Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (11 page)

“And how did you spend your holiday weekend?”

“I have a crazy story for you,” I said. “It’s a story with many parts and several strange events.”

“Please do not start at the end, go back to the beginning, and then periodically return to the end,” she said. “That shit gets annoying unless it’s intentionally ironic.”

Laughing, I told her about the elevator and Sam, our kiss in the alley behind Sligo’s Pub, the festivals we visited, the movies we watched, and last night’s AC/DC cover band. He was the only person in a suit—three-piece or otherwise—and he spent a full ten minutes explaining the purpose of pocket squares to the bartender, but he enjoyed himself.

It was possible he enjoyed staring at the bartender’s boobs more than the tunes.

“He probably thinks I’m turning into a stalker or something, because I wouldn’t leave him alone all weekend and then I dragged him out last night.”

“Hmm,” Ellie murmured. “Do I sense that you
like
this prepster?”

“He’s really freaking adorable and he’s witty, and he needs to have some fun,” I said. “So yeah, I
do
like him.”

“I feel like you need a sociologist to observe this,” Ellie said. “So what are you going to do?”

There was no pretending that I wasn’t smitten with Sam, and at the very least, there was a curious friendship between us. But more than that, I was determined to figure him out, to understand why I was so drawn to him, to get past the player and find out why he was working so hard to keep people at a distance.

“Gogol Bordello is playing at Brighton Music Hall next weekend,” I said. “I bet he’s never heard of Gypsy punk . . .”

“Now there’s a dissertation topic,” she said. “The impact of live music on prepster reformation. I’d read that.”

“Huh,” I said, my lip caught between my teeth. “That would be interesting.”

I decided that, if I was going to dominate all of Sam’s free time, I should at least see to his education in the fine arts. It was hard to believe that someone who knew this town inside and out was learning about an entirely new world from me, a relative newcomer. His knowledge of the area’s music scene was paltry at best, and he’d only been to a handful of painfully mainstream arena shows before meeting me.

It was shameful.

Before the month of September ended, I introduced him to all my hidden (and not-so-hidden) favorites: The Sinclair, Café 939, Wally’s, Great Scott, Paradise, Lansdowne Pub, and Toad.

It wasn’t contrived, this whole hanging-out-with-Sam-thing. Not exactly. I was always on the hunt for live shows, and though he engaged in an ample amount of grousing, he was a willing participant. When he wasn’t busy layering on the hand sanitizer or condescending all over the beverage options, he was rocking out with the rest of us. Feigning an adequate amount of snotty disinterest was how he kept his Cool Kid card.

We had fun together, and we enjoyed some tunes in the process. Keeping my eyes open for something new to broaden and deepen Sam’s exposure was part of my daily routine now, and that was how I ended up scrolling through show listings instead of grading a waist-high stack of papers.

My tastes were about as varied as they came, a collage of genres, artists, time periods, and my strategy with Sam was all about exposing him to a broad range of performances. There was some old-school funk, blues, low-key punk, and an assortment of my favorite new trend—rockish-pop-alt-folk.

The indie scene made more sense to me with its small-stage simplicity. The venues were tiny, carved into bars and pubs.

There was an incredible steel-drum band playing at a divey joint downtown, and even though I’d probably have to sacrifice my studio time to crank these papers out tomorrow, this was an event Sam could not miss.

He didn’t answer when I called, which meant he was in a meeting or tied up with one of his properties, or his phone was muted. Quiet was his preferred speed for most things, and it wasn’t unusual for him to spend the entire day with his phone set to silent. It turned tracking him down into a game of hide and seek.

16:09 Tiel:
what r u wearing

16:09 Tiel:
it’s important

I waited, staring at the pin-eaten bulletin board on the wall opposite my desk in the office I shared with four other adjuncts. It was a bland memorial to doctoral student life, with its outdated calls for research study participants, roommate requests, and jazz bands and string quartets advertising their availability for weddings, all ringed by a halo of well-loved delivery menus.

My essay-grading guilt won out when I couldn’t justify gazing at walls and liking everything in my newsfeed much longer, and dug in for another round. On the whole, I enjoyed teaching, and grading wasn’t bad either—I liked getting new perspectives on music therapy from students—but the volume of it stoked my natural tendency to procrastinate.

I blew through eleven papers before an incoming text sounded. Ringtones and other phone chirps usually annoyed me, but I’d discovered one that was like an old-fashioned bike bell and couldn’t help smiling every time I heard it.

16:55 Sam:
I’ll ask those questions, thank you.

16:56 Tiel:
No but srsly. Must see reggae. No 3 piece suits allowed

16:56 Sam:
what did the English language ever do to you? And may I add: with the autocorrect features on your phone, you have no excuse to use loose combinations of letters.

16:57 Tiel:
do you yell at kids to get off your lawn too?

16:57 Sam:
you bet your ass I do, and that brings me back to the matter at hand:

16:58 Sam:
what are you wearing?

16:58 Tiel:
8 pm curtain. Want to get food first?

16:59 Sam:
you’re terrible at this

16:59 Tiel:
. . . . what?

17:01 Sam:
What. Are. You. Wearing.

