warmth on the crotch of my jeans, and I feel myself get wet even though I’m fully clothed and he’s just there. He doesn’t say anything and I don’t either, but I weave my fingers through his hair. It’s soft and a little curly, wiry, maybe, on top? Not at all greasy. It feels good. I scratch gently along his scalp and he makes a noise in his throat, then he squeezes his hands on my ass cheeks through the jeans and pulls again until my pelvis is right against his mouth.

“You think this position could work, Abby?” he asks, into my body through my clothes, and I feel my entire body thrum with desire, with need. My entire focus is on the tiny bundle of nerves between my legs and the man whose mouth is separated from it by one layer of denim, and how I’m dying to feel his lips on my bare body.

“Abby?” His voice lowers, stern, and the demand implicit in his tone makes me gasp with arousal.

“Yes. Pl—yes.” I nod and grab at his hair, trying to pull him closer.

“Does it feel good?” His voice is a caress.

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse. I grab his hair harder.

“Tell me to keep going, then,” he whispers into the hot space between my legs, and I moan and squeeze at him with my thighs. My body craves him, and all I want to do is give in to it. I want him so badly.

“Boston,” I say, my voice gaspy. “Please—keep going.”

He sighs and leans forward and I feel the pleasure as he rubs his nose along just the right place, but then he pulls back and stands up. He drops one hard kiss onto my lips and then he’s gone, his warmth, his hands, his touch.

My eyes open in surprise. “Boston?”

He’s standing there, arms crossed on his chest, eyes narrowed. I can see his body straining against his own jeans, so he’s not stopping from a lack of desire. Then he smiles, and it’s not entirely a kind smile.

“Payback,” he whispers. “And a helping… hand. Just trying to give you ideas for new positions for your book.” He winks and walks away, leaving me frustrated, aroused, embarrassed, and mad. “Just like the other day when you teased me about a BJ, remember?”

“Boston, you… you SUCK!” I scream after him. I’m trembling on that desk, from nerves, arousal, and embarrassment. I never thought he’d use my own game against me!

I hear him laughing as he heads to the back door. “Maybe next time, if you’re lucky. I’m gonna take a walk. Enjoy your writing, Saint Abby.”

The next week, he invites me out to a bar to meet some of his friends. I don’t know if it means anything that’s he invited me somewhere. It’s the first time he’s ever expressed interest in what I do when our work day is over. We never talked about how he teased me with his tongue and then left me sitting there. But the tension simmers below the surface still, in looks and eye contact. It’s thrilling and unsettling. I enjoy the sexual arousal and the flirtation, but then I still feel shatteringly sad when I see him partner with Annalise for photos. It’s a strange emotional roller coaster.

We get to the bar first, before his buddies arrive, and settle in at a battered wooden table. The vanished surface is pockmarked and riddled with scars, initials, and old cup rings. It’s like a yearbook for the ghosts of former clientele, and I run my fingers over a heart and a jagged “S.C. + B.B.”, wondering whether S and B ever ended up together.

Boston touches my shoulder and I lean into the touch, feeling uncertain about being here, about how his friends will like me. My heat is beating hard and I feel the way I did before high school track meets: amped up, ready to run, almost frantic with anxiety.

A few of his friends come up and he introduces me. “This is Abby. She’s my boss.” He winks at me and I flush.

“You lucky motherfucker,” says one of the guys, tugging on his baseball cap and giving me a look of approval. “I want a hot boss, too.” He pulls out the chair next to me, and it does a wood on wood scream as the leg scrapes over the boards.

“Oh, you’re too sweet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You probably say that to all the bestselling authors who work with a sexy model like Boston.” I sit up straight and take his hand as he offers it, hoping I’m cool enough for their approval. Then I feel pissed at myself for thinking I need it, and frustrated because I sort of kind of do need it.

“I can model,” he says, pulling up his shirt to reveal abs as tight and defined as Boston’s, and I raise my eyebrows.

“Wow. Nice.” I give a small whistle. Boston scowls.

“Right? Want to touch? You can punch me if you want. It won’t hurt.” He’s so cocky. “My name’s Cliff.”

“Cliff. Maybe I’ll punch you next time.” I give him a look, hoping he stops while he’s ahead. He’s on the line between funny and obnoxious, and for all of our sakes, I hope he figures out how to stay on the right side. I don’t want to make a scene, and I don’t want Boston to have asshole friends.

Cliff’s smart enough to sense it, I guess, or maybe he reads something in Boston’s body language, because he pulls his shirt back down. “Sorry. I’m just all hyped up from the gym,” he says. “And I wanted to let you know how nice you looked. I can tell by your accent you’re not from here. Offering up abs and punches is the local way of sayin’ nice to meet yah.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay. I’ll be sure to try it out next time I’m at the bar.” I mimic pulling up my shirt, although I don’t really do it, and simper, “Ohmigod, look at my abs! Want to punch them?” Then I add, “Do you think it works to skip the line in the post office or get better service at the deli?”

