Boston (7 page)

“Thanks. I will. Are you?” I ball up one of the tissues into a tight wad. “Are you doing okay after your—after your husband left?” Is that an okay thing to ask? Is it stupid?

But Marr takes the question seriously. “I’m shattered. But I have a feeling that what I’m going to rebuild will be more beautiful than anything I’ve had so far in my life. I have faith in that, Abby.”

“Why did he leave?” It’s a terrible question, probably an unanswerable one, but I can’t resist.

Marr is silent, then she says, “He wasn’t able to say. He wasn’t a complete dick about it, Abby. He cried when he told me. But when I see him look at her,” and her voice cracks, “then I understand. The way he looks at her. It’s something that words can’t comprehend or explain.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. It’s a question I ask myself every minute of every day. Even when I’m doing something else, like—decorating,” and she gestures around the kitchen, “I’m completely capable of thinking about him, too. Seeing him in my mind with her, watching them laugh together. Wondering. But the thing is, Abby. I never looked at him that way, either. That’s the only thing that keeps me going, you know? The idea that maybe I can find that, too. That it’s not too late for me.”

“It’s never too late.” My voice is fierce and I grab her hand. “Never.”

She raises her eyebrows and gives a sad smile. “I just wish it were easier than in romance books.” She chuckles. “It must be nice, Abby, to get to write a happy ending any time you want.”

I think about that. “It’s much harder in real life. Maybe that’s why I like doing it in books so much.”

Marr holds out her fist for a fist bump, and after an awkward second, I meet hers with mine.

“To our own happy endings,” she says.

“To our happy endings,” I agree.

***

The next time I’m over at Boston’s, Annalise is there. You want to know what she looks like? Imagine the one woman you know who is so pretty you feel a stab of wistful regret every time you see her, regret that you will never in your lifetime know what it is like to have what she has. Her skin color and hair color are meaningless, because her beauty is more than the sum of her parts, it’s transcendent, it’s sung into her body and woven into her smile and her eyes, and people cross streets to walk closer to her. That’s Annalise.

This particular Annalise is blond, her hair so pale it’s almost white; her lips are lush and pink and her eyes the blue of tropical calendar pictures with sunshine embedded in them like diamonds. She’s perched on a stool beside Boston, peering over to look at the screen, and her hand rests on his shoulder. She swings one leg and the curve of her calf transfixes me. Her smile is brilliant.

She jumps to her feet and runs over and before I know it she’s hugging me. I stiffen up and she lets go. “You’re Abby! I’m so glad to meet you. I am so grateful that you are havin’ me and Boston be in yah book. I’m literally so excited I could burst. Oh, my God.”

“Me, too.” I want to mean it. Boston looks over and I don’t know what he thinks when he sees us side by side, but I catch a glimpse in the mirror and I wince my eyes away. Compared to her, I’m brash and brassy. My brown ponytail is leaking hair like stray quills, my funky wire-design earrings look cheap next to her tiny pearls, and my thighs—God, let’s not even discuss how both of her legs could probably fit into one of my jeans legs with space to spare.

I suck in my stomach and smooth my shirt down several times, trying to match at least her exuberance. “Having you and Boston in there is going to make it a total bestseller, I’m sure of it.”

“I think it’s going to be my big break.” She turns to Boston. “Didn’t I tell you, babe?” She bounces back over to him and hugs his arm with her body. “This is fan-fucking-tastic.” She hesitates and her voice stutters a little bit. “I, um, well, when Boston said we were working with you, I bought one of yah books.
Sweet Candy
. It was really, really good, Abby. I enjoyed it a lot.” Her gaze is timid.

I curse myself mentally; I should have offered them the books upfront. “Oh, that’s—I would have sent it for free. Do you want more of them? I can send you files?”

“Um, okay.” Her face is pink. “I mean, I don’t have that much time to read. But you are such a great writer. Have you read her stuff, Boston?”