I gave my cobalt blue dress an ambivalent glimpse. It was cute but didn’t rise to the level of semi-sexting. Knowing that Sam ran hot and cold, toggling between being highly suggestive and tattooing “Just Friends” across his chest, I seized this burst of hot and snapped a neck-down selfie. The lighting was horrible and the faded chartreuse walls were the most noticeable element of the photograph, but I sent it anyway.

Reminding myself to keep it light and fun was complex. I wanted to analyze all these signals, dissecting his comments, smiles, touches into their microscopic parts and ascribing motivation to each, and I wanted a better title than friends.

But I wasn’t doing any of that. This hazy, ambiguous place was the best I was going to get from Sam, and even after a matter of weeks, I wasn’t walking away. We had a history of sorts, a bond formed under intense circumstances, and we
were
friends. I was also a little hooked on him.

Part of me knew I was getting the Sam Walsh Treatment: the panty-dropping smiles, the smoldery scowls, the well-honed lines. I knew the better portion of women in this town were probably familiar with it, too.

Yet . . . there were moments when I couldn’t climb past my doubt. Glances that lasted a beat too long. Kisses that spoke of more than drunken affection. Lingering touches that screamed “I will fuck you so hard you won’t remember your first name.”

And it was that doubt that kept me clinging to the threads he offered. I understood enough about Sam to know he didn’t have romantic relationships; he didn’t even do a full night with one woman. Asking him for more or giving him an ultimatum would freeze out friendship. While I wasn’t content with the friend zone, I wasn’t willing to lose it either. I’d survive on boob-gazing, casual kisses, and as much touching as I could get away with.

And flirty texts.

17:08 Sam:
what the fuck are you wearing?

17:08 Sam:
just . . . fuck

17:09 Tiel:
yeah, I know, I probably have too many bracelets for you or this color is too bright or whatever. I don’t want to hear your complaints. I like this.

17:09 Sam:
I was not looking at the bracelets.

17:09 Tiel:
ok. . . . ?

17:10 Sam:
you are fucking gorgeous

17:10 Sam:
this picture is going to get a substantial amount of use

17:10 Sam:
are you alone right now? I’d like to discuss this

The empty desks surrounding mine were piled with books and papers, and boxes filled with yet more books and papers. My officemates and I saw each other in fly-by moments, and sometimes not at all.

The door was open, and the photocopier in the outer office was cranking a big order, but otherwise the floor was quiet. Most day classes ended by four thirty, and evening sessions didn’t start until six. There was another half hour of solitude.

17:11 Tiel:
yes

17:11 Sam:
do I have your full attention?

17:12 Tiel:
don’t you always?

17:12 Sam:
definitely not but I’m going to tell you a story anyway

17:12 Sam:
Here’s what I’d do with you: I’d move the dress off your shoulders, pull it down, and suck your nipples

17:13 Sam:
and when they were wet and hard, I’d bite them

17:13 Sam:
then I’d slide my cock between your tits, hold them tight around me while I fucked you

17:14 Sam:
and I’d watch my cock hit your neck and your chin and your mouth

17:14 Sam:
and I’d come on your tits, shooting all over those hot nipples

I stared at the screen, my eyes widening with each message. Anticipation was rising in my body, and I felt it each time I squeezed my thighs together and heaved a hungry sigh. I could imagine the look of concentration that would settle on Sam’s face while he fucked my breasts. The way he’d focus on executing perfect, precise movements. How he’d deliver equal amounts of his orgasm to each breast.

It looked so good in my head, but . . . I didn’t want the performance. The filthy meticulousness of it all. I wanted him chaotic and wild and too fucking lost in the moment to remember whether he was coming on my nipples or my mouth or everywhere because the only things that mattered were the lightning we created and him marking me in some indelible way.

And I didn’t want the version he shared with anyone before or anyone after.

17:15 Tiel:
um, ok perv.

“Tiel.”

“What?” My head jerked up, and a blush colored my cheeks when my eyes landed on my colleague, Kyle Milhouse. I was flustered and marginally embarrassed that I’d been having this exchange at work, and concerned that my face was painted with I’ve-been-naughty guilt. The only person I’d ever sent dirty texts to was Ellie, and those were all dick jokes.

“Hi,” I said, too loud, too bright, too peppy. “What can I do for you?”

He leaned against the filing cabinet, one ankle crossed over the other. Kyle was an assistant professor in the music therapy department, and had extensive experience in private and clinical settings, although much of his work was with adults. He was smart and could quote more research off the top of his head than seemed healthy, but he was as boring as a box of paper clips. “One of my students came across an interesting case, and you were my first thought.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, gulping down my shallow, lusty breaths. The bike bell tone chimed, and the sound traveled over my electrified skin and down my spine, and I was too fucking aroused to be talking to this professor. It was all I could do to keep from wiggling in my squeaky chair to relieve the pressure between my legs. My phone kept singing, and Kyle cleared his throat as I mumbled my apologies and flipped it to silent. He waited, staring, while I blinked at him, and a solid minute must have passed before I fished a notepad from my drawer. “Go right ahead.”

He nodded, pleased yet obviously miffed I wasted an ounce of his time. “Seven-year-old female, presents with selective mutism and extreme social anxiety. She was referred to the interpersonal skills group that Quaranto is running, but that was not appropriate for the subject’s range of needs. The one thing the subject would share with Quaranto was her interest in a particular musician.” He flipped through his leather-bound journal, tracing a finger over the notes before looking up. “A band. One Direction.”