Everyone laughs, and I can tell I’ve passed some kind of cool test, because the guys settle in and down and around me, comfortable in Boston’s space even though I’m there. I can tell they’re still curious about what I am to him, but they don’t ask.

Another guy is called Jimmy, and when I come back from the bathroom, they’re teasing him about a girl.

“Is she pretty?” asks Cliff.

Jimmy flushes and shrugs. “She’s all right.”

“Just all right? Dude. You’re as ripped as Boston. You can do better than all right.” Cliff makes a rude hand gesture and the guys laugh.

“I like her fine.” Jimmy shifts on the couch and shoots a look at Cliff.

“Does she have tits like Annalise?”

Boston’s voice is rough. “Don’t talk shit about Lise.”

“What?” Cliff is innocent. “She’s hot. Besides, you guys split.”

“That doesn’t mean you disrespect her, though.” Boston’s voice is even.

“No disrespect, man. I like Lise. She’s all right. You know that.” Cliff puts up his hands. “I’ll never forget how she fixed that thing on my car one time. Remember at the bar? She didn’t even mind getting her fancy skirt all messed up. She saved my ass.”

“Lise does that,” Boston’s voice is still a warning. “Don’t forget it. She’s a special girl.”

“But you gotta admit she’s got the nicest rack in town,” Cliff pushes, and Boston punches his shoulder. It seems good-natured, although sort of rough and a little bit scary, and also a little bit boring. I mean, Jesus, I like Annalise too, well enough, but how long do we all need to spend thinking about her stupid tits? Please.

I sit down and smile, trying to arch my back just a little, so the guys can see that my tits are also pretty sweet. I know they’re probably comparing me to Annalise and it sort of freaks me out, so I drink my beer fast, and then another one, and soon I’m feeling silly and confident. The guys give me a lot of attention, and it might be because I’m the only woman here in their group, but it feels good. Soon I see that it’s more than being the only female rep—I sense interest. Cliff lets his eyes linger on me longer than necessary; he leans in a bit closer than he should, and I can read his attraction. The other guys let their eyes touch me sometimes, not in a gross way, but it clearly shows more than a passing interest.

It’s that thing I said a while ago—when I’m feeling confident, I know I’m gorgeous, and that knowledge feeds my confidence, and soon it’s a positive feedback loop that spins me around and around and launches me into the stratosphere. By the end of the evening I feel like a goddess, really, and my cheeks hurts from smiling so much, and I am sure that stars are leaking from my eyes.

And when Cliff wants to exchange numbers and follow me on Instagram, I smile and type my info into his phone, shooting only a tiny look at Boston’s face to see what he thinks of this. He’s frowning. This makes me happy.

At the end of the evening, Boston walks me out to the street, his arm proprietary around my shoulders, and he kisses me—a soft, warm kiss on the lips, and we melt together for a few minutes before he flags down a cab. “Sweet dreams, Abby,” he says, his eyes almost certainly promising me something, and I want to ask what it is, but the doubt in me makes me hold back.

The evening was weird—and not just because of my transformation into the rare and wondrous Super Abby. Was it anything special? We spent more time talking about Annalise than me, not that I’m egotistical or anything, but still… it would have been nice to be the feature film. Was he trying to show me his world, to see if I fit in, because he secretly cares for me so deeply that he can’t even say it?

Or was he showing me that even if we end up fucking, at the core of it I’m a bud, one of the guys, and I better not expect anything meaningful or long-term?

***

That weekend, I catch myself saying this to Liesl: “Actually, want to stay in and cook before the movie, instead of going to Greasy Joe’s? Their burgers have over seven hundred milligrams of sodium, which is not good for blood pressure. And twenty-five grams of saturated fat. If we use organic beef we’ll still make tasty burgers, but it will be the healthy fats, you know?”

Liesl looks at me. “What the hell just came out of your mouth, Abby?”

I shrug and my face gets hot. “Just, you know,” I mumble, picking at a lint on my sleeve. “It’s a good idea for us to start paying attention to that stuff. I mean, you look bombshell. But there’s a thing called skinny fat, Liesl, did you know that? A person can have—”

“I’ve heard of it.” She narrows her eyes at me. “It’s just that for a second, I wasn’t sure if that was my friend Abby talking, or perhaps her sexy partner Boston.”

“Whatever!” I stand up and pour a glass of water for myself. “I just decided that I need to take care of myself a little better. And Boston has a lot of good information about fitness and eating right.”