“No. I just Googled her and saw that she’s a bestseller.”

Annalise pokes him. “Nice seat of the pants research, babe.”

He grabs her and growls into her neck. “Don’t mess with me, Lise! You want seat of the pants?”

She screams and he slaps her on her ass and grabs her up into a kind of bear hug, and I want to vomit and run away and cry, all at once. Ick.

I stand there feeling like a complete third wheel. Finally they’re on solid ground, side by side, looking like two kids all eager at recess. I gesture to my computer. “’I’m going to expand the scenes today where my hero and heroine kiss for the first time. What are you guys doing?”

Boston’s voice is easy. “We’re goin’ to the local park with Chelle. She’s going to shoot me and Lise in the rose garden, and then by the waterfall. Those artsy-fartsy park pictures we discussed.”

Annalise nods. “I have five outfit changes and Chelle is going to do my makeup all pretty. I’m psyched.”

“Good luck,” I say. “Break a leg? Do you say that?”

Annalise laughs. “Nobody says that. Although probably some of the othah models wish I would.”

“What?” I whip my head around. “Really?”

Her smile fades. “Probably not really. But it’s pretty competitive, you know. People can be kind of rough and not too helpful to each other in the modeling industry. Lots of gossip and backstabbing and stuff. Boston and I are lucky we still work together so easy. And that we found you and this job.”

When they leave, I have a hard time concentrating at first before the words come. Later, Boston is back alone. He comes right up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m back.”

I look up at him, and his fingers wrap around my neck like ivy before he lets go a second later.

“Did it go well?” I ask.

He nods. His body is still full of energy, I can feel it coursing through him, in his touch, the way he presses and grips me. “It was wicked awesome. Chelle said these are going to be some of our best shots ever.”

I bite my lip. “I hope my words can keep up.”

He bends down to peer at the screen. “Oh, I’m sure they will. What’s this part?” He reads aloud.
“Tyler pinned Lili with his blue eyes, and her heart raced with anticipation. ‘So I want to know why you don’t play in my club anymore,’ he said, his voice deceptively casual. He took a step closer and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Why you come here dressed like a nun.’

Lili flushed and gestured at her miniskirt and tube top. ‘If this is how nuns dress these days, then we’re all going to hell.’

Tyler chuckled and came closer, so Lili could feel the warmth of his body emanating, reaching hers. ‘Well, comparatively speaking. I remember you used to prance around in nothing except your silver nipple rings.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched as he met her eyes. ‘What happened, Lili?’”

“Boston. Stop.” My voice is firm, but he keeps reading.

“She averted her eyes. She wanted to say, ‘You did,’ but knew it would be a mistake to let him know she had any kind of feeling for him. He wasn’t interested in her that way. Or was he? The look in his eyes was so feral, almost ferocious. She sucked in her breath as he reached out and ran a finger over her lip, then down her neck, and gave her a knowing smile.

His voice was a murmur. ‘Did you figure out that you can drive me crazy this way?’”

“Okay. That’s enough. Seriously!” It’s so hot to hear him read the words, but I feel panic, too—it’s not ready. I grab the laptop lid and try to slam it down, but he holds it back. “Why not, Abs?”

I flush, hoping he’ll understand. “I don’t like to let people read before I edit. It’s raw. Things are going to change.” He nods and lets go, and his fingers brush against mine as both of our hands work together to close the lid.

“So this Tyler dude and this Lili. They’re gonna fuck now, right?”

I blush, but I meet his eyes and my voice comes out low and sultry. “Yeah. They are gonna fuck, Boston. And it’s going to be rough and dirty and wicked awesome.” I smile because I used his words from before, and he laughs, but then his gaze hardens into something predatory.

“Does she tease him before she lets him have her? Does she make him so crazy for her touch that he’s about ready to go fucking wild?”

I can barely breathe. “They’re both on the edge, Boston. All they need is one match and they’ll light up the sky like the Fourth of July.”

Then I laugh, because I wanted to be sexy but it rhymes and it’s kind of funny how I said it, and then he laughs too, and the intensity of the moment swells and deflates softly, like a balloon—not burst, just releasing the air like a sigh, a soft breath of wind.

“I’m going to get some water, okay?” I head to the kitchen and grab a bottled water from his fridge, and marvel at how comfortable I feel doing this. I like hanging out in his home, being welcome there, belonging there. It makes me feel cool, I think, like an insider. “You want one?” I call, but he doesn’t answer, and when I come back, he’s sitting at the desk reading my story—again!

“Boston!” I blurt out, and he turns his head slowly and grins.

“I told you not to look.” My voice is irritated.

“I don’t normally take direction real well.” He’s looking me up and down and the tension is back, just like that.

“Well, stop. I’ll let you read when it’s done.”

He wiggles his eyebrows but gets up and puts his hands up in the “don’t shoot” position. “Sorry.”

I roll my eyes. “I bet.”

“Scout’s honor.” He crosses his hand over his heart.

“Really? You were a boy scout?”

He laughs. “Nope. I was the guy stealin’ their lunch money.”

“You’re so bad.” But I’m smiling. “Such a bad boy.”

“I am.” His voice is low now, a growl. “I’m definitely the one your mothah warned you about, Abby.”

I meet his eyes. “I don’t need any warnings.” I take a deep breath.

He takes a breath, too. “So. Here we are again. End of the day. Just you and me.”

“Yup.” I nod, an unnecessary move, but my body needs it. If I can’t do the dance with him that my limbs crave, I need to get the anxious energy out in other ways. He’s tapping his fingers on the chair, thrum, thrum, thrum. The silence between us stretches and bends and I wish I knew what he was thinking.

“I like it that you work here, Abby.” His voice is low.

“You do?” My eyes jump, latch onto his. “Why?”

“Why?” He blinks, rubs his hand across his mouth. “Well.” There’s a pause. “Maybe I like knowing that someone’s here, you know? That you’re here. That the place has something lively in it, something beautiful for me to come back to.” Red stains along his jaw and he jams his hands into his jeans pockets. “I don’t know a lot of girls like you, Abby. So intelligent. Funny. You’ve got what it takes to make it and I guess, I like knowing that you’re doing your—stuff—here. In my house. A book that I’m part of, now.”

I swallow. “I like being here. It’s, I get a lot of work done. My ideas flow, here. I feel good.”

He nods. “Good.”

My heart is soaring and breaking at once. I like that he feels this way about me, but if only, oh, if only his words had included things like “sexy” and “can’t stand not touching you.” I like being a modern-day almost-muse, I suppose. I just wish—

“So I should keep working here, then? You don’t mind?” I feel lightheaded.

“I don’t mind at all. I love—it. Having you here, I mean. Please. Stay.” He throws his hands open, as if offering me the entire room.

“Then I guess… I’ll be back tomorrow. Eight a.m. Ready for work.” I try to give a good friendly smile, but it’s quivery.

He walks me to the door. “See ya, Abby.” His voice is tender, and then he pulls me in for a hug, and then his lips graze mine before he pulls back. “Drive safe.”

When I arrive in the morning with my usual latte supreme, there’s a note on the door with my name scribbled on it.

“Hey Abby. I had to run to the photo shop to get a new backdrop I ordered. Key’s in back under the mat, go on in and make yourself comfortable. See you soon.”

I hold back my mental wince at the grammar. He’s got some crap like that on his website, and I really am going to have to bite the bullet and say something tactful about fixing it up.

Then I smile, a little secret smile. Boston wrote me a note. I touch my name. He was thinking about me when he wrote this, and I wonder how he pictured me in his mind. Right now I’m picturing him in that towel, especially the way it almost fell. I’m remembering his face meeting mine when we kissed, how his eyes drifted shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks just before I closed my eyes, too and let my mouth meet his.

I’m touching my lips and I need to stop, so I go find that key and let myself in. The morning goes by in a ribbon wrinkle; one second I’m opening my laptop case, the next it’s three hours later and I scream because something soft just touched my ankle and it might be a poisonous snake, or malaria, or a small slithery zombie with needle teeth.

I’m five feet back from the chair before I fully feel the touch, and when I look over, it’s Boston’s cat. “Doll.” I feel ridiculous, and figure it’s just my imagination that the cat has a pleased look on her face. “Did you try to scare me?”

The cat makes a mmmrrrrrup! noise and then it’s on top of the desk like something from a stop motion film. I come closer. She doesn’t look mean, and her fur is—oh, my God, it’s silk. She’s soooo soft. She bumps her chin against my fingers and rubs up and down, and it takes me a few seconds before I realize that the rumbling sound is coming from her.

I remember how Boston was holding her, and feeling a little self-conscious, I reach over and scoop her up into my arms. She wiggles to adjust and then she reaches up and tries to bump her chin against mine, and I giggle and rearrange myself to pet her head. She’s actually sweet. Not that I’ll tell Boston.

“Oh, Dollie Baby,” I croon. “Does big bad Boston hold you in his strong, muscular, tattooed arms, those sexy arms that make me stare at him all day? Does he give you kisses on top of your fuzzy wuzzy head?”

Doll’s purr becomes louder, and I figure she likes baby talk. “Oh, Dolly Wolly,” I say. “You are such a softie, yes you are, oh, yes you are! Do you like it when sexy old Boston holds you against his six-pack? Does Doll like six-packy wackies? I’m not jealous of you, no I’m not, even though you get to hold your little body right up against his super sexy abs and feel his hands all over you.”

I hear a jingling sound and jerk my head around, and there’s Boston in the doorway. He came up quiet as a cat himself, damn it, and he’s standing there holding his backpack and his keys with this incredibly smug little grin on his face. I squeak and squeeze.

“Shit, Boston!” I shout, as the cat scrabbles her way up my shoulder, digs in her claws, wiggles her butt, and leaps to the narrow windowsill, landing soft and soundless. She balefully lifts one leg and licks, and I whimper at the burning streaks on my skin.

“Aw, Abs, fuck it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice from the doorway is genuine, and his New England accent make my heartbeat tap into a staccato, but I still scowl.

“Well, consider me startled,” I snap, peering over to see the damage.

“Does it hurt, luv?” Boston comes closer, drops his backpack, and takes my arm in his hand. His fingers tease apart the lapel of my blouse and he pushes the fabric down slightly to look at the scratch on my shoulder, and suddenly all I can feel is the warmth of his fingers and the proximity of his body. He smells masculine, of sweat and faded cologne and something that’s all him, all Boston. I suck in my breath, because having him so near like this, seeing his muscular arms in his sleeveless exercise tee, is making my heart pound, and I wish that “luv” meant more than just a cute way to charm the girls.

“Oh, you’re a doctor now?” I roll my eyes, not wanting to give a single indication of how turned on I am by this.

“I’m no ER surgeon, but I know my way around basic cuts and scrapes.” He grins and pushes the fabric a little more. “Unbuttoning just this one, okay?” he asks, as his fingers are already doing it, and part of me wants to tell him,
God, yes, unbutton them all, Boston, and throw me down and fuck me hard.

But instead, I nod and swallow. “Okay.”

He runs one fingertip over the stripe and I suck in my breath.

“Sorry, Abs. I’ll get some antibiotic spray from the bathroom.”

No
, I want to say.
Keep touching me
.

“I hope you’re still sorry when it gets all red and puffy from the weird bacteria germs that cats always carry in their claws,” I joke. My face is hot. My shoulder is hot where he’s touching. I feel prickles, sparkles, chills. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my cheek. Boston is touching me.

“You got cat scratch fever, Abby?” He looks at me and gives me that lazy grin, the one that he gives to his models before they start posing and putting their hands all over each other. I suck in my breath.

“You got a cure?” My voice startles me. It’s throaty and breathy, and as I say it, something changes in Boston’s eyes. They turn feral, predatory. He takes a step closer and closes his hand around my upper arm. He’s not squeezing, not exactly, but the grip is possessive.

“I think I do.” His voice is rough and deep and he opens his hand on my arm, closes it again. I gasp.

“You do?” I try to act casual. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with fresh raw marks.”

“Maybe we should even things up,” he suggests, his eyes locked onto mine. “You want to scratch up my back, Abs? Give me some matching scars? I’ll take off my shirt and turn around if you want me to. You just say the word.” He raises his eyebrows and grins, but there’s something dark in his expression, something hard.

I lower my voice and murmur, “Oh, Boston. You want scratches from me? They don’t come so easy. No, you’re going to earn those stripes… the hard way. You want my nails digging into your skin? Then you make me scream, baby. You make so wild with passion that I rake my claws over your back and mark you the fuck up. You do it the hard way, Boston. The right way.”

He growls in his throat. “Jesus
Christ
, Abby.” And he leans in, and—

Fuck. It’s the doorbell.

“Shit!” Boston runs one hand through his hair and lets go of me. “Annalise is early.”

He goes to the door, lets her in, and a second later her perfume and the clicking of her heels fill the room. “Parker!” She rushes to him, gives him a short kiss on the lips. “It’s rainin’ like crazy out there. I had to run from my car and now my hair is all frizzy.” She looks at me. “Abby, I’m super excited for this shoot!” Her voice has an eager lilt and her eyes are bright.

I’m still thrumming with the crazy adrenaline. The things I said, pretty much daring him to take me. And his voice, that look in his eyes. “You just say the word.” And “Jesus
Christ
, Abby!” and the way he leaned in, his lips parted, his eyes gleaming—

Although even if he did, what would have happened then? We’d get right back to this moment, or one similar enough, where pure perfection in the form of Annalise or one of her clones would appear, reminding me that I don’t belong in Boston’s world. Maybe I’m a temporary distraction, a diversion, but never, ever will I compare to the women who inhabit his typical social and professional circles.

I don’t want to look at her. She’s so pretty it hurts me in the gut, because I know that no matter how much I exercise, no matter how much I starve and suffer, I will never, ever even come close to being her pale shadow. She’s the prettiest woman ever, although woman isn’t Annalise. She’s girl, sprite, magician, pinup babe, loveliness, sex pouring like honey onto strawberries and ice.

She’s still talking. “How ah you?”

“Oh, fine.” I smile and rub at my shoulder, and she notices the unbuttoned hot mess that’s me right now.

“Are you okay?” Her voice rises with her exquisite eyebrows and she clicks over, hurrying like a feather in a breeze, and touches me with a super-long pink talon. “Boston, Abby’s hurt!” she exclaims, her blue eyes widening and looking past me. “Can’t you get her a Band-Aid or something?”

Boston laughs and grabs Annalise in his arms, twirling her around and around. “Abby was playin’ hard to get with the cat. I got a first-aid kit in the bathroom.”

“Well, put me down and get it.” Annalise squeals as he swings her one more time before placing her on the floor. I’m reminded of figure skating pairs, where the man lifts the woman in some kind of exquisite spiral before setting her down onto one razor-thin blade.

“On it.” Boston winks, either at me or Annalise, it’s impossible to tell, and disappears into another room. I hear rummaging in a cupboard, but Annalise doesn’t wait for Boston. She takes off her small shrug jacket and I swear, I almost want to palm her breasts myself, they’re so perfect and high and round in her tight shirt.

She adjusts the hem, an unnecessary action. Why do these pretty girls think it even matters if their hem is a centimeter off? She should know what it’s like to really worry about hems and control top pantyhose and stuff like that. I sigh.

Annalise looks over. “You doing okay, Abby? Does that scratch hurt? I used to get scratched a lot when I was dating Boston. That cat did not like me.” She smiles and it’s a dagger in my heart, this reminder that Boston is used to girls like Annalise, even though I don’t see any malice in her expression. “Maybe it’s because I kept tryin’ to pet her when she didn’t want to be bothered.”

She must see something in my face, because she tilts her head. “You look sorta sad. Is everything okay?”

I shake my head. “Just tired from writing is all. You know. So, what are you guys going to shoot today?”

Annalise pulls again at her hem, making microscopic adjustments that eventually satisfy her. She pats her hair. “We’re going to do the ones with me on my knees resting my chin on his leg, you know? That scene where he’s sittin’ in the chair, and I’m on the floor all draped on him and looking up? You know that scene?”

Yeah. I know that scene. I wrote it, and right now, I wish I’d written a scene where the two of them are in snowsuits and mukluks. Or maybe space suits. Of course, if I’d written a space odyssey, I wouldn’t be here in the first place, consulting for sexy pictures. I bite my lip.

“Oh, but we’re also going to do the ones where he holds my breasts from behind and bites my neck.”

I feel sick. I mean, they used to date, so obviously, his hands have been everywhere on her, and in much more intimate ways, but I still don’t want to be faced with it. I like it better when I’m alone with him and we flirt. It’s like I’m in a weird flying zone where nothing matters except me and Boston and the tension between us, but then it snaps and disappears when anyone else enters, and that makes it all the more obvious that it’s fun, but temporary. Meaningless. Something that can pop like a soap bubble at the slightest distraction. And then my fantasies sort of shrivel up and wither away in embarrassment and I want to cry.

Now I feel pissy and irritable, and when Boston comes back with a red zip case with a white cross on it, I just grab it from his hand and go back to the bathroom myself to wipe the scratches and apply ointment. It would take like eight Band-Aids laid atop one another to cover the longest scratch, and that’s just silly, so I don’t bother. But later on the slick ointment starts sticking to my shirt and then I feel even more grubby, a feeling that is accentuated when Chelle comes in to start the photo shoot, her thin arms wet and shiny from the rain. On her, it looks sexy and appealing.

“Abby,” she urges, “come over here with me, ‘kay? I need you to help direct so we can get the hottest possible shot. Tell me how you envision this happening, like the words from the story. And then I’ll help pose them.”

I nod and keep my voice steady. Chelle is a makeup artist as well as Boston’s assistant photog, and she’s made Annalise into something even more exotic than usual.

Without any shame, Annalise casually takes off her shirt and rubs her breasts. “Should my nipples be hard?” she asks the general room. “Chelle?”

Chelle looks at me. “Abby?”

“Um, I guess, well, he’s going to be holding her breasts so I don’t know if that’s important for the shot,” I say, keeping my voice just as casual as theirs. “But, I mean, hard is good. Sexy.”

Annalise nods. “That makes sense. Let me just warm up.” She starts jogging in place a little bit, then pulls at her nipples with her fingers, rolling them in a matter-of-fact way, and Boston drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. I know he’s doing this to get his muscles to pop.

After a few minutes, they’re ready. I can’t look away from Boston’s chest, so cut, so perfect. Every muscle in his torso is sculpted and defined, he has literally no fat on his body, and he’s just phenomenal.

Chelle does something with switches and dials on the light, and adjusts the height of a light box. She seems really good at this, and I’m impressed with how professional they are, how well they work together. When she uses a little meter to check the light, Boston chuckles and murmurs something into Annalise’s ear. They’re already standing together, practically naked, looking totally at ease. His hands are resting on her shoulders, caressing, and she’s leaning her butt back into him. Together they could be on a wall in a museum. Dark and light, hard and soft, both utterly sexy, the lines of their bodies sinuous.