Working with him, I’ve started picking up some really cool tidbits and information about fitness. And I admit, eating better has given me a huge burst of energy. I feel like my thinking is clearer, and my writing is more refined.

But Liesl is still giving me that look. “Uh huh.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with that?” I challenge, putting one hand on my hip.

She puts up her hands. “God, no. I think it’s great, Rachael Ray. Sure, we can cook here. Do we need to go shopping for this organic fare first?”

I shake my head. “I actually have organic beef defrosting in the fridge. And we’ll use lettuce wraps instead of bread. It will be great.”

“Oh, holy Jesus.” Liesl scowls. “Are we not drinking any more, either?”

I smile. “Of course we’re still drinking, Liesl. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Liesl’s voice is uncertain. “Did anything change between you guys?”

“No!” I say, nearly dropping the packet of meat I’ve retrieved. “No, God, no, why would it mean that?”

“I just wondered.”

“So maybe he influenced me, is that a bad thing? You know, my pants are getting loose again. It feels really good. I feel really good. And I mean, I’m helping him, too.”

“How?” Liesl’s voice is neutral. At another time, she might have made a joke about how I could help him, like “it won’t suck itself,” but I think she can tell that I’m being more serious right now. That’s why she’s a BFF.

“So sometimes I, um, help him proofread stuff on his website. To make it more grammatically correct and sound, uh, more, how do I put this? Smarter.”

“You told him he needs to sound smarter?” Her voice holds concern.

“Well, not in those exact words,” I defend myself. “I just said that on his website he has some typos and grammar mistakes, and I could help him reword it all to make it more professional. I told him I think he can pull in more clients with a more sophisticated landing page and rewritten copy. And I think it’s working. I totally rewrote all of his text and added some new things, and just this week his shoot requests doubled.” I hear the pride in my voice, but I’m not sure whether it’s pride for my part at helping, or pride in him for getting double the clients.

“Does he know you think he’s not Einstein?” Liesl sounds curious. “Because most guys would take offense at that.”

I shrug, an uneasy feeling rising up in me. “We get along fine. Besides, he really actually is smart.” My voice is fierce. “Okay? So maybe he doesn’t have a college degree, Liesl. But he’s brilliant in his own way. He knows so much about photography and modeling. He’s genius at getting people to move just the right way to coax magic into view, you know? He has good ideas about words, even. More than one time I wrote down something he said because it just sounded so… nice. For a book, maybe. He just needs a little help softening up his rough edges. So don’t you say anything about him being dumb.”

“I’m not the one who ever said it, Abby.”

“Well, I didn’t either. So don’t put that on me.” I don’t know why I’m so combative right now. There’s a feeling in me that I can’t describe; I’m restless, angry, frustrated. I don’t know what it all means.

Liesl goes to the fridge and takes out the lettuce. “Abby, please don’t yell at me, okay? I just asked you a question because in the beginning? You did say something one time like that.” She rips off large handfuls of leaves and tosses them into a colander. “Do you want me to rinse this or do we need to bother?”

“I’m sorry. Liesl, I’m sorry.” I hug her, and her stiff shoulders relax. “I guess I just, you know, I’m getting to know him better now, and I just don’t want people to get the wrong impression about him.” I pause. “It looks clean. I never wash lettuce. Do you?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t ever
eat
lettuce.”

I giggle, then I start to cry, and once the tears come, I start sobbing, and then I’m really bawling, shaking into her shirt, and she puts down the lettuce and grabs me. “Oh, God, Abby, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No!” I wail. “I really like him. A lot. More than I should. He’s all I think about, and I don’t know what to do. I just don’t even know what to do at all.”

It feels good to say it in a way, like ripping off a scab that’s been itching for weeks, driving me insane. “I like him so much. There. I said it. I
like
him.”

She holds me tight and fierce. “Can you talk to him about it?”

I shake my head. “No, I really can’t. It would be weird and awkward. We flirt when we’re alone, but when other people are there, like Erik or Annalise, he doesn’t do it. And when I leave, it’s like he forgets about me. It’s horrible. I love spending time with him and I’m addicted to him, and he never even asks what I do when I’m not right there. I hate it!”

“Can you give me an example?” Liesl is so rational.

I wipe my eyes. “The other night he invited me out to a bar and he spent the whole time talking about how wonderful Annalise was. He didn’t say anything about me.”

Liesl frowns. “What, the entire night? For real?”

“Well, okay, no. It was only for a few minutes, but I guess I’ve spent a lot of hours analyzing it since then. So at the bar, his friend said something vulgar and he defended Annalise and basically masturbated to her memory right in front of me. And it would have been nice of him to say something like,
Oh, hey, Annalise is okay and all, but Abby here is so much better and more fucktastically amazing.
But he didn’t say that